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sourbat · 3 years

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General, 9 for butter knife? 🥺

“Are they Dead?”

Summary: Charles surprises Magnus with dinner and a show. Guest starring Trindle and Melmord.

Warning: imprisonment; implied Stockholm Syndrome

It was late in the evening when, after another day filled with repetitious meandering in his cell, two hoods surprised Magnus with their unannounced presence. They gave no clues as to where they were taking Magnus, only wheeled him through the unseen, narrow corridors, and warned him when they were about to turn so he could bring his legs close. There was little point in asking any questions; the gears never shared what was in store for Magnus, and it wasn’t like he could flee once unstrapped from the wheelchair if they bothered to provide any unsavory news.

They wheeled him into what he assumed was a security room of some kind. It was the interior of a dark, massive shaft (perhaps the neck?) that stretched several levels high. Magnus rode up the elevator, gears at his side, trying to make some meaning of the red, eerie flashes caught between the levels: brief glimpses of klokateers heavily armed, others in front of computer monitors, a couple carting massive loads of what hopefully wasn’t bodies.

Charles greeted him at the topmost level, offering a silent nod the moment the sliding doors parted. One look around the large, blood-red dome had Magnus screaming “central hub.” The room was lined with screens, cameras and flashing lights, and klokateers attentively typing and clicking away at whatever task assigned to them. Magnus desired nothing more than to comment on Charles’ profuse megalomania, but as he was carted forward, caught the smell of something heavenly in the air that had his mouth filling with saliva.

Charles approached, passing Magnus’ left and briefly vanishing from existence, save for the sounds of his heels hitting the floor. “I hope he wasn’t any trouble. Take him to the table, then lock the wheels. I’ll take it from there.”

“Of course, Master Offdensen.”

The source of the delicious scents took the form of a small, clothed table set in front of a gigantic monitor. Adorning it was a set of finely polished silverware, napkins and crystal wine glasses. Magnus allowed his stare to linger on the knife resting beside a fork. A klokateer set Magnus on the side opposite to a single, empty chair. While the first gear locked his wheels into place, the second lifted a silver cover, unveiling a plate of the nicest looking steak Magnus had ever laid eyes on, with butter still melting and oozing all over the steaming center.

“What’s the occasion?”

“A celebration,” Charles answered plainly, taking his seat and giving the second gear permission to remove the cover to his meal. He returned, brows lifting slightly when met with Magnus’ befuddlement. “You don’t know?”

Magnus wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. Charles, his only source of information, the well of knowledge from which he refused to drink from. Not that it mattered. Thirsty or not, Charles would eventually supply him with a drop of the bucket, even if it meant forcing it down Magnus’ unwilling throat. Toki’s lapse in therapy, Miss Remeltindtdrinc’s continued success, news of Magnus’ past altercations with annoying hoods, a physician’s request for a change of prescription, or a paltry report detailing unveiled portions of an unfair prophecy.

He stared nervously at the delectable meal resting before him. The decadent smell of garlic mashed potatoes covered in scallions, and the pop of a klokateer freeing the cork from a bottle of dark red wine, alerted him that the information to be revealed could be drastic, potentially life-ending.

He grinned. “Refresh me.”

Charles took a napkin, placing it over his leg. “I’ve checked this month’s reports,” he said, grabbing a knife and fork. “You’ve been taking your vitamins. You, ah, also gained seven pounds.”

Magnus rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Weight I cannot easily shave off.”

“You’re still under by twelve, but with some work, will be at a healthy weight.” Charles cut into the steak. It bled and oily, reddish bubbly broth that stewed near the roasted vegetables.

Magnus’s hand drifted over his silverware, unsure to take the knife. “And this warrants a steak?”

Since being locked in Mordhaus, the daily meals sent to his room, while a far cry from the fast food he used to sustain himself with, wasn’t nearly as rich in smell and appearance as the meal before him. Magnus picked up the knife. Charles continued to cut his, sawing a small piece of meat which he jabbed and picked up with his fork. Hesitantly, Magnus did the same. As far as he could tell, no gears had their weapons aimed at him, but he still gingerly brought the blade down in case someone trigger-happy hood mistook his hunger as a desperate try for revenge against Charles.

Charles swallowed. “No, your compliance.”

Magnus had made it as far as cutting himself a tasty morsel when the word smacked him across the face.

“It’s been several long, grueling months.” Charles shoveled a lump of creamy, golden mashed potatoes with his fork.

Grueling didn’t accurately cover the anguish Magnus endured since falling victim to Charles’ whims. Being locked in a tiny room, deprived of fresh air sunlight unless he behaved, performed simple tasks upon being handed the instruction, or forced to tolerate Charles’ presence and spend his days alongside him, working together and transcribing old English to unveil more hints of the incoming apocalypse. If he snapped at too many klokateers, refused a meal, medication, vitamins or Charles, then he was ignored, left without any means of entertainment other than the memories that persisted to haunt and fill Magnus’ nights with dread. He spent days alone with no books to read, puzzles to complete, pen or paper to bide through the long, endless hours. Not a person to acknowledge him, nor clock on the wall or light switch to help give a sense of time, no matter how false.

A few rounds of absolute, agonizing silence were all it took for Magnus to determine fighting Charles simply wasn’t worth the trouble. Magnus could handle manipulation, a fist to the face and a threat to his life, but Charles was hitting him where it hurt most, and Magnus couldn’t bear another reminder of his nonexistence, and not from the man he once loved so dearly. A man who, despite the cruelty, still cared for him. As difficult as it was to comprehend, Charles never laid a finger on Magnus, physically harmed or dared to take advantage of his current physical limitations, restricting all forms of punishment to just mental and emotional. And when the punishment finally ended, Charles always reintroduced Magnus to his bookshelves, television and access to the yard. He apologized when giving a punishment, explained his line of reasoning, and was quick to provide condolences when it was over, hands always reaching, hovering or ghosting over Magnus’ gaunt form, but never making contact unless given explicit permission. True, it could be just as well that Charles was enacting his own divine punishment, proving to Magnus that he didn’t need to harm him to make him bend, but since living within the harsh, deprecating confines of Mordhaus, Magnus wanted to believe this wasn’t the case.

Surely, the man serving him medium rare steak and French champagne was doing this as an act of tolerance, friendship even?

Charles continued: “You’ve been far from agreeable…but now.”

The words gripped Magnus by the throat, rendering him silent. Utensils lowered, their stares met one another’s. Magnus expected a snicker, eyes confidently framed into slits to better make out his discontent. Instead, Magnus couldn’t tell if it was just him, or the combination of bubbly alcohol and a candlelit dinner, but Charles stared at him with a smile he hadn’t seen in years. There were round, lifted cheeks, and that all-too straight grin that almost crossed the line from being endearing, to becoming a tad awkward.

“I feel like I can rely on you,” Charles said, “Like, ah…like we used to, when we were young.”

Charm aside, it was a difficult pill to swallow. Magnus dropped his stare, to his once decadent meal. It was hard to keep an appetite upon learning the meal was a celebration for his submission.

A hand settled over Magnus’ right. His eyes returned to Charles, and upon the second glance, made out those small features he spent hours admiring during long nights spent waiting for the bus, in line, or just from sharing the same space. Sharp tip of the nose that always glowed under the smallest of lights. Perfectly shaped eyebrows. The very subtle way the glasses hung down the bridge when he lowered his head to meet him.

Magnus stabbed at his roasted parsnips, finding it equally difficult to be mad at the man who continued to offer help during bathing, purchased whatever form of literature he demanded, when he was acting in accordance. He picked at his meal, taking small bites and savoring the rich taste of butter, fluffy texture of potatoes and steak that melted in his mouth. The few glances he made at Charles, no matter how brief, were always met with positivity.

Something about it frightened him.

“I have something I want to show you.”

Upon completion of their meal, Charles called a klokateer from the red depths of the room, and then offered Magnus two thick files. Magnus opened the first, revealing the photo of a young woman dressed entirely in high-end gothic fashion, staring wildly at him. The first thing he noticed about her was that she was a stranger, an unknown he’d never engaged with in his entire life. Yet, he knew there was a connection, something that Charles connected with him.

Magnus rolled a thumb over the faded blur of her nose piercing, eyes briefly engaging with the uniqueness of her name, then closed the folder. “What’s this?”

Charles snapped a finger. “Special cases.”

Klokateer approached with a tray. While they replaced Magnus’ wine glass with smaller, round cups, he picked up the second file, and like before, met another smile, this time from a man. Unlike the goth, the man in the photo appeared lax, if not in a slight, distant daze. The blond highlights in his hair made Magnus want to connect the man with the goth-woman; the goatee and length of his hair made Magnus hesitant to try and tie the stranger with him.

After locating the name, and finding it equally as alien as the woman’s, Magnus sighed. On the other side of the table, Charles was waiting, patiently.

Magnus lowered the second file. “Are they dead?”

The candles’ embers flickered. A devious smile manifested across Charles’ ivory face. Another snap from his long fingers, and the gigantic monitor resting before them turned on, sending Magnus into a state of shock. His wheelchair jolted as he tried backing away from the now active screen, locked wheels keeping him in place while he gathered himself. Displaying on the screen were two people in a small room. A rec room, with a few old arcade games, display cased lines with boxes, an old couch, and a long, rectangular table. Magnus squinted his eyes, making out the dark blur of a shapely figure standing at one end of the table, picking up a paddle and ball. Magnus recognized her as the same woman from the file. He turned to the second figure standing on the opposite side, a tall man with a broad frame, shoulder-length hair, and carrying a lazy grin.

They were playing ping-pong.

A ball bounced from one side to the next as the two jumped, stretched, and did what they could to earn a point. If Magnus didn’t know any better, he’d assume this was just a friendly game between acquaintances, but the files on the table, and the curious glint in Charles’ eyes, told Magnus there was something far more ominous at hand.

Just as Magnus turned from the screen, caught something hanging in the corner of the cluttered room. A calendar, and when Magnus set his eyes upon it, turned sickly pale at the discovery of the month.

“They’re like you,” Charles suddenly began, his voice a faint echo while Magnus slowly drew away from the calendar, back to the two unknowns playing ping-pong. “Dead to the world, but–”

“A never-ending source of entertainment for you,” Magnus harshly bit back. A hand hit the edge of the table, pulling some of the cloth down. Charles remained seated, but his chair had groaned, dragging from the unannounced outburst. Magnus heard it, and he took and rolled with it, hoping it would serve and supply him strength against Charles.

“I always knew you were a control freak, but this…” Magnus gestured morosely at the screen. “I must say, the voyeurism is taking me by surprise.”

“It’s necessary to monitor prisoners.” Charles appeared calm, but his hands were clasped tightly together, wrinkles deepening from the lowered brow and frown, and patience nearing its untimely end. Still the answer was quick, short and to the bloody point. It was, like everything else that came from Charles, practical to the point of being insufferable.

Magnus humored the idea of their being cameras in his room, and Charles, his once beloved, using the very same excuse to watch him struggle each time he transitioned from chair to bed, chair to toilet, chair to floor.

Frustrated, he heaved a dry laugh. “And you’re quite sure you never read the works of Harlan Ellison?”

Charles didn’t answer. Magnus hit the table again, sending one of the candles to topple on its side. The flame died on its way down, but the effect was immediate. Weapons were drawn, and Magnus could see fine red dots pin-pointed all over his arm, and when he fell back into the wheelchair, saw a dozen more spread across his chest.

Unaffected, Charles waited until Magnus sank into the wheelchair, momentarily defeated.

“Would you like to meet them?”

“Is that a threat?” Magnus asked, arms crossed, the only act of defiance he could get away with.

“An invitation,” Charles insisted, as though it changed a damn thing.

For whatever reason, Charles outstretched his arm, hand hoping to return and rest upon Magnus like it had minutes ago. When it crossed the halfway mark, Magnus withdrew, going as far back into his seat as he could without having to drag his lower half with him.

Charles sighed, dejected. “I know it must be lonely, what with you, ah–”

Magnus opened his mouth, ready to lash at Charles for even trying. He saw the calendar. Whether he’d been handed a live recording, or something saved from days, even weeks before, nothing could change the terrifying knowledge he had picked up on when his eye set on the estimated date.

A year. He’d been locked in Mordhaus for a year, and never noticed! Time had blended, blurred and stagnated into a concrete wall that he couldn’t pass nor break. He was getting along better with Charles, tolerating him and almost…a year. Charles had been training him for an entire year, and now, after months of arguing, spitting out his meds, saying nasty words and refusing to wheel himself around, Charles was celebrating a year of them together, and of the slow, but now blatantly apparent improvement of his condition from having broken Magnus at some point.

“I figured, after you and I finished with the scriptures, you might be willing to offer a helping hand with these two.”

And he had broken him, to some extent. Otherwise, why the candles, the steak and that smile? Why let him use a knife tonight, when so many other nights he’d been handed only the plastic spork, later the spoon and fork, but only when in the company of gears? The comment about his weight, about the future hard work to come; it all amounted to Magnus surrendering, complying with Charles and doing whatever it took to remain noticed, acknowledged, alive.

“Well?” Charles’ voice broke through the fury building inside Magnus. “What do you think?”

His nails dug into the tablecloth. “And why would I ever consider aiding you in training additional human pets?” Magnus snapped. His entire chair lurched alongside him, dragging forward and colliding his lower abdomen against the table. Magnus barely noticed, too fixated on Charles’ calm, unmoving demeanor. The smug bastard. Magnus threw another fist at the table, sending his cappuccino to teeter near the end, threatening to fall and shatter. “Really Charles, you know how jealous I can get. Me, sharing another man with you? And a woman? Ha!”

He had done an excellent job refraining from bringing up their old flame, a mere pile of ashy white cinders long since carried off by the cruel, cold winds of fate. Charles had no problem hinting at it, calling forth old memories in a futile attempt to sway Magnus towards his favor, but until now Magnus’ pride had forbidden him to going so low as to attack Charles with stories of walks across the park, going to concerts to sight out potential competition and talent, or nights spent smoking and dreaming aloud.

Not anymore. Magnus undid the harness keeping his legs in place. He pressed his left arm on top of the table, elbow held firm under his weight. With this right, he dragged himself up, using the table for support as he tried to create some height over Charles.

“Let me guess? They’re exes of yours as well?” Magnus heaved a little as he lifted himself, lame legs adrift in a senseless void. Charles’ eyes finally gave to emotion, widening as Magnus carried himself using rage alone. “They piss you off, too? Didn’t like your prudish attitude? Your compulsive behavior? Tell me, Allied Mastercomputer, other than the fact that you own me body and soul, why the hell should I help you, huh?”

The words spat out, flicking and landing across Charles’ spectacles. He flinched, head and neck reacting to the meager onslaught, then returned to their usual placements. Magnus watched, arms shaking under his weight, while Charles picked up his napkin and removed his glasses to clean the lens. As he did, Magnus’ right elbow locked, and he slipped back. Though he couldn’t feel it, he knew his legs tripped over themselves, and were it not for a klokateers hastily grabbing him by the arms and guiding him back to his chair, Magnus knew he’d have likely fallen to the floor and be made a fool in front of Charles.

He wasn’t sure if this was any better.

No. He was still the fool in this scenario.

“I’ll grant you your legs back.”

Magnus slumped, eyes blank at the promise.

Charles lifted his glasses up the light, nose wrinkling slightly at the smudges that remained, and nothing more. “What’s more, I’ll grant you some privileges, allow you to traverse the hidden pathways on your own.”

Cruel words hardly had any meaning, anymore. And what was the point of trying to give the illusion of height, when both very well knew Magnus couldn’t so much as stand without the use of a wall, pole or beam? Was it even standing, or just support? Was it even support if he constantly leaned, dragged down by his broken body’s weight, bodily dysphoria that mapped out an incomplete form?

“What do you say, Magnus?” Charles asked calmly. There wasn’t the smallest hint that he was angry. Quite the contrary, he appeared as hopeful as ever, like he had been when asking Magnus out on their very first date. That Charles had also been calm, smile favoring his chances, the starlight above casting a light that brought out the rosiness of his cheeks, the pink of his smile when affirmed the upcoming date.

Magnus blinked. The red hue of the room really did bring out the sharp contours of his high cheekbones, the shallow hood of his eyelids.

Magnus shook his head, and when he dropped down to witness the awkward positioning of his legs, felt Charles’ hand return to him.

There it goes, again. “Would you be willing to try?”

Magnus glanced at the thick files, no doubt filled with all the information he needed to manipulate and convince these unknown factors in his obstructively miniscule world to follow his every word. He’d done it before, had ticked greater men with less information to work with.

And to walk again…?

Magnus returned to facing the left, at the overcast monitor now displaying just the man sitting on a couch, legs and arms spread as he stared peevishly at the swaying camera observing him. The goth girl was gone. After an inhale from what looked like a cigarette, possibly a vape pen, the man waved at the security camera, and Magnus tore away, ashamed for even considering putting another person through a similar hell as his.

Charles was waiting for him at the table. “Well?”

He swallowed a lump. “What’s for dessert?”

Unmoving, Charles responded: “One of your favorites.”

The circular dome lifted, revealing a small, thin slice of dark chocolate cake, interior thick and layered with a darkening shade of increasing bitter chocolate. Surrounding it were several, plump little raspberries, and just as Magnus was handed a new spoon, a klokateer poured a bright, vibrant pink syrup over the slice. Like dinner, few words were shared between the two. His appetite long gone, Magnus struggled to make due and distracted himself with small bites that tasted less sweet each time his eyes caught the man in the monitor switching between the various forms of entertainment, and looking up to ponder over the unknown taking delight in his situation.

Magnus licked his lips, tasting the tart syrup spread across his upper, and wasn’t surprised when he saw Charles watching him, eyes soft and overflowing with nostalgia. Remembering the date on the calendar, Magnus dared and tested the dark waters.

He picked up a raspberry. “Happy anniversary, Charles.”

Lowering his cappuccino, Charles replied with a hum. “Happy anniversary, Magnus.”

#butterknife #magnus hammersmith #charles foster offdensen #melmord fjordslorn #trindle #getting-sloppy #thank you #this world is getting big #what will magnus do next

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sad-sweet-cowboah · 4 years

Text

And I’ll Succumb To You part 2

Part 1

Summary: It’s been nearly a month since you joined the Van der Linde gang. With your next heat on the horizon, you and Arthur set out to find a new bottle of Lilith’s Blessing.

Warnings: Smut, duh. ABO dynamics. And cursing.

AN: THIS CAME OUT TO 10,808 WORDS. Please enjoy ya thirsty hos! I may also make a part 3.

A whole three weeks passed since your life changed. Three weeks since you’d gone from a lone bounty hunter to a part of one of the most notorious gangs in the United States.

You’d been dozing peacefully on the back of Arthur’s horse by the time the two of you reached camp. His low voice aroused you from your slumber as he helped you to the ground. He tied his horse to a hitching post before repeating it with your horse. He then proceeded to remove your things, which you protested and said you could do it, only for him to shake his head and insist.

Arguing would have gotten you nowhere, so you followed him into the surprisingly large camp. A mixture of scents hung heavy in the air. The first thing you’d noticed was the campfire directly in the center, glowing bright orange against the fabric of the tents and dark wood of the wagons. People were sitting around it, and as soon as you got closer, heads turned.

You hadn’t expected such a big welcome.

Arthur had placed you in the care of the camp girls. A small group of them you found were excited to take you in. Karen and Mary-Beth were both Omega and thankful to have another in camp to bond with. Abigail was another Omega who had her hands full with a child of her own. Tilly was a Beta, though did not look down upon you which you were thankful for. Molly, another Beta, you found kept more to herself and greeted you politely before wandering toward one of the more extravagant tents. You also soon found they had a ringleader: A woman named Susan Grimshaw, the only female Alpha you’d ever met in your lifetime. Female Alphas were about as rare as a male Omega, and simply being in her presence was both awesome and overwhelming.

After they’d set up your bedroll underneath a hanging tarp next to a wagon, you were introduced to the others. The men, a mix of both Alpha and Beta. Dutch Van der Linde, the leader, was an Alpha and wary about your presence given your reputation. However after speaking with his right-hand man, Hosea Matthews and Arthur, Dutch begrudgingly accepted you as a new member.

Over time you’d gotten to know the rest. The others were…colorful characters, if you could call them that. They were a group of misfits from wherever just trying to get by in life in any means possible. If it meant robbing folk or doing good deeds.

It took a while for you to leave by yourself, due to Dutch’s orders. You were confined to camp for the first week with unseen eyes on you. Then began the small tasks, going into town for a grocery trip or hunting usually accompanied by someone else. You couldn’t complain, it was something to do and kept food in your belly. Once Dutch began to realize you weren’t going to turn on them, he began to send you out for bigger missions alongside the girls or the other men.

Today however, was a different. You’d woken up to the sounds of movement around you. Opening your eyes, you’d watched as Mary-Beth packed things into her satchel. The others were bustling around more than usual amongst the camp, moving sacks of supplies toward the horses. It confused you, wondering if it was possibly time to switch locations. However, you realized it was only a few people, a few people specifically. It was then when an all too familiar scent wafted into your nose: the heat of the other Omegas.

Karen and Mary-Beth had left with Susan and a few others, mentioning they’d be half-day’s travel away. Hosea explained they would be protected by the Alphas and Betas while they chose how to sate their desires, if it meant finding someone else to help or taking care of it by themselves. Abigail, you found, stays behind for the sake of Jack after obtaining some Lilith’s Blessing. She grumbled about how his father wouldn’t be competent enough to fill in as a parent for a week in her absence.

With the camp emptier, it felt both strange and relaxing. You kept yourself busy by helping the others run errands or fulfill other missions in the meantime.

A couple of days passed, you’d come back to camp after aiding John and Javier in a burglary. It fairly late then, the sun low in the sky and casting red hues amongst the surrounding woods. Your horse was sweaty and tired, so you untacked her and began to brush her damp coat.

The sound of twigs snapping caught your attention, and you turned to see Arthur walking past. He caught your eye and smiled politely, giving you a short wave before turning his attention forward. You’d returned the gesture before turning back to your horse, although your mind began to wander.

You two really hadn’t spoken about your encounter. You’d mutually agreed to not mention it to the others to avoid any awkward questions. You and he however barely spoke after that. The first few days in camp he would check in and see how you were adjusting. He’d greet you in the mornings and bid you a good night when turning in, or sit next to you at the campfire with idle chatter on some nights. He was usually busy anyway, often gone on missions or hunting trips. As the weeks passed by, he would intrude your thoughts and dreams.

Sure, he was handsome. Additionally he was sweet and showing a surprisingly soft side. The way he spoke to the girls and treated the others in camp was a stark contrast from the man that once intimidated you in Big Valley just weeks ago. How gentle he was with Jack melted your heart at times. Despite his Alpha nature, he never used his position to abuse the power he had over others. He was, after all, third in command. He was a decent man. More than decent actually. Sometimes you’d catch yourself staring at him for a second longer than intended. You also could have sworn you caught him gazing at you on more than one occasion, though his eyes would quickly avert when you did a double-take.

You breathed out a heavy sigh, leaning forward to plant your forehead against your horse’s neck. Surely you shouldn’t be falling for him, it seemed silly to even consider.

Someone called your name. You stood up straight and saw Tilly walking up to you out of the corner of your eye. You turned to face her, offering a smile to her. “Hey Tilly.”

“Hey Y/N. Mind if I speak with you?” she asked.

You nodded. “Of course, what is it?”

“Well…” she stepped up to your horse, offering the tired steed a carrot, whose ears perked up immediately and greedily munched the snack straight from Tilly’s hand. “Have you given thought on what you’re going to do with your heat?”

You blinked. “My heat?” you repeated. “I don’t know…” Your unused tonic had soured and you hadn’t had the time to seek out the market for a new one. You supposed you could make an attempt and ask Abigail where she received hers.

“Are you going to have Arthur again?” Tilly asked simply.

You blinked and spluttered, taken aback by her words. “Wha-how did you know?”

Tilly’s lips stretched into a knowing smile. “Could smell him on you when we got close to ya, and not cause you was sharing a horse.”

You bit your lip shyly, turning your head away. “It was just a one-time thing,” You huffed, keeping your voice low. “He and I just met and…well… it was just the wrong place at the wrong time,” you of course never told anyone that you were hunting him, and he also kept his mouth shut about that.

“You sure? Cause I’ve seen the way you stare at one another across camp. Seems like there’s something else going on, thought you’d ask him when the time comes.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you mumbled. “I’m just gonna ask Abigail where she got her Lilith’s Blessing. Should be easy enough.”

“Alright. Just let Miss Grimshaw know when she returns about what you plan on doing in case things go south,” Tilly replied before she reached over to pat your shoulder, and headed back to camp.

---

With the sun rising bright and early through camp, you planned your day ahead of time. Abigail mentioned she purchased the tonic from a seller in Emerald Ranch, a place you were familiar with and was just a few hours’ ride away. You’d gathered a few supplies needed and saddled up your horse. You mentioned to Tilly your whereabouts just in case anyone asked. It had been a while since you’ve gone on a journey by yourself.

You hoped you would have just a simple trip to get what you need and come back without a hitch.

Just as you tightened the cinch, and heard a voice from a few feet away.

“Where you headin’ off to?”

Of course it was Arthur. Your heart skipped a beat once you recognized him. Your arms fell to your sides and you turned to face him. His hands were gripping his gun belt with one hip slightly cocked to the side. You had to admit to yourself you loved when he grabbed his gun belt like that, as if it were a subtle way to exude his power. His face held an expectant expression.

“I’m…heading to Emerald Ranch,” you explained. “See if I can get my hands on some Lilith’s Blessing.”

Arthur nodded in understanding. “You, uh, close?”

“Still a few days off, I think. Which is why I’m heading out now,” you answered while turning back to your horse and preparing to mount on. As you pulled yourself up, you heard Arthur speak again.

“Mind if I join ya?”

You swung a leg over and seated yourself comfortably in your saddle, and then looked down at Arthur. You couldn’t fathom a reason why he’d go. Perhaps as protection? Sometimes Lilith’s Blessing sellers were more untrustworthy than others, but you could handle yourself regardless. However, there was no reason for him not to go. Finally you said, “Sure, come on then.”

Arthur didn’t take long to grab his own satchel before mounting his horse and coming up alongside you. You two rode together silently through the woods for the first few minutes until he spoke.

“So, how you likin’ it so far?” he asked curiously.

“Well it’s different,” you answered, turning you gaze up to the patches of sunlight that shone through the leaves above. “I like being somewhere where our statuses don’t matter. Feels like I’m a part of a family for the first time in a long time.”

“That’s what’s important,” Arthur rumbled. “We take care o’ one another as you saw. Glad you’re fittin’ in too.”

You nodded in response. Up ahead the forest gave way to a field, the blue sky expanding across the green landscape. As the two of you crossed the tree line, your gaze wandered over to him. His body was slightly hunched over on his horse while you loped graciously across the landscape. His forearms were bare, the sun shining brightly on his skin. His tightly corded muscles angled in the light, thick and strong. Your eyes shifted to observe the rest of his body. You’d never actually seen him naked, however you remembered how felt against you. Warm and strong and solid.

“Hey, you alright?” he suddenly asked. You blinked back into focus and saw him staring right at you.

You’d nearly flinched from being caught, and turned your head back to face straight. You couldn’t let yourself fantasize over that, not like it would ever happen again anyway. You’d fallen silent for the rest of the ride, only speaking once or twice and keeping the conversation short.

You reached Emerald Ranch by early afternoon. You’d stopped briefly to eat a quick meal before going about your business. It was a small place, full of Betas like most towns were. You’d never felt uncomfortable here.

“Where do we find what we’re lookin’ for?” Arthur asked you, casually walking beside you.

You tilted your head toward one of the barns. “The fence behind there, he keeps tabs on the local sellers.”

He nodded in response, keeping in step with you as you headed to your destination. Up ahead you could see a small caravan of people both on wagons and horseback rolling through. The scent hit you first however, the overwhelming Alpha musk carrying with the breeze.

Out of the corner of your eye, Arthur stepped even closer, placing his body between you and them in an almost protective manner. His hand hovered over your lower back, so close the heat radiated from his skin was felt through your shirt. He kept you closer to the side as the others passed, his eyes never leaving them.

Once they were a good distance away, Arthur stepped away to his previous space. You looked at him, noting how tight his jaw was clenched.

“Arthur?”

He looked down at you. “Eh, sorry. Jus’ wanna make sure they didn’t get any ideas…”

“They wouldn’t have smelled me yet, I’m not close enough to my heat,” you pointed out.

“I know. But jus’ in case,” he murmured.

You looked at him for a second longer, curious as to why he was so keen on protecting you at that moment. Then again being in a blended gang probably meant he had to fulfill the same role for the other Omegas. You decided to not question it further and continue on.

The fence was in the spot he always was, a little shack nestled at the end of the barn. Arthur still remained at your side, though stepped back slightly to allow you to do your business. The fence locked eyes with you as you approached him, a dry smile crossing his face.

“Haven’t seen ya in a while,” he said casually.

You nodded in response, stepping closer to lean in. “Darkness is a blessing in disguise, ain’t it?” you murmured, using one of the few phrases known for discussing the tonic in public.

The fence frowned slightly. “Sorry, it’s all sunshine here,”

Your heart sank immediately. It meant that the seller in question had left. “Er, do you know when the sun sets?”

“Can’t say I do, miss,” he responded while shaking his head. “I ain’t no time teller.”

You sighed in frustration, turning to Arthur with a sour look on your face. You gestured for him that it was time to go, and he nodded wordlessly, confusion crossing his own face.

He waited until you were out of earshot of anyone close by before he said anything. “What was that about?”

“Seller ain’t here,” you grumbled, storming up to your horse and yanking the reins from the post with more force than necessary. “And he didn’t know where they went.”

“Oh,” was all he said in response. You saw him chew on his lip out of the corner of your eye as he went to mount his own horse. “Er…y’know anyone else that might know?”

“No,” you huffed, urging your mare into a smooth canter. “That’s the thing. They move around without any word on where they go next. They leave clues for Omegas to find, but I don’t even know where to start looking.”

Arthur hadn’t replied, and the two of you rode in silence across the green expanse of the Heartlands. The fourth week was soon, and you knew your heat would be quick to follow. You didn’t have days to run around trying to find something that may not be there in the first place.

If only you could find a clue, or pick up at least the tiniest hint of a trail. Most sellers were Betas that didn’t have unique scent markers like an Omega or Alpha would, which made it easier for them to avoid unwanted company. They were very rarely in the same place twice. Had you been on top of this, you would have taken care of this issue before it was even an issue.

Would you have to resort back to your old ways of pleasuring yourself, leaving you not so quite satiated? Arthur told you there were alternative methods of your choice. You knew Karen was keen on bedding someone to relieve hers while Mary-Beth opted to keep to herself. Neither sounded pleasant to you.

A flash of memory crossed your mind. That night with Arthur…the way your body so readily accepted him. You were inebriated by your own desire then, clouded by the temptation of his musk and the swell of his knot. It was as if you were given the best meal of your life after being fed gruel.

What a dangerous sensation to chase.

You sighed and shook your head. It certainly won’t happen again. You couldn’t risk giving yourself to anyone like that ever again.

“What do ya plan to do?” Arthur interrupted your train of thought, breaking the long silence.

Hell, you still weren’t sure at that point. “I don’t know,” you groaned, clenching the reins in your fists hard. “I used to…just do it myself. Suppose that’s what I’ll have to do again.”

“But that don’t take it all away, right?” Arthur pressed.

“Never. It’s never enough…” you trailed off, pursing your lips. There was a curve in the road ahead, and the two of you slowed down.

Arthur took the opportunity to step his horse closer to yours. “Unless you…” he muttered, trailing off.

You nodded, answering his unasked question. Your memory was once again taken back, vividly reminiscing the way his hands held you, the way he was careful to move you before his knot released. It was nature’s intention to put an Alpha and Omega together. Those few moments of sweet bliss, as if you two were meant to be one… “Never knew how it felt like until you came along.” you turned your eyes to him, noting the look of interest he had on changed to surprise.

“Wait, I was your first?” he exasperated. When you nodded again, he brought his hand to his face, rubbing it as he let out a groan. “Christ… ‘M so sorry, that jus’ makes me feel worse…”

“Worse?” you repeated.

His gaze met yours with a solemn, shameful stare. “Didn’t even know you was a virgin. Takin’ somethin’ like that away from ya in that moment…”

You sighed heavily. That never mattered to you in the slightest, especially when the last thing on your mind was mating with someone. “Didn’t matter then, doesn’t matter now. Besides, we’re both guilty anyway.”

Arthur appeared as if he were going to say something else, instead he shook his head and sighed. “Maybe we can find, uh…another seller? There’s more than one, right? They gotta be ‘round somewhere.”

“Sure but not many,” you grumbled. “Arthur, I appreciate the help, but we ain’t gonna find one before my heat. I know that much. Like I said, they move around without much word.”

“You dunno that for sure,” he pointed out. “It’s worth a try.”

“Why are you so determined on finding one?” You asked, giving him a look. “Not like you’d get any benefit from it.”

“Jus’ wanna make sure you get what ya need,” he answered. “I know how much ya hate your heats.”

That little slip of truth in that moment, you remembered. You felt flattered that he’d come such lengths to try, yet at the same time it seemed unnecessary. Despite what happened between the two of you, neither of you had an obligation to one another. “You don’t have to, you know,” you pointed out.

“I know,” he murmured, so quiet you had to strain to hear him through the rhythmic hoofbeats and the wind whipping your face. “I jus’ thought I try to help ya this time. If you don’t want it, then I’ll head back to camp. Your call.”

You blinked in surprise. In truth you weren’t exactly sure what you’d expected with Arthur coming along. You were resigned to the idea of riding out your heat by self-pleasuring in a cabin somewhere. However, his determination refused to wither. He wanted to help you. He went out of his way just to make sure you purchased the tonic. You admired his persistence. Maybe with his help, it could be possible. You eventually responded with, “I guess we can try. But the moment I start feeling it, we need to stop.”

Arthur looked at you for a moment, and nodded in understanding. “Sure.”

—

You started in Valentine, a knowing there could be some people milling about with information. Mere droplets were shared, only learning of rumors and tales rather than anything concrete. There had been a seller there just a day before, but with no direct route of passage of where they went next. From what you gathered, the seller was headed either to Annesburg or Saint Denis. East as a general direction that also meant adding a day’s worth of travel after having traveled in the opposite direction.

You and Arthur left just as the sun was setting, casting beautiful warm hues across the Heartlands. He was hasty with his departure, ensuring there was as least time as possible in getting to your destination. The two of you decided to tackle Saint Denis first, hoping to pick up leads in a more densely populated area before moving on to Annesburg if needed.

The night grew later and your eyelids began to grow heavy. You’d just passed the state line into Lemoyne, the air much warmer and more humid than the clear atmosphere of New Hanover. The heat that surrounded you like a blanket was not helping your fatigue. When you yawned widely, Arthur decided to set up camp.

Soon you found yourself sitting in front of a small fire. Arthur found a small clearing surrounded by a few trees far enough from the road to not draw too much attention. After setting up your respective tents and getting a fire going, he left to hunt and assured you he would be near enough in case there was any trouble. You hadn’t been sitting by yourself for very long, and you let yourself succumb to your thoughts.

Saint Denis was just a half a day’s worth of travel from where you were right now. You hoped you could find better answers there. If not, then it would take almost another day to make it up to Annesburg. Arthur mentioned you two could take the train to save some time. A practical idea, but you were hoping it wouldn’t be needed.

You always had a good grasp of when your heat would start. However, you were beginning to grow anxious on how close it was cutting. Unlike before you were not afraid to confront it without the tonic now, but having it possibly start in unfamiliar territory was daunting.

The sounds of grass rustling caught your attention, and you smelled Arthur before you could see him. He appeared out of the darkness, hands laden with a few rabbits. He caught your gaze and offered you a half-smile.

“Doin’ alright?” he asked.

“As well as ever,” you answered, sitting up and watching him begin to skin the rabbits. “How about you?”

Arthur’s eyes swiveled back to you, a momentary look of faint confusion crossing his face before he focused back to the meat. “I’m alright I guess.” After managing to section the meat, he stuck some on his knife and knelt down over the fire.

It took a few minutes for the meat to finish cooking. The savory smell wafted to your nose and your stomach rumbled. Arthur handed some pieces to you, and you began to munch on them gratefully. It wasn’t a full meal but it was enough to keep you sated until tomorrow.

Besides the crackle of the fire and the sounds of nature surrounding you, it was quiet. You were staring into the dancing flames, letting your mind wander once again. Your fatigue was beginning to settle after sitting for so long and you were prepared to turn in for the night. You lifted your head to tell Arthur, only to find him staring at you.

His reaction was just a second too late, turning his head away and awkwardly clearing his throat. You blinked. “Something wrong, Arthur?”

“Er, nothin’,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

It only occurred to you then it was the first time that you were alone with him since that fateful night. You wondered what was going through his mind at the moment. Was he too thinking back to it? You remembered the conversation you had earlier, how he felt ashamed of taking your innocence. You supposed an otherwise hardened outlaw would not care about a woman’s virtue. But he did.

You also realized that you didn’t really know much about him past the outlaw life. Almost a month living in the same camp together and he was still a stranger to you. Contemplating on picking his brain a little, you scooted slightly closer. Your movement aroused him and he offered a look of curiosity.

“What’re you thinking about?” you asked lightly.

His gaze broke from you, a small shrug on his shoulders. “Nothin’ in particular, why?”

“Just curious,” you admitted. “Quite frankly…I don’t know much about you.”

He scoffed at your response, his eyes rolling in the golden light. “I ain’t a man worth knowin’, especially after what I done.”

You frowned slightly. “I know your ledger ain’t the cleanest-”

“I meant with you,” he interrupted. “I know you said it don’t matter, I just can’t help feelin’ guilty over it still.”

You breathed out a heavy sigh. “Arthur, we were both guilty. I was the one who lured you in, remember? Wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t go after you in the first place.”

“Shouldn’t have fallen for that trap,” he chuckled without humor. “But I took advantage of you…your heat... I can hold myself together around an Omega, but somehow…”

As he trailed off, you nodded in understanding. An Alpha’s rut was almost as difficult as an Omega’s heat to ride through. Only older and more seasoned Alphas were able to achieve it. Arthur shared a camp with Omegas, so you could see how he’d learn to contain himself.

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling guilty as well. Your own temptations had tested his breaking point only to smash it to pieces. “Jesus, I had no idea. I’m sorry.” You murmured.

Arthur looked at you again, his expression hard to read. His lips twitched slightly before he spoke. “Ain’t your fault, Y/N. My own for lettin’ myself get to that point o’ no return.”

“It’s still on both of us regardless, no matter which way you spin it,” you pointed out. “What happened has happened, can’t fix that now. We just have to keep moving on.”

“I guess,” he sighed.

It once again fell silent between the two of you. Your gaze fell back to the now dying fire, the embers glowing faintly against the earth. The indigo and cobalt expanse of the sky was slowly engulfing you. Thoughts began to stir in more curiosity. It was the most you’ve talked about it, and somehow it felt more awkward than burying it with your memories. You supposed it was better to speak about it than not.

“We should turn in for the night,” he spoke again, moving to stand up. As you got to your feet as well, he kicked out the remainder of the fire and shrouding you both in near-total darkness.

As your eyes adjusted, you could see his gleaming in dim. He was staring at you again for a beat longer before turning to face his tent. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

For the briefest of a second you could feel the brush of his fingertips along the bare skin of your forearm as he passed by. A simple quick touch that sent sparks through you. It was so quick and sudden you assumed it might’ve been an accident.

Or was it?

A large yawn instead took your thoughts to your bedroll. Bidding him a goodnight just as he disappeared into his tent, you made your way toward your own.

---

The early morning sun peering through the slits of your tent aroused you from your restful, dream-filled sleep. You sat up slowly, rubbing the last dregs of fatigue from your eyes. As your body became more aware, the low crackling of a fire outside caught your attention. You crawled forward and opened your tent to see Arthur sitting in front of the fire. His attention was on the leather journal in his hands. He seemed to be writing something down, not having noticed you yet.

You’d seen that journal a few times before. You wondered often what he wrote in it. As you crawled out of the tent and into the dim morning light, only then did Arthur look up and close his journal.

“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice just slightly sleep-touched while he reached for a coffee pot and cup off to the side. He poured some into the cup and held it out. “How’d you sleep?”

You thanked him with a smile and grasped the cup in your hands. The cool metal began to warm instantly and you took a sip. Bitter and hot, it was an unusually welcoming feeling in your dry mouth. “Pretty decent. How about you?”

He shrugged slightly in response before he placed the journal in his satchel. “Can’t complain. Anyway, we’ll be headin’ off once you’re done with that. Sound good?”

You nodded while taking another sip. Leaving soon meant you’d reach Saint Denis by either late morning or early afternoon, and left you a good amount of time to start asking around. Once you finished your coffee, Arthur helped you break down your tent before tending to his own. Once the site had been completely devoid of everything, you were on the road again.

With the air becoming more humid and hazy, it were as if each breath you took was like inhaling water. Through the thickness of the atmosphere, the buildings of Saint Denis unveiled ahead. You’d reached the cobblestone streets by high noon, the sun disappearing above the smog. Both a beautiful and intimidating city, you were both hopeful and determined your search would end here.

You and Arthur agreed to split up to cover more ground. He knew you were perfectly capable of handling yourself after learning your reputation. However it did not stop him from being apprehensive. Before you set off, he asked you to dismount your horse. You did so, about to question as to why when he dismounted his to stand in front of you, and he tugged the black bandana from around his neck to hold out to you.

You stared at it in confusion, before turning your eyes to him.

“Keep my scent on ya, just in case anyone gets any ideas.” He explained.

“I don’t need-” you began, yet the look on his face stopped you in your tracks. True concern. You knew what he was trying to do; an Alpha sometimes would scent mark their mates by having them wear an article of clothing, an added layer of protection to ward off any rival Alphas if they were ever separated. He wasn’t trying to claim you, though. He had a good reason to make sure you were guarded. You weren’t too familiar with Saint Denis, but you knew there was a considerable amount of Alphas here. Without another word, you took the bandana from his hands and wrapped it around your own neck. His scent wafting off the fabric filled your nose.

A small smile of relief crossed his face. “Thank you. Alright, let’s meet by the train station in four hours,” he said, mounting back on his horse. “Be careful.”

You nodded to him, climbing onto your mare. “You too, Arthur. See you in a few hours.”

And in those few hours you’d discovered absolutely nothing.

Your frustration only grew as you moved down the streets and through the alleyways, finding the more questionable of people to ask. To your dismay they wouldn’t know or they avoided the question entirely. Some answers had you tracing back to Valentine or Emerald Ranch. Your head was absolutely spinning with the lack of direction, but you didn’t want to give up just yet.

After a few hours of dead ends and misleadings, you’d found hopefully one more lead.

You had around fifteen minutes before meeting Arthur back at the train station, and the last place you decided to try was a saloon on the seedier part of the city. The building itself appeared run-down, and the faint smell of urine lingered on the walls. You crinkled your nose and pushed the door open, coming upon a scene that wasn’t unfamiliar to you.

Drunken fools slurring and giggling in their seats, tipping half-empty bottles of beer and whiskey to their loose lips. An abundance of Betas with a few Omegas mixed in. Surely someone here could be persuaded through their inebriation.

You approached another Omega who seated herself in the corner, her cheeks rosy and her eyes half lidded as her distant gaze met yours. She clutched an amber bottle in her hand. You offered her a polite smile and sat across from her.

“Hello,” you greeted.

“H-hey, sugar,” she slurred, the smell of whiskey strong on her breath. “W-wanna have a good time?”

“No,” you answered immediately. “Listen…I’m in search of something. Something that would help…people like you and me.”

The woman blinked at you with an absolutely dumbfounded expression. “I…I ain’t sure whatchoo talkin’ about! Whuh-what?”

You sighed and closed your eyes to keep your composure. This seemed like a good idea just a minute ago. “A certain…tonic,” you leaned in and dropped your voice. “Ya know…a blessing in disguise.”

She hiccupped heavily, frowning as her fogged gaze turned away from you. She doubled over and held her stomach, promptly stumbling off her stool and heading to the exit. As she disappeared through the door, you heard the unmistakable sounds of retching and you sighed. So much for that.

You turned to look around, hoping you’d catch someone else that could tell you. There weren’t too many other Omegas, and each and every one seemed to be as inebriated as the previous. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea as you thought. You instead decided to leave, the smell of fresh alcohol vomit filling your nostrils as you exited into the hazy afternoon air. The poor girl was off to the side, moaning in pain next to her puddle of shame. You just kept walking, looking around for your horse. The mare had wandered off and your lips formed to whistle for her when another smell overtook your senses.

Alpha. A scent unlike Arthur’s but heavier and…rancid. Your nose crinkled and you hastened your steps. As you passed by an alleyway, a silhouette appeared and made its way toward you.

“Heard you were lookin’ ‘round for some Lilith’s Blessing,” a voice rumbled from the silhouette, who moved to step in behind you.

You kept your cool despite a small bubble of anxiety rising in your stomach. You’d dealt with Alphas like him one too many times before. “Bet you’ve heard many things in this city,” you countered, keeping your sights forward.

“I just thought it was strange…for a claimed Omega to be askin’ for such a thing when her Alpha should be takin’ care of her,” he continued as if you hadn’t spoken. He was still right behind you, too close for comfort.

You turned around to face him. Much taller than you as expected, wearing clothes that would easily cost you an entire month’s worth of bounties to achieve. He had a gleam in his eye that you did not trust. “What I do with my Alpha is none of your concern.” You hissed with a scowl. “Please leave me alone.”

“Ah, I don’t think so,” he growled, his arms quickly reaching out to you. You’d anticipated this and stepped back, bringing your own arm to swing a punch directly to his face. The distinctive and satisfying crunch of his nose breaking beneath your fist was enough to bring him to his knees. He yowled in pain, followed by expletives you cared to not repeat.

You turned on your heel and sprinted down the street. Your feet hit hard against the cobblestone as you sought to push as much distance between him and you as possible. You turned a corner and another, hoping that if he recovered, he would lose track of you that way. You weaved through random pedestrians, their sounds of shock and surprise falling on deaf ears. You only stopped when you’d ended up in an alley.

You were breathing hard, leaning against a wall in attempts to catch your breath. You had to find your way to the train station from here. Arthur surely would have reached there by now and was probably wondering where you were. Maybe he’ll come looking for you, though it was such a vast city you weren’t sure if that was possible. Hopefully you could ask someone for directions.

As your breath evened out and your heart stopped hammering, you straightened up again. Just before you began to move however, a tightening below your navel made its presence. A sensation you were all too familiar with. Your heart dropped to your stomach. Shit.

It was a little too early for this.

You had to find Arthur and high-tail it out.

You made your way back to the street and whistled loudly, hoping your horse was close enough to hear you. Others in the area turned their heads toward you, and you hoped it was because of your whistle and not the other reason.

You waited for a full minute, and nothing. Huffing in frustration, you headed to the first person you saw and asked for directions to the train station. Thankfully you learned it wasn’t too far away, and not in the direction of the Alpha who attempted to assault you. You hurried in the direction they told you, keeping your pace fast and your eyes forward.

The further you went, the more eyes were upon you. You hastened your steps again, knowing you had caught the attention of more than one Alpha in the area. The scent on Arthur’s bandana was beginning to fade.

The presence of others on your tail made you hyperaware. They were far back enough for you to slip out of sight, favoring to move in between buildings. You knew the general direction of the station and hoped you wouldn’t get turned around again. You were closer, possibly a few blocks away from what you were told. The steady breeze was moving with you.

As you approached the opening to another street, a large body stepped into your way. You skidded to a halt, eyes widening as the Alpha musk once again enveloped you.

“Omega…” he growled, his eyes flashing brightly. You ducked his opening arms, quickly skirting around him impressively in such a narrow space before darting forward.

Out into the open street, you managed to weave between horses and wagons. A train whistle sounded through the crowd, signaling that you were close. You put on a burst of speed, sprinting down the street with the train station clear ahead. You heard the Alpha behind you, his low snarl ripping through the crowd. You prayed Arthur was there waiting.

The Alpha grew closer, his larger body and longer strides were able to catch up to you in nearly no time at all. The busy street had only given you a slight headstart. You willed your legs to go faster, but the ache settling deep in your muscles told you that you weren’t able to.

He was just feet behind you.

Panic began to settle in.

You were ready to meet your inevitable fate when the sounds of hoofbeats appeared behind you, thunderous and quick, you heard the metal of the horseshoes skidding to a stop across the cobblestone.

“Back off,” a familiar – and welcoming – voice growled. You spun around to see Arthur on his horse, effectively blocking the Alpha from you. “She’s mine.”

The other Alpha snarled. You couldn’t see what happened next, only heard the connection of Arthur’s boot to his body. A grunt of pain was quick to follow, accompanied by the heavy thud of his body on the ground. It was only then did Arthur turn to look at you.

“Come on,” he huffed, gesturing to the back of his horse. You did not have to be told twice, jumping up onto the stallion was the quickest you’ve ever mounted a horse. As soon as your arms wrapped around his torso he took off.

Your heart hammered wildly in your chest as you kept your eyes forward. The train station was dead ahead. “Arthur-” you breathlessly uttered. “We can’t go to Annesburg. My heat-”

“I know,” he interrupted lowly. “I smelled it this mornin’.” Instead of heading toward the train, he veered off to the right and followed the tracks opposite of the way the train was facing. Residential buildings gave way to factories and stockyards, meaning you were nearly out.

A familiar whinny caught your attention. You turned your head and saw your mare running toward the both of you, and you sighed in relief.

---

The two of you rode out of Saint Denis without any trouble, heading westward toward Rhodes. Arthur however kept on the paths away from any sort of civilization, that of which you were grateful for. The longer you rode, however, the worse the pressure in your belly became. His scent wafted around you, prodding you further towards the peak of your heat. It wouldn’t be much longer before you were coated in your own slick and unable to move in his presence.

You gave him a warning, hoping he too would be able to compose himself like he said he could. He stopped deep in the woods, close to a stream where you were able to temporarily quench the burning in your throat. Arthur was quick to set up your tent, though keeping himself at a safe distance to not inhale your ever-growing scent of temptation.

It was only twilight by then, though appearing darker underneath the canopy of the trees. Your skin was already damp from the humidity, yet the presence of your slick was beginning to soak through your bloomers. You took a deep breath and looked at Arthur, tugging away the bandana from your neck and holding it out to him. He took it, carefully not allowing his fingers to brush yours.

It’d been quiet between the two of you when you stopped. You finally broke the silence. “Arthur, you can leave me,” you said to him. “I know my scent can’t be too friendly on you.”

He looked at you with a slight frown and a furrowed brow. “I ain’t leavin’, Y/N. Gotta make sure you’re safe.”

His refusal surprised you and simultaneously fluttered your heartstrings. You weren’t sure how to feel about his response. “We’re not close to any towns or-”

“Don’t matter. You know exactly how far your scent can travel.” He said knowingly. “Can’t risk that, so you do what you gotta do. I’ll be out here.” He gestured to the forest that surrounded you.

You sighed heavily. There was no arguing with Arthur, that you learned after having caught wind of his conversations with others. It wasn’t a situation you were foreign to either. In your younger days you’d learned to pleasure yourself in the presence of others who were close by to keep a lookout. You would tune it out and become lost in your own thoughts.

Time to visit the past.

You nodded to him and turned toward your tent. As you entered it you listened to his footsteps grow distant. You took a deep breath and lay on your bedroll, allowing your mind to succumb to your heat.

You closed your eyes and unbuttoned your shirt. Your wandering hands rolled up your chemise to explore your bare skin. You were hot and damp to the touch, and your nipples were already puckered. It’d been so long since you’d done this to yourself that you almost missed it. Almost.

Your pants were next, the denim constricting you as your body demanded to be free. You unbuttoned them and slid a hand in, your fingers sliding along your folds still covered by your chemise. You kicked off your jeans and shrugged off your shirt, and your underclothing was soon to follow. Your fingers dragged their way to your slit, parting them and your other hand began to caress your bundle of nerves. The pleasure began to roll through you, growing slowly as your touch became more fervent.

An image appeared in the depths of your mind. Arthur pinning you against a tree, fucking you to his content. It disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, yet it was enough to send a wave of fresh yearning through you. Biting on your lip, you tried to ignore it.

That however did nothing to staunch the way your body responded further to that memory. You mentally tried to push it away despite how wet you were growing for that sensation again. You shouldn’t fantasize about Arthur, you couldn’t.

Your mind kept screaming at yourself, but your body keened for his touch. The seconds ticked by and you were losing control of your own thoughts.

The dam broke open, flooding your mind with the memories of how Arthur took you that night. How perfect he felt inside you. The way his hands ravaged every inch of your sensitive skin and he rammed you. Your fingers slid into your entrance, desperately trying to reenact the sensation of his cock inside you. His growl, audible in your mind, was enough to send shivers cascading through your body.

You remembered how instantly protective he was over you earlier. The power in his voice, she’s mine. Even if it were just in the heat of the moment to ward off the other Alpha, those mere words sent you spiraling.

A small part of you wished you hadn’t resorted to him. He however was your first, and the only memory that you sustained in such a powerful event. You ached so painfully for it again. Your hands worked feverishly against your clit and teased your entrance. Every nerve of your body tingled as you barreled toward your release.

“Arthur…”

Your climax crashed over you fiercely, overtaking your muscles as you clenched around your fingers. You expelled a fresh rush of fluid into the palm of your hand. That was new.

You released shallow breaths as blood rushed through your ears. The fire of your release began to ebb away, settling back within your belly. You expected the dull ache that accompanied your usual ministrations. However, it were as if you hadn’t even done anything. The yearning returned with full force, gripping hold of your insides that you nearly gasped out from its intensity.

You moaned in frustration and gritted your teeth. God damn it. You knew what you were craving, who you were craving. You should have expected it wouldn’t be the same after your encounter with him. It were as if he changed your entire chemistry right down to the very core. You wouldn’t be satisfied unless he were to copulate with you. And you weren’t even mated to him.

But would he oblige?

You swallowed and sat up, the growing need for him beginning to cloud your mind. A small part of you contemplated on just riding the remainder of your heat out, regardless how long it took. There was no way Arthur would agree to do this again. You were ashamed of even considering it. You knew how he felt about it and you couldn’t blame him. Hell, you couldn’t blame either of you.

A swell of pressure grew within your core, forcing a sharp intake of breath from you. Perhaps you ought to try.

You stood up and peered through the flaps of your tent. It’d grown even darker, and you strained your eyes to see through the trees. A small breeze carried by, bringing Arthur’s scent to you and flooding your senses. Your legs trembled from how it enveloped you. He was still nearby.

You called his name into the quiet night and waited. A moment passed by when the faint sounds of moving underbrush appeared. His silhouette formed through the dark, becoming more prominent with each step. He was close enough to see his face, though still stood a good distance away.

“You finished?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No…” you mumbled. “I...I need help.”

You watched as his expression changed to confusion in the dim. “Help? With what?” he asked.

You swallowed hard. “I-I think you know…” you stammered, shyly glancing downward. You waited for him to reject you, waited for the anger of you even suggesting it.

Instead was even more bewilderment. “W-why?” he asked.

You sighed heavily. “Because I-” you paused for a moment to collect the right words. “I tried, it didn’t work. It’s the only way, Arthur. Please…I wouldn’t ask if there was another way aside from…riding it out.”

He’d fallen silent for a long moment, his gaze turning away from you, and you assumed that was his rejection. You withdrew back into your tent, unsure what you were going to do now. Embarrassment began to flood through you, and you cursed your heat for even allowing you to consider asking for his help. It was going to be a long week.

You heard the flaps open, and you turned your head to see Arthur at the entrance. It nearly surprised you, giving him a look of your own confusion. “Arthur?”

His eyes were on you, eyes bright against the darkness. His scent began to overwhelm you as he stepped in completely. You instinctually covered yourself, shyness overcoming you.

“Y/N…” he rumbled, kneeling down and reaching to gently cup your face. You hadn’t expected it, your body both flinching and responding to his touch. Rough fingers slid against the soft skin of your face, and you closed your eyes, allowing the sparks roll through your body.

You felt his lips brush against yours. His hands coaxed your stiff arms down and away from you. It surprised you that he was so intimate and gentle unlike before. He pulled you into his lap as if you were weightless, his clothes rough against your naked skin. The bulge beneath his pants were already prominent, sitting against your soaked mound.

The kiss became more fervent, his tongue prodding you open. You gladly accepted his invasion, letting him take the lead. One hand left your waist to trail up and down your back. A simple touch that had your heat keening for him. Your back arched and you pressed your breasts against his chest. A quiet groan rumbled deeply from him, and he parted his lips from yours.

The hand that trailed along your spine had come to rest on your lower back. “You sure ya want this?” he murmured to you.

You took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes,” you answered coherently. “I want you, Arthur. I need you right now.” Your arms wrapped around his neck.

He inhaled deeply, allowing your scent to flood his senses. A growl emanated from his chest, sending a shiver took hold of you. “You smell so good…” he whispered. His hand moved to your navel, sinking down low to your folds. Another shudder rippled through you as his fingers grazed against your sensitive clit. You could hear how wet you were when he teased your entrance.

“T-take me, please. Arthur…I’m aching for you,” you moaned, canting your hips to his touch.

He hummed at your words, sliding his fingers into you with ease. His thumb circled your nub. A gasp passed your lips as he toyed you tantalizingly, almost lazily. He hadn’t done this before with you. Even with his fingers, it was what your body needed. He felt so good that you could get lost just from his hands alone. His other hand moved from your lower back to your chest, grazing his thumb across one of your nipples. He played you like an instrument, his fingers expertly teasing you at a slow pace in every right way. It didn’t take long until you were writhing in his lap. You begged for more, but he kept at it with his ministrations, his eyes on you the entire time.

Your second peak had washed over you smoothly, yet somehow was more satisfying and explosive than the first. You moaned his name, your fingers grappling onto him like claws as it gripped your body. The last of it trickled out of your body as you trembled in his lap. You’d certainly made a mess on his jeans. The ache in your belly had lessoned however still remained prominent, and you wanted him even further.

“Did that help?” he asked lowly.

“A little,” you sighed. “Not enough…I need to feel you.”

He didn’t answer, ducking his head as if in thought. You could sense his hesitation and could guess why: his thoughts were still lingering on his guilt. You placed your hand on his stubbled chin, coaxing him to look at you.

“It’s okay, Arthur. I’m asking you…please. I want your knot.” You whispered to him. Your free hand slinked down his torso to rest on his strained jeans. His entire body twitched beneath you.

His gaze was fixated on you. There was still an unsureness hidden within those depths, yet the gleam reflected much more. His rut was the forefront, the need to connect with you held back by uncertainty. He released a rattling sigh, finally muttering, “I want you too.”

You smiled and your hand left his chin to work on the buttons of his shirt. It was already partly opened and you moved to work on the rest. It would be the first time seeing him nude and a fresh wave of need washed upon you thinking about it. The fabric fell open and you placed your hands on his exposed torso. He felt solid underneath his hot, hairy skin. His even breathing slightly disrupted from your touch. Fingertips trailing along his midline, you explored the planes and angles of his muscles. He was built just right. The very epitome of an Alpha.

You dare to explore further, dipping down to the waistband of his pants. As the buttons released the tension it unveiled what lay hidden underneath. You reached in through the opened folds to fish out his length. It was as thick as you remembered, your hand not fully wrapping around its circumference. The knot at the base was slightly swollen.

His breath hitched as you slid your hand along his hot and silky skin. Even though he’d taken your innocence last time, you were not ignorant on how to pleasure a man. His soft moans were a sweet melody to your ears, calling to you and reaching even further to your heat. You drew in a ragged breath as another swell of yearning overtook you.

Arthur sensed it, and his hand covered your own. He pulled your hand off him gently. “Think I need to focus on you now, sweetheart.” He muttered, planting a soft kiss upon your knuckles.

Sweetheart. You hadn’t expected that. A blush painted your face and you smiled shyly, tucking your face against your shoulder. He moved you off his lap and placed you back on your bedroll.

“On your knees.” He said gently. You listened and turned around, raising your ass up in presentation to him. His large hands took place on your waist and you waited for him to pound in. He instead slid his cock between your folds, groaning lightly as he coated himself with your fluids. He teased your clit for a short moment before he found your opening and slid in with ease, taking his time to fill you inch by inch. He stretched your walls oh so deliciously until he was completely sheathed.

You felt whole again, the two of you fitting together perfectly like puzzle pieces. Your body naturally pushed back, your butt flush with his hips. He uttered a small swear while his grip tightened on you.

He began to thrust. A slow and rolling movement that sent waves traveling through every fiber of your being. “Arthur…” you moaned. “You feel so good.”

His pace quickened a touch as he moaned out your name. He was careful with you this time, each touch and thrust as gentle as handling fine china. He caressed every curve you had to offer, tingles erupting everywhere his calloused pads roamed. He left no inch of your flesh untouched, exploring everywhere he could reach. He leaned over you, clouding your mind with his musk as his strong arms wrapped around you. Your breasts were at his leisure, toying with them as he had before. The way he pinched your nipples sent shivers down your spine.

“You feel amazin’,” He groaned, pressing himself deep as he inhaled sharply. “So soft…” he straightened back up and ran a hand down your back, his nails spurring you enough to enhance your ever-growing pleasure. He reached around to rub against your clit.

The additional sensation had you trembling in his grasp. Your head tilted up to whine out loud, uncaring of the volume at the moment.

“That’s it darlin’,” he rumbled to you. “Give me your pleasure.”

Darlin’. His voice. It was enough alone to send you nearly over the edge. It brought your third peak sooner than expected, coiling right deep within your core. It sprang free and spread like wildfire through your veins. You sang your pleasure out to him, your muscles clenching around him so tightly that he grunted.

He swore out loud, driving into you rather hard. You gasped and tried to wiggle away from the overstimulation. He held you against him yet returned to his normal pace. “Shit,” he groaned. “You sound beautiful.”

Your face heated with another blush. You turned your head to look at him. His eyes locked to yours, his clouded with lust. He offered you a small smile and briefly caressed your neck. Such intimacy continuously caught you off guard yet was pleasant all the same. “C-can you go harder, please?” you sighed.

He moaned at your words and heeded your request, thrusting harder and deeper into you. The waves of absolute ecstasy that followed were almost dizzying. You gripped the bedroll and released a wanton moan. His knot was starting to swell more, indicating he was close to his own release. His thrusts became more fervent as he chased his pleasure. Leaning over once again he wrapped his arms around you to bring you upright, pressing your back to his chest. You could only gasp in surprise from this action words lost to you with your mind too fogged. His scruffy chin rested on your shoulder as he murmured sweet praises in your ear. He was relentless, his fingers hadn’t left your clit while his other hand fondled your breasts. Your body threatened to melt in his grip with yet another orgasm on the climb.

It washed onto you like a tsunami. Your entire body vibrated in his arms as you cried your release out to the heavens, his name mixed in a tangle of swears and squeals. With the flames ebbing away, his arms held you tight while he drove himself even further into you.

“Shit, I’m close,” he growled lowly. His knot teased the sensitive nerves of your inner walls. You could only breathlessly whine while he used your body to his bidding. With a few strong thrusts, he unleashed a guttural groan and pressed himself into you as much as he could, spilling his hot spend inside you.

His knot had swelled completely, once again locking you to him. The little space of your tent had become filled with the heated panting of your breaths. The aching swell once residing deep in your belly had finally dissipated, leaving behind a blanket of fatigued bliss.

Arthur’s arms loosened a fraction from around you. You hadn’t expected the next maneuver when he shifted you as if you were weightless. He’d managed to carefully lay the both of you atop your bedroll, his weight was on top of you for only a brief second before he rolled onto his side and pulling you along with him. He was now spooning you, and only then did his arms leave your torso.

The air was hot, the heat radiating from his skin even hotter. That didn’t matter to you in the slightest. Riddled head to toe with satisfaction of finally having what you needed with the person you needed it from. Just an hour ago it seemed even impossible to reach this point.

You felt him shift behind you again. His presence loomed over you and his hand reached to cup your jaw. You turned to his touch without resistance, peering up into those bright eyes of his. He had a soft smile that shone through the dim, and he brought his lips to meet yours.

The kiss was as tender as the first. It still amazed you how this beast of a man could be so soft and gentle with you. He held you to him and you marveled how plump his lips felt against yours. Another long moment passed before he released your face, his hand coming to rest on your hip.

Such a simple notion had you lightheaded. You gave a small huff, your senses still filled to the brim of his scent. He chuckled lightly, sending vibrations against your back.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while,” he rumbled.

You blinked and shifted slightly to view him better. “What, fuck me?”

“Not exactly,” he murmured. “Kiss you.”

His answer had you taken aback. “W-what? Really?”

His hand moved again, beginning to trace lazy patterns up and down your waistline. “Yeah… was afraid to say somethin’ to ya after what happened. Weren’t sure if you even liked me. Thought I’d try.”

You released a shuddering sigh at his words. Never did you once imagine it would have come to this point. You denied your slowly growing infatuation for him as one-sided and heat-driven, assuming he’d never even want to touch you again. And you were glad you were wrong.

“’Less you just needed me for my knot…” he mumbled, turning his head away and taking your silence for rejection.

“No!” you exclaimed. He flinched from your interjection. You cautiously moved yourself to cup his cheek. “Arthur…” you said, lowering your tone. “Listen, I… I like you. I do. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have asked you to help me with my heat…” you sighed again. “Regardless of what happened between us. I like you.”

You watched the disbelief melt away from his face to slowly form a content smile. His hand covered yours, passing his lips across the skin of your palm. You closed your eyes, allowing the sensation to envelope you. He kissed a steady, feather-light path up your arm and along your shoulder. He finished by placing his mouth against your pulse point. His teeth grazed your flesh, catching your attention. Your breath hitched and you opened your eyes.

“Don’t worry, I won’t mark ya,” he assured, whispering into your skin. “Too early for anything yet…”

You nodded silently. Still much too soon to even consider such a large step, if it were even a possibility in the future.

“But I wanna get to know ya more…” he continued. His touch moved to your stomach, rubbing it in slow, soothing circles. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” you granted, sparks igniting deep from how he caressed you. “Just wish you’d done it sooner.”

He exhaled a puff of breath with a small chuckle. “I ain’t the most confident of folk, believe it or not.”

You hummed in response. “Guess I ain’t surprised since you went almost a month without saying much to me.”

“’Spose I gotta make up for that then,” he replied, placing a sweet kiss on the back of your neck. The hand on your stomach pressed your torso closer to his in a tight embrace. You fell to it easily, finding comfort and security in his capable hands.

The post copulation ache that took hold of your muscles soon began to engulf you whole. Sleep weighed heavy in your mind and tugged at your eyelids. The last thing you heard was Arthur’s voice soothing you to a restful sleep.

#Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur Morgan x reader smut #ABO dynamics #a/b/o dynamics

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route22ny · 4 years

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*Gaslighting, if you don’t know the word, is defined as manipulation into doubting your own sanity; as in, Carl made Mary think she was crazy, even though she clearly caught him cheating. He gaslit her.

Pretty soon, as the country begins to figure out how we “open back up” and move forward, very powerful forces will try to convince us all to get back to normal. (That never happened. What are you talking about?) Billions of dollars will be spent on advertising, messaging, and television and media content to make you feel comfortable again. It will come in the traditional forms — a billboard here, a hundred commercials there — and in new-media forms: a 2020–2021 generation of memes to remind you that what you want again is normalcy. In truth, you want the feeling of normalcy, and we all want it. We want desperately to feel good again, to get back to the routines of life, to not lie in bed at night wondering how we’re going to afford our rent and bills, to not wake to an endless scroll of human tragedy on our phones, to have a cup of perfectly brewed coffee, and simply leave the house for work. The need for comfort will be real, and it will be strong. And every brand in America will come to your rescue, dear consumer, to help take away that darkness and get life back to the way it was before the crisis. I urge you to be well aware of what is coming.

For the last hundred years, the multibillion-dollar advertising business has operated based on this cardinal principle: Find the consumer’s problem and fix it with your product. When the problem is practical and tactical, the solution is “as seen on TV” and available at Home Depot. Command strips will save me from having to repaint. So will Mr. Clean’s Magic Eraser. Elfa shelving will get rid of the mess in my closet. The Ring doorbell will let me see who’s on the porch if I can’t take my eyes off Netflix. But when the problem is emotional, the fix becomes a new staple in your life, and you become a lifelong loyalist. Coca-Cola makes you: happy. A Mercedes makes you: successful. Taking your kids to Disneyland makes you: proud. Smart marketers know how to highlight what brands can do for you to make your life easier. But brilliant marketers know how to rewire your heart. And, make no mistake, the heart is what has been most traumatized this last month. We are, as a society, now vulnerable in a whole new way.

What the trauma has shown us, though, cannot be unseen. A carless Los Angeles has clear blue skies as pollution has simply stopped. In a quiet New York, you can hear the birds chirp in the middle of Madison Avenue. Coyotes have been spotted on the Golden Gate Bridge. These are the postcard images of what the world might be like if we could find a way to have a less deadly daily effect on the planet. What’s not fit for a postcard are the other scenes we have witnessed: a health care system that cannot provide basic protective equipment for its frontline; small businesses — and very large ones — that do not have enough cash to pay their rent or workers, sending over 16 million people to seek unemployment benefits; a government that has so severely damaged the credibility of our media that 300 million people don’t know who to listen to for basic facts that can save their lives.

The cat is out of the bag. We, as a nation, have deeply disturbing problems. You’re right. That’s not news. They are problems we ignore every day, not because we’re terrible people or because we don’t care about fixing them, but because we don’t have time. Sorry, we have other shit to do. The plain truth is that no matter our ethnicity, religion, gender, political party (the list goes on), nor even our socioeconomic status, as Americans we share this: We are busy. We’re out and about hustling to make our own lives work. We have goals to meet and meetings to attend and mortgages to pay — all while the phone is ringing and the laptop is pinging. And when we get home, Crate and Barrel and Louis Vuitton and Andy Cohen make us feel just good enough to get up the next day and do it all over again. It is very easy to close your eyes to a problem when you barely have enough time to close them to sleep. The greatest misconception among us, which causes deep and painful social and political tension every day in this country, is that we somehow don’t care about each other. White people don’t care about the problems of black America. Men don’t care about women’s rights. Cops don’t care about the communities they serve. Humans don’t care about the environment. These couldn’t be further from the truth. We do care. We just don’t have the time to do anything about it. Maybe that’s just me. But maybe it’s you, too.

Well, the treadmill you’ve been on for decades just stopped. Bam! And that feeling you have right now is the same as if you’d been thrown off your Peloton bike and onto the ground: What in the holy fuck just happened? I hope you might consider this: What happened is inexplicably incredible. It’s the greatest gift ever unwrapped. Not the deaths, not the virus, but The Great Pause. It is, in a word, profound. Please don’t recoil from the bright light beaming through the window. I know it hurts your eyes. It hurts mine, too. But the curtain is wide open. What the crisis has given us is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see ourselves and our country in the plainest of views. At no other time, ever in our lives, have we gotten the opportunity to see what would happen if the world simply stopped. Here it is. We’re in it. Stores are closed. Restaurants are empty. Streets and six-lane highways are barren. Even the planet itself is rattling less (true story). And because it is rarer than rare, it has brought to light all of the beautiful and painful truths of how we live. And that feels weird. Really weird. Because it has… never… happened… before. If we want to create a better country and a better world for our kids, and if we want to make sure we are even sustainable as a nation and as a democracy, we have to pay attention to how we feel right now. I cannot speak for you, but I imagine you feel like I do: devastated, depressed, and heartbroken.

And what a perfect time for Best Buy and J. Crew and Gwyneth Paltrow to help me feel normal again. If I could just have the new iPhone in my hand, if I could rest my feet on a pillow of new Nikes, if I could drink a venti blonde vanilla latte with two pumps of syrup, then this very dark feeling would go away. You think I’m kidding, that I’m being cute, that I’m denying the very obvious benefits of having a roaring economy. You’re right. Our way of life is not ruinous. The economy is not, at its core, evil. Brands and their products create millions of jobs. Like people — and most anything in life — there are brands that are responsible and ethical, and there are others that are not. They are all part of a system that keeps us living long and strong. We have lifted more humans out of poverty through the power of economics than any other civilization in history. Yes, without a doubt, Americanism is a force for good. It is not some villainous plot to wreak havoc and destroy the planet and all our souls along with it. I get it, and I agree. But its flaws have been laid bare for all to see. It doesn’t work for everyone. It’s responsible for great destruction. It is so unevenly distributed in its benefit that three men own more wealth than 150 million people. Its intentions have been perverted and the protection it offers has disappeared. In fact, it’s been brought to its knees by one pangolin.

And so the onslaught is coming. Get ready, my friends. What is about to be unleashed on American society will be the greatest campaign ever created to get you to feel normal again. It will come from brands, it will come from government, it will even come from each other, and it will come from the left and from the right. We will do anything, spend anything, believe anything, just so we can take away how horribly uncomfortable all of this feels. And on top of that, just to turn the screw that much more, will be the one effort that’s even greater: the all-out blitz to make you believe you never saw what you saw. The air wasn’t really cleaner; those images were fake. The hospitals weren’t really a war zone; those stories were hyperbole. The numbers were not that high; the press is lying. You didn’t see people in masks standing in the rain risking their lives to vote. Not in America. You didn’t see the leader of the free world push an unproven miracle drug like a late-night infomercial salesman. That was a crisis update. You didn’t see homeless people dead on the street. You didn’t see inequality. You didn’t see indifference. You didn’t see utter failure of leadership and systems.

But you did. You are not crazy, my friends. And so we are about to be gaslit in a truly unprecedented way. It starts with a check for $1,200 (Don’t say I never gave you anything) and then it will be so big that it will be bigly. And it will be a one-two punch from both big business and the big White House — inextricably intertwined now more than ever and being led by, as our luck would have it, a Marketer in Chief. Business and government are about to band together to knock us unconscious again. It will be funded like no other operation in our lifetimes. It will be fast. It will be furious. And it will be overwhelming. The Great American Return to Normal is coming.

From one citizen to another, I beg of you: Take a deep breath, ignore the deafening noise, and think deeply about what you want to put back into your life. This is our chance to define a new version of normal, a rare and truly sacred (yes, sacred) opportunity to get rid of the bullshit and to only bring back what works for us, what makes our lives richer, what makes our kids happier, what makes us truly proud. We get to Marie Kondo the shit out of it all. We care deeply about one another. That is clear. That can be seen in every supportive Facebook post, in every meal dropped off for a neighbor, in every Zoom birthday party. We are a good people. And as a good people, we want to define — on our own terms — what this country looks like in five, 10, 50 years. This is our chance to do that, the biggest one we have ever gotten. And the best one we’ll ever get.

We can do that on a personal scale in our homes, in how we choose to spend our family time on nights and weekends, what we watch, what we listen to, what we eat, and what we choose to spend our dollars on and where. We can do it locally in our communities, in what organizations we support, what truths we tell, and what events we attend. And we can do it nationally in our government, in which leaders we vote in and to whom we give power. If we want cleaner air, we can make it happen. If we want to protect our doctors and nurses from the next virus — and protect all Americans — we can make it happen. If we want our neighbors and friends to earn a dignified income, we can make that happen. If we want millions of kids to be able to eat if suddenly their school is closed, we can make that happen. And, yes, if we just want to live a simpler life, we can make that happen, too. But only if we resist the massive gaslighting that is about to come. It’s on its way. Look out.

https://forge.medium.com/prepare-for-the-ultimate-gaslighting-6a8ce3f0a0e0

#covid19 #return to normalcy #social manipulation #everything is broken #julio vincent gambuto

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kny111 · 4 years

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Prepare for the Ultimate Gaslighting*

by Julio Vincent Gambuto

Pretty soon, as the country begins to figure out how we “open back up” and move forward, very powerful forces will try to convince us all to get back to normal. (That never happened. What are you talking about?) Billions of dollars will be spent on advertising, messaging, and television and media content to make you feel comfortable again. It will come in the traditional forms — a billboard here, a hundred commercials there — and in new-media forms: a 2020–2021 generation of memes to remind you that what you want again is normalcy. In truth, you want the feeling of normalcy, and we all want it. We want desperately to feel good again, to get back to the routines of life, to not lie in bed at night wondering how we’re going to afford our rent and bills, to not wake to an endless scroll of human tragedy on our phones, to have a cup of perfectly brewed coffee and simply leave the house for work. The need for comfort will be real, and it will be strong. And every brand in America will come to your rescue, dear consumer, to help take away that darkness and get life back to the way it was before the crisis. I urge you to be well aware of what is coming.

For the last hundred years, the multibillion-dollar advertising business has operated based on this cardinal principle: Find the consumer’s problem and fix it with your product. When the problem is practical and tactical, the solution is “as seen on TV” and available at Home Depot. Command strips will save me from having to repaint. So will Mr. Clean’s Magic Eraser. Elfa shelving will get rid of the mess in my closet. The Ring doorbell will let me see who’s on the porch if I can’t take my eyes off Netflix. But when the problem is emotional, the fix becomes a new staple in your life, and you become a lifelong loyalist. Coca-Cola makes you: happy. A Mercedes makes you: successful. Taking your family on a Royal Caribbean cruise makes you: special. Smart marketers know how to highlight what brands can do for you to make your life easier. But brilliant marketers know how to rewire your heart. And, make no mistake, the heart is what has been most traumatized this last month. We are, as a society, now vulnerable in a whole new way.

And what a perfect time for Best Buy and H&M and Wal-Mart to help me feel normal again. If I could just have the new iPhone in my hand, if I could rest my feet on a pillow of new Nikes, if I could drink a venti blonde vanilla latte or sip a Diet Coke, then this very dark feeling would go away. You think I’m kidding, that I’m being cute, that I’m denying the very obvious benefits of having a roaring economy. You’re right. Our way of life is not without purpose. The economy is not, at its core, evil. Brands and their products create millions of jobs. Like people — and most anything in life — there are brands that are responsible and ethical, and there are others that are not. They are all part of a system that keeps us living long and strong. We have lifted more humans out of poverty through the power of economics than any other civilization in history. Yes, without a doubt, Americanism is a force for good. It is not some villainous plot to wreak havoc and destroy the planet and all our souls along with it. I get it, and I agree. But its flaws have been laid bare for all to see. It doesn’t work for everyone. It’s responsible for great destruction. It is so unevenly distributed in its benefit that three men own more wealth than 150 million people. Its intentions have been perverted, and the protection it offers has disappeared. In fact, it’s been brought to its knees by one pangolin. We have got to do better and find a way to a responsible free market.

Until then, get ready, my friends. What is about to be unleashed on American society will be the greatest campaign ever created to get you to feel normal again. It will come from brands, it will come from government, it will even come from each other, and it will come from the left and from the right. We will do anything, spend anything, believe anything, just so we can take away how horribly uncomfortable all of this feels. And on top of that, just to turn the screw that much more, will be the one effort that’s even greater: the all-out blitz to make you believe you never saw what you saw. The air wasn’t really cleaner; those images were fake. The hospitals weren’t really a war zone; those stories were hyperbole. The numbers were not that high; the press is lying. You didn’t see people in masks standing in the rain risking their lives to vote. Not in America. You didn’t see the leader of the free world push an unproven miracle drug like a late-night infomercial salesman. That was a crisis update. You didn’t see homeless people dead on the street. You didn’t see inequality. You didn’t see indifference. You didn’t see utter failure of leadership and systems.

#opinion #literature #lit #covid-19 #coronavirus #pandemic #writing #disenfranchisement #oppression #abuse

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ao3bronte · 5 years

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Unseen Scars by @ao3bronte Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

This is my fourth prompt for @badthingshappenbingo ! Please reblog and enjoy!

Cradling Someone in Their Arms (4/8)

She’s slinking around the Agreste’s industrial kitchen, her blood still pounding far too loudly in her ears for her to even attempt an air of covertness. Thankfully, the staff has long vacated this part of the mansion and Ladybug doesn’t hesitate to fling open the fridge and snatch a container of bouillon de poulet from the top shelf as well as a slice of camembert cheese wrapped in cling film from the lower drawers. Clutching both items to her chest, she manoeuvres back through the maze of reception rooms and foyers before making her way back upstairs, slinking into Adrien’s room as easily as she escaped.

Releasing a sigh of relief once the door is firmly closed behind her, Ladybug pries the plastic lid from the broth and sets it in the microwave sitting atop his minifridge, setting the timer for two minutes before fetching a bottle of water. She twists off the top and strides carefully back towards the bed, eyeing the familiar little ball of black and green suspiciously. Plagg had buried himself in the haphazard splay of Adrien’s hair while she was away, tucked up just behind his cheek and ear. Taking a wary breath, she unwraps the cheese and sets it on the bedside table, watching as the little kwami responds.

“Oooooh…”

Plagg’s nostrils begin to twitch and Ladybug watches the little slits of his eyes widen, following the unpleasantly strong scent of the cheese. He floats sluggishly towards the table and collapses on top of the crumpled cling film, burrowing his face and teeth into the creamy slice.

The microwave beeps and Ladybug turns back around, still keeping an eye on the lethargic kwami behind her. He had demanded cheese and soup almost immediately, leaving no room for explanation or negotiation. Then he’d given her directions to the kitchen, promised he would explain once he had eaten, and promptly fell back asleep.

Breathing out, she plucks a plastic spoon from the ceramic mug sitting on top of the microwave and returns once again to Adrien’s bedside, carefully setting the hot broth down on the mattress platform, “Are you his—”

“Kwami? Yes.”

Ladybug tries to keep her facial expression neutral as Plagg turns his attention to her, the ring of gooey cheese splattered all over his face both endearing and disgusting. It reminds her of Tikki after a long battle and judging by the impish stare he seems to be giving her in return, she doubts she’s been successful.

“Plagg—”

“Feed him first. Then I’ll explain.”

“Feed him?” Ladybug turns her head and stares at Adrien, glancing apprehensively between the container of broth and the profile of his face, the shadows of his silhouette illuminated by the irradiant light of the Parisian twilight. She places a hand on his shoulder and gently tries to rouse him, watching his face for a sign or reaction that he might be coming to.

“He hasn’t eaten properly in a couple days. Hasn’t remembered to feed me either,” Plagg explains around a mouthful of cheese, “But I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight, not when he’s been…”

The knot in Ladybug’s stomach tightens as the kwami trails off, “Why hasn’t he been eating?”

“Says he’s too nauseous,” Plagg shrugs, gnawing on the cheese’s rind.

“Oh,” Ladybug replies, not knowing what else to say. What would make you so nauseous that you wouldn’t want to eat? The stomach flu? Or food poisoning? “What should I do?”

“Feed him. He’s not going to wake up if he doesn’t get his strength back.”

“Okay,” she murmurs and her voice sounds more determined than she feels, “I have to sit him up so...pillows. Let’s find some pillows.”

She scours the bedroom quickly and, considering the massive size of it, comes up empty handed, “Not a single pillow?” Ladybug sighs and frustration begins to leach into the jumbled cocktail of her emotions, “Okay. Plan B.”

She doesn’t notice the kwami’s eyeballs nearly bulge out of his skull as she crawls into bed with his wielder, sliding her palms in beneath his pillow and scooting her left leg underneath. She shimmies as smoothly as she can possibly manage, arranging herself to sit upright against the headboard and with one hand propping his neck up, she pulls the pillow out and places it on his lap, setting him back down against her front as carefully as possible.

She pauses and tries not to blush at the intimate position she’s found herself in.

Eyebrows furrowed in determination, she sets her feelings aside for the moment and puts her hands in the divot between his arms and chest and hauls him upwards, bracing his back and upper body on her chest. He slumps against her, still blissfully unaware, and Ladybug heaves a sigh of relief and embarrassment; she’s been close to him before but never quite like this, his body completely slack in her embrace as she tries to keep him comfortable and warm at the same time. He takes slow and shallow breaths, still lost in the midst of sleep, and she takes pride in the colour that’s returned to his lips and cheeks now that he’s spent some time under the covers.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

Feeling far more determined than she did a few minutes ago, Ladybug brackets Adrien with her left leg and stretches out her right, reaching for the container of broth sitting just out of reach. Using her foot, Ladybug nudges the tupperware close enough to grab it only for the spoon to fall onto the floor with a clatter and Ladybug glares up at the heavens reproachfully, cursing her bad luck.

There’s the slightest pressure on her knee a moment later and Ladybug swivels her head around to see Plagg setting the spoon against her leg. He’s watching her curiously, his green eyes shining brighter than they were only minutes ago and she thanks him, gathering her wits as he sits himself down on the pillow in Adrien’s lap to observe.

“Oookay,” Ladybug swallows and peels the lid from the plastic container, setting it out of the way. She arranges Adrien’s head backwards so it rests against her left shoulder and delicately spoons the first of the broth passed his lips, carefully examining his throat to make sure he swallows. She repeats the motion several times and, confident that she’s not drowning him, turns her attention back to the kwarmi of destruction before her.

“Talk.”

The kwami blinks slowly, “What do you want to know?”

“How did Adrien find you?”

“Same way you found Tikki, I guess.”

Ladybug thinks back to the little box hiding in one of the drawers of her boudoir, “So he’s…”

Plagg cocks his head to the side and nods.

Gasping, Ladybug tries to crush the swell of her heartbeat pounding in her ears at the realisation of it being spoken aloud. How did she not see it before? How long had she spent watching him move across her computer screen in his perfume adverts and not compared their gaits, their eye colour, their smiles?

She glances down at his disheveled blond hair and feels nothing but shame; why didn’t she put the pieces together before?

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Maybe.”

Ladybug’s eyes swing back sharply to the kwami in alarm, “What do you mean, maybe?”

He shrugs.

“You’re not being honest.”

“Not exactly.”

Ladybug purses her lips, “Chat Noir doesn’t lie to me.”

Plagg meets her gaze, “I’m not Chat Noir.”

“But I am Ladybug,” she growls, “And you will answer me.”

She and Plagg stare pointedly at each other for a long moment before he eventually slumps in defeat, his little body thumping against the pillow, “Fine.”

“Good. Now tell me what’s wrong so I can try and help.”

Plagg whines, “He…hasn’t been himself lately.”

Ladybug turns her attention to the dark circles beneath his eyes and nods, urging him on.

“He’s been stretching himself and spending more time in our form than he has in his own. This isn’t exactly supposed to be a permanent transformation, but one of necessity. It’s exhausting,” Plagg pulls a face, “He can’t always sleep and stays out all night, running over rooftops and draining both of us. By the time he makes it back into bed, it’s usually only a few hours before he has to wake up for school.”

“I should have noticed,” Ladybug fights the tears beading at the corners of her eyes, “I should have seen the signs!”

Plagg slumps, “He hides it well. He doesn’t want anyone to worry about him.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, but it’s obvious once he knows he’s alone,” Plagg continues, wringing his paws together, “He’s always been…sad I guess, when he thinks no one is looking, but it’s only gotten worse after last week’s akuma attack.”

“Which one? We practically have one a day.”

Plagg’s whiskers twitch, “The one with the fireman.”

“Oh,” she whispers, bending the elbow of the arm supporting his head to check his temperature, “That was a tough one.”

“Yup.”

Her brows begin to furrow, “Didn’t he get hurt? He tried playing it off but…”

“We got caught when the house fell on us.”

“Oh god,” Ladybug’s hand covers her face in shock, “Did he get hurt? Did he hit his head?”

“I think so,” Plagg says, rubbing at the back of his head, “I can’t really remember. Everything was a bit of a blur after that.”

Concern burns deep in her chest, “Why didn’t my cure heal him?”

“I took the brunt of it,” Plagg murmurs, “And I’m not sure but...I haven’t felt like myself much since either.”

Ladybug’s thoughts begin to run rampant, “I need to get you to Master Fu. If you’ve been hurt, he can heal you too.”

“I’m not going anywhere without him,” Plagg kneads his paws against his wielder’s blankets, “You can take me after once he’s feeling better.”

“But what if…” Ladybug trails off, tipping another spoonful of broth passed Adrien’s lips, “Oh god, this is bad. Please tell me someone took him to the hospital.”

“He’s been playing it off as a headache, not that anyone asked. His father is never around and his assistant rarely interacts with him beyond what’s strictly necessary.”

Her arms tighten around him, “How could they not have noticed?”

“Like I said, he hides it well.”

Ladybug tries to keep the myriad of emotions threatening to well up behind her eyes at bay, “What are we going to do?”

“He has you.”

She looks up and Plagg stares back, his eyes burning with intensity, “Of course he does. We’re partners.”

“Just partners?”

Ladybug looks away from Plagg’s arched eyebrow and goes for the last few spoonfuls of soup, “He has Nino too, and Alya. And Marinette.”

Plagg’s eyebrow rises even higher, “You can’t fool me, Spots. You think I wouldn’t notice Tikki hiding in your handbag after all this time?”

Ladybug stiffens at the accusation, “Does he know?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m…Marinette.”

Plagg rolls his eyes in response, “No, not that’s it’s not completely obvious.”

She blushes at the sarcasm, watching as Adrien’s eyelashes flutter briefly before going slack again, “I don’t think I’m ready for him to know.”

“Then help him as Ladybug. Please.”

Ladybug holds back tears as Plagg’s nonchalance fails him for a moment, the panic and worry of the past week overwhelming him before he can manage to get his mask back into place. She reaches out to cup the kwami in her hand and nods resolutely, “I’ll do everything I can.”

Plagg presses his forehead into her palm, “Thank you.”

#miraculous ladybug #bad things happen bingo #ladybug #adrien agreste #plagg #sickfic #ladrien #angst #reveal

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jennyfair7 · 5 years

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Inktober 25 - Tasty

Standalone modern AU, some E/C sort-of-fluff for a change!

Christine was glad she managed to save room for dessert when the server brought the raspberry mille-feuille. It was almost too lovely to eat, a perfect ending to the most lavish meal she’d had in, well, probably ever. Growing up on the road had meant a steady diet of cheap take-out and whatever greasy fare came from the kitchens of the venues her dad played. Even now, out of music school and with a decent job at the opera, she wouldn't splurge on something like this for herself.

Taking the first bite, she nearly moaned in appreciation but was afraid of drawing too much attention to their dimly-lit corner of the restaurant. Her dining companion was a private person, to say the least.

Erik sipped at his wine and only watched from across the table as she devoured an entire feast, meant to congratulate her on being cast as Siébel in the upcoming season’s production of Faust. He insisted she should be Marguerite and that the mistake would soon be rectified, but she brushed off his comments as excessive pride in his teaching abilities. Siébel was cause enough for celebration to her.

Course after course, he politely declined each time she offered him a taste. Her tutor never ate in front of her, and Christine wondered for the millionth time exactly what lay beneath the mask that covered everything except his mouth and chin. At first, she hadn’t even noticed it; the likeness was so realistic. There was no explanation offered and she was too polite to ask, assuming it had been some kind of accident. Was he burned? Missing part of his cheek, or jaw, or nose? She flushed and looked away when she realized she was staring at his false face.

Her interest was more than mere curiosity. Over the past months of their lessons, he had seen her true self through the shell she’d worn since her father’s death, and Christine wished she could do the same for him. Whatever was behind that thin layer of custom-molded silicone, it would still be the face of the man who had reawoken something in her that she had believed to be lost forever.

She glanced back after a pause, trying not to seem obvious, but soon realized Erik wouldn't have noticed her gawking in any case. His attention was trained on her mouth as she took another generous bite, those pale brown eyes turned wolfish gold as they reflected the flickering candle at the center of the table. He’d never looked at her this way before, like a man at a woman and not an artist assessing his work.

The change was not unwelcome. Christine had felt drawn to Erik from the start - an attachment that ran deeper than the music, as if there were an invisible thread connecting them. But he hadn’t given any sign it was mutual, so she’d resolved to keep things professional. Maybe the old adage was true and food was the way to a man’s heart, even a man who looked like he scarcely ate at all.

No longer caring if anyone else might hear, she closed her eyes and let out a soft sound of pleasure. She heard a faint hiss as he sucked in a breath through his teeth. When she reopened her eyes, that familiar mantle of propriety had settled over him again, but the predatory glint in his gaze remained.

Daring a bit more, she dipped a finger into the pastry cream filling and brought it to her mouth. Erik’s hands twitched where they rested on the table and he shifted anxiously in his seat. He was normally so controlled, almost cold. Tonight, she saw his demeanor through a new light.

The stiffness and well-practiced formality, his hesitation to touch her - perhaps it was a different sort of mask. Just because she had never counted them didn’t mean there weren’t strikes against him, after all. There was the difference in their ages, his unseen face, the mystery of a past he had yet to share with her...

"Are you enjoying everything?" Erik asked, interrupting her thoughts.

His voice was raspy, lacking its usual finesse. Christine tested her new theory and licked her fingertip clean before answering.

"Oh, yes. Everything."

The corners of his mouth disappeared beneath the edge of the mask in a rare smile. Encouraged by his responses, she pushed further.

"I really wish you would try this! It's so tasty."

“No, thank you. I…”

Erik trailed off as she picked out a cream-covered raspberry and raised it towards him. He tensed, the predator now the prey. Christine willed her hand not to shake as it kept moving forward until she was a few inches from his face. She gasped when his hand shot up to seize her wrist, holding her at a slight distance.

While his eyes were wary, Christine tried to keep her expression neutral. Tried not to reveal that this was a test she had devised on the fly to determine which path to take at this unexpected fork in the road. After what seemed like forever, he relaxed his grip and dipped his head.

Erik took her offering between his teeth, carefully avoiding her skin. Disappointed not to feel the swipe of his tongue as he drew the berry into his mouth, she ran her thumb along his lips under the guise of brushing away a bit of cream. He leaned into the contact for a moment before pulling back suddenly. Releasing her wrist, he lifted his napkin to conceal his mouth as he chewed.

“Did you like it?” she asked, heartbeat thrumming with each second that ticked by as she waited for his response.

“Yes,” he said at last, lowering the napkin and avoiding her eyes. “Very much.”

They were not speaking about the mille-feuille anymore, that much was certain. Cheeks warm and mind buzzing, she finished her dessert while Erik drained his glass. They sat in awkward silence for a little while longer until he remarked that it was getting late and signaled the server for the check. Christine wasn’t eager to return to the real world outside the restaurant doors.

When he offered to call her a cab, she asked him to accompany her the couple blocks to the subway instead, claiming he’d been generous enough already. As they walked side by side, hands tucked safely away in their respective coat pockets, she wondered what the consequences of this evening would be. Would they go back to their roles of student and teacher as if nothing had happened? Or was this the beginning of something new?

When they reached the subway entrance, she decided that worry and consequences could wait until the morning.

“Thank you, Erik. Good night.”

Grasping his lapels for support, she stood on tiptoe to press a lingering kiss to the cheek of his mask. He shivered as she leaned in closer, her lips grazing his ear.

“And sweet dreams.”

Christine left him standing speechless, gloved fingers held to his cheek, as she darted down the stairs to catch the approaching train.

#phic #e/c #modern au #mine #inktober 2019 #fictober 2019

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majoraop · 4 years

Text

Here you are my full fanfic for the @mothersea-zine: it’s about Doflamingo‘s backstory but it contains spoilers up to the Reverie Arc. Please also check the fanzine blog to watch/read the others contributions and to download the whole zine for free! ^^

Paradise Lost

Unseen by his family, the child wept.

He was just ten, but the enraged mob didn’t spare him or his younger brother. Years of violence and oppression had hardened their hearts: all they wanted was revenge against the Celestial Dragons that had enslaved them or their loved ones. And now, two children and their father were at their mercy: blindfolded and tied, unable to move or fight back. When an arrow pierced Doflamingo, he uttered a sharp cry. His little body was hanging over a large fire that was consuming the building. The wall pressing against his back was trembling as portions of the palace started crumbling on themselves, and only frail ropes kept him from falling into the cruel flames. The heat was unbearable and the smoke filled his lungs, but worst of all were his younger brother’s cries: Roci was babbling between the sobs that he wanted to die, his words muffled but still unmistakable as he begged in his tiny, broken voice. Rage took Doflamingo over. “I won’t die!” he screamed. “Whatever you’ll do, I’ll survive and kill you all!!!” It was then that a criminal gang, observing the lynching from the sidelines, witnessed an incredible scene: all the people in the mob collapsed as if hit by an invisible force, foam at their mouths and eyes rolling backwards. “Conqueror’s Haki,” murmured the gang’s leader, a slimly old man with malicious eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Haki was a manifestation of someone’s ambition, and only people destined to rule had the rarest variation of it. Apparently, that screaming child was destined to be a king. --- Doflamingo could barely sleep at night. While the scars on his body had faded, nightmares still haunted him even weeks after that terrible day. Sometimes, he even relived the experience while awake, memories flashing uncontrollably through his scarred mind. He often found himself trembling without any apparent reason, but tried to hide the fear gripping his heart from showing in his eyes: he had always worn shades, so that was relatively easy to do at least. What Doflamingo didn’t even try to hide, though, was his hatred for his father. It was his fault if they had left their homeland, the Holy Land Mary Geoise, renouncing the privileges granted by their blood and lineage. It was his fault if they had needed to run away from their new home and hide in a horrible shack in a smelly landfill. It was his fault he and his younger brother were forced to eat garbage from trash cans, with the constant fear of being beaten by other derelicts living in that ill-famed area of the island. It’s your fault mother has died in this lowly, hellish world! Doflamingo clenched his little fists and gritted his teeth, promising to himself he would do anything to go back to the Holy Land he had been exiled from. He would take Roci with him too, but first their father needed to pay for what he made them go through. Though still a child, Doflamingo had grown to hate that naïve and useless man more than any other person in the world. --- “I’ll give you power.” Doflamingo glanced at the leader of the gang who had saved them from the lynching, and then at the two objects he was being offered: a flintlock and a Devil Fruit. He took the first, examined it, and slipped it inside his belt. It was huge compared to his small body, and its pressure against his side made him feel safe. Next, he grabbed the pear-shaped fruit and looked at it suspiciously. He had heard of those cursed fruits, but he had never seen one before. “Its name is ‘Ito Ito no Mi,’” the old man explained. “Not a rare and powerful Logia, but a Paramecia: harder to use in an effective way, but more fitting the intelligence and wisdom of a King.” Doflamingo nodded in acknowledgement, and then took a bite of the pallid fruit. The taste was awful, but not much worse of what he had been forced to eat in that hellish world. He stoically chewed the morsel and then swallowed it. He felt a strange wave of energy running through his body, and when he focused his mind on the image of strings near-invisible threads materialized and grew from his fingers. “As expected from our future King!” The old man clapped his hands, excited. “It’s rare for a Devil Fruit user to be able to use their powers right away, but you managed to do it!” Doflamingo listened to him silently. He wasn’t sure that was such a big deal… those were just strings! How could such fragile things be useful to him? As if reading his mind, the man said, “Still, mastering it will take time. But don’t worry, Doffy: these powers will become useful to you one day.” Doflamingo nodded at him again. He did have patience, and would study and train hard if that was necessary to gain his original status and privileges back. But there may be an easier way… A dark expression on his face, Doflamingo turned on his heel and searched for an isolated area to try a few things with his new powers. --- A tall man had his knees on the ground and a pistol pointed at the back of his head. Behind him stood a child, his little body quivering with anger and his hand barely managing to hold the large weapon. “Stop, brother! Stop!!!” a younger child cried and threw himself into the man’s arms, sobbing. Doflamingo ignored him and yelled at their father, “It’s all your fault!” You killed mother… “You can’t fix what you did, but we’ll bring your head to the Holy Land in order to be accepted there again!” …It’s all been your fault!!! The child steeled himself and closed Roci’s desperate cries off, preparing to shoot. Surely, by killing that traitor of their clan he and Roci would be accepted back into the Holy Land. Surely, that would put an end to their current miserable life, to the pain, to the starving. Surely, he was doing the right thing… And yet, a small part of him maybe wished for their useless father to stop him, to act as an adult for once and take the lead. Maybe, their father would finally take his responsibility and let him be a simple child. However, Homing simple turned to look at his son with a pathetic expression on his face and whispered, “I’m sorry you’ve had a terrible father like me.” Furious, Doflamingo pulled the trigger.

--- A child was flying under the ruthless, scorching sun. That wasn’t really “flying” actually but a trick made possible by Doflamingo’s magical strings, which he attached to the dense white clouds of that windy summer afternoon. According to legends, dragons flew through the skies by creating clouds and climbing up to the heavens thanks to them; one day Doflamingo had tried to do the same with the clouds drifting across the sky, and to his surprise it had worked! He had read about the White Sea and the islands in the sky in the books his new family had provided him with, but he hadn’t imagined he could actually reach them with his strings… Even then, learning to “fly” hadn’t been an easy task: a few times he had risked falling into the sea, which would have resulted in sure death since Devil Fruit users couldn’t swim. To make things harder, right now the child was weighted down—and not just physically—by the bundle tied on his back: the fabric wrapped his father’s severed head, and even if the cloth was thick blood had still managed to resurface and had stained Doflamingo’s tattered shirt. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the damp sensation on his back as he latched onto the clouds with his strings, slowly proceeding to his destination: the Red Line. He would avoid both sides of the Red Port—the only official access to the Holy Land—and instead climb the rocky ring that divided the ocean into two separate halves. Doflamingo was sweating profusely for the exertion, but with a last twitch of his fingers and a carefully aimed swing he finally landed. It was evening already but he decided to keep going, ignoring not just the cold wind blasting against the steep rocky wall but also the hunger and the thirst—he hadn’t brought water or anything to eat with him not to further weigh himself down—as he half-climbed and half-flew to the top of the Red Line. His eyes fixed upwards, the child never looked down at the hellish world he wanted to leave behind. --- The moon was high in the night sky when the exhausted child finally climbed one of the long stairs leading to the Pangea Castle. Doflamingo intended to bring his father’s head to the Gorosei, the “Five Elder Stars,” who were the highest-ranking World Nobles. That would be proof of his loyalty to them, and he would then request to be accepted back among the Celestial Dragons together with his brother and the people who had saved them. Nobody was around at that late hour so Doflamingo managed to enter the Pangea Castle unnoticed, but he had only been there once before his family left Mary Geoise so he eventually got lost. He walked along dark and empty corridors, up and down stairs, across large rooms and luscious courtyards. After what felt like hours, the child finally ended up in what he assumed was the basement of the castle. It was cold down there, and he wondered if he should go back upstairs: it was unlikely that the Gorosei were in such place. And yet, something inside him spurred Doflamingo to explore that lonely area of the building a bit more. Not long later, the child stepped into a freezing chamber with niches on its walls. A faint glowing had drawn him there, and he took a few silent steps closer to the source of that ghostly light. When he finally reached the only illuminated niche he stared curiously at the giant straw hat inside it, which looked ancient and frozen in time. Doflamingo reached with his small hand to touch the relic, but a voice yelled from the end of the chamber, “Who is there?” Then, a figure cladded in dark clothes and wearing a peculiar headgear, tall and narrow, emerged from the shadows. Startled, the child jolted and turned his head, but he regained his composure almost immediately. “I’m Donquixote Doflamingo,” he replied, “and I want to see the Gorosei.” “Your family has been exiled, and you shouldn’t be here anyway. Guards!” the stranger called through a den den mushi. A few moments later, a group of soldiers appeared at the entrance of the chamber and asked, “What’s happening, Your Majesty?” “Take this whelp away—no, wait, it’s better if you kill him.” Doflamingo’s blood froze. “You can’t do that!” he screamed. “I’m a Celestial Dragon too—a god!!!” “No,” the tall figure with cold eyes retorted, “you’re just a mere human now.” Doflamingo gritted his teeth, rage building up inside him. A moment later he dashed towards the door, cutting down the soldiers with his strings. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but he fought them back and kept running, enduring the lightness in his head and the pain in his feet: he hadn’t had water or food for nearly a whole day, and his body was nearing its limit. The child ran and ran, clinging to life and unwilling to give up: he didn’t understand why his plan hadn’t worked, but he wouldn’t die there. Doflamingo cursed his father, his fate—heaven itself!—but never let go of his ambitious spirit as he dodged or got ridden of the soldiers sent after him. After a while he got lost again, but this time he ended up in a large chamber with a throne towering above him: sitting on it was the same person he had met in the basement of the castle. “It’s here!” the tall figure stood up and yelled into the den-den mushi. Doflamingo didn’t have time to catch a breath as soldiers rushed into the room to murder him. With no other way out, he threw himself at the nearest stained glass window. A crashing sound was followed by colourful shards being shattered around. They cut the child’s delicate skin and he screamed. The glass had also torn the fabric wrapped around his father’s head, which rolled across the floor and stopped only when it hit Doflamingo’s feet. He looked down at those empty eyes staring at him and screamed again, tears now freely running down his face as the full weight of what he had done finally hit him. And yet Doflamingo still didn’t stop, still didn’t give up. He found an escape route out of the Pangea Castle and rushed outside: he was safe. However, his thoughts kept running in circles: killing his own father hadn’t granted him and Roci access back to Mary Geoise; they were still stuck in the lower, hellish world. It’s all been useless. --- The child had miraculously managed to leave the Red Line alive, but once back to his new family a bitter surprise awaited him: his brother had disappeared. Doflamingo secretly searched for Roci for months, but to no avail. Eventually, he gave up and focused on just surviving. Following his escape from Mary Geoise, assassins had started being sent after him. He was forced to grow fast and to become smarter, stronger, ruthless. He couldn’t go back to the Holy Land, but was determined not to succumb. And to achieve that, he accepted to become the King of this hellish world. For a long time the youth fled from island to island with his family, and when they finally found a little peace in Spider Miles he promised to himself that one day he would drag to the ground the Celestial Dragons that hadn’t accepted him back. In order to do that, though, he needed even more power, even more influence. Tirelessly, the young man studied the history of the world; he even read about myths and legends, not wanting to risk overlooking anything potentially useful to his cause. Then, one day he finally decided his next move: he would start with taking back Dressrosa. After all, that kingdom had once been his family’s—but that was before the Donquixote had joined the other nobles that had united most of the countries under the current World Government. Doflamingo laughed to himself, thinking about how easy it would be to take control of that island. Obviously, he had researched it: its current king was a naïve, foolish man who reminded him of his own father. Triggered by those memories, flashbacks of his childhood suddenly assaulted Doflamingo. The smirk on his face disappeared and he started sweating, his head spinning so much he had to sit down. He took some deep breaths to calm himself while frantically checking his surroundings, but luckily nobody from his family was around. I am their King… I can’t show weakness to them. A king couldn’t falter, couldn’t cry, couldn’t touch the ground with his knees or bow to anybody. I need to be invincible… or even better, immortal. --- At last, the plan to gain control over Dressrosa had been fully defined. At that time, Doflamingo was still living in Spider Miles with his family—and also pirate crew: a varied and eccentric group of people who had naturally accepted him as their King and had always supported him. He couldn’t really feel love anymore, but he did his best to protect them. Besides, he needed their help to invade Dressrosa in order to become its rightful King. Then, I will show you my dream: destroying this hellish world ruled by the Celestial Dragons. However, to reach his goal he had to become the king of the underground first. Doflamingo assumed the “Joker” alias, but he had another moniker too. It was only known by the few people in the world aware of his identity, who appropriately called him “Heavenly Yaksha”—a demon descended from the heavens. Doflamingo smirked: that sounded fitting for a fallen Celestial Dragon like himself… Anyway, while as the “Joker” he easily took control of the slave market, he actually aimed to become a weapons and fake Devil Fruits smuggler. He needed more men and facilities to realise that, though. First, I will gain control over Dressrosa and use it as our new operations base. Doflamingo had already started to move his pawns towards that objective, when something unexpected happened. --- One freezing winter night, just when the wind calmed down, the brother Doflamingo had thought lost forever appeared before him. …Roci? Fourteen years had passed since the last time he had seen him, but those amber eyes and thick blond hair were unmistakable. Feeling something he couldn’t really put his finger on, Doflamingo ignored his suspicions and moved automatically: he didn’t hug his brother, but put his pink feather coat over his shoulders to shield him from the snow that was falling down heavily. Rocinante didn’t move or speak, his eyes staring at the ground. “When you disappeared… what happened to you back then?” Rocinante didn’t answer and just shook his head. Doflamingo didn’t know if his brother’s inability to speak was related to him killing their father, but he didn’t care: what was done was done, but from now on he would protect his little brother. “Come with me,” he told him. His brother nodded and followed him inside the Donquixote Pirates headquarters. In the following days, Doflamingo tried to communicate with Rocinante a little more. He gave him some paper sheets and a pen, and that way they were able to share some words and simple phrases. Rocinante’s reserved personality didn’t help though, so he couldn’t learn much about what had happened to him during all those years of separation. Even then, he kept ignoring the warning voice inside him: he didn’t want to distrust his own brother. Other than having lost his voice, Rocinante had apparently become clumsier than ever while growing up. He often slipped and fell on the floor or even put himself on fire—the smoking habit he had picked up not really helping with the latter. That aside, he was surprisingly skilled when it came to investigation and sailing. Not long after Rocinante’s arrival, Doflamingo decided he would assign him missions too. But before that, his brother needed an alias like the rest of his family. Doflamingo remained pensive for a moment, and then said, “When we’ll take back Dressrosa you’ll occupy the Heart Seat, so you’ll be ‘Corazon.’” Rocinante simply nodded as he always did when he agreed with his decisions, and also accepted the black feather coat Doflamingo had had made especially for him. The next day, when his brother was about to leave for his first mission, Doflamingo stared at him and asked, “What’s that?” Rocinante touched his own face, and then wrote on a piece of paper: “Makeup—to scare enemies away.” “Fufufu… you’re so silly. But it isn’t a bad idea.” Rocinante nodded and put a pair of black glasses on. “Be careful out there,” Doflamingo told him. His brother’s lips opened as if he wanted to say something, but it was just a fleeting moment. “You don’t need to strain yourself… you’ll eventually talk again one day.” Rocinante smiled sadly, and again the voice inside Doflamingo told him that something was wrong. That he should be careful. As his brother walked away, Doflamingo shook his head and murmured, “Please don’t betray me, Roci.” --- Doflamingo couldn’t ignore the evidence anymore and simply accepted it as fact. His younger brother was a traitor: a marine—an undercover agent—sent to spy on him and stop him from taking over Dressrosa. When Rocinante pointed his pistol at him, screaming words of hate and resentment, Doflamingo took out his own flintlock—the same one he had used to kill their father—and shot him down. The fallen god cursed his fate: he had been forced to kill his own blood a second time. --- “That word on your back, ‘Corazon,’ what does it mean? And the name of your crew, ’Pirates of Heart,’ what’s its meaning?!” Doflamingo was confronting Trafalgar D Law, the man who had refused to give him the immortality he sought after. He couldn’t believe his brother had given his life to save someone as miserable as him. “You… you’ll never sit on the Heart Seat! How you dare to carry a heart on you back?!” Intentioned to dispel that curse, those memories of Corazon—of Roci—that kept haunting him, Doflamingo emptied his weapon on Law’s body. It’s over now, he thought, panting. It’s really over. On that very day, though, a different “D” still brought him ruin. The legends were true: people of that accursed clan really were the predators of the gods. --- Donquixote Doflamingo was still alive. Even in solitary confinement in a dark cell of Impel Down, the most infamous prison in the world. Even with his powers suppressed by the heavy seastone chains wrapped around his body, immobilized on the floor with his arms and legs spread open in a cruel parody of the most humiliating memory of his childhood. Even if he had nobody to talk to, his boredom growing day after day and gnawing at his sanity—or what little remained of it. Even in the bottom of hell, Doflamingo was still alive and his ambition was still intact. It had been dented when he had been dethroned and his glasses had shattered, but he had a spare pair of them back on now. And like when he was a child, those shades concealed the fear that sometimes tried to resurface in his eyes. Given his current predicament, Doflamingo wouldn’t be able to protect himself when the assassins still after him would finally strike. But despite that, he still laughed, still plotted, still waited eagerly for those damned Celestial Dragons to be dragged to the ground. Doflamingo had no doubts that, one day, those fake gods would taste some of that hell as well.

#doflamingo #donquixote doflamingo #opfanfic #opfanfiction #onepiece #one piece #majoraop #violence tw #(I kept finding typos&errors in my story until the very last moment--sorry again mods!#I hope it's ok now but if you find anything to fix/reword please let me know--any kind of feedback would be really appreciated!)

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pgoeltz · 4 years

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Prepare for the Ultimate Gaslighting* You are not crazy, my friends Julio Vincent Gambuto Julio Vincent Gambuto Follow Apr 10 · 9 min read

Gaslighting, if you don’t know the word, is defined as manipulation into doubting your own sanity; as in, Carl made Mary think she was crazy, even though she clearly caught him cheating. He gaslit her.

And what a perfect time for Best Buy and H&M and Wal-Mart to help me feel normal again. If I could just have the new iPhone in my hand, if I could rest my feet on a pillow of new Nikes, if I could drink a venti blonde vanilla latte or sip a Diet Coke, then this very dark feeling would go away. You think I’m kidding, that I’m being cute, that I’m denying the very obvious benefits of having a roaring economy. You’re right. Our way of life is not ruinous. The economy is not, at its core, evil. Brands and their products create millions of jobs. Like people — and most anything in life — there are brands that are responsible and ethical, and there are others that are not. They are all part of a system that keeps us living long and strong. We have lifted more humans out of poverty through the power of economics than any other civilization in history. Yes, without a doubt, Americanism is a force for good. It is not some villainous plot to wreak havoc and destroy the planet and all our souls along with it. I get it, and I agree. But its flaws have been laid bare for all to see. It doesn’t work for everyone. It’s responsible for great destruction. It is so unevenly distributed in its benefit that three men own more wealth than 150 million people. Its intentions have been perverted, and the protection it offers has disappeared. In fact, it’s been brought to its knees by one pangolin.

—

Note: The author and Medium have made minor tweaks since initial publication.

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castellankurze · 6 years

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A Completely Bizarre Halloween

I was gonna wait until Saturday to post this...but I can’t hold off anymore. A fun bit of writing based off the very very anime game run by @lordcaliginous with @starcunning, @tamsynspeaks and @mystictheurge

Extra thanks to my wonderful wife @starcunning for the sweet-ass art of my girl Shouko.

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It was a dark and stormy night as clouds gathered over the ocean to the east of Hitachinaka. If the wind were any indication it would be raining soon. Perfect for a Halloween party.

The sun was already down and traffic was at a minimum, so the bright red motorcycle was all but alone on the road as it flashed between streetlights, its custom paintjob glinting as if it glowed as it passed beneath every pool of light, its engine thrumming as the rider gunned the throttle between turns. An intersection loomed ahead and the bike tilted heavily as the rider leaned into turn only to face a pare of glinting crimson lights. With lightning reflexes, she straightened the handlebars and swung wide, driving on the center stripe as she zipped past the slower-moving truck, popping a wheelie with the motion. There was a brief honk of the larger vehicle's horn and the rider lowered her head slightly, snorting inaudibly behind the faceplate of her helmet. Maybe it was a little reckless, but she was already late enough, dammit.

Hitachinaka wasn't nearly as dense as Tokyo - what was - but as the streets narrowed and parking spaces became vanishingly rare as she got closer to her destination amidst a block of freestanding houses. But then a flash of light off a glossy black paintjob caught her eye and she grinned, swinging into a parking space a few inches away from the bumper of a smoothly-sculpted foreign car and braking. As she turned off the bike she reached out and gave Shoji's car a fond pat. It was a nice vehicle, even if it was American. Miyumi's boyfriend had good taste.

With the bike's handlebars locked, Shouko reached up to pull off her helmet, shaking out hair that looked midnight-blue in the evening light and scratching her fingers through it as she shook her head, setting her accouterments to jangling softly. She dismounted with a smooth lift and spin of one leg before unlocking the cargo carrier she'd bolted to the bike's rear seat before leaving, stowing her helmet before taking out the last piece of her costume.

She hadn't worn any of her leathers - Shouko was confidant in her riding ability, and besides, the leather jacket would have crushed the shoulder pads of her long coat. It reached all the way down to her calves - Shouko wasn't nearly as tall as Erika, who could have made a decent half-giant in a LARP, but she was just tall enough to pull this off. Beneath it, she wore a grey shirt and black slacks that wouldn't have looked out of place on a normal day, but to which she'd added a pair of belts with a head-spinning sawtoothed print pattern and a set of pointed riding boots. A gold-painted chain was anchored to the long coat's popped collar, and Shouko pulled on the brimmed cap to complete the world-famous image of Jotaro Kujo.

Shouko Kogawa wasn't as money as some members of her high school class - who could probably have had a solid gold chain if they wanted - but she'd spent a few extra yen, and the investment was worth it, she thought as she briefly checked her look in her phone and flashed a quick V-sign. Then she locked everything up and only hesitated a little bit before leaving the bike behind. The Honda weighed in at 200kg, and parked just behind Shoji's car with everything made tamper-proof, nobody was going to make off with the thing without a serious investment, and this was a nice neighborhood anyway. She'd wash and wax the rain away tomorrow. With that she squared her shoulders and thrust her hands in her pockets, head low so that the brim of her cap covered the magenta of her eyes as she started off. The party was about three blocks away, just enough time to get into character, and she breathed slow and deep to get her heart rate down after her ride, practicing her scowl and trying not to shiver - the wind was getting really damn cold.

Thunder boomed in the distance and her shoulders hitched slightly. She'd never been scared of storms when she'd been a kid, but then, for most people overcoming their fear of storms was about learning that the thunder and lightning weren't nearly as scary as they seemed. For Shouko and a few others, things had come about the opposite way, a firsthand look into what lurked behind the storm. Nowadays, the nights seemed a little darker, the pools of light beneath each lamppost and the windows of houses more than ever like islands of safety. The thunder boomed again and Shouko chewed the inside of her lip. The air felt thick, almost hard to breathe. It felt like something was about to happen; between the bolts of thunder even the world seemed to be holding its breath, silence reigning in a world of seemingly no movement, no life but for a single man seated on a bench on the other side of the next intersection, reading a newspaper beneath one of the streetlights. Shouko increased her pace a little bit. Even just a short 'yo' would be a welcome relief from the sudden tension.

It started as she passed the last car parked before the intersection. Unseen as the girl's heels stepped past, something like liquid shadow seeped from beneath the car, joined from another elongated tendril of seemingly living oil from the car across the street. There came the quiet scratch of claws on asphalt, and the sound brought Shouko to a halt midway between one curb and the next as she watched movement suddenly appear beneath the first car parked on the opposite side.

They could have passed for dogs...if you were blind. One had seven eyes, another had four. One of them had two mouths. All of them had stubby, muscular legs. All of them were a dark, almost liquid grey, like shadows come to life. Shouko clenched her hands inside her pockets. Her right hand touched her keys, her left her pack of cigarettes. Her phone was in her coat's breast pocket, and she'd have to reach for it if she wanted to use it. Same with her prized butterfly knife, which was tucked through a loop in the pants at the small of her back - not that the knife would have come in handy against shadowbeasts like these.

She turned her head slightly, first one way, then the other. There were six of the beasts ringed around her, two in front, two behind, one to either side. She grit her teeth. Where was a car when you needed one? Some random suburbanite happening by in his sedan would give her the opening she needed, as the shadowbeasts slunk away from the headlights. The guy on the sidewalk was no use. He couldn't bring the streetlight's power with him, and one of the first things Shouko and her study group had learned the hard way was that most people couldn't see the otherworldly creatures.

But wait a second - he was actually folding up his newspaper and setting it on the bench. He was turning towards her! Maybe he was coming to see why the costumed weirdo had stopped in the middle of the street. But then as he left the light, the man's body altered radically. A handful of extra eyes sprouted in his brow and temples, his hair vanishing beneath a ridged crest, his limbs growing narrow as his nails sharpened, and his back acquired a sudden hunch as his flesh turned a dull grey-brown. An extra pair of arms sprouted from the back of his shoulders, claws like pincers arcing over his head.

All of this happened in a heartbeat and Shouko felt her blood run cold. A shadow-taken, like Takuya? Except instead of a hulking behemoth he looked more like a human spider. Maybe just some new kind of monster she hadn't seen yet. The thing stopped a few steps behind the shadowbeasts and grinned at her with a tiger's teeth. "A nice night for a walk, isn't it?" the creature spoke, its voice a hiss. Shouko didn't respond, and a bolt of lightning briefly flashed some kilometers away, making the beasts flinch and snap. "So good of you to come this way, Dauntless Heart," it went on when she said nothing. "We'd despaired of meeting one of you tonight."

That was a butt-clencher. This wasn't just some bad coincidence. They'd laid a trap. From the sound of things everyone else was safe, but that was the hitch, wasn't it? They'd only been out to catch one of them, and they had. Shouko clenched her fists and tried to think fast as the thing kept going. "You and your friends are a formidable team together, but apart... you are all but helpless," It licked its narrow lips. "There is no one to guard your flank, no one to heal your wounds here. That is how you will fall before us - one by one."

Shouko grit her teeth. Her heart was in her throat, and her eyes threatened to well up. She was just a block and a half from safety. If she screamed, would someone come out? Would they get to her in time? Could she maybe vault onto one of the cars and hop from roof to roof and get away that way? It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to go to a party at Kanako's and see her study group. Her friends. She was supposed to see Saika tonight.

You damn fool, she suddenly thought with a burst of heat. What are you gonna do, let them down? Let Saika down? You're wearing a Jotaro Kujo getup. You look like the badass everyone thinks you are. Now act like it. And like a dry woodpile catching from the flick of a lighter, the fear suddenly evaporated, replaced with sheer rage. The spider-thing was still talking and she suddenly realized it wasn't even all that good a villain speech. No way was this going to be the last thing she heard.

"...so foolish of you," it was saying, "to come alone and so late, when-"

“SHUT UP! YOU'RE SO ANNOYING!" Shouko snarled, taking a half-step forward, and had the pleasure of seeing the thing cough mid-word, eyes widening.

"H-how dare-" it tried to restart.

"You bastard," Shouko growled, reaching up to turn her cap slightly to one side. "I have a party to get to and you're out here wasting my time!" She drew her hands from her pockets and flicked her fingers, and with a sudden snap-hiss and a crackle of flame a pair of long daggers had appeared in her hands, fire dancing from the glowing blades. "So I don't have a tank? So I don't have a healer? So what! I'm the Dauntless Heart! Did you really think you and your dogs were going to take me on alone? You won't last six seconds against me!" she challenged, raising one dagger and pointing it at the spider-thing.

"You...you're a fool!" the thing snapped in reply, the shadowbeasts growling in anticipation.

"Don't believe me?" the girl said as she sucked in air and tensed her muscles. "Just watch!"

There was a blur of motion as she suddenly exploded into a lunge to her left. One of the daggers flashed in a broad arc and the shadowbeast that had stood there let out a cry of pain as a cloud of writhing smoke burst from the wound. Before a heart could beat once, the girl had reversed direction and, with a leap of impossible quickness, dispatched the beast that had stood behind her and to the right with a similar slash of one dagger.

Shouko Kagawa had the tightly-muscled build of a gymnast, a sport at which she had been the regional champion as little as a couple years back, and that had been before the awakening of her powers. With them, she moved like lightning, little more visible than the fiery flashes of her blades as she criscrossed back and forth between the hounds, striking with first one hand and then the other.

Her boots skidded on the asphalt as she came to a stop in front of the last of the creatures and drove her knife upwards in a powerful arc that sliced deeply between the thing's paired mouths. Six beasts, six strikes. The air was full of shadow and smoke as the remnants of her attackers hit the pavement, sizzling and sputtering as their shadow-given flesh began to dissolve. Shouko tilted her head first one way and then the other, feeling her neck pop a little bit. She hadn't had any time to limber up.

"Your next line will be 'but our plan was perfect!' Now you," she said as she turned to face the spider-thing once more.

It was clutching at its head with its human set of arms. "But our plan was perfect!" it lamented, then jerked as its multitude of eyes widened. "N-NANI?!"

"What happened to 'you are all but helpless'?" Shouko baited, stepping forward. "Who's the lone, foolish one now?"

It snarled and readied its claws, pincer-arms snapping forward. "No matter the beasts, then. I will cut you down myself! You dare approach me?"

"I can't stab you to death from here," she deadpanned. This clown really was making it too easy.

It hissed and leaped, moving almost as fast as she had moments ago. Shouko dodged back and to one side, striking out with one of her daggers, but the thing was too quick, and the fiery blade cut nothing but air. The pincer-arms struck at her, snapping closed with audible snick sounds, Shouko tried not to think about what one of those things would do if it closed on a wrist. It swiped with its clawed fingertips and she bolted back a few steps, trying to keep her daggers between her and the thing. With four arms, it was hard to defend against the shadow-spider's attacks.

Something tapped against the brim of her cap. A moment later there was soft patter against the metal hoods of the nearby cars. Another boom of thunder shook the air. The storm had finally arrived. Her attacker smiled once more, showing teeth. "We shall see how well those blades of fire handle themselves in the rain, shall we?"

Shouko grit her teeth. She was actually offended. "What does this look like, a Colonel Mustang getup?" she roared, and now it was her turn to bolt forward, stabbing for the thing's midsection. It jumped back, but there was a sizzle as the edge of her blade grazed its flesh. It hissed and flailed at her with its pincers, and Shouko was so busy dodging those she forgot the claws, and one hand swept up to put a neat pair of slices into her left-side brow, the force of the blow knocking her cap from her head. Shouko stumbled back as blood trickled from the wounds, sliding lazily down the curve of her eye socket and spilling over her cheek from there.

The rain was beginning to intensify, and the droplets sputtered and sizzled, turning to steam where they touched the ethereal blades. The shadow-spider lifted its hand and, predictably, licked the blood from its claws. "The first of many. Like droplets of rain, the blood shall flow from you until there is none left to give."

Shouko felt her eye instinctively closing to block out blood. This was no good. She couldn't fight with one eye closed. This had to end fast. With a twitch of her wrists she spun one of her daggers into a reverse grip and slammed the pommels together so that with a burst of flame they coalesced into a single, elongated crescent, a glimmering string appearing to link the ends of the newly-formed bow. With a quick motion, Shouko made to pinch the string between her thumb and first two fingers, drawing the bow with hardly an effort. As she did so, another glimmer took shape, that of an arrow pinched between her fingers, and a moment later she let fly. There was hardly any time to react - but the damned spider-thing did anyway, twisting its upper torso so that the flaming arrow only grazed its shoulder and flew down the street, sputtering out on the wet asphalt.

"Is that your best?" it taunted.

"Shut up! This fight is going to ruin my cosplay, you freak!" Shouko hefted the bow and, with a breath, dug deep into her reserves and began to rapidly pluck the string, an effort that wouldn't have shot an arrow ten feet with a real bow. With the ethereal weapon, however, each twang launched two or three shafts into the air, each of them leaving blazing trails in their wake as they scattered to and fro, sending the spider-thing scuttling to dodge them, under finally the girl ceased to pluck the string and it came up to its full height with a laugh of triumph, only to see that Shouko had taken one hand from the bow and was pointing towards the sky. It looked up.

A dozen glimmering shafts hung in the air above its head, ferocious orange against the black of the clouds above.

"So you can dodge an arrow," Shouko said, forcing herself to keep her voice even. "How many arrows can you dodge, I wonder?" Then she pressed her thumb to her forefinger and snapped. All of the arrows descended at once, moving with blistering speed as they struck the nonplussed shadow creature. It howled in pain, not just from the shafts that pierced its flesh but at the flames that suddenly spread across its body, accompanied by a blast of energy that rocked several of the nearby cars and threw a gout of steam into the air as the raindrops nearby evaporated.

Shouko burst through the pressure wave, her weapon once more split into its paired daggers as she lunged and struck over and over again, letting out a bark of sound to punctuate each blow that, thanks to the speed of her attacks, moulded together into a single rolling cry. As if to put the final exclamation point on the matter, the last blow struck through the shadow-spider's jaw and into the roof of its mouth, lifting it from its feet as the eldritch fires slowly dissipated to leave it a smoking husk.

"Why...?" it gurgled between its forcibly-clenched teeth. "Everything... was... perfect..."

Shouko pushed lightly and the creature slipped from her dagger to sprawl on the roadway, and with a flick of her wrist dismissed her weapons with a hiss and snap of air. "You lost for one reason," she growled as she turned and went back for her cap, bending to pick it up and gently brushing it before gingerly setting it back into place on her head, careful to avoid her injury. "Just one."

She turned and looked back at her fallen opponent, ringed by the slowly-dissolving corpses of its hounds, and raised a hand palm-up. A series of soft blue lights, like lanterns bobbing on the sea, took shape around the fallen shadow creatures and swirled around Shouko with a sound like a soft sigh, collecting in her hand. As the energy left them, the creatures' collapse accelerated until little was left of them but sooty stains on the blacktop that the rain quickly began to wash away.

"You really pissed me off," she said as the spider-thing vanished into a puff of smoke and the collected energy sank into her palm.

Despite herself, she let out a little sigh of relief as the thing disappeared. That settled the question of its true nature. If it had been human beneath that nightmare facade it would have reverted to its true face, the way Takuya had. Between that knowledge and the energy she'd absorbed, Shouko felt almost refreshed. Except for a throbbing headache where she'd been cut.

She left the intersection behind, resuming the walk to Kanako's in what was by now a steady drizzle, and as she went she fished in her pocket for one of her cigarettes, drawing it from the pack and putting the butt of it to her lips as she hunted for her lighter. Where was the damn thing? Had she left it at home? Annoyed, she twitched her fingers and one of her daggers snapped back to life, the fires crackling from the blade igniting the end of the cigarette.

"Yare yare daze," she grumbled as she dismissed the weapon once more and drew on the smoke.

-------------------

"Kogawa! Good to see y-are you okay?" was her greeting from the vampire that opened the door as he spied the remnants of clotted blood that hadn't washed off in the rain.

"M'fine," she said with a wink and a grin. "Just gotta talk to Kana." With that she stepped inside, pinching the smoldering end of her cigarette and dunking it in what looked like an abandoned drink before tossing it out. As she walked into the main room she saw Miyumi, draped in a long white coat and a set of goggles, turning and wrinkling her nose. "Relax, it's already out," Shouko said before the Dr. Frankenstein could say anything. She wondered if Shoji was somewhere nearby done up with stitching and patchy clothes.

It was after she'd had Kanako see to her head injury and cleaned up and grabbed a drink that a sugar-sweet voice declared "Shouko, there you are!" as a head full of golden curls came bouncing up. Saika had pulled her sidelocks into a set of red ties, and an angelic wing made of cardboard covered her right shoulder to accentuate the white-knight getup she wore. The blonde wasted no time in slinking into Shouko's side, slipping her arms around Shouko's waist so that the taller girl could settle one of her own around her shoulders. "Kanako said you ran into trouble on the way here," she said, bright green eyes full of worry.

"Yeah," Shouko said with a bit of a shrug. "I got the chance to do a whole routine but I screwed up and botched one of the references. I don't think the guy noticed, though. Finished strong," she concluded with a grin.

#kurze writes #completely normal rpg #Shouko #magical girls #aw shit #is that a mother fucking JOJO reference?#yare yare daze #how many layers of weeb are you on right now #Shouko has two settings #massive badass #and massive nerd #starcunning's art

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lennox-ainsley · 6 years

Text

II. The Words I Spoke Became Song

This episode was revealed to me one day while I studied. Only the words to the music were included. I could not hear the music proper.

"...as a melody thrills us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister;" -George Eliot

Miguel hadn't always been so sure that he made it to Coco in time. The first seedlings of doubt had begun to sprout within him that fateful day in late August. The boy would relive it again and again: he walked into her bedroom, in one hand his guitar, in the other a tangerine. He sat down by her side, kissed her cheek and placed the family guitar on his lap.

“Abuelita told me I could go check up on you after my chores were done.”

Coco didn’t respond and her face didn’t lose its slack expression. After pressing the tangerine in her hand, the boy began with some scales, arpeggios. Slowly, by quarter notes, then in triplets, and in doing this he led into singing “Un poco loco”. After a few minutes of playing, strangely, there manifested no discernible change. Maybe she's dozing, thought Miguel hopefully. Sometimes it took a second for her to pipe up in response.

So he tried “Remember Me”. That one always worked. Even if Coco didn’t sing along with him, she always smiled at hearing the song. Sometimes she would repeat a well-known anecdote about Héctor, her eyes shimmering with nostalgia. Miguel’s favorite story probably had to be the time where Héctor had tried juggling baseballs, but one flew out of his hand and into Imelda's plate, sending young Coco into a fit of laughter. This time, however, she remained completely still, as if imprisoned in some sort of stasis. A jolt of fear electrified Miguel’s body. Is she - ?

“Mamá Coco? Mamá Coco, me puedes oír? ” Miguel began to shake her forearm. And the pobrecito would never forget what happened next . His bisabuela’s head fell back in her chair like that of a muñeca , mouth agape. Without any part of her moving a single inch, a high pitched squeal stumbled out from the back of her throat. The boy recoiled and covered his ears, wide-eyed as he began to tremble. He had never heard something more unseemly than this. Some seconds passed, and the formless shriek began to take shape as a disfigured melody. Miguel knew it immediately; it would have been absurd if he couldn’t recognize it even through this repulsive racket. It was his secret weapon to summon his bisabuela’s favorite anecdotes of Héctor, but at that moment he had no idea what demonic presence he may have unwittingly summoned . Coco’s slack, corpse-like body rang and began to quiver with the century-old lullaby. The impression was as if the melody had trouble recalling its own contours. Then suddenly, the strings of the guitar, without the boy so much as laying a finger on it, began to vibrate with the noise. It took Miguel a second to register the haunt. A little yelp escaped his throat as the instrument slid off his lap and fell to the floor with a clunk. It continued to repulsively resonate, now loosely keeping time with the shrieking.

The youth suddenly felt the room grow cooler by the second. He reactively wrapped his fingers around himself as his senses absorbed the terrible spell that had trapped his poor grandmother. He swore he was going deaf, as the cacophony kept growing louder, and louder, the guitar and the shriek delighting in their mutual bastard natures, until finally, with a loud inhale from Coco’s lungs, the shriek quieted as some invisible force re-tuned the guitar pegs back to a comfortable tonality. Her hand slacked and the tangerine slice slipped from her hand, landing on the floor with a soft thump; the ghostly melody sounded out again, now without any shriek to accompany it. As the guitar hung on the final D flat, Coco’s body suddenly deflated to half its original size, exhaling as it went, while a sourceless single phrase reverberated in the air and filled Miguel’s ears: Gracias.

Coco’s spirit had been confined deep within its torpid, corporeal prison, but, in a miracle invoked by the familiar sound of her father’s enchanted guitar, she finally left the Land of the Living at the age of 103.

Miguel stumbled out of the room, disoriented and numb. Neither his tongue nor his hands could relate what he had seen to his family, but they recoiled upon seeing his distress. The Riveras soon-after found Coco's corpse, and for another four hours he remained unusually mute, until finally he collapsed, struggling to breathe as he sobbed.

Miguel broke the little promise he made to himself, that at the very least he wouldn’t cry at his bisabuela's funeral, that he would stay strong for his family. Seeing the humble casket descend into its final resting place proved too much and he gave voice to his stifled sobs, burying his face into Tía Gloria’s chest as the rest of his family watched on. He, alone of all the people he knew, knew for certain what happened after a person died. He could console himself that she had been reunited with the rest of the Riveras, and that he would inevitably be in her presence again. Besides, just the next Sunday, Luisa bought him a crisp, pale blue guayabera and he went to church and held Socorro above the baptismal font while the priest doused her small head with water. Wave goodbye to one life, and greet another. Sorrow yesterday, joy tomorrow. Así es la vida. Yet, Coco’s absence still stung. It felt like part of him left this earth with her.

What's more, an unseen, unspeakable spectre oppressed Miguel’s spirit. With Coco’s death, the boy lost the only connection he had to his friend in the Land of the Dead. And without her, he couldn’t be so sure that he pulled in for Héctor. While this spectre rarely externalized, and the Riveras (even the shrewd Elena) noted no drastic change in his disposition as they grieved, it would so occur, occasionally, that Miguel would be going about his normal business, doing his chores, making a sale, reading, practicing, or playing with the twins that suddenly that thought crept into his mind. He quickly became mindful of it and made sure to exterminate it at the source before it could take root. Coco told so many stories of my tátarabuelo that it’s impossible he isn’t alive. It’s ridiculous to think he faded away when we talk about him so much.

That said, no matter how much he buried it, Miguel couldn’t shake the feeling that he proved a failure to his ancestor. He had so much to say to him, but feared that his words would have no audience. His uneasiness only worsened as autumn approached, and with it, Día de Muertos. If there was any way he could know definitively whether Héctor still lived, it would be then, when the corporeal and semi-corporeal worlds grew close.

The Riveras sensed that this year’s festivities would be challenging. Not only had a new death occurred for the first time in five years, they also had to figure out what food pleased Héctor the most in life. Imelda had effectively locked up any stories she had of her husband, wanting only for her memory of him to shrivel up and die. Coco, in her moments of lucidity, had been reliable for a fair deal of anecdotes surrounding the family patriarch, but even she professed to have no knowledge of his favorite food. No one could have predicted his rehabilitation on the ofrenda. An exhausted Elena resigned to cook some simple tamales for the spirit.

Suddenly, Miguel had an idea, which came to him as he whistled in the kitchen, struggling to piece together a song he heard in his dreams while helping his abuelita cook. He rushed into the workshop, saw Luisa breastfeeding Socorro, and asked his mother if she had a pen, an envelope and some paper.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m gonna write something. It’s for Day of the Dead.”

She laughed then pursed her lips. “Ay Miguel, you don’t exactly strike me as the writer type. Is it a song?”

“Maybe!”

“Well, after you’re done, make sure to help the twins sprinkle the marigold petals to the ofrenda room.”

“Thanks! Love you!”

She lent him the materials and he rushed outside, guitar in one hand and the writing materials in the other. He found Dante sniffing through a trash can, whistled at him, then the two ran to the side yard of the house. Miguel slid down the wall cross-legged, clicked out his pen, bit his lip in concentration, and wrote:

Dear Papá Héctor,

I’m not even sure if this letter’s gonna make it to you in time, or even make it crossing the barrier into your world. If it does, Dante will for sure know where to find you. I just hope he hasn’t slobbered too much on the envelope XD.

First time crossing the bridge, eh? Excited? I know you’ll make it across just fine. We have your photo up on the ofrenda, so there’s no need to worry about it giving out under ya. From what I remember, the bridge is really soft but also kind of firm. You might wanna take off your shoes as you cross to really feel it under you.

Mamá Coco might’ve already told you this, but I played “Remember Me” for her soon as I got back, and that’s what probably saved you. Our family all saw it, and they all changed their mind, even Mamá Elena! They told me that as long as I always keep family first and help out with the family business that they’ll let me play music. I get to sing and tap my feet whenever I feel it, even when making shoes!

I’ve got a mariachi costume all ready for tonight. You’ll see me wear it. It’s red and it has a little orange thing sticking out on the neck (don’t know what it’s called but mariachis wear it). You’re going to be so proud seeing all of your descendants, just like how I’m proud to know I'm Héctor Rivera's great-great-grandson.

But you wouldn't believe, I had this crazy dream last night, where we spoke with each other, but like we were singing our conversation. Weird, right? I can't remember what it sounded like however. I remember thinking how beautiful it was. I’ve been trying to write it down and here’s what I have so far:

Here the boy crudely sketched out a treble clef, staff and half a little melody in F.

(oh I forgot I’m also in a band! My teacher, profesor Cavalli is teaching me how to read and write music! I'm still practicing tho. You might see him tonight.)

You know, I have to thank you, ‘cause without your help, I’d still be stuck as a shoemaker. Now at least I’m a musical shoemaker! XD

Un abrazo fuerte, tu tátaranieto, Miguel Rivera

P.S. Mamá Elena wants to know your favorite kind of food! For the ofrenda!

He folded the paper, put it in the envelope, licked it shut, wrote Héctor’s name on the front and asked Dante “Do you know where to find Héctor?” The dog barked the affirmative, whereupon Miguel patted the Xolo’s head and gave him the envelope. “Vete, find him and give him this. Quick!”

The dog dutifully took off into the setting sun, missive in his mouth. Miguel relaxed as he realized he could do nothing else but wait, and pray for his tatarabuelo's soul.

Right before night had blanketed Santa Cecilia in cold darkness, before the warm candlelight had barely begun to caress the revelers’ painted faces, Miguel received his answer. But it came in a way that he would have never expected.

He remembered sitting in the ofrenda room, leaning a bit against the left wall adjacent to the offering, letting the warmth of the candles’ glow bathe his face. He remembered the feel of his great-great-grandfather's guitar in his smallish hands. Up to that point, he hadn't really created This day, upon Elena's orders, was his only opportunity to use the instrument. All the other days of the year, the dreamy-eyed boy would have to leave it in the display outside with Héctor's letters. Miguel thought the guitar sounded way better than anything he could ever create. So much history had seeped within the aged woodwork of the instrument that it tinged it's sound with melancholy. It had so many tales to tell, of friendship and betrayal, of love and hatred, of comedy and tragedy.

He remembered trying and struggling to whittle away at the song he heard. Nothing he came up with sounded remotely like the ephemeral dream-music which made him quiver with delight the night before. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he set down his guitar and cast his gaze upon the ofrenda, letting his eyes climb up from Coco’s portrait all the way up, passing three generations, resting on the stern gaze of his tatarabuela and the contrasting grin of her husband. His breathing grew shallow. Where is Dante? He thought. He feared the dog would come back empty-handed...or worse, with his original letter.

Suddenly, Miguel heard the light trot of a dog approach, and his eyes widened as he saw Dante... with an envelope in his mouth. A strange looking cat sneaked followed Dante inside after the Xolo, stopping right at Miguel's side. The boy felt his heart skip a beat.

“Dante, wha-?”

The alebrije dropped the dampened envelope on the floor before him and gave Miguel an excited lick on the cheek. Wide-eyed, the boy gingerly turned it over to find his name scrawled out on the front of the envelope. The handwriting...it looked like Hector’s!

He opened it, and the letter read:

Ey chamaco!

Yes, your letter came absolutely covered in drool. But it’s pretty cool you figured out a way we can communicate. You’re always so creative, so I shouldn’t be surprised, Miguel.

My favorite food is anything having to do with chapulines. It’s been a long time since I’ve had them. They don’t have any in the Land of the Dead, which makes having them during Día de Muertos *that* more special. I hope by the time Dante reaches you, you will have enough time to prepare some. If not, don’t worry, there’s always next year, right?

I don’t have a lot of time because as I’m writing this we’re getting cleared to cross the bridge, but you’ll feel me come in, I hope. Little nervous, but your letter calmed my nerves a bit. I’ll follow your advice about walking across the bridge barefoot.

Un abrazo devuelto, Papá Héctor

P.S. that song seems pretty interesting. Maybe I can help you when I arrive?

Miguel read and reread the letter, fixating on some lines, skipping to others. Then a little gasp escaped his throat as he realized the handwriting was unmistakably Héctor’s. The musician wrote just like he did a century ago in his letters to Miguel’s bisabuela (he, out of all people should know. He had only read and reread those lyrics again and again). The boy looked at Dante and embraced him, kissing and thanking the alebrije profusely while the dog gave a few more sloppy licks to the boy’s cheeks. The cat ambled over and rubbed herself against Miguel's side as he giggled, sharing the affection between the two animals. He skimmed the letter again. Help me when he arrives? How does he figure he can do that?

A great and ponderous silence straightaway oppressed the room as the air grew thick and humid. A little wind stirred the trail of marigold petals that had otherwise sat fixed upon the ground, causing the cat to let out a meow. Absentmindedly slipping Héctor’s letter into his right pocket, Miguel suddenly recognized the little creature. "Pepita?" The cat sat unmoved, looking through the door outside the ofrenda room. She seemed transfixed.

Dante let out a bark, drawing the boy’s attention to the spot where the Xolo stared intently. He was looking at the trail, at the marigold petals which began to illuminate, shining bright orange with a light flicker. They lit up in little clusters, one by one, as if weighed by some footsteps that belonged to an invisible someone with a slight limp. With each loosely synchronized group of light, they closed the distance between them and the spot where Miguel sat. Soon he saw a cluster of petals linger with their radiant light, right in front of him, and Miguel stood up, fixed where he stood, tightly gripping Héctor’s guitar. As he slowly angled his head upwards, he began to feel little pinpricks of energy tickle his skin, drawing out a great big blush on his face as he realized that he was standing in Héctor Rivera's presence. But as he opened his mouth to say his tátarabuelo’s name, his vocal chords sang it instead. He covered his mouth, reeling from shock. He tried to speak Héctor’s name again, but instead he let out a two bar melisma, jubilant and proud. A wide grin spread across the boy’s face, and a glimmering sensation of euphoria consumed his body and spirit. Tears spilled passed his eyelids as he instinctively shouldered the family guitar, his fingers almost mechanically finding the right notes. And in one attempt, Miguel Rivera remembered the song he heard in his dreams, singing:

Say that I'm crazy, or call me a fool

But last night, it seemed that I dreamed about you

When I opened my mouth, what came out was a song

And you knew every word, and we all sang along…

Miguel didn't have to hear Héctor’s voice to feel it. His very being vibrated with the moment’s pure spirituality.

The boy rushed outside singing as loudly as he could to this rediscovered melody. He couldn't keep himself still as he began to dance and improvise to the once-forgotten music. Dante rushed out and barked, dancing around his feet. The Riveras rushed outside to see who was causing all the noise and they became transfixed at the wild spectacle. The song did not let one pair of eyes stay dry as Miguel guided them on a journey with his playing, leaping and twirling and laughing with Dante mirroring his movements. As soon as Miguel had finished, they all applauded.

“Miguel, that sounded...beautiful!" Enrique admitted as he wiped his eyes. Even Tío Berto wore a soft expression.

Miguel expected to sing his reply, but the euphoric sensation had already left his body. He trembled, as if he had just disembarked from the most thrilling rollercoaster ever created.

“Héctor’s here! I felt him, he's here!” These words he repeated, in more or less the same order.

Elena became instantly skeptical. “What? None of us even knew him! How can you be so sure it's him?”

“I got a letter from him! He said his favorite food was chapulines!” The boy's voice cracked with his excitement.

"Impossible..." Elena replied, shaking her head.

"No, see, take a look!" Miguel reached into his pocket to show them the letter, but his fingers grasped nothing. He turned his pocket inside out and checked the other one, which produced nothing as well. Where - ?

“Oh, Miguelito, you don't have to make up stories about any letter. But I believe you felt someone come in. Perhaps Julio?" offered Elena.

Miguel almost glared at his grandmother, his brown irises sparkling with certainty. “No, I'm not making anything up, abuelita. I received a letter from him. It...was right in my pocket. He came in to the ofrenda room and I felt so overwhelmed…I began to sing and I couldn't stop. And earlier I was all struggling with it!”

“A miracle!” interjected a convinced Luisa, to which the whole family agreed.

“Well, whatever it is," Elena said, dismissing the topic for the time-being, "we now have a song for Día de Muertos, so let's really make things festive. Get your instruments, you two, and Miguel, get your costume on and help me set the table. We'll be having guests soon."

Abel and Rosa dutifully went off, Dante following them in hopes of scoring some dinner before Elena shooed him away. As Miguel followed his cousins inside, he couldn't help but absentmindedly strum the chords to his new creation, reliving its bold melodies, submerged in a mix of giddiness and confusion.

#coco #fanfic #magical realism #miguel rivera #hector rivera #dante

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bahannah01writes · 6 years

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The Next Step (Pt. 3)

Back with another part to this delightfully angsty story! Will it be better? Will it get worse? You’ll just have to read to find out! ;3 Again, your feedback is what motivates me to keep writing and I really love knowing if you guys are still enjoying the story and want more of it! <3 So tell me! :))

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt.3

Send in requests!

Check out the masterlist here :)

Tags: @kourt-kay @bananakid42 @themarkiplierexperience @let-it-go-and-live-again@skarletton@totalwhovian@randomboxofsadness@browniebri@amostpeculiarmademoisellerp @potteritis if you want to be on the tagged list, just message me and it shall be done!

Enjoy!

It has been a week since the door slammed shut to his apartment; cutting off his sight of you as you barged out in a huff- frustrated and done with his excuses. A side of you he rarely saw and that was hardly ever directed at him was one that he witnessed that night, with its full attention on his shrinking self. But what could he have done?

He was only saying was he thought…

Ethan hasn’t even felt your love in a week.

Ethan just, Ethan just didn’t expect that you would be so upset and that would understand, that this trivial matter would be a laugh and a shrug with you cuddling deeper into him after it passed, sleeping the night away in each other's arms… Yet, he hasn’t even felt your touch in a week. He hasn’t heard your laugh nor your voice in a week. He hasn’t seen your smile in a week.

It’s been a desolate pit up until today; the days passing slowly and his previously joyous job of making videos feeling like a chore. His eyes had barely left his phone on the off chance that you would call or text. He has been too nervous to send anything himself though, afraid of saying the wrong thing and only making this situation worse. Though, if there’s something that continuously nags him in the back of his head it’s the lingering question that was left up in the air after your feet carried you away from him. What does it mean for you two?

In all honesty, Ethan isn’t sure if you’re even a couple anymore… Your words certainly sounded final. God, how they echo throughout his mind to only remind him of his mistake- one of which he feels undeniably conflicted in now. His choice to, without any effort to compromise, say no and express how he doesn’t think that two years of complete and utter love and is about the stage where many couples would take the leap, simply isn’t enough because you two are young and there are still other options. But what other option would he want? Ever since he realized he loved you, Ethan didn’t want there to be a moment missed to be together. Even it if was just enough for a phone call or a snippet of a conversation over text, he wanted you to know that he wanted to spend his time with you, no matter what the circumstances were.

So, when the doubt flooded his mind and wracked his brain- he gave an unwavering ‘no’ to the chance to be with you even more. The chance to wake up and fall asleep together, the chance for endless cuddles, the chance for all your nights and days that were cut short together to never happen again- were all declined due to his distinct decline of your offer. Something he’s finding himself regret more and more with each passing moment he goes without having you near.

His eyes shift again towards the door as the hollow pang in his chest does nothing to assure him of anything in this moment.

Mark, Amy, and everyone else who could see how distressed the poor boy is tried to comfort and aleve his worries, but to no avail. And despite their insistent advice on being the first to reach out, he couldn’t. But as he holds his phone, his leg bouncing with anxiety, he wonders if he should even with the risk of further messing things up. He thought it through already, though how would he even begin? What could he say?

The brunette sighs and stands up, hand tightly gripping his phone as he slumps towards his room- the ever looming reminder of you leaving in that room proving too much for him to stay.

Maybe… Maybe he should take a shower. That can clear his mind and then after he can finally gain the courage to reach out to you. He grabs a towel and slips away into the bathroom, stripping free from his clothes that’s less than clean as he enters the shower; the warm, welcoming water giving him some of the warmth that he’s lacked since you left.

He took a shower the day after the argument, simply expecting that things would resolve sooner than later. But, here he is now at later and things certainly haven’t been cleared up in any way, shape, or form. Since, he found himself over working as a distraction, hoping it would get you off his mind until you knock on his door wanting to work things out like the two of you normally would. After three days of giving you space and still not hearing from you, his unease grew and he found himself restless with worry.

So when he does manage to reach out to you first, he wants to be level-headed. He cannot mess this up again and if you are still waiting for him like he is for you, then you deserve him at his best- not as a fumbling fool who will only hurt even you more.

Yeah… He will do it right this time and he will fix it! Like Tyler said, if he really wants to save this relationship before it’s too late, he can’t wait around. Ethan will get you back- he has to.

His newfound determination follows him as he steps out of his shower, the fluffy towel that laid in wait for him is now drying him off and making his hair into a damp, adorably poofy mess that matches his confident grin. Once he gets to his room, he puts on some fresh clothes and a bit of that cologne that you just adore on him- he’s going to your apartment. This can’t be something done over text, no, he will make this better and show you that you really are the only one he wants, the only one he wants to spend time with, the only one he’d love to move in with and how he is more than ready to take this relationship to the next step.

Ethan can’t let this one mistake define your relationship.

Though, just in case you call him as he’s on his way, he makes sure to grab his phone, briefly checking for any unseen messages. To his surprise, there is! But it’s from Mark, not you. With a shrug, he hits the call back button, possibly hoping for some extra advice before he leaves.

“Ethan?”

“Hey, Mark! I was in the shower, did you need something?”

“Uh… Not exactly,” his voice is distant and void of its typically cheerful tone, “Ethan, I’ll just get straight to it, okay?”

His brows furrow at the peculiar tone of his friend but he nods all the same, “Okay? What’s going on?”

“Are you and (Y/n) still together?”

“... I… I’m not sure, I think we are. I was about to head over to her apartment and talk to her,” He can feel his heart pound against his chest in anticipation, just why would Mark ask that? Is there something he knows that Ethan doesn’t?

A heavy sigh can be heard on the other line, “Alright… It’s just, and I don’t know exactly what was happening, but I saw her with some guy I didn’t recognize at the cafe this morning and they looked like they were having fun,” he trails off for a moment to let it sink in before quickly adding, “But like I said! I don’t know what it was, they could be co-workers, family, strangers, I don’t know. Just, just be careful going over, okay? Believe me, I want you guys to be okay just as much as you do, so… Good luck, Ethan.”

“... Thank you for telling me.” The call is ended shortly after, Ethan now entering a robotic state as what Mark witnessed seeps into his mind and eats away at all his previously held confidence. The drumming against his chest becoming too much for him to bear, though a new emotion finds itself in the driver seat. With it, his fits clench and he shoves his phone in his pocket, storming out the door almost forgetting to lock it.

He bites his lip as his mindset is on fixing your relationship more than ever: you are his girlfriend and there is no way he is letting someone take you away because he was an idiot.

Ethan will win you back.

While it may be sinful, jealousy proves itself to be a powerful motivator.

If you enjoyed this new installment, tell me! :D Please like, reblog, and or comment! Your feedback always makes me smile!^^

#ethan nestor x reader #crankgameplays x reader #ethan nestor imagines #three!#part four??#mini series

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acabloe · 6 years

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Soon Goodbye, Now Love: Chapter Two (reposted with important corrections)

chapter one

important A/N: right so I’m reposting this chapter because I apparently don’t proofread enough and I left out like three really pertinent paragraphs so I thought it would be more beneficial if I just reposted the whole thing instead of editing it. You don’t have to re-read it but it might help you understand to the story better. I feel really really bad and guilty about this so I’m working really hard on chapter three! I should have it posted by the end of next week. Sorry again friends:,,,,,>

tw’s: abuse, swearing, depression, mentions of death, anxiety, trauma (motor accident, near death)

still based on this song

Chapter Two: Soon A Painting

Very slowly Beca began to gain more and more consciousness, beginning with a sharp tingling in her feet, fingers, and face. She became aware of the thick and muddy grass beneath her stomach that poked skin uncomfortably and dampened her clothes. Her ribs ached from where she guessed she'd fallen on them. She took a breath in and coughed as she accidentally inhaled dirt.

Attempting to push herself onto her knees, she brought her palms to her side and pressed upwards firmly, elbows and wrists smarting under her weight. Her head throbbed as she parted her eyelids but she forced herself to leave them open to adjust to the light and observe her surroundings. As she scanned the empty field, she struggled to remember how she gotten there. Unsure of how much time had passed while she had been unconscious, she reached into her pocket for her phone. When it wasn't there her movements became more frantic, running her palms over the wet terf and blinking rapidly to attempt to clear her fuzzed vision in the dark. Then suddenly she realized that she didn't even own a phone, and memories flooded her brain like rain after weeks of humid days and packed overcast skies.

Beca and Chloe's relationship had been the at the forefront of both of their existences ever since they first met. They had often teased that Beca's sophomore (Chloe's senior) year of high school was the year they both properly became people. That statement was, for a plethora of reasons, relatively metaphorically true; It was the year when Beca's mother passed away, and her father had left her because the grief had been to much to handle. Her mental health had spiraled, and she became closed off and for the most part unresponsive. Chloe had relocated all the way across the country from her home in Seattle, and had never really shared solid friendship with anyone. She also suffered abuse from her parents for being openly bisexual. As Beca and Chloe grew closer, their relationship became the most fundamental part of their lives. They became so intertwined that absence of the other became like a vitamin deficiency, or a sinkhole in a busy road in need of immediate filling. Least to say they were agreeably the oddest and closest couple of friends to anyone who met them.

Chloe's accident was around a year and a half after the two of them had graduated. She was found eight miles from their home, unconscious on an embankment by the highway after her car had been hit by a drunk driver. Chloe was rushed to the hospital, but by the time they had arrived at the ER, it was too late. She had been hanging on by an already worn thread. Beca went into extreme shock. She spent the most terrifying four hours of her life praying to every higher power she had never thought to believe in until that moment, pleading that somehow she could take Chloe's place and that they could take her instead.

Curiously enough, her requests were immediately taken into effect. Apparently, Beca Mitchel was an exception to the laws of prayer in most religions.

Beca's memory after her prayers were different, just as clear as her memories beforehand but oddly as if what she experienced after that moment lasted several years longer than it should have. She remembered stepping outside the hospital, and then the sudden gap of black. She woke in front of a giant grey building and after ascending the huge marble steps, she'd walked down the alpine-ceilinged hall lined with black and white tiled flooring and rows of flanking dark wooden desks.

She remembered chuckling softly to herself upon thinking of how it had looked like the magical bank from Harry Potter, only without the goblins or flying papers. Sat at the tallest desk at the end of the hall she'd assumed was the head guardian angel. He explained everything about her trade for Chloe's life and about the payment for her actions by becoming a guardian angel for an infinitude in the Higher City, the city's given name. It was not in heaven exactly, but certainly above earth. He told her that mention of any higher power was forbidden and punishable by a very long time in confinement and that no angel below his station knew, or would know of who or what governed life itself.

He had also broken to her the necessity for the erasure of Chloe's memories of their friendship and lives together. Every memory after that moment was recalled to be more like a hell than a heaven.

Immediately after her introduction to the fact of her new eternity as a magical being she had previously assumed to be fictitious came months and months of guardian training and the pining and the anguish for endless, horrible nights on end. Oh, those nights, when she had been unable to sleep, distracting herself from the grief by plotting any conceivable way she could see Chloe for one last time. Whoever had agreed to let her trade places clearly hadn't anticipated Beca's determination to reunite herself with her best friend by any means considerably possible. Trust and friendship among the other angels she came in contact with was extremely rare, frankly nonexistent. She relied on no one but herself to pull through day after day of impossible exercises and painfully lengthy lessons.

When came the end of training and everyone's human assignment, she had been appointed to station herself in Siberia to guard a local scientologist. Beca's nights of mostly fruitless planning finally came to fruition as she obdurately broke into the human-assignment database (with ease; the process had oddly reminded her of using Garage Band, only with thin hovering bronze bars and colored beads instead of on-screen controls. There had still been sound waves though) and changed, by hand, her human assignment to guard Chloe. While everyone had been in place to be dropped to earth, she had escaped unseen to the edge of the city to the closest region she could find in Chloe's vicinity. And now she was here. In this field. This freezing, wet, scary-ass field.

Beca wasn't even sure if she was in the right state. She didn't recognize anything about her location or surroundings and her plans had only come this far. She had simply assumed that somehow Chloe would find her shortly after her fall to earth, to welcome her into her home to nurture her back to health, and everything would return to the state it had been before all of this mess. Cursing herself for not planning ahead more, her anxiety began to spike and she forced herself to count as she breathed. Why had she thought that simply jumping out of heaven would be the best idea? She had no belongings, no clothes, nowhere to sleep, and worst of all,

no money.

She shakily stood and decided that the best thing to do right now would be to walk off the pins and needles in her legs and to scout out the area. She had also read somewhere that exercise stimulated the brain. Small steps Beca, small steps, She chanted to herself while she stretched her fingers and cracked her neck and back. As she checked her body for more serious injuries or broken bones, she realized that the clothes she was wearing were her own from the night she died (Left earth? How would someone describe this situation?) and she groaned in annoyance at her past-self. Why didn't you at least go out with style, moron? You planned your retirement to the most ridiculous detail but you couldn't even die in a flow-y white dress or something? She was still damp from the grass and she was only wearing socks, no shoes. Her outfit from training had been simple white overalls and a grey, soft knit sort-of sweater. Everyone wore a variation of the same outfit, plus one pair of shoes of their choice (Beca had picked red sweade pumas because she had seen Blake Lively wearing a pair once.) Now she was beginning to miss those shoes. The only reason, she thought, that would have made simply following the rules a better choice of actions.

As she trudged her way around the perimeter of the field, she searched for signs of life. She heard far-off cars and airplanes overhead and the path she had been walking was well-trodden and relatively flat. She spotted the glimmer of some distant lights, and decided that once she had relaxed her muscles and figured out some mode of transportation to get there, she would make her way in that direction. And then she thought better of it and realized that sleeping in one of the bushes would probably be safest. And easiest. With the least walking. And effort.

Wherever Chloe had gone, Beca followed. After a lot of convincing on Chloe's part, together they joined an all girls a capella group at their university, where they became properly close with other people for the first time in their lives besides each other. Chloe had stayed two extra years in college, telling everyone the reason was that she could not bare to leave the group, but really the majority of her motivation came from the wish to see Beca through her junior and senior year, and then graduate with her. Beca had often come to family gatherings and holidays with Chloe, and vice versa with to visit Beca's removed family, often in other parts of the world. Chloe often put on a show of flirting with Beca for laughs and it was a running joke to make euphemisms of any slip of the tongue that could possibly be taken out of context. Friends joked that they were so close anyone would guess they were married, and they would laugh it off or play along, jesting to boast engagement rings, or play fake surprise proposals.

But the matter of it was that Beca secretly abhorred these fake shows of tease, romance and marriage. Because ever since her first year of college, she'd had much deeper respect and care for Chloe. There was no need for her to ask or talk about the subject. Beca had known since the beginning of her feelings for her that Chloe would never feel the same way, and so she had absolved to ride it out until she simply did not feel anything other than close platonic intimacy for her. In spite of all her efforts, seven years later she felt exactly the same, if not stronger than before, and it was miserable.

Eventually Beca neared the halfway mark of her third lap. Her anxiety had dwindled little, though her legs were mostly returned to a more natural and pin-free state. She was still shivering from the cold, rubbing her arms and occasionally stamping her feet but achieving very little warmth from any of it. She had given up on her socks halfway through the first lap. I can't believe I went through years of stupid training and they didn't even teach us how to fly! Isn't that the whole point of angels? That they have wings?! She knew the answer to her own question but still resented it. It was true, only higher level angels like the guardian trainers and the traditional angels spoke of in Texts and human accounts had wings. You have to have gone through several experiences so great that those above everything granted you the power of flight and wisdom like that of Gabriel.

The deep and rather eerie quiet of the place was what she'd been strongly accustomed to since she'd woken up, so when someone behind her shouted loudly in her direction, she nearly sprinted into the bushes to her right. But she glanced behind her and saw the form of a woman waving and walking idly, and she was set at a tiny bit more ease and waved back apprehensively. Shit, Becs what're you gonna do now, you look like a maniac. Dude, you're not even wearing shoes. Just play it cool, act hostile and moody, the regular. It's probably too dark to even see my clothes anyway, right? She made a brief attempt to brush off some of the dirt and grass still on her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair a few times.

Rapid footsteps approached from behind her and suddenly the girl had caught up to walk alongside her. Beca sighed quietly in annoyance and scanned her mind for an explanation as to why she was out this late and wearing the bare minimum and no shoes in a 30°(F) field.

She turned to look at the girls face and had to promptly hold herself back from shouting or even remotely outwardly responding to what she saw. Even in the gloomy darkness, the shiny doe-eyed look of the girl next to her was painfully unmistakable. Beca had not planned or expected herself to react so violently as she did when she saw this face again.

"Hi." She controlled her voice to the best of her ability, but the lack of recognition in the girl's next statements and the sudden realization of her stupidity in mistakenly romanticizing and simplifying the entire situation around only her own desires was so painful that Beca doubted she could hold back tears. The sight of Chloe Beale after months, years, of grieving was just too much. She did try, but they simply came, silently streaming down her cheeks, one after the other.

"It's so chilly for this time of year, I don't usually even come here while on walks. The mist is so spooky!"

Beca realized it was her turn to speak. She saw Chloe turn to look at her from her peripheral view and realized it was to late to do anything about her tears so she struggled to keep her voice even as she replied.

"yeah. Super spooky."

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