#maybe 'stakes' gave her some clarity

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 1/17/23

this was written under some duress bc my cat refused the sacrificial animal cracker and wanted The Whole Box. no, these are mine, go eat your camel on the coffee table. i have always hated the "pet parent" stuff but mother DOES want a cocktail and some benzos, run along now

listening

peel me a grape, anita o'day's version. this popped up on a premade jazz standards spotify playlist

this is going to pop up on my spotify wrapped bc i am trying to memorize the lyrics, which include

Send out for scotch, boil me a crab Cut me a rose, make my tea with the petals Just hang around to pick up the tab Never out think me, just mink me Polar bear rug me, don't bug me New Thunderbird me, you heard me I'm getting hungry, peel me a grape

MWAH. love it. ideal.

-

reading

Dreamships by Melissa Scott. i don't like ragging on an alive, queer author, but this one did not grab me. let's talk about why!

the premise:

now, i'm not in the publishing industry. but maybe consider. if the jacket copy tells you "and this is the issue upon which the novel turns!" and then tells you the next two twists. maybe don't include that in the jacket copy. i have a bad habit of only reading the first half of jacket copy and didn't see this until i took these photos but i am retroactively annoyed on scott's behalf.

character work: i bought this bc i was very excited for a grouchy misanthropic lady pilot. reverdy jian isn't that. i still don’t know much about her from reading a third of the book. she is remarkably incurious and while this is an excellent trait if you are a freelancer or doing any sort of client work, it would have been nice to care about the protagonist of the book or feel like she has emotional or monetary stakes in taking/not taking this job.

pacing/structure: this book is like looking out over top of a layer of fog and i’m making it sound more exciting or appealing than it is. it’s very even in both pacing and emotion. the first hundred pages take places over about thirty six hours, bc there’s a rush pilot job, but it’s very laid back and relaxed. there’s no real sense of urgency or mystery, despite the author trying her hardest to set up a mystery about the almost complete lack of information about this ship. when the characters can’t find any info they just kind of shrug and move on. it’s also just a little obtuse, despite being very polished in all its tenses and word choices. i wonder if it maybe needed one more clarity pass. i had a lot of trouble figuring out who a whole extra character was bc there were too many men in one room.

where the pacing/structure/character work collide: this book reads like a travelogue, and i do not mean that as a compliment. again, we don't get much of reverdy's perspective--things simply happen to her or she sees things and just kind of absorbs them without much commentary. things happen one by one like beads on a string without really tying into a bigger picture of the city or her goals. the main premise (huge mostly underground city on a planet being stripmined) was not presented interestingly enough to make up for the lack of character work. for me. in my opinion. i'm not a writer (or at least not a serious/professional/one who puts a great deal of thought and planning into her writing)

i have a limited amount of time on this earth, i gave it a solid hundred pages, this does not earn a place on my shelf. back to the thrift store it goes. sorry ms scott i hope you're having a good day anyway

-

watching

still rewatching adventure time. s3 is full of solid bangers, i think this is the season i remember best bc it was one of the first Appointment Television things with my siblings the year we got cable. this is when they start drip-feeding you more of the stuff about the great mushroom war

i really really love when a post-post apoc setting thinks about the impact of a nuclear war on playground culture, like this hide and seek variant you see in s3e21:Marceline's Closet.

Over the mountain, the ominous cloud Coming to cover the land in a shroud Hide in a bushel, a basement, a cave But when cloud comes a-huntin No one's a save… no, safe!

how i found this: this show ran from 2010-2018, and was absolutely impossible to escape as a cultural juggernaut, especially during the peak le epic bacon style times when i was in high school. it also had a limited series in 2020-2021 and a spinoff is supposed to happen next year, which i am cautiously optimistic about.

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playing

there will be light spoilers for the first two acts of wolfenstein the new order, a game that came out in 2014. i do not feel the need to rot13 early spoilers for an nine year old game.

despite enjoying the soundtrack for many years, i have never previously made into the castle in the first level of wolfenstein: the new order bc i always got bored and wandered off irl. i do want to get to a part (again not sure which one) where it will let me dual wield shotguns. why can't i find a second shotgun. i'm out of the asylum, they made me give the chainsaw back, and im about to murk some 1960s fascists at this checkpoint. one of these fuckers better have another shotgun.

blazkowicz is an enormous slab of unseasoned american beef. this man is SO large holy shit. i wish i cared about this big man. something about a dead female love interest? this nurse i kidnapped is going catch a bad case of the plot and be dead at the end of this level i think.

as previously mentioned this game was released in 2014 and boy does it look it, right down to the stupid macho gamer difficulty and exit screens. it's a pretty competent shooter. do wish ppl would stop shooting at me for five seconds so i can wander around and read all the propaganda and signage. why put it all up if you don't want me to look at it????

this was recently free on the epic store and the soundtrack came up on my walk today, which made me go "let me try this again". stay tuned.

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making

made some quiche and fucked it up in a different way from last jan's quiche fuckup. still looking for hearty vegetarian soups, made some soup, which is very good but very texture. aash-e jow, a persian rice/bean/lentil/barley soup, is a soup you gotta chew. "kay isn't that a stew-" no. come to my house and eat this soup and i will show you.

other notable notes: doesn't really taste like much which could be continuing post-covid weirdness, and i think i should at minimum triple the amount of spices. fuck of a lot of prep. lot of chopping. hands hurty. called for a bunch of things i do not normally keep as pantry staples. i think it would be far easier to buy a block of frozen chopped spinach and refloof it in a saucepan like i did for the quiche, but i had some arugula/spinach mix that was about to go.

the caramelized onions really make this soup imo but i do not always have the fortitude to caramelize onions. i don't think this soup will stay an acceptable texture when frozen, so next weekend i have to make another giant batch of the red lentil soup to freeze for lunches.

you're correct i really don't want to do dishes

#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem #Youtube

[un-local]

do you ever have any issues with perfectionism keeping you from writing? and maybe any advice on how to overcome it?

You know, to my own surprise, I’m inclined to say perfection isn’t my big demon. I think I deal with it some, but paranoia is probably what I’d characterize as my biggest problem. 

To clarify: I make art to satisfy whatever deranged impulse bubbles up from the unfathomable depths of my broken brain, right? So as long as I do that, I’m happy. But for me, it’s in the act of posting that trouble arises. Everyone else’s standards are totally alien to me, and it seems that often, they’re way higher. So I have a sort of paranoia that there’s something in my art—which is good enough for me—that everyone sees but I don’t. And it isn’t something endearing, or likeable. I’m not aware something everyone else is, and it’s a real problem. 

So, I think the end result is the same, but the root cause is probably different. 

To me, perfectionism is an inability to meet your own standards. But since I write for emotional satisfaction/catharsis, my own standards aren’t so much a factor.

Perfectionism strikes me as a kind of impatience, at the end of the day. You want your art to be  a masterpiece, right now, first try. And you’ll put yourself through hell when it isn’t. 

But the thing about writing is that you kind of have as many tries as you feel like giving it. It’s not like you’re carving it into a stone tablet—you can hit the undo button. (Which can be its own form of infuriating, I know.)

In terms of advice: 

I think patience is the way forward. Trust, too. Trust in yourself to make it a little better in the next pass-through. That whatever it is now, it isn’t final, if you don’t want it to be. 

It’s not even necessarily giving yourself permission to suck—but permission for your writing to just be whatever it is right now.

I think this is where advice about using fonts like comic sans for your first draft is helpful. It was for me. It kind of lowers the stakes, in a way. 

I think my focus on making sure writing fulfills a very personal emotional need has been beneficial for combatting perfectionism. Words don’t have to be pretty, or groundbreaking, or even noticeable, so long as they all come together to serve the emotional purpose of a scene. 

I think another thing that’s helped combat perfectionism in my writing process is the way I write—it’s probably like sculpting. I get all the basic forms down first, then refine and polish with many pass-overs after. My first draft doesn’t really have much detail. It’s mostly the major building blocks. So I think having a foundation like that helps me keep my focus on what I’m doing and why. And as I refine, if something isn’t working well, I can erase it and still have my end goal in mind. Having that (broad) end goal helps keep your focus on your piece, rather than how it is or isn’t meeting your standards. 

But really, I do think patience has been my best ally. If I can’t see a way out, I change tabs lol. I think being able to keep things on the back burner helps. Having the patience to step back and change gears means you can recharge and come back with fresh eyes. It also means that you can take the progress you have made and take that into the real world for a bit. 

There’s a line in SWRD where Magdalene is in the background, stretching her back in a moment between enemies. I got that from real life. 

In my personal work, I’ve had a story running for ten years. Literally. And over the last four years, I’d spend a few months making huge refinements and restructures in the draft, and then let it sit for anywhere from a few months to a year. And that gave me a lot of clarity in terms of what I was trying to say and why. 

TL;DR:

Hope this helps, anon. Good luck with your writing! Stick with it. In my experience, it all turns out in the end. You’ll get there just fine 🖤

#I hope this is helpful I’m kind of a dumbass #Don’t trust my advice further than you can throw it #But for whatever this advice is worth I do hope it helps #Also sorry for the late answer. I was beset with a stress related health condition. it was harmless but it scared the shit out of me #writing #hare answers #hare posts

[adventurade]

Marceline the young punk.

Adventure Time: Distant Lands- “Obsidian” 

#marceline #adventure time #adventure time obsidian #she was still pretty young punkish during adventure time's run #maybe 'stakes' gave her some clarity

[adenei]

Summer of Jily - Week 7

Yahoo! I'm all caught up for @efkgirldetective's summer of Jily Challenge!

This week's prompts: Ice cream and "I don't want anyone touching you like I do"

*********

Two days passed since their impromptu first date in the coziness of the cabin, and things could not be better. At least, that’s what James thought. The only snafu in the plan was that neither he nor Lily had discussed telling their friends about the relationship. Stolen moments alone were spent enjoying each other’s company while keeping an ear out for anyone who might intrude on their private time together.

They were no closer to coming up with a way of revealing their relationship, and if James was being honest, he quite liked the thrill of keeping his girlfriend, Lily, a secret from the Marauders. Sirius would probably hex him into tomorrow if he found out James was hiding something, but he would deal with that when the time came.

After two days of rain, the weather had finally cleared up, and the boys found themselves roaming up and down the main street of town while the girls were off shopping.

“Honestly, how much shopping can they possibly do?” Peter asked as he plopped down on a bench.

“With Mary and Marlene at the helm? It’s safer not to ask,” Remus thought out loud.

“It’s been two hours, and they’ve still got another half hour before they’re due to meet us for that picture show Mary’s been droning on about,” Sirius pointed out.

In an effort to avoid his friends’ complaints, James looked around the area for something to pass their time. His eyes settled on an ice cream shop across the street.

“Well, we could either sit here or go get some ice cream over there at that shop,” James suggested.

Peter perked up at the mention of ice cream while Remus gave a noncommittal shrug. Sirius was the only one to verbalize his agreement as he stood and led their way to the shop, his mood much brighter than moments ago.

“I could go for some ice cream! I prefer Muggle cotton candy ice cream to Fortescue’s strawberry peanut butter any day.”

The rest of the Marauders followed and approached the queue. They stood behind an older couple and waited. James continued to observe their surroundings, hoping that the girls might appear. He already missed Lily despite only being separated for a couple hours. As he was scanning the area, a group of girls who looked to be around their age joined the queue behind them, which Sirius was quick to point out.

“Look how hot that lot is, mate.”

James nodded, though he didn’t take the time to check them out. He was about to change the subject when one of the girls took notice of them and giggled. The sound caught his attention and distracted his attention. One of the girls was eyeing him; she was blonde with bright blue eyes and a petite frame, certainly attractive, but no longer his type. His type was Lily Evans, plain and simple.

He flashed a polite smile, then averted his gaze as the queue moved up. The boys were called up to the next window to order, and he was happy to put some distance between them and the group behind. Knowing it was easier for them all to order and have one person pay, James placed his order first and then turned to have the others follow suit. He dug out his muggle money to handle the transaction while the rest of the Marauders moved over to the pick-up window to wait for their treats.

“This is so different from Fortescue’s. Why can’t we watch them prepare it?” Peter whined.

“You mean scoop ice cream into cones and dishes and hand it to you? Beats me,” Sirius chided.

“He has a point, Pads. It’s interesting to watch sometimes,” Remus defended Peter’s observation as James chuckled.

“Yeah, beats waiting around having to make small talk with you,” he joked.

“Large cotton candy?” called the attendant from the window.

Sirius leaped up to claim his ice cream, looking like a kid in a candy store upon his return.

“Care to share a lick?” James teased as he leaned in to try and swipe a bite before Sirius had a chance to dig in.

“Not a chance!” Sirius guarded his cone as the attendant called out again.

“Crazy vanilla!”

“Ooh, that’s me!” Peter clapped his hands and went to collect his order.

Remus looked at James and Sirius. “Does he realize that that flavor is just vanilla ice cream but dyed different colors?”

“Shh, don’t ruin it for him, Moony!” Sirius waved him off. As Peter returned to the group, Sirius waved him along. “C’mon Wormtail, let’s go snag that table over there while these two wait for their more complicated orders.”

They took off while James and Remus continued to wait.

“Hot fudge sundae!”

“That’s me!” James jumped forward, approaching the window at the same time as the blonde who was checking him out earlier, and both reached for the same dish.

“Oh! Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back and tucking a strand of hair behind her ears.

“No, no, go ahead,” James took the dish and handed it to her. “You’ve got good taste,” he added with a polite smile.

“So do you,” she smiled back. “Are you on holiday with your mates?”

Her inquiry takes James by surprise, but he supposes a bit of small talk can’t hurt. “Er, yeah. We’re staying in a cabin on the lake.”

“Oh, us too! On the north or south side?”

“Er, north, I think?”

James wasn’t sure if he was being honest, but it wasn’t like they were going to run into the girl again, so a little white lie couldn’t hurt.

“Same for us! I’m Elaine, by the way.” She held out her hand with the introduction.

“James,” he responded, reaching out to give her hand a quick shake.

“Say, what are you doing tonight? We could get together for a fire or something?”

Unfortunately, it looked like his willing response gave the wrong impression as the girl to the opportunity to ask him out. Her smile had turned seductive and James realized a moment too late that she was flirting. Had he really lost his game so quickly since making a go of things with Lily?

Another hot fudge sundae order was called along with Remus’s chocolate milkshake. James was about to excuse himself to grab his ice cream when Remus appeared out of nowhere.

“I’ve got this, mate.”

“Oh, er, thanks.” James grimaced.

Because Remus didn’t know about Lily, he didn’t know that James needed the ice cream as an excuse to get out of this.

Of all the times Remus decided to urge me on.

“It’ll be a fun time, I promise,” Elaine winked. “Come with me to our table and I can write down our address for you to meet us later. It won’t take long.”

The blonde reached out her free hand to graze James’s forearm and lead him to the table her friends had occupied. He followed since he couldn’t think of a way out of it. At least the solution after this point was easy. He’d thank her, make a false promise to show up, and then never follow through.

He wasn’t expecting Elaine to keep hold of his arm, and the feeling sent prickles of discomfort through the rest of his body. James wasn’t even aware that the girl was still chattering away as he was still thinking of a way to get back to his friends, and hoping Lily was still on the opposite side of town so they wouldn’t get in a row over this.

And that’s when he felt another hand grasp his opposite arm.

The feeling of the second touch was much warmer, searing his bicep as it pulled him away from the blonde with a force he wasn’t used to. As his body spun around he caught a flash of red hair before the second person’s lips were on his, the kiss deep and searing, taking him by surprise.

He was familiar with the feel of Lily’s lips by now, and forgetting that they were in public, James’s body melted into the embrace even though it was far from romantic and comforting. As Lily’s arms snaked around his neck to pull him closer, James realized she was staking her claim and it was hot. He felt the immediate arousal strain against his trousers as the thought of Lily’s jealousy sent a course of desire through his body.

It barely phased him that they were in a very public place, no doubt in front of all their friends. Yet, when the thought finally registered in his lust-filled brain, clarity sobered his body, replacing the desire with a nervous excitement.

So much for keeping things quiet.

When Lily pulled away, her gaze was fierce as she narrowed her eyes and squeezed his arms a bit harder while whispering in his ear, “I don’t want anyone else touching you like I do.”

Bloody hell, would it be improper to disapparate us back to the cabin to have my way with her right now?

Yes, yes it would. Stupid statute of secrecy.

The battle to act on his instincts versus do the right thing warred in his mind.

“And you,” Lily peered over his shoulder to the blonde who was standing behind them, mouth gaping open in surprise, “keep your hands off my boyfriend.”

“Your WHAT?!”

A chorus of shouts and shrieks escaped the mouths of their friends at Lily’s over-zealous warning.

“Looks like it’s not a secret anymore,” Lily shrugged as she pulled James back to their friends.

“Hmm, I was hoping that maybe they didn’t notice the public snog assault you just attacked me with,” James laughed. “You know I wasn’t going to do anything with her, right? She cornered me and Remus of all people helped her along. I couldn’t get away.”

“Yes, yes, I trust you. I just let my temper get the best of me, I suppose,” Lily admitted, though she didn’t seem ashamed in the slightest.

“Don’t worry, I like Aggressive Lily. Maybe I’ll let other girls try and whisk me away more—”

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, though the glint in her eye reassured him that she knew he was kidding.

“I suppose it’s time to face the onslaught of our friends, don’t you think?”

Lily sighed, “You’re sure we can’t just disapparate away instead?”

“I wish, but I’ve got a hot fudge sundae over there with my name on it. If you answer all the questions, though, I might be inclined to share.”

A devilish smirk crossed her lips as she dropped his hand and made a beeline for the table. “Not if I get there first!”

“Hey!”

James followed after her, knowing full well he’d share the ice cream with her regardless as they took turns answering their friends’ questions. Maybe it wasn’t the way James and Lily intended for the group to find out, but it certainly made for a good memory to look back on someday.

#summerofjily #jily #james potter #lily evans #jily fic

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Valentines Day for Nerds (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Spencer’s favourite holiday is often taken up mostly by work, but this year his enjoyment doesn’t seem to be as disruptive in the BAU bullpen. The team soon realise why.

AN: It’s a bit late- who am I kidding? IT’S ALWAYS HALLOWEEN IN OUR HEARTS! This was a part of @imagining-in-the-margins fic swap, for the brilliant @agntprentiss <3 

For my smut fic from the swap, check out A Little Indulgence (18+ only!)

Reader uses she/her pronouns!

Word count: 1.7k words

Gif credit to @imagining-in-the-margins​ <3

Your name: submit What is this?

The first breach of boredom was Penelope practically skipping into the bullpen, her arms cradling a bouquet of flowers as if it were an infant. The bold orange roses contrasted with the dyed black petals of its counterparts as they were planted upon Spencer’s desk.

“Delivery for Doctor Reid!” trilled Penelope, clapping her hands now that they were free of said delivery. Dropping his pen onto his unfinished paperwork, Spencer pivoted the base of the bouquet before he found a small black envelope.

It held a little card with two pumpkins, happy faces carved into them both. Inside were the following words:

 Black is for new beginnings,

Orange is for enthusiasm,

Spooky times are afoot tonight,

Watch out for ectoplasm!

I spent ten minutes trying to think of a rhyme for that. Happy Halloween, Cara Mia!

Y/N xxx

Spencer beamed as he placed the bouquet at the edge of his desk, next to the fake severed hand that now held the card in its stiff fingers. He scratched his bristly cheek. Less than a day until he could shave this off. It’d be worth it though.

“Is it from Y/N?”

He looked up to see Penelope had lingered like a lost spirit, waiting to see if her trials of passing on the bouquet had been worthy enough for her to move onto the next world – her Batcave. She was poised with a hopeful expression.

“Yes,” Spencer said, watching Penelope lean up on her tiptoes as she tried to rein in her delight.

She clapped her hands, her purple painted nails clicking as they tapped together, “Are my two favourite ghost hunters up to much this Hallow’s Eve?”

“We’re going to see the Phantasmagoria re-enactment after we go trick-or-treating with Henry tonight.”

It was hard to ignore the absolute glee with which Spencer spoke. Even if one completely ignored the way his voice carried a light excitement, the way his eyes lit up and his broad smile almost fell off his face was enough to connote that he was very excited for tonight. It was also hard to ignore the mild bemusement on the faces of everyone who heard.

Glad to be back and bearing witness to his elated behaviour regardless, Emily cracked a smile, “Maybe she’ll cling to you when she gets scared.”

A heat crawled up Spencer’s neck and he tried to return to work now in hopes that his gift’s display would be cut off. He’d rather sit in the glow of receiving the flowers without mockery.

To the team’s credit, no one ribbed him for it.

The flowers were not the last gift though.

Soon Penelope reappeared, “Your Cupid has returned with another gift for you!”

As he tore at the paper and revealed an Edgar Allen Poe pin – the titular Raven he instantly attached it to his satchel strap – in pride of place, just like the bouquet.

Derek was the one to notice how Spencer’s sandwiches had been cut into little pumpkins. Some digging and Spencer revealed that he had gotten Y/N to order a cutter online. He held his lunch in one hand, his collection of classic Halloween short stories in the other, with a childish glee that no one wanted to squander.

When Spencer climbed the steps to drop off a file to Hotch around mid-afternoon, Rossi walking behind him noted the brand-new socks. A classic odd pairing, and obviously they were Halloween themed. This kid left no opportunity untaken when it came to celebrating Halloween – more than his own birthday.

But Rossi was not closed enough to get a good look at them, and no one else was as close. So, he recruited Emily and Derek to discover what the pattern was. It was Emily and Derek who upped the stakes by wanting to get a glimpse without arousing suspicion. Now that outright asking Spencer was not an option, the game began as they dropped several pens as an excuse to bend over and strain for a flash of those socks.

Derek eventually resorted to a pantomime attempt at tripping in front of Spencer’s desk and gave the jig up straight away by shouting to a stressed Emily (whilst also catching the attention of Hotch through his office’s blinds): “IT’S IT!”

A few language barriers hurdled later, and hindsight brought them both clarity. The red splodge on Spencer’s ankle was officially defined as a balloon.

“So tell us! What’s the other one?” Emily said, her voice strained with how much she was invested in this single sock.

Spencer hiked up his trouser leg to display the skeletal zombie sewn into the sock. “It’s Curtis Danko from When Good Ghouls Go Bad. Y/N had it commissioned for me!”

JJ was watching nearby, unaffected by the tensions of the sock bet. She knew the film because Y/N had wanted to show it to Henry the other week when she babysat him. But upon further inspection, the R.L. Stine film – while intended for kids – might be a little intimidating for Henry to watch without his profiler mother and godfather, police officer father, and favourite auntie there to protect him from the cursed statue.

No one else in the bullpen knew the film.

The team soon discovered that Spencer was not the only one to be on the receiving end of such gifts. Six o’clock rolled around and Y/N entered the bullpen. She was wearing a fuzzy black scarf, some sparkles shining within the wool. At the tail of it, a lucky black cat patch was sewn onto the end. It caught Rossi’s eye and he hid behind a folder as he smiled. The three times that Spencer had forgone a card game with him (in favour of knitting the scarf on the flights back from cases) had been riddled with playful teasing. It was good to see that it was worth it.

Especially when Spencer saw Y/N wearing it and his back snapped straight up. His chair flew backwards, spinning around with the effort that Spencer had launched himself from it, and he and Y/N embraced each other with casual affection.

“How was work today?”

“Not as boring as I thought. But, I have to say: I’m meant to call you Cara Mia.” Spencer’s eyes darted to the card Y/N had sent that morning.

Y/N caught onto his meaning, “Should I stop?”

“Never.”

She rubbed her nose against his and Spencer went pink again, giggling like a teenager. True, he was as smitten with Y/N as Gomez was with Morticia. Then he remembered he was in the workplace as Y/N went to greet the rest of the team, and Spencer’s pink became a scarlet.

“Aww, Pretty Boy,” Derek grinned at him from his desk chair, “You’re so cute!”

“It’s like Sergio!” Emily said, admiring the scarf with her thumb rubbing over the stitches around the cat patch.

“Make sure he’s safe tonight,” Y/N squeezed her hands for a second.

Then JJ appeared from her office, coat and bag over her arm, and she, Y/N, and Spencer wished the bullpen a Happy Halloween before they left.

They had three hours before the Phantasmagoria started. Plenty of time to get ready.

Henry was right behind the front door of his home. The second it opened, he bounced at Spencer’s feet, his tiny hand clutching onto two of his fingers to drag him inside. He was babbling away at such speed that Y/N could barely keep up. She gave Will a wave across the ironing board where he was diligently ironing Will’s cape.

“Well don’t you look handsome!” Y/N beamed at Henry while JJ combed his hair back, slick with gel. It was something he agreed to but only if Spencer was doing the same. Which he was, occupying the downstairs bathroom as he prepared his own costume.

The moment Spencer had finished shaving everything bar the moustache, he was plonked in front of the television. Henry smoothed out his cloak and put in his plastic fangs in to watch the rest of his new favourite Halloween film, The Little Vampire. He mumbled along with Rudolph’s lines and sat enraptured as he pointed out to Spencer the flying scenes. Luckily for him, Will and JJ were getting dressed as Frederick and Freda Sackville-Bagg upstairs to join in the Halloween spirit – last year’s Halloween date night disaster long forgotten.

Henry put in his plastic fangs and hissed at Y/N who emerged in her long sleek black dress. As she stepped across the room as elegantly as Morticia, Spence spied that she was wearing the black spiderweb tights he had bought her today.

“Hello, Gomez,” She smiled radiantly at Spencer, smoothing out his suit jacket as he stood before her. He presented her with a red rose that matched her lipstick to a tee.

As she breathed in the flower’s scent, he kissed her cheek, enjoying her giggle at the bristle of his ‘stache, “You’re stunning.”

“Thank you, and you’re handsome as ever.” She swung their linked hands between them in the opposite way she poised on her tiptoes. “Maybe we should have taken a tango class.”

And she laughed loudly at Spencer’s wincing at such a thought.

“It’s ok, Cara Mia. I’ll settle for a kiss instead.”

Oh, that was something he could do forever. He brought her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles then the inside of each wrist.

Unfortunately, Henry interrupted the stream of kisses that were headed in Y/N’s way. “Ready to go!” He skipped his way between the happy couple.

It was hard to be mad at Henry, especially with how adorable he looked beside his parents and with his bright orange pumpkin bag ready to collect candy. He felt safe with his four favourite adults guarding him.

“Tonight,” Y/N whispered into his ear and he could hear the smirk in her words, “After the Phantasmagoria.”

Spencer beamed, his dimples delightfully framing that smile. One day maybe, they would have their own Wednesday, Pugsley, and Pubert to join them. And maybe then Derek would dress up as Uncle Fester.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #my writing #fic swap #r: female #wc: 1k+

[ex-vengeancedemon]

Averting Disasters and Other Ways to Avoid Your Problems

Chapter 6

Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Mentions of things that occurred in Angel: The Series season 5.

Main Pairing: Buffy x Spike

Characters: Buffy, Spike, Giles, Willow, Xander, Andrew, Faith, Dawn

Summary: Set in 2008, five years after Spike’s resurrection at Wolfram & Hart. Buffy is living in Cleveland guarding the hellmouth. Spike has left Angel and company and is hiding out in Chicago. The Scoobies are scattered. When something starts going wrong with the slayers around the world, it’s time to get the gang back together.

Masterlist & Chapter 1

Chapter 6

Buffy blinked. What else was she supposed to do?

In front of her was Faith, still bristling at Spike like he was some kind of hell-spawn. And to her left was Spike, who looked just as he had the last time she’d seen him, not dusty at all. Maybe Faith was misremembering things, like she was.

Then a thought struck her. A nauseating, bone-chilling thought. What if this was The First after all? What if this wasn't Spike? What if this was all some sort of sick game? All that talk about having won the battle lies?

Buffy took a few steps away from Spike, who now looked thoroughly distressed, and moved to stand next to Faith. Buffy stood on the balls of her feet in a holding position, ready to spring at a moment's notice. In whichever direction that springing might need to occur.

"Now hold on," the thing that looked like Spike said, holding up its hands in surrender. "There's an explanation for all that."

He sounded so much like Spike, and Buffy hesitated.

Wait. He couldn't be The First. Her racing brain was finally gaining some clarity. She had touched him. He was solid. The First couldn't feel. So... what was going on?

"Nah, I don't think so," Faith growled, her stake at the ready. "And I'm thinking ‘stake first, ask questions later’ sounds like a pretty solid motto right about now."

The three stood in a tense standoff. Spike still hadn't moved, his hands held up in an non-threatening manner. But Buffy knew it wouldn't stay motionless for long. And she was freezing. God, she was really freezing.

"Look I-" he started, before cutting off abruptly. He shook his head, glancing down at the ground. When he looked back up he snapped his hands down and scowled. He ignored Faith completely, despite the fact that she had a weapon aimed directly at his heart, instead focusing on Buffy. "No. Know what? You're right. I don't have an explanation. All I've got are some bleedin' excuses, 'cause I'm not a better man, Buffy. You were wrong."

Faith was unimpressed by the declaration and lunged again. But Buffy broke through her stupor in time to stop the other woman once more as Spike flinched away from the attempted death blow. Right now wasn’t the time to stake first and ask questions later. Right now was the time to ask questions first, come up with a plan, and then stake later... if necessary. Because right now, all Buffy had to work with was Faith’s story, Spike’s story, and her own.

"Don't," Buffy told her counterpart numbly. "Just... don't."

Faith balked, about to retaliate, but one look from Buffy and she backed down. "Yeah. Alright, B. Whatever you say."

In a daze, Buffy moved back to the living room window, careful not to put too much pressure on her injured calf, and pulled the curtain aside a couple inches. It was dark out now. That middle of the night darkness; the kind you could drown in if you weren’t careful. And she could feel her head slipping under. If she couldn't fight The First, who was she supposed to be fighting? Nothing was familiar here. Nothing made sense. And she couldn’t fight herself.

Spike and Faith followed her tentatively into the living room. It was almost funny. Spike had died and Faith was in just as much trouble as she was, and yet all the two of them seemed to be able to do was shuffle their feet and worry about her. She didn’t need their worry. She needed answers.

"Could you give us a minute, Faith," Buffy asked without looking at them.

Faith hesitated, then said, "Yeah. Sure. I'll just... be in the kitchen."

She retreated to the other room, leaving Spike and Buffy alone again.

Buffy no longer had any doubt this was Spike. He knew the particulars of their conversations. How she had told him he could be a better man. And he was solid, not some ghost or manifestation of The First. Finally, she turned to face him. He looked... scared. It was a look she had seen on him more often lately - no, not lately - but only when it concerned her welfare. To his own, he was indifferent.

"Do you remember asking me if I was there with you?" she asked flatly. "That night."

"'Course," he replied, looking down at the ground.

"You asked me what that meant," Buffy continued, her voice quiet. "What did it mean?"

His head snapped up, his brows knit together in confusion. "What?"

"What did it mean?" she repeated.

"Not sure I follow."

She walked up to stand in front of him, searching his face for answers his tongue seemed to trip over. "You're lying."

"You heard trigger-happy over there," he replied, jerking his head toward the kitchen. His voice sounded nonchalant and almost derisive. But he wouldn't look her in the eyes. "Went out with a bang. Fittin' innit?"

Before she could stop herself, she slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side and he rubbed at his jaw, but he didn't reprimand her or fight back. He didn't even ask why.

She thought she would have time. There was supposed to be more time. After. Time to work out what it meant. And now he was telling her she wouldn't have a say in the matter because he wouldn't be there to find out. That last night, the one she didn't remember, that would be his last night. No more chances, no more apologies, no more redos, no more anything. And he was being glib about it.

But no. It wouldn't be his last night, because he was here, standing in front of her. Why was everything so damn confusing?

"How are you here? How- how did it happen?" she demanded, the words coming out in a jumbled rush. "What is going on?"

She dropped onto the couch, holding her head in her hands. Just hoping to block it all out. This had to be some kind of nightmare.

He sat down beside her, moving to take her hand, and she immediately jumped up. "Stay away from me! Just- stop!" She paced off toward the window again. "What happened? Explain. Right now. Or I'm letting Faith do this her way."

"Likin' that plan!" Faith called from the kitchen.

Buffy grimaced. She wasn't thrilled to have an audience. But she needed to know.

Spike appeared to collect his thoughts, his face cycling through a range of emotions, few of which Buffy could place.

Finally, he spoke. "Happened like I said. You and the pack of newbie slayers fought off a hoard of beasties down beneath the high school." He paused. Why wouldn't he look at her? "Just left a few things out is all." He shrugged, eliciting another wave of anger from her. "That amulet? The sparkly rock lover boy gave you? Turned me into a regular atom bomb. Front row seat to the razin’ of Sunnyhell."

She fought back the nausea that threatened to overcome her. Oh god. Oh god. She killed him. She had become his judge, jury, and executioner. She didn't know. She couldn't have known. But was that the truth? Couldn't she have suspected? You never get something for nothing.

Angel had said the amulet was dangerous, that they didn’t know the risks. Using it would’ve been like testing the world’s first airplane by jumping it from Mt. Everest.

Maybe you knew, a little voice in her head whispered wickedly. Maybe you just didn’t care.

"But... how?" she asked weakly.

He huffed as he stood up, immediately beginning an agitated pacing back and forth. "What do you want to know? Huh? Wanna hear all the grisly details?” He scowled at her bitterly. “I put the trinket on. It lit up all bright-like. Blasted through the bad guys, fucked up whatever supports were holdin' that damnable place together. The ceiling started crashin' down. Then, poof, dust. Don’t remember much after that."

***

Spike regretted the words almost as soon as they had left his mouth. Or maybe he didn't regret the words exactly, just how he had chosen to say them. He had no right to be angry with her for asking, another notch on the bedpost of things he had no right to. Fuck, why'd she have to look at him like that?

This wasn't how he'd wanted seeing her again to go.

Alright, so he hadn't known exactly how he had wanted seeing her again to go, but he knew it wasn't this. A selfish part of him had hoped she might look at least a little happy to see him alive - undead anyway - again. Instead, Buffy looked downright mortified. And he watched in real time as that horror turned to pain turned to anger.

"What is wrong with you?" she snapped.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Here she was, clearly fightin' off some devil or another of her own, meanwhile here he was, sneering about the decimation of her home and his own death. Words felt like acid on his tongue. They got so jumbled together and warped beyond recognition, scarring and burning on their way out. He meant to say one thing and, by the time the air reached his lips, a completely different sentence had materialized.

"I'm sorry," he said finally.

It was like putting duct tape on a dam and hoping the thing wouldn't blow.

Only she didn't blow.

"Get out," she hissed, her voice hard.

"Buffy-"

"Leave, Spike," she reiterated, maintaining the same coolness. "Faith and I will be fine. Willow, Xander, and Giles are on the case. They'll figure it out. We don't need your help. I don't need your help."

If she noticed him flinch, she didn't let on.

"Go home. Back to LA or whatever hole you crawled out of," she continued. "Just... leave. It's what you're good at."

If he had breath, she would've stolen it. It felt like she had just kicked him in the gut and spat on him for good measure. He felt his own hurt turn to anger.

"You can't seriously be blamin' me for dustin'!" he retorted. "We don't exactly get to pick 'n choose our time, love!'

She didn't respond to that. Instead, she crossed her arms, refusing to look at him.

Spike wasn't sure how long they stood there at an impasse. Neither of them seemed willing to break the silence. But at least she wasn't telling him to leave again.

He didn't even notice when Faith re-entered the living room. She moved with a cat-like grace and he was lost in his own world of reeling thoughts, trying desperately to remind himself of the real reason he was supposed to be here in the first place.

When Buffy looked up again, her gaze passed right through him without really seeing him, like the ghost he was. He didn't think this could possibly be going any worse.

He was wrong, of course.

He realized that the second the sword seared its way through his back. He felt the biting metal grind against his spine, watched as the blade extruded from his abdomen in front of him. He wanted to crumple to the ground, but the sword in his gut forced him to remain on his feet. He understood then - too late as usual - that Buffy hadn't been looking through him. She had been looking behind him. At Faith.

He felt a pressure against his back above where his heart rested. There was no doubt in his mind that it was a stake. So this would be the end. For real this time. No miraculous resurrection. It was poetic really. Buffy would get to watch him die again. It'd even be about the same time for her as he'd died the last time. Fitting. Karmic. The fates righting the wrongs and all that.

But hell, why'd it always have to hurt?

This time when Buffy looked at him, there was no pride. There was only fear and panic. There would be no consolation "I love you's" or grand gestures. There would just be... His face paled. Oh god, he wished there would just be nothing. He wasn't ready. He needed to-

"Faith, what are you doing?" Buffy asked, holding up a hand to the slayer Spike couldn't see.

He couldn't see her, but he could feel the stake dig harder into his back, feel her breath behind him, hear her blood race. His vision was starting to blur around the edges and he groaned in pain as his knees threatened to give out, causing the sword to bite harder into his flesh. He felt the blood enter one of his punctured lungs, creating a sickly sound as he gasped like a fish on a hook.

"Put the stake down," Buffy ordered, her voice struggling to stay calm. "It's only Spike. You don't need to hurt him."

"No," Faith growled. "It's not a person, it's a demon. What the hell is your problem? We're slayers. We kill vampires. We don't socialize with them!"

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "You know Spike. He has a soul."

"So?" Faith snapped. "He's not human, B. He's a vampire. A killer."

When Buffy didn't immediately agree, Faith dug her boot into Spike's back and kicked him off the sword onto the ground. He heard the metal grate against his spine on the way out and he bit back a scream, his teeth slamming together. It felt like his insides had started on fire, leaking gasoline and petrol. He struggled to his hands and knees only to have the hard heel of the boot slam him back down, sending blinding flashes of white light flitting through his vision. His eyes made out a small pool of blood sitting next to his mouth and he felt momentary guilt at having ruined the carpet.

"What kind of slayer are you?" Faith snapped at Buffy. "This is our duty, our responsibility! You would let him, what, just walk away?!"

"He's not a threat to anyone," Buffy replied.

Spike struggled to maintain consciousness through their conversation. He could no longer see them with his face pressed to the floor and his vision hazy, all he could do was listen as they argued over his fate.

In the land of gods and monsters… What was the difference really? The gods decided the monsters’ fates, of course.

"Faith this isn't you!" Buffy insisted.

Faith scoffed. "I'm exactly what I'm supposed to be. I'm doing exactly what I was meant to do. What are you, B? Cause, right now? You sure as hell aren't a slayer."

"I'm your friend. And I'm asking you not to do this." Buffy's voice had taken on a pleading tone.

How many times had she had to ask someone to spare his miserable ass? Once was already too many, but never seemed to be enough.

"If you're a friend of mine, you'll stake him. If not, then you're no friend of mine. What's it gonna be?"

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy the vampire slayer fanfiction #btvs fanfiction #spuffy fanfiction #spuffy #buffy x spike #averting disasters and other ways to avoid your problems #chapter 6

[penguiduck]

Writing Fight Scenes

I’ve had a lot of readers mention that they don’t feel comfortable with fight scenes.  Well, that’s understandable. It’s challenging writing about experiences you’ve never had.  But with some perspective and practice, you can most certainly work toward writing those fast-paced, heart-pounding scenes with ease.

To give you some background, I practiced competitive martial arts for six years.  I competed in tournaments and trained hard to perform well in the ring. It was a contact sport, and even if I wasn’t sparring, training often left me with bruises, usually of the physical nature, sometimes of the emotional persuasion.

This experience gave me a lot of perspective when it comes to writing fight scenes.

Whenever I step into the ring, I have a flexible strategy in mind that combines what I know about myself, my opponent, and what I’m going to learn about them in the next two minutes.  I’d like to share some of these thoughts and perspectives with you, and how your character may think before and during a match of their own. Of course, my fighting experience is limited to a contact sport.  Your story may very well be far more violent with higher stakes, but strategies may be of similar foundation. Once you take a fight into deeper consideration, aside from the depiction of two fighters merely exchanging blows, you can begin to enrich your writing experience.

I’m including examples from Yu Yu Hakusho because that’s the fandom I write the most for, and as you know, there’s a lot of fighting involved!  But remember — anime and writing are two completely different mediums. There's no one narrating everything that our beloved characters are doing on screen. You just see it. That is why you, as a writer, must paint those scenes through words for your readers.

Nevertheless, this advice really stands for any sort of writing, so do with this information what you will.

A well-written fight scene is never about just trading blows.  There are other conflicts at play, whether between the fighters or even in the heads of your protagonists.

Allow me to elaborate:

1. Who is your protagonist?

Whenever I am preparing for a sparring match, the first thing I worry about is me. I must be self-aware. 

I think about my own fitness.  How am I doing? Do I have any existing injuries or ailments?  How is my weight? My body type? What are my strengths and weaknesses?  What do I have in my toolbox? What techniques do I know? What techniques am I most versed and confident in?  

I also think about my overall wellness. Have I been eating well?  Drinking water? Sleeping? How is my emotional state of mind? What are the stakes?

Is my uniform clean and pressed?  What about my equipment? Headgear?  Mouth guard? Shin guard? Did I replace that torn lace?

I recommend using these questions to bring your character’s own reflection to the forefront in whatever way makes most sense for them.  How is your character’s fitness? Is she in good fighting condition? Has she been injured previously? What has happened since the last fight that might impact her state of mind? 

It’s possible that she’s recovering from an illness or injury.  Perhaps her mentor died a gruesome death. Maybe she’s frustrated because she lost use of her right hand, temporarily or permanently, and has had to compensate with her non-dominant hand.  Or perhaps she’s lost the will to fight, having experienced something traumatic.

Hiei had to constantly think about his own state of health throughout the Dark Tournament after his fight with Zeru.  His arm had been sacrificed to his Dragon of the Darkness Flame, rendered useless, and he was in terrible pain. He never let it impact him, of course, being the stoic warrior he is.  His personality allows for little inner dialogue to be shared with the audience, but as a fighter, he was most certainly considering what options he had with his handicap. And, as a writer, perhaps you would like to elaborate on his thoughts for your readers.

What has your character been practicing lately?  Is her weapon of choice the same? Has it been upgraded?  Has she been training with a different weapon or technique?  Is she perhaps nervous about using something new?

Maybe she just repaired her sword, and she’s unsure if it’s as strong as it was before.  Perhaps she’s been studying a new technique, and she knows she’ll need to use it in this battle.  

Remember when Kuwabara first introduced his spirit sword in Maze Castle?  He was so proud of himself, and that whole battle was an introduction to his newfound technique, how he manipulated his sword, and how he was able to harness his spirit energy.  It’s far more interesting to see this development and exploration than to just watch him stab at Byakko a dozen times.

My point is that while your character probably should keep her emotions out of the ring, she may not be able to.  There are so many things that could be on her mind, plaguing her thoughts, especially if there’s a lot riding on this battle.  I think it’s really important to not only acknowledge the physical part of fighting but the emotional toll it can take a fighter, too.

Think about the fight between Yusuke and Toguro.  Toguro had just killed Genkai, and Yusuke took that very personally.  This was not a simple battle of strength or wits. This was a battle of emotions, and it wasn’t until Yusuke was able to master his feelings and reach beyond that “six foot wall of crap” as Genkai so affectionately calls it that he was able to finally defeat Toguro.

And the catharsis that came from defeating Toguro? It was made all the more powerful because Yusuke went through that emotional journey. It wasnʼt just a fight — it was a calling, a purpose, and a lesson.  It was painful and potent, and it made him realize just how much these experiences shaped him as a person.

2. Who is the opponent? 

Before I participate in a tournament, I do my research.  Who is likely to be competing? Who is in my weight class?  What do I know about these competitors? If I don’t have answers, I would find them.  I’d chat with my instructor, my fellow martial artists. Has anyone else from my school fought these people before?  What were they like? Are there videos online of their performance?  

I find as much information as possible. I make calls, send texts, take people out to lunch, scour the internet for information.  Even if your character lives in a less technologically dependent world, I would imagine that he might talk with friends, look through old records, listen to gossip and hearsay.  He might watch battles leading up to his own fight in an effort to learn more.

And if this pre-work isn’t possible, that’s okay.  Fights in your story may be entirely unpredictable, but your character can also learn things about his opponent during the match.  

When I step into the ring and ready myself to compete, one of the first things I want to find out is on which side my opponent is dominant.  In other words, are they right-handed? Or left-handed? Right-footed? Or left-footed? Maybe they only focus on one side during training (which is silly, but that’s another conversation).  But there could be an underlying reason why as well. Perhaps they injured themselves in the previous round or maybe they just don’t like exposing one particular side of their body for whatever reason.

This information is critical because this tells me what I need to watch out for, which side of my own body I should be guarding, how I may penetrate my opponent’s defenses.  How can I catch them when they least suspect it? Where can I knock them off balance? My instructor always told me to watch the shoulders — shoulders move before the rest of the body.  You can tell what your opponent is about to do by watching their shoulders.

Your character may wish to discover the same thing.  Maybe his opponent uses a two-handed sword and is very clearly right-handed.  This may give him some information on where his blind spot is — or maybe he just needs to disable his opponent’s right arm.  The possibilities are endless, and understanding his opponent will give him leverage, offering him many options.

Understanding an opponent’s technique is also important.  In martial arts, practitioners often favor a strategy or skill.  This seems obvious, but it’s vital that you understand what it is — only then you can combat it.  

Consider Kurama’s matches with Gama and Toya during the events of the Dark Tournament.  The English dub did a wonderful job voicing Kurama’s inner conflict during these fights, struggling with first his inability to move and then his imprisoned spirit energy — if you were to put these scenes into writing, explaining his thought process would be fascinating.  How does Kurama overcome these obstacles? He seeks to understand his opponents before he defeats them, which, unfortunately, also means he risks injury to himself until then.

Your character’s thoughts about the fight, interpreting for your audience what he feels he might need to do to secure victory, is just as important as detailing the fight itself.

3. What about the writing?

The writing will come once you begin to dissect your characters and their motivations for fighting.  Your characters aren’t one-dimensional, or, at least, they shouldn’t be!  

Your fight scenes shouldn’t be, either.  It’s not about two fighters trading blows. It’s about an artfully curated dance.  Two opponents are engaged in a craft that they both know well, and whether they’re fighting to win a tournament or for their very lives, they have reasons and complex thought processes that should make their fight interesting.  

There are two players here, and unless the fight is grossly one-sided, they’re both thinking and acting independently of one another.  My advice is to thread their actions and consequences together — weave the fight scene as if it’s a stream of conscious thought, separated into paragraphs, each with a shift in perspective, for clarity.  

Instead of writing:

Yusuke charged at Kuwabara and punched him in the face.  Kuwabara punched him in the mouth. Yusuke then kicked him in the stomach.

Try this:

Yusuke had little patience for Kuwabara’s bad jokes, and he rushed toward him, landing a blow square in the side of his head.

Kuwabara flew backward with a grunt, stabilizing himself before launching himself at Yusuke, returning the favor.  His fist collided with Yusuke’s jaw, a blow hard enough to knock the teeth out of any regular human.

Yusuke expected him to retaliate, and although he was nearly knocked off balance, he swung his leg around, making full contact with Kuwabara’s stomach.

You may also find it useful to deviate from the fighting itself.  You can speak to a character’s inner dialogue or thoughts, whether about the fight or something else.  You may choose to have them begin a brief conversation. Or you may describe what other characters are feeling about the fight as onlookers.

There are many ways to make these fight scenes seamless and interesting — take some time to explore your options!

Just a few more general tips that might help:

If you’re going to use a thesaurus, be mindful about it. I use a thesaurus when I write because I suffer all day, every day from tip-the-tongue syndrome.  But words, even if they generally fit the same definition, can have vastly different connotations, so before selecting a word from the thesaurus, do some digging.  Look at the exact definition and perhaps Google some common usage. Punch, slap, and stroke do not mean the same thing, even if a thesaurus might say otherwise.

Read your writing out loud.  If you’re unsure, this is the best way to understand your cadence, the flow of the battle.  Use your best Morgan Freeman or Jorge the Ogre voice.

Consider a beta reader.  Sometimes having a second opinion is immensely helpful.

Remember that there are no strict writing rules.  You write whatever your heart desires in whatever manner your heart desires.  Experiment and explore with different styles and techniques to find whatever works for you.

I hope you find this information useful!  Please feel free to suggestion additional blog posts you would like to see from me in the future.  ^_^  Of course, please reblog this if you found it helpful!

Pictures are, of course, not mine.  They are shots from the anime or other official derivatives.

#YYH #Yu Yu Hakusho #YYH tutorial #YYH fight scenes #Writing fight scenes #Fight scenes #Writing #Writing tips #Writing help #Writing tutorial #YYH resource #YYH fanfic #YYH fanfiction #Writing fighting #Writing how-to #Fanfiction #Fanfiction writing #YYH headcanon

[neurodihuegent]

[Weird Sisters AU] "in tenebris magicae: a story's beginning"

Words: 2,495

Chapters: 1/17

Characters: Lena Sabrewing, Webby Vanderquack, May Duck, June Duck, Violet Sabrewing, Black Heron

Summary: Following the tragic loss of her mother, Lena finds herself returning to the Magical Realm to piece together the truth behind the fall of her mother. However, the deeper Lena digs, the worse things become.

(Text Under 'Read More').

Do it for her.

Because she certainly didn't want to do it for herself: If it were up to her, she wouldn't even be here. But the stakes were high, and her next move relied on her being here.

If anything sucked the most, it was that she didn't have her own room anymore: Her roommate, a human named Violet Sabrewing, had woken her up at 5 A.M with the blaring sound of her alarm.

"I like to start early when I study throughout the day," she said.

Lena had managed to get some sleep after being rudely awakened, but not much: It was 7 A.M., and now she had to be awake.

Dragging her legs out of the bed, Lena sat up and stared out of the window for a good five seconds: Everything about this place felt like Earth, but it also didn't. The Sun still rised and shined the way it did on Earth. It was a bit comforting to Lena.

"Late start?" Lena took this as some kind of a joke, but considering what had happened merely two hours prior, she didn't find it any funny. She flashed a glare at Violet before trudging out of the room into the bathroom in the hallway.

Five months ago, Lena felt like she had everything, that the life she had on Earth made her not even want to come here and find out about her roots. Now, she had virtually nothing, and that predicament forced her to be here.

Lena's eyes became fixated on her feet as she neared the bathroom day, replaying the past five months of her life over and over again in her head. The day it happened, the feelings of panic and hopelessness that swallowed her body, how lifeless she looked. It was hard to forget, it was an image that would be burned into her brain for the rest of her life.

Caught up in her mind, Lena didn't notice that there was someone leaving the bathroom as she was walking to enter it. Her body collided with another girl's, sending them both to the ground.

"Hey, watch where you're-" The girl cut herself off once she got a better view of Lena on the ground, "Wait, you're one of the new girls right? Don't tell me you're that human."

Word seemed to spread fast around here.

"You're thinking of Violet," Lena half-smiled, extending a helping hand to the girl once she pulled herself off of the ground, "I'm Lena. Nice to-"

The girl swatted Lena's hand away, glaring at her as she found her composure and stood up on her own. "Either way, watch it." Before Lena could respond to that remark, May stormed off.

Rolling her eyes, Lena pushed the bathroom door open and began her morning routine for the day. Great, Lena thought to herself, I've been here for less than 5 minutes and I already have a target on my head.

--

Lena could feel the eyes burning the back of her head as she took her seat for her first class. From the looks of it, Violet didn't seem to mind to curious and judgmental stares, but Lena hated it. Part of Lena wanted to tell them to find something else to stare at, but another part of Lena just wanted to sit in silence to not make her already rough start, any rougher.

The teacher hadn't entered the class yet, but Lena was sure that they'd ask her and Violet to stand up and introduce themselves, so Lena spent the down time she had now mentally preparing for it. Lena wasn't really a nervous person, but these stares she was getting from classmates whose names she didn't know yet, were enough to melt her into a puddle of timdity.

"Hi, I'm Webby!" Lena hadn't even noticed that this girl had walked up to her, but the piercing shriek she let out was enough to make Lena jumped out of her skin. "Lena." Lena responded sheepishly, looking over Webby's shoulder to notice the girl from the bathroom was shooting daggers at either her, Webby, or the both of them.

They looked exactly alike, so Lena assumed they were sisters.

"You're from the Earth, right? Oh, I have so many questions! What is it like on Earth? What are the animals like? Ooh, what is the foo-"

"Webby, enough," The girl from the bathroom cut her off, and Lena was somewhat grateful for it even though she knew a condescending comment would be following this, "I doubt it's anything interesting compared to what we have here. You don't need to drown her with your questions."

"May, you're no fun." Webby pouted, crossing her arms. She turned back to Lena, saying "It was nice meeting you though!", before she scurried back to her seat next to May and... another girl that looked exactly like them. Triplets?

Her attention on them being triplets was shortened when she went back to thinking about how off putting this May girl had been acting towards her. It soured her mood a bit, thinking about how this girl, for whatever reason, had to make it known that she thought she was better than Lena.

"So you're the human." May seemed to turn her attention to Violet, who just silently nodded in response. Lena felt no connection to this Violet girl, not enough to just mindlessly defend her anyways, but she wasn't opposed to kicking May off of her high horse in defense of her.

"What brings you here?" The other sister, whose name Lena had yet to catch, asked seemingly with innocent intent, "Do you have any powers?"

"Um....no... at least not yet," Violet murmured, fiddling with her hair, "I was actually recruited through the school." Webby and this other sister gave Violet looks of approval, but Lena couldn't help but notice the scowl on May's face.

"Not yet? What do you mean not yet? Either you're born with it, or you're not." May snickered, gaining questioning looks from both of her sisters, not that she seemed to particularly care. Violet bowed her head in embarassment, and that's when Lena decided that she had finally had enough of this May girl's attitude.

"What's your issue? This pretentious little mean girl role you're trying to live up to right now, really isn't a good look, you know." Judging from May's reaction, Lena could tell that this girl never had anyone stand up to her before, and that was just pathetic.

"Well thank god I'm not trying to look good for the likes of you." May hissed, and before Lena could get another jab in, the entire classroom was silenced by the arrival of the teacher.

"Welcome to the first day of the new semester." The professor looked like a character straight out of the kinds of old movies Lena's mom used to watch, her hair having flipped ends, and her red dress resembling the style of a Go-Go dress. The professor's prothestic arm, which seemed to be made completely from metal, caught Lena's eye, but it wasn't something she paid too much attention to. Her eyes drifted over to the sister, the one that wasn't May and Webby, and noticed how her entire demeanor changed once this professor entered the room.

"It seems like we have two new students here, Violet Sabrewing, and Lena Duckwell. Nice to meet you two, I am Professor Heron." Lena could've sworn she saw a smirk when the professor had read her name, but she was too busy feeling shocked that she didn't make them stand up and introduce themselves.

Lena's mother always told her that if she were to come back here, if she were to start a new life here, she'd have to conceal her identity. "Duckwell" wasn't the most creative fake last name, but something told her she couldn't exactly waltz in here with the last name "DeSpell". She never knew why she needed to keep her identity a secret, but she wasn't exactly trying to figure out, either.

"Students, you know that I am expecting nothing but the best work from you this semester, especially knowing what's ahead. Now, open your books to page 14..."

--

Lena went to school on Earth, so she knew how dreadful and boring the school days could be, but this first day really drained her of any energy she had left. She had almost ran out of the classroom as soon as Professor Heron dismissed them, and she waited for nobody.

"Hey!" Lena felt a tap on her shoulder, turning around to reveal none other than the other sister whose name she hadn't caught yet.

"Hey."

"My name is June, nice to meet you!" She extended her hand for a handshake, and Lena took it. This June girl seemed much nicer compared to May.

"Nice to meet you," Now that she was here, maybe Lena could get some clarity of the things from class she was still confused about.

"What did the Professor mean when she said something important was ahead? Is it a test?"

"I guess you could say that," June explained, "But really, it's the total eclipse. You know what that is right?" Lena shot her a look that said 'I'm not dumb.' Was it that obvious that she hadn't been touching up on her magic?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just didn't know if it's ritual on Earth like it is here!"

"So what do you do for it?"

"On Earth, the Total Eclipse only happens every 100 years, but here, it actually happens every 10 years. During the Total Eclipse, all magical forms at their highest level of power. So, the ritual is kind of made to celebrate that, but also to show off that power. But it's not any time soon, actually it's exactly three months away."

Three months? There was no way Lena could master the power that she did, in three months. She didn't even know what she was fully capable of, because on Earth, both her and her mom stressed her living a normal "human" life, and not using any magic. And the rare times that she did use magic, ended up in haywire. Surely, three months was not enough time for Lena to perfect her craft.

"Hmm, sounds like fun...."

"I wouldn't know, this is the first time I've actually been old enough to attend and participate in one!" June flashed a bright, friendly smile, and in a way, it sort of put Lena at ease. After all, she was the first person here that Lena was able to maintain a normal conversation with.

"Oh, and sorry about my sister earlier, she can be a bit.... overbearing," June said, her cheery tone of voice shifting into a more serious one, "But if it makes you feel any better, I'd take it as a compliment. It means she sees you as a threat." Lena sent her a halfhearted smile in response.

"Oh, thank you. That's... great." The last thing Lena wanted, was some onesided rivalry with a girl she barely knew and barely cared to compete with, especially given said person had the advantage.

Lena and June had reached the end of the corridor, preparing to part ways with each other.

"Well, it was nice talking to you! I'll try to... talk my sister down from whatever pedal stool she's on right now, but I can't guarantee it'll work!"

"As long as you try."

Lena did like this June girl: She seemed to be the middle man of her sisters, the overly hyper Webby and the overly confident May, and Lena thought it was nice. She was definitely the kind of person Lena would be friends with back home, if Lena allowed herself to have friends back home.

But based on the 15 second interaction she had with Webby, she didn't have any negative feelings towards her either: She just had a lot of energy that Lena hadn't dealt with before, and Lena wasn't all to sure she was willing to deal with that energy level now.

Lena had finally made it to the door of her and Violet's dorm room, unlocking the door. Violet was nowhere in near sight, probably utilizing the last couple of hours the library was still open for.

"Well, at least I have some alone time, for now." Lena sighed, flopping onto her bed.

She allowed herself to get lost in her thoughts, reflecting both on the events of today and what happened five months ago. Maybe this total eclipse was exactly what would give her the answers she needed. But for five months, she began seeking answers, trying to piece together what happened and who could've possibly done it. It was caused by Magic, and to her recollection, besides a family residing in Finland, her and her mother were the only magical beings on Earth. But nothing was adding up, and it was starting to look like she would have to figure everything out with the help of someone else.

Lena remembered staying temporarily with the family in Finland after everything had happened: They were familiar with her mother, but knew next to nothing about her. But they offered her shelter, food, and some support whenever Lena wasn't pushing them away, and that felt good enough until it started to feel like time was closing in on her. Until what happened to her mom, would happen to her. So she, with the help of the family, devised a plan to return to the Magical realm during the beginning of the new school year, to get more practice with her magic, and to find the culprit. She didn't know what she was expecting, but she felt a weight of disappointment that she had been here for all of three days, and not even the slightest new discovery appeared.

Suddenly, she heard the door unlock, and knew that Violet was back from her study trip.

"Back so soon?"

"No, I'm actually going back. I just forgot a book."

Lena hummed in response, turning her attention to her phone. There wasn't anything eventful going on social media wise, but it was better than the awkward and forced conversations she and Violet had so far.

"Also... Thank you. For sticking up for me today."

"Don't mention it." Lena sent a grin in Violet's direction, waving goodbye as she left the room again to return to her studies. Maybe Violet was the kind of person she needed on this case: She had no magical powers, at least to both of their knowledge, but she did seem to know an awful lot about the magical realm, especially compared to Lena herself.

It had only been 3 days since she was here, but she was already feeling the weight of the stakes: Lena had to do to whatever it took to avenge her late mother, even if it meant facing the culprit head on.

#weird sisters au #ducktales #ducktales 2017 #lena sabrewing #webby vanderquack #may duck #june duck #violet sabrewing #xol writes #black heron

[mersuperwholocked-lowlife]

Freak

Word Count: 2,046

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Reader

Pairings: Sam Winchester x Platonic!Reader

Warnings: angst, some fluff

A/N: it’s weird how an idea can be so good in ur head, but then turn out so bad

Masterlist

You tapped your foot anxiously, looking to the ground. They couldn't legally keep you here for over 72 hours. You looked up at the clock, looking at how long it's been. Only two hours. 

You groaned, laying on the metal bench, uncomfortable.

“Miss, there are some agents here to see you,” you heard the deputy say, walking into your cell.

“Yeah, no thanks,” you crossed your arms, sitting up.

“Yeah, well, you kinda have no choice, come with me,” he said, moving aside.

“Or what?” you replied.

“Listen, freak, no one has time for you to act like a brat. Get your ass up and come with me,” he said more fiercely.

You scoffed, and rolled your eyes, trying to hide your hurt, as you got up and followed him.

He walked you to an interrogation room, where two men in suites were. They were something, but definitely not FBI agents.

You cautiously sat in the chair across from them.

“Hey there, I’m Agent Ryland, and this is my partner, Agent Perry,” the taller man introduced himself.

You squinted, looking at them.

“Can I see your badges?” you asked.

“Yeah, sure,” you saw him take his and his partner’s badges, handing them to you, then gave his partner a look.

You looked down at the badges, smirking to yourself. They were definitely fake.

“Here,” you handed them back.

“Okay, so, tell us what happened,” the other man sat on the table.

“Didn’t you already talk to the sheriff? Or any of the deputies?” you asked.

“Well, yeah, but we’re trying to get the whole story,” the taller man replied.

“Fine. I was on a run, I couldn't focus on my studying and I needed to get away from people. Then, I heard a man screaming. So, like any sane person, I ran to him, and he was dead. Then, the police showed up about 10 seconds after, saw me there, and arrested me. The end,” you explained, kicking your feet up.

“Okay, was there anything weird about the body?” the taller man asked.

“Uhm, besides the stab wound?” you raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, anything at all?” he asked.

You thought for a moment, thinking back to the body.

“I think I saw a wound on his neck, sort of like a bite or something,” you remembered.

“A-A bite?” the other man asked.

“Well, I don't know, it looked like a bite to me,” you shrugged.

“Thank you for your time,” the taller man smiled.

“Well, it's not like I had a choice,” you rolled your eyes.

“....Right,” he replied.

“Okay, freak. Done in here?” the deputy asked, walking into the room.

You saw the two agents give the deputy a look. 

You ignored their reaction and nodded.

He grabbed your arm, taking you back to your cell.

----

“Maybe it was the kid,” Dean shrugged, looking at Sam.

“No, I don't think so. Maybe it was a vampire,” Sam suggested.

“What type of vampire stabs their victims? Maybe there wasn’t a bite, maybe she made the whole thing up,” Dean sighed.

“No, you saw her, Dean. There’s no way she could pull off a murder,” Sam crossed his arms.

“Fine. How about we go look at the body?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. Leave in 5?” he asked.

“Let’s go.”

----

After whatever happened, the sheriff had some “clarity”, and finally realized it wasn't you. You were released from the jail, but there was no way that someone wasn’t gonna bother you about it at school.

You groaned to yourself, as you put your backpack on, getting ready to go to school.

----

“Hey, freak. My dad told me that you spent the weekend in jail. You killed someone else?” a boy walked past you.

You ignored him, looking up, as you saw people staring and whispering at you.

You took a deep breath, walking to your locker. As you opened it, a bunch of papers fell out of your locker, all saying the same thing.

Freak, Murderer

Go kill yourself next time.

You held in your emotions, as you picked them up, throwing them all away.

You closed your eyes for a second, walking to your first class.

----

“Hey, freak, did you really kill someone?” you heard someone say from behind you.

You kept your head down, as you continued paying attention to your class.

“Miss (Y/L/N), stop talking,” your teacher called.

“I didn't say anything!” you exclaimed.

“Young lady, are you talking back to me?” your teacher asked, as the whole class turned to you.

“No, I didn’t say anything before,” you argued.

“Ma’am, I would just leave her alone, if I were you. Maybe Freak will murder you next,” you heard a girl say.

“That’s enough. Detention, Miss (Y/L/N),” your teacher called.

You took a deep breath, as you shut your eyes, wondering when things would change.

----

“It was a vampire. The stab wound didn't kill him, that was just a cover,” Sam ran into the hotel.

“Oh great, because we love vampires oh so much,” Dean said sarcastically.

“Yeah, now we just need to find where they are,” Sam sighed.

“Let’s go talk to the kid again,” Dean said.

“Why?” Sam asked.

“She was hiding something. Maybe she knows more than she was telling us,” Dean replied.

“Yeah, okay. Let's go find her,” Sam agreed.

----

You heard a knock on your door, cautiously walking to answer it. No one really visited you.

“Who’s there?” you asked before opening the door.

“Hey, it’s Agents Ryland and Perry,” they replied.

Oh great, the fake FBI agents.

“Look, I didn't kill that man,” you owned the door, sighing.

“I know, we believe you. Are your parents home?” Agent Perry asked.

“My parents are dead,” you replied.

“O-Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied.

“Look, I don't really want to know why you guys are here. You said you believed it wasn't me, so why are you here?” he asked.

“Just a few more questions,” he said.

“Hey, I've had a long day, and I don’t really have time for this,” you sighed.

“We’ll be quick,” they both walked into your house.

“No, no more questions,” you said.

“Look, kid,” he started.

“No, look, dude,” you mocked.

“I don’t want to answer any more questions, I have that right. Leave me alone, now, before I call the cops on you,” you crossed your arms.

“You’re gonna call the cops on the FBI?” Agent Perry raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not as dumb as all the law enforcement in this town, I know a fake badge when I see one. Now leave,” you said.

“Listen, kid, there's more at stake here than you realize. We’re trying to help your town,” Dean started.

“Let them all die then, for all I care,” you replied.

“Look,” Sam tried to speak.

You grabbed your phone.

“Three, two, one,” you counted down.

“Fine, we’re leaving,” Dean said.

He pulled Sam’s arm, as the two of them walked out.

“She’s definitely hiding something,” 

----

“Hey, freak,” you heard a voice say as you opened your eyes slowly.

You groaned, looking around you.

Your head was killing you, and your arms were tied up above your head.

“Who are you?” you said.

“Well, I’m a vampire,” he said.

“Vampires aren't real,” you replied, tugging on your chains.

“Maybe this will prove it to you,” he hissed, showing you his fangs, as he bit in your arm.

You let out a scream.

“Mmm, your blood. It's different. You’re something special aren’t you,” he said, walking around you.

“Please, let me go,” you said, getting scared.

“Aww, is the little freak scared?” he teased.

“I-I’m not a freak,” you said, as your eyes started watering.

“Well, everyone sees you as a freak. You’re different from everyone else, and you know it,” he said.

“I’m not a freak,” you repeated.

“Yes, you are! You’ve seen so many people die, you've killed so many people!” he yelled.

You held in your cries, as tears fell from your face.

“I-I never killed anybody. That’s just a lie,” you said shakily.

“I’ve watched you for a while now, kid. I know everything about you. You killed your parents,” he laughed.

“I didn't kill them!” you yelled.

He slapped you, as you gasped.

“You’re sick,” you spat.

“No, I’m just hungry!” he yelled, biting in your neck as you let out a cry.

“Hey, eat me, you son of a bitch!” you heard someone yell, as he turned away from you.

You let out a shaky breath, as your vision blurred.

“Oh, great. Winchesters,” he sighed.

Dean walked near you, holding a machete in his hand.

“One more step and she’s gone,” he held a knife to you.

You tried your hardest to hold in your cries as a whimper left your lips.

A few seconds after, you heard a slicing noise, as the knife fell to the ground, along with his body.

You let out a cry, as Sam undid your chains, as you fell to the ground, while Sam held you.

“It's okay. Shhh, it's okay,” he comforted you.

“It’s okay.”

----

“Dean’s getting rid of his body. How are you holding up?” Sam asked, sitting next to you.

“Uhm, okay,” you said softly.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked.

You shook your head, looking forward silently.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“It’s okay to talk about it. I know it’s a lot to get through,” Sam gave you a look.

You jumped slightly, as you heard your phone ring.

You took your phone out of your pocket, reading your messages.

You’re a freak and a murderer. You should be in that jail cell

I can’t believe they let you out of jail you freak

You felt your eyes water as you turned off your phone, putting it back in your pocket.

“You know, whatever those people say about you isn’t true,” Sam started.

“Maybe,” you replied.

“It's not. Look, I don’t know what the problem with that deputy was,” you stopped him.

“It’s not his fault. Everyone calls me a killer,” you sighed.

“Why?” he asked, turning to you.

“When I was a baby, maybe 6 months old,” you started, as Sam tensed up.

“My mom died in a fire, in my nursery. When I was 13, my dad was murdered. People talk,” you said shakily.

“W-What?” he asked, shocked.

“And then, there was this one time…. I don’t…. something happened, I had a dream that someone died, and I told someone. Then, he died, and they all blamed me,” you closed your eyes.

“Kid, y-you’re not a freak, you’re just psychic,” Sam said.

“What?” you raised an eyebrow, turning to him.

“I am too. Or at least, I was. You’re not the only one with powers like that,” Sam explained, he stood up and started pacing around.

“Why me?” you asked.

“Well, it’s kinda a long story…… how often have you had those dreams?” he asked.

“Since my dad died,” you answered.

“I thought all of us were, well, either dead or still dormant,” Sam said.

“Sam,” you jumped as you heard a gruff voice, seeing a man appear in front of you.

“I-Is this a good thing?” you asked nervously.

“Yeah. It’s a really, really good thing. What's your name, kid?” he asked.

“(Y/N),” you replied.

“(Y/N), you're not a freak. You’re a psychic. And, if you let me help you, you can be a hero,” Sam smiled.

“How?” you asked.

“I’ll help you. Me and Dean both,” Sam put his hand on your shoulder.

“Why do you want to help me?” your eyes watered.

“Because I know how you feel. When I was your age, people called me names, people called me a freak. Things were crap. I don’t want that for you. I want to help you,” Sam said.

You wrapped your arms around Sam, giving him a tight hug, as he hugged you back.

“Everyone makes me feel like I’m a monster,” you said shakily.

“You're not. You’re normal. You’re not a monster,” he stroked your head.

You nodded your head as your tears fell freely. Because, for the first time in a long time, you felt okay. You felt safe. You didn’t feel like a freak.

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural family #supernatural angst #SPN #spn fic #spn angst #SPN FANDOM #dean #dean winchester #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester imagine #sam #Sam Winchester #sam winchester angst #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x platonic!reader

[timeforelfnonsense]

A Chance Meeting

ASTARION x DAFNI

Rating: G

Ao3

Dafni is a Spring Eladrin, Cleric of Corellon Larethina/Fey Wanderer Ranger as a point of clarity. Elvish Translations: Hei-Corellon shar-shelevu remedium: Corellon, by your grace grant *healing ebrath: Friend

It was her! That woman from the ship. He’d seen her strutting about when he was confined to the pod. Astarion watched her from a safe distance, assessing the threat. She didn’t look like those beasts on the ship, rather she appeared to be a winsome elven maid. She was of small, unassuming stature, fuller-figured than most elves. Her petal pink hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, a few lose, curly strays framing her soft heart-shaped face.  Her freckled, sage green skin stood out against the battered and torn, puffy-sleeved cream blouse beneath her armor. She seemed a bit disoriented. Her brows pinched and her lower lip stuck out in a girlish pout. Deep purple foxgloves sprouted through her locks as she scowled. 

That was different...

He heard a loud cry followed by a string of elven cursing. One of those foul brain creatures had captured her wrist in its tendrils.. She gave it a punt, sending it a few feet back with a wet thud. From her back, she drew an elegant longbow nocking and losing two swift arrows into the wrench. The creature seized, collapsing into a heap of ichor. 

Perhaps she wasn’t with those tentacle monsters after all? Why would their servants attack her if she was? Still, she was his best chance at answers. 

Her reaction had been rather swift. She had dispatched her attacker with little effort and what appeared to be a fair bit of skill. That could prove dangerous. He watched her wrap a shaking hand around the angry red mark left on her arm. He could smell the blood even from a distance. His throat burned as a heavenly floral fragrance filled his lungs. 

“Hei-Corellon shar-shelevu remedium.”

 A brilliant azure light radiated from an amulet around her neck before flashing beneath her palm with a silvery chime. She had healed the gash leaving behind no trace of injury. Of course, she was a cleric. He almost laughed at the irony. It seemed he had been spared being set aflame by the sun only to be staked in the heart by a cutesy cleric of Corellon Larethian. 

 Corellon Larethian.

He could work with that. He crouched low beside a fallen tree, setting the scene. He did his best to look shaken and meek. “You there! Cleric!” He shouted, “Can you help me?”

Dafni’s focus snapped to a beach, littered with mind flayer wreckage. Huddled among the debris was a frightened high elf. Her feet could hardly move fast enough. Another survivor and Protector bless her, it was an elf! Her heart swelled at the prospect of a friendly face after all she’d been through. 

“Are you hurt, ebrath?” She asked, “I’m not sure I have another spell in me. A bit of old fashioned field medicine will have to do I’m afraid.” 

“I’m fine but hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered” He beckoned her closer as he knelt low. “There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the other.”

She looked him over as he hunkered down behind a hollow log. By his finery, she assumed he was out of his depth when it came to combat. She giggled under her breath. It was quite the reverse fairy story, the pretty damsel saving a princely fellow for a dangerous monster. A warm blush crept across her cheeks. He was rather handsome despite his current disheveled state, with snowy hair and porcelain skin.

 Drat!

 This wasn’t the time for lingering gazes or flirtation. It was her duty to aid and protect her people. She couldn’t let his striking cheekbones and perfect jaw distract her! 

“Of course!” She said before nocking an arrow on her bow.

In a flash he swept her legs out from under her, sending her bow clattering into the sand. The wind was knocked from her lungs as she hit the ground with a crash. 

She could almost hear her mother’s chastising all the way from the Feywilds. See Sprout, you should never have left. Mind flayers! Cutthroats! These are the things you traded your home for?

Damn it.

“Shh. Not a sound.” He whispered, his breath cool against her ear, “Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

“You bastard!” She spat, “Spider Queen take you!”

“How vulgar.” He scolded tipping her chin up to face him with the edge of his knife. Her eyes were brimming with anger so palpable she hoped he could feel it burning a hole through him. “ I believe I asked you not to speak. Now, I saw you on the ship, didn’t I? Nod.”

How dare he! 

How dare he be so ruff with her! How dare he threaten a cleric of his creator! Dafni could feel the hot rush of summertime rage building in her chest. The bitter, metallic smell of foxgloves burned her nose as a fresh batch sprouted from her head. She struggled against the stranger’s hold but he had her held tight against his chest. Did he think her some helpless child, unable to fight back? He was woefully mistaken. 

 With a sharp jerk, she slammed her head into his jaw. Her captor winced breaking his hold on her and allowing her to slip free. A dull throb began in her own head but better that than a slit throat. He snarled at her spitting out a mouth full of blood.  Both elves scrambled to their feet. Dafni drew the long sword at her hip, holding it out in front of her.  

“Come near me again and I will cut that smug head right off your shoulders!” 

“You rotten little brat!”  He growled. “You’re in league with them, aren’t you? Those tentacled –”

Astarion winced as his mind twisted with the little elf’s. Memories and fleeting feelings flashed through his head as if they were his own. A wanderlust so deep he felt it in his bones as he stared out a tower window. A statuesque elven woman with a loving but firm expression scolded him for venturing outside the village yet again. The heavy feeling of the material plane washing over him as he stepped into a ring of mushrooms. The disorienting sensation of being plucked from a city street and confined to a pod.

“They took you too. I saw it during... whatever just happened.” He put on his most charming voice a playful smile curled at his lips, “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

He saw her relax a tad as he sheathed his dagger. He slowly scooped her bow off the beach floor offering it to her with an extended hand. She let out a huff but accepted the peace offering. 

“Apology accepted. I suppose I might have done the same if I thought you were a thrall.” Her expression softened. A painfully sweet smile formed her full lips as she extended a courteous hand to him, “You can call me Dafni.”

He chuckled, “A kindred spirit. My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

“Oh! I’m a baldurian as well!” 

“Is that so? clearly move in different circles. ” He kept his voice flat and casual as he shifted the conversation away from himself, “So do you know anything about these worms?”

“Well, I met a gith woman aboard the ship…” Dafni hesitated, her brows knitting together again, “She told me they would turn us into mind flayers.”

A bark of wicked laughed burst out of him in response to her admission, “Of course it will turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?”

“Hey,” She spoke in a quiet comforting voice, “Things look pretty bad but that just means they can only get better!”

He had to stain not to roll his eyes at her naïve optimism. Things could- And often did go from bad to worse in his experience. Still, he was free of Cazador. Standing out in the afternoon sun. With a cleric, he had half expected to ram a stake through his ribs on sight. Perhaps his luck was changing? 

“If we could find an expert- Someone who can control these things there might still be time.”

“That’s the spirit! We could travel together!” She chirped, “Our odds would be much better as a team.”

How was she so cheerful and trusting after all of that? No one was that nice for no reason. Regardless, she made a good point. There was safety in numbers. Foolish and over-enthusiastic as she might be, the little elf had proven herself a good fighter. He could do worse for an ally given the circumstances. Besides she was quite eye-catching…

“You know I was ready to go this alone but, maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.” He mused,” You seem like a useful person to know. Alright, I accept.”

“Oh! Thank you!” She squealed in delight, “I was so worried I’d be in this all alone after I woke up without my friend from the ship! But between the two of us, we’ve got this thing as good as beat!” 

#astarion #dafni of gwynneth #bg3 oc #bg3 #elf writes

[kittsfics]

Birds Always Find Home

Read on AO3

Only two people have ever seen Jason’s wings.

He has vague memories of them before he was thrown in the Lazarus pits, great skeletal shapes over his shoulders, held together simply by magic. Nothing like they are now; powerful and beautiful, all muscle and dark feathers. Bands of browns and reds so deep they barely show among the black. But in the right light they're dazzling.

It takes him months to learn control, changing them from flickers at the edge of his consciousness to manifesting physically in the sanctuary of his bedroom. Always alert, never feeling safe, he never considered the league's compound a home. He longs to see if he can fly, if feeling the wind beneath his feathers can possibly feel as good as he imagines; but the complex is in no way a safe place for experiments. He has dreams occasionally, or memories perhaps, of Superman carrying him through the air, their hair blowing everywhere, both of them laughing. He longs to find out if flying under his own power is better.

He can’t wait to fly away.

--

Jason knows what the league expects him to do when he is finally returned to Gotham, what Talia trained him for, but he's always prided himself on being contrary. He's been wound up tight, then pointed straight at the Bats; Bruce himself of course, and Dick, but mainly the new Robin. Tim. Talia called him a replacement, said that he didn't deserve the place at Batman's side.

But the thing is, he knows Tim. Their quiet neighbour, always willing to escape to an out of way corner at society functions, with plates stacked high from the buffet, hiding a brain that Jason had been sure would rival Bruce's. Maybe he does now. But he also knows the stubborn kid with a camera, the one he'd never told Batman about, the one that had worked out their patrol routes and identities both. That could climb almost as well as Jason despite his tiny size, that Jason had offered to teach how to throw a punch, dodge hits, and eventually use a grapple.

All that it seems to him, when Talia calls Tim replacement, is that he's succeeded in becoming what Jason always knew he'd be.

Talia always emphasises Batman over Bruce, the fact that he had a new sidekick rather than a new son. Which Jason reckons is smart, because he's seen the kid that trails after her occasionally, the one that looks too much like Bruce, and knows she's counting on the fact that Bruce will always accept more children. Jason's always known he'd never be the last.

So when he reaches Gotham, he instead goes straight after Joker, the thick walls of Arkham still not enough to hold him. Batman gets between them, of fucking course, and the Lazarus rage in his veins screams at him to kill them both for what they did. Or for what Talia claimed they did? He's hazy on the details, and honestly in general, clarity striking him the same time a batarang does, catching him across his collarbone, too close to his throat. Jason does the only thing he can, he runs.

He lies low after that, no one seemed to have recognised him, and why would they, he's dead after all.

--

Staking out a claim in Crime Alley is easier than he'd thought; once he drove out Black Mask's men, most others fell in line. He slowly learns how to look after himself. Between the rage, ptsd and depression it's a miracle he has good days at all. But on those rare days, he finds out that flying is exactly as amazing as he always imagined.

Batman comes after him eventually, dragging Nightwing and Robin into the mess. But Jason stands tall, helmet off but domino over his eyes, and argues for himself. Makes a promise that is both easy and hard to keep, all depending on how close he is to the clown. He tells them about a boy with Bruce's eyes, Talia's smile, and knives never far from his hands. Too young to be involved in this war of theirs, but weren't they all once? The Bats are all snarling and suspicion, and that's fair, he's just revealed he knows who they are after all.

But they still don't recognise him, and he still doesn't blame them, but they fall into a balance anyway. He hates the way it feels like both an act and coming home.

--

Tim's the only Bat that's seen his wings, a result of a shared case, rain across the metal of a bridge tower and a small army of somebody's henchman coming after the two of them. One slip and a brightly coloured figure falling towards the rock speckled water below, grapple missing the support bars by inches.

Jason just reacts instinctively, throwing himself after, wings manifesting with a half formed thought, and he sees Tim's eyes widen under his mask. He catches the smaller figure, tucking him against his chest and spreads his wings, almost screaming at the pain in his shoulders as they take the unfamiliar weight. He manages to get them to shore, collapsing in an unlit alley. Then Tim's tugging at his helmet, Jason unable to make sense of what he's trying to say, and his wings feel like they're on fire.

Everything gets a little blurry after that.

--

He somehow ends up with the Outlaws on an actual real life fucking spaceship. The exact details are kind of hazy; when, where, that sort of thing. He's definitely not been as in control as he used to be, and memory hadn't been his friend since before his death anyway. Too many gaps, too many things he wasn't sure were real, too many nightmares he hoped had just been that.

But now he's in a spaceship with Roy and Kori, both in some ways as broken as him, and who understood more than he would ever admit. They fit, the three of them. And home becomes metal walls, Kori's excited shouts and Roy's quiet laughter. They fall into a rhythm of research and fighting and film nights and evenings on deserted islands.

He starts to find himself again. No that's not quite right, he'll never be that Jason again; the bright eyed Robin, the teenager with dreams of an English degree, maybe not even the Gotham street rat. But there are still fragments of those boys, he just needs to build around them.

Pit rage comes less often now, although through time or distance from the Bats he's not sure. They have a numerical system for all of them, where a six is a bad day and a ten is something they're all terrified off but they’ve never quite reached. Jason doesn't like to think of the days that come close. His memories start to settle, but there's no one he can ask to check they're settling right, he can only hope. Things start to feel less syrupy somehow, the dull edges of his life starts to sharpen, everything gains more clarity. His head, his heart, the world around him. He starts cooking again, picks up a book for the first time in years, joins Roy in tinkering with gadgets and Kori in watching those awful sitcoms from her home planet.

Somewhere along the line he starts feeling like a person again.

--

Roy claims he almost gave him a heart attack the first time he sees his wings, and maybe Jason will admit it's not his finest moment either. A desperate kiss on a rooftop then nothing but the archer's shout in his ear as Jason grabs him round the waist and throws them off the edge, the explosion behind them close enough to singe the edges of his feathers. Been there, done that, no thanks.

It takes him a few weeks to ask if he could see them again, voice hesitant, reverent even. And Jason learns exactly how much trust he has in Roy, in the two of them together. He also learns it feel incredible to have someone else's fingers run through them, light at first but quickly gaining confidence. Jason’s never been complimented so much in his life, Roy presses kisses across his body and promises to do better.

He stops counting how many times the archer sees them after a couple of months. How many times he buries his hands in them, how many times his knuckles brush across them where they hang over the back of the sofa, how many times they wrap around the two of them, blocking out the rest of the world.

--

He returns to Gotham as often as he can between missions, making sure the people he protects stay safe. He never tells the Bats, although Tim texts him ever so often. Just updates on what’s happening with the major players, how Damian’s settling into their mess of a family and pictures of Dick falling off things. He wonders how Tim knows he would appreciate them. It starts to feel less like a chore, and more like speaking to one of his best friends again. It hits him one night, curled up against Roy’s side, exactly how much he’d missed him.

The second time Tim sees his wings the two of them are sitting on the edge Wayne tower, ironically. Jason knows the cameras are off and Tim is dying to ask, so he manifests them, pulling off his domino; entirely unprepared for the choked whisper of his name and a little bird, a little brother, slamming against his chest, fingers frantically tangling in his clothes. All he can do is wrap him in his arms around Tim and hold him as tight as he can, pressing his face into dark hair, and eventually answer everything he can.

--

After that, home becomes Roy's arms around him, face tucked against his shoulder and drooling on his shirt, fingers that build bombs gently running through his feathers. It becomes Tim's voice over the phone, arguing with him about his newest case or telling him about his lunch with Alfred, making something in his chest ache. It becomes safehouses in Gotham, his brother sprawled out on the sofa, tapping away on a laptop or talking a mile a minute, drastically over caffeinated. But most of all it's lazy kisses and whatever bed he and Roy curl up in to catch a few hours sleep.

Home has always been the people he loved.

Toss a Coin to your Writer

#jason todd #red hood #jayroy #my fics #batfam

[queenwinry]

Quick Thinking

Pairing: Royai

Rating: K+

Words: 2065

Summary: Mere seconds away from being discovered by their mark on a stealth mission, Riza Hawkeye has to quickly come up with a way to not blow her and the colonel’s cover. Her solution is...less than ideal, though Roy’s certainly not going to complain. 

A/N: Hello friends! I know I’ve been MIA for a while (and just showing up with a random oneshot is more on brand than i’d like to admit) but I couldn’t resist eventually getting this idea down. I’ve been off and on writing for the last few months but nothing quite as steady. This idea attacked me and wouldn’t let me go, so here have some Royai nonsense for the start of your weekend :) (p.s. I miss everyone and hope yall are doing well <3) 

-----------

Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye watched with a flash of annoyance as her superior rubbed his gloved hands together to abate the cold and cursed for the umpteenth time since they’d stationed themselves outside the secluded East City club. The colonel was being overly dramatic yet again and she was far from patient enough to deal with it by this point, also thoroughly chilled to the bone. 

She watched as Colonel Mustang blew out a puff of air, easily visible even at the late hour, before he nearly pouted. “You know, when I got promoted, I really thought I’d be done with these half-assed stealth missions.” 

Still trying to keep her eyes trained on the front doors of the swanky club for their target, Riza let out a sigh of her own. “You should consider it an honor that General Grumman only trusts you for these types of things.” She wasn’t sure whether she was even trying to be sarcastic or not, but, regardless, her superior took it as such. 

Letting out a scoff, he replied, “Yeah, great. Good to know that old coot has no one else in the entirety of Eastern HQ he trusts enough to stand outside in the freezing weather for hours doing nothing.” 

Riza resisted the urge to clench her fists and roll her eyes. She tightened the scarf around her neck before gripping the ties on her simple black coat, attempting to pull it even closer to her. Both her and Mustang were dressed in civilian clothes for this particular “mission”. She was grateful for that at least. Though the blue wool uniform was warm on most days, the flimsy military-issued black overcoat would not be nearly enough for this weather. “Colonel, if you keep complaining like that you’ll miss the target and then this will all be for nothing.” 

Another scoff. Riza was beginning to become quite irritated with the noise. “Then maybe Grumman himself will let me off the hook and come out here on his own time.” 

“Right, because that will do wonders for your reputation.” 

She listened in satisfaction as her superior grumbled at the accuracy of her statement and kept his mouth shut. They’d been on the hunt for this particular crime lord for a few weeks now. The conniving man and his lackeys had bested Roy’s team a few times already and General Grumman (along with all of Eastern HQ) was starting to get antsy. It wasn’t like the upstart colonel to fail this many times in a row. It was straining everyone’s patience and Mustang’s ego. Hence, why Grumman had sent the pair out on the front lines trying to find some sliver of information that would work to bring the crime lord in. 

Riza was a little wary of the plan, however, given the fact that their target knew the faces of the colonel and his team quite well by now. If they were accidentally spotted out here, it could mean serious trouble. The lieutenant absentmindedly huddled further into the shadows of the dark alley they had decided to hide in. 

It remained silent aside from the distant hum of the bustling East City nightclub and Mustang’s occasional expletives, but Riza took what she could get. She was as exhausted and cold as her superior, though she’d never admit it out loud. She hoped their target showed up sooner rather than later. 

Suddenly, a movement out of the corner of her eye had the trained sniper immediately on alert. When she turned her head and watched a seemingly hidden door open in the opposite wall from where they stood, her eyes nearly bugged out of her head and her heart sunk. 

How had she missed an exit right beside them? She nearly kicked herself for not investigating their hiding spot well enough. She’d thought the alley on the side of the club was the perfect place to stake out, but she realized with startling clarity as two figures (two distinctly familiar figures) stepped out of the doorway, that she had been dead wrong. 

In that moment, as Riza immediately recognized their crime lord target and one of his bodyguards walking not even five feet beside them, she realized that she had mere milliseconds to make a decision. Her superior was a few steps away, his back still turned and his mind still focusing on how annoyed he was. Their target hadn’t yet seen that they were there, but he inevitably would once he was fully out of the doorway. The lieutenant realized she didn’t even have enough time to grab her gun beneath her many layers, even though the last thing she wanted to do was cause a scene and waste another golden opportunity. 

In hindsight, the lieutenant would admit to herself that she really had no idea where the sudden thought had even come from. She was certain she had buried all such inclinations years ago, and nothing even resembling the terrifying emotion would ever come to the surface. But, as panic overtook her system in the mere second before the crime lord turned around and noticed The Flame Alchemist and Hawk’s Eye standing next to him, it was the only thing she could think of and the only thing she could’ve possibly acted on. 

With a very different kind of dread filling her stomach, Riza took a few quick steps over to her superior (her goddamn boss), grabbed his arm with desperation, spun him around, pushed him against the opposite alleyway wall and crashed her lips onto his. 

She could practically feel the shockwave rush through his body as she grappled for the lapels of his over coat and angled her head just a touch. She still had no idea why her best idea for a cover was two horny adults exchanging saliva outside a nightclub, but she figured it was probably the quickest she’d ever thought on her feet. 

Colonel Mustang was still frozen in place, his hands having come out to grip the sides of her arms (probably more in surprise than anything else). He wasn’t moving his mouth at all but she probably couldn’t blame him for that. At least he hadn’t immediately pushed her away. 

Riza waited in anticipation as the sound of the crime lord and his bodyguard taking a few steps, stopping once they noticed them, and then reacting filled her ears. A feeling of relief coursed through her body once she heard the footsteps stop, before the pair started chuckling, no doubt shaking their heads at the “couple” they stumbled upon in the throes of passion. 

Too focused on their target’s reaction, Riza barely even registered as her commanding officer finally got the memo, realizing they were not, in fact, all alone out here. His hands relaxed on her arms and his lips began to move in conjunction with her own. A strange, very foreign feeling began to emerge from the bottom of her stomach, but she ignored it in favor of keeping a listening ear on her surroundings. 

Either the crime lord or his bodyguard (Riza wasn’t really sure who, her mind starting to become regrettably foggy), scoffed and gave a simple, “Get a room,” before the pair both laughed and their footsteps retreated from the alley. 

Riza waited probably another full minute, again attempting to ignore the movements of Colonel Mustang as his hands meandered from her arms to her lower back, before she finally broke the kiss and immediately sneaked over to watch their target get in a nearby vehicle before he drove away. 

As she watched the car go, she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding in and relaxed her entire body against the nearby wall. That had been far, far too close. While her method of quick thinking certainly brought on a whole new slew of problems, she was thankful they had at least dodged that theoretical bullet. 

Not really wanting to, given the uneasy feeling coursing through her,  Riza let her eyes drift back over to her superior. He was still leaned up against the wall, a stunned expression on his face. She swallowed down the flare of desire that appeared as she watched the colonel take a few unsteady breaths, trying to keep his chest from heaving. He looked as dazed as she felt. 

Riza gulped again when his dark eyes finally flitted back over to her. There were a thousand different emotions playing behind them. Shock. Confusion. And, dare she say it, a bit of desire as well. He opened and closed his gaping mouth a few times and looked to be struggling just to find the right words. She could only imagine how he was going to react, so she stepped forward and beat him to his inevitable questioning. 

“Sir, I sincerely apologize.” She had to work hard just to maintain eye contact. She could feel her cheeks heating and she was thankful the darkness would help shroud the outward signs of her embarrassment. She watched as Mustang’s shock began to fade slightly at her words, but he remained silent as she continued. “I-I didn’t know what else to do. It was my fault for not doing a thorough enough search of the alleyway and missing the other exit. I hope you’ll forgive my blatant insubordination.” 

A rather tense pause ensued as the colonel merely blinked in her direction and shook his head, seemingly still trying to wrap his mind around the interesting turn of events. Riza waited with bated breath before he must’ve come to some conclusion as his entire body relaxed and a sly smile emerged on his face. 

“Rest assured, Lieutenant, I’m not over here complaining.” His voice was hoarse and cracked which added a rather unfortunate huskiness that Riza did not need right now. 

“It’s fine,” he continued with that same breathlessness, the absurdity of everything seeming to dawn on him. “I was just...surprised, I guess. That’s good quick thinking though. We would’ve been in deep shit if he’d realized who we were.” 

Riza managed to scramble enough dignity to nod her head in agreement. 

Roy sighed again, though this one had nothing to do with his annoyance at his own superior. “Well, I guess that’s that, then. Let’s head home. I’m sure the general will want a full update in the morning.” 

At his sudden switch into business mode, Riza straightened up and followed his lead. “Yes, sir.” 

They began to walk down the alleyway in the direction he’d parked his car when Mustang suddenly stopped and turned back toward the lieutenant. She nearly let out a groan at the shit-eating grin that had emerged on his face. He leaned down closer to her and she resisted the temptation to take a whiff of his usual cologne. 

“I will say this, though.” Riza could only guess the next words out of his mouth. “I wouldn’t be opposed to more stealth missions after all, if that’s going to be your usual method of keeping our cover.” 

Riza’s entire guilty, embarrassed countenance fell immediately at his words, replaced with her usual annoyance at his antics. She supposed she should be glad he was using his cocky, womanizing facade to ease the tension of what had just happened. She knew deep down he was doing this for her sake, getting her to relax and realize that it didn’t need to be as big of a deal as she was making it out to be, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to punch him in the arm for the look on his face. 

She settled for rolling her eyes and heaving a put upon sigh. She walked past him without another word and gave a terse, “It’s late, sir. We should head home.” 

She wasn’t looking at him to see, but she could just picture the self-satisfied grin on his face. “Sure, sure,” he spoke, following after her toward the car. 

Riza vowed, as they silently walked back toward his car and made their way to their respective homes, that she would always do her best staking out and covering all her bases when they went on these types of missions. Her dignity could not possibly handle having to resort to such desperate measures again. 

She also vowed never to speak a word to anyone of the way her lips still tingled long after she’d gotten home. 

#fma #royai #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #royai fanfiction #my fanfiction #oneshots #lmaoooooo here yall go #long time no see

[metasnkpotato]

Levi and Mikasa - The same

Hello ! In the (very) long block that follows, I will talk about some things I noticed about the parallel between Levi and Mikasa (and to do, use some elements of comparison between manga and anime, english and japanese version, with the two other protagonists, Eren and Armin, and their third parallel : Annie).

I planned it randomly so it could be pretty messy. If this is the case, sorry in advance. I’m hoping that even so, it will help some that this relationship is interesting, for the understanding of its stakes, or see what we could expect about it in the current arc !

The same since the first time

The erroneous look they have on their parallels is the same as on themselves

Levi breaks the cycle of hate, Mikasa’s opening remains to come

                                                              First appearances in SnK are often essentials to understand a character. These concentrate generally, the problematic of the character, his role in the story, the angle from which we'll have to look at it to analyze him and a condensed of everything he will embody. 

Recently, I was rereading the meeting scene between Levi and Mikasa in the titan forest, at the time of the Female Titan arc. I had never saw it because I began Snk with the anime, probably like many fans. And something surprised me :

This line of “I’m with you” has been removed in the anime.

It may seem unimportant because it's just Levi's attempt to calm Mikasa and  make her understand that even if he’s stopping her at that moment, he has the same intention of going to fight against the Female Titan. EDIT : I’ve been told in comments that it may also imply a way for Levi to tell Mikasa that her attacks will not have much effect in any case, that it is the same and therefore must be withdrawn for the moment.

 At the first reading level maybe, but the connotation in it makes this as a kind of hint about the mirror effect that was about to happen between them. And moreover, without this sentence, it makes their relationship more arid than it already is, since it begins with Levi's order as he tries to position himself as his superior / mentor by placing Mikasa underneath.

[Small digression : It is also interesting to note that the similarity between Levi and Mikasa was made even before they actually met, on two occasions : the first when Levi saved the main trio, by Armin confusing him with Mikasa, and the second one there ]

Anyway, “I’m with you” doesn’t sound very Levi’s character likely, it’s too direct, too polite and too explicit. I thought it were perhaps a clumsy translation so I went on the raw to see what it gave.

In fact, the line is “同じだ “, “onaji da” in romaji, which basically means “It’s the same”, implied “we”, so “we’re the same” can be understand as well, or “the same as you”.

It's pretty remarquable to see that it's those words of “the same” that opens up their relationship, because that's the whole point : they're incredibly similar, and yet very far in terms of opened relationship. 

The same blood, the same behavior, the same personality on many aspects, but not the same level of mutual acceptance. 

We might believe that two characters which are so alike would have a pretty fusional relationship, but in SnK, it’s not how it works. It is perhaps even one of the most important point of the story and all the themes touched in this manga : the difference, for the interaction between people, is essential. After all, it is often the farthest characters in behavior that are closest (Eren - Armin, Historia - Ymir, Uri - Kenny...). And despite the difference between Marleyans and Eldians, some of the most established relationships in the current arc are a mix of both (Sasha - Niccolo, Hanji - Onyankupon etc).

In the relationship Levi - Mikasa, if there is not a medium that comes to help them communicate, it is difficult for them to do so. Ironically, the medium often happens to be someone very different : the first time was Armin in trial, and the second time Hanji in serumbowl, the opposites in terms of personality of Mikasa and Levi.

But with Mikasa it is still more marked : while Eren and Armin both have characters parallels to them (Hanji and Reiner for Eren ; Erwin and Bertholdt for Armin), they accepted them and that made them grow while Mikasa's relations to her parallels are tinged with hatred and rejection. 

One of the interesting thing between these three parallels, Annie, Levi and Mikasa, is that they share in common the negative view they have of each other.

Mikasa sees Levi as a man, certainly strong, but abnormally violent, without seeing his kind side.

Levi sees Annie like a pure sadist which acts only because she’s enjoying pain and violence, without consider the necessity that guides her actions.

Annie sees Mikasa like a wild beast, with no emotion and who would act only coldly and impulsively, without her human side so.

The negative view of these three parallels between them reflets the fact that it’s themselves they see in each other. Levi can’t only think of him as a strong person who must, because of this, be necessarily violent ; and that's why he relies heavily on violence to resolve conflict. Mikasa thinks she’s indeed a wild beast who must be guided by her strength and violents instincts in order to protect her beloved ones. 

[Small disgression again : It's one of the things that Armin is reproaching her at the beginning of the Uprising Arc “Mikasa, rest yourself, you’re still injured and you’re not a beast” , and it's funny to note that Eren picked it up in his hurtful words in Chapter 112 by designate her as cattle, to kindle his rage.]

And Annie has tried to shut herself up as much as possible of all human emotion to fulfill her task, so much that she persuaded herself that she was enjoying killing people - what her strange smiles in fight let slip - when that's not the case.

But fortunately, Levi’s point of view on Mikasa breaks this cycle of hate. After all, as the parents of Sasha mentioned, it's up to adults to break the cycle of hate so they do not let children lock themselves in. It is too late for them, the adults, but not for the children, who represent the future.

That's why during their first interaction, while Mikasa acts inconsistently, insulting him, blaming him for everything, and ignoring his orders, Levi does not give the change and on the contrary, takes on him, even receiving the hit in her place. Here he was, the adult in charge of the child. While he was still shocked by the loss of his entire squad, ready to give up on Eren in considering the worst possible scenario :

He regains the will to fight when he sees a younger version of his self in Mikasa, decided to not let her go through the same pain as him by the loss of her beloved one.

That’s why Mikasa's arc will probably reach one of its outcome when she will stop impeding the fact that Levi and her can make a further connection by recognizes during the Ackertalk that indeed, she is the same as Levi, in many ways. 

And this is not only due to their shared blood but also to their own person, Isayama even stated it in a interview which can be found in Answers Guidebook :

– Regarding Mikasa and Levi’s Ackerman family mystery, we’re also receiving more clarity! Can we say that Mikasa, Levi, Kenny are all part of the same Ackerman bloodline?

Isayama: They are all part of the same Ackerman bloodline. However, their reasons for protecting their respective counterparts don’t have anything to do with the bloodline itself - it’s just their nature (laughs). Within the story, Mikasa and Levi almost have the guardian/knight-like roles, right? That’s because they encountered the existence of a “boss”-like individual, and the desire to work for that person is very in line with their personalities.

As Armin by being invested with the spirit of Erwin symbolically, and the titan of Bertholdt, as Eren by going beyond Hanji on the knowledge and recognizing to be the same as Reiner, Mikasa will be the next to face her parallel, and would have to recognize what binds her to him in order to fulfill herself.

                                                            *

#shingeki no kyojin #snk #attack on titan #aot #shingeki no kyojin meta #snk meta #attack on titan meta #aot meta #shingeki no kyojin analysis #snk analysis #attack on titan analysis #aot analysis #ackerman parallels #ackerman #levi #levi ackerman #mikasa #mikasa ackerman #rivamika #levimika #annie #annie leonhardt #ackertalk #parallels

[antihero-writings]

Slight prompt/AU. Vlad arriving to the village earlier than in canon. Though is it early enough to save Lisa?

Ahhhhh I’m so sorry this took so long!!

I was thinking this would be a short like 1000/2000 word fic

...And here we are, 5000 words later...

Thank you so much for this prompt!! I honestly really like how it turned out!!

*

What is a man?

If there are stupid questions in the classroom of life, that must qualify as one. Too simple, too crass. For…surely we must know by now. Even those of us who aren’t human are around them enough—(and ‘enough’ is too much)—to come up with some sort of answer.

Despite all this, this question, perhaps the single question whose answer must come easiest to our lips—muscle memory instead of something to think about—is one even those who are human find difficulty in answering. So simple it’s complicated, like saying the the answer to a another question: “I’m not okay.” Too many facets, too many reflections cast on the wall by a single gemstone.

Vlad finds himself asking that question more often than he should.

Dracula was a man once. And maybe that means he ought to know the answer. But when you live long enough as something slightly to the left of human—not far, but removed enough to scorn humanity and their faults as something other—you tend to forget that fact. You tend to forget that you were one of them once. You tend to forget the answer to that question.

He tried to. Remember, that is. He actively tried to remember the answer. Or come up with a new one.

Because of her. Because Lisa wanted him to.

She told him she would teach him how to be human again. Love a woman. Raise a child. Travel the world. She’d take this thing, dark, and monstrous, and extraordinary, and make him mortal. Make him see the answer in the faceless mirrors. She would change that label into conversation, until that question, its answer, rested comfortably in his quiet mind.

That’s what he’s been doing. Loving her. As a man. Putting her picture upon his castle’s walls. Staying in a little cottage by the creek. Raising a child. As a man. Bouncing him on his knee. Teaching him all he knows. Traveling the world. As a man. Asking to be invited. Wearing simple cloaks instead of royal robes. Curbing a thirst, a disdain, that once drove his every action into refined honor.

As a man. That phrase was once so soft, now rumbles low in the back of his mind, an incessant humming that increased in volume until it was loud enough, constant enough to make anyone mad.

That question, the answer, was clearing, pond stagnance into a river’s clear tones, slowly—(everything was slow with them, wasn’t it?)—and he could almost see the answer on the river floor.

But when he walks into the village of Lupu, expecting to return home, like a soldier from his own personal war, to a quaint cottage, a beautiful wife, whose face he hasn’t seen in far too long, and a son who has grown far too much in the time he was away…and finds a few drops of blood and a pile of charcoal—

A rock is thrown into the water, making those years of clarity murky again, and he forgets there was ever anything human in him.

...Either that, or he remembers far too well.

And everything that clouded his eyes before flares up with a vengeance, turning his gaze red once again.

“Where happened?” his voice burns in his throat, this question, and the other, rotting his lungs, his heart, “Where is my wife?”

“Ohh.” The woman’s voice is feeble, like a wisp of the smoke surrounding them, “The Bishop took her. Witchcraft, he said. They’re burning her at the stake.” He doesn’t like how she says it like it’s already done, already too late. “She was good to me, your wife. A good doctor. It’s not right what happened.”

“Where are they holding her?” his hair falls across his eyes, “The Cathedral?”

“Oh. Oh, no, sir. They’ll be burning her now.” The woman’s voice is far too gentle to say a truth so violent.

“What?” The word is thrown onto the ground.

“I couldn’t be there. I don’t care what they say. I wont take joy in that woman being killed by the Church. I’m here remembering her instead.”

What is a man?

So long Dracula has spent trying to understand them, to live like them, be like them, for her. He traveled, and didn’t use magic to move or communicate, because she didn’t want him to go into this halfheartedly.

And now he returns to her, and finds that they, the people she loved, who she tried to heal and save, they took her, like interrupting him before the end of a sentence.

Dracula isn’t one for wanton emotion, but the sorrow and anger burns in his eyes, and red clouds his vision.

“She said to me, if you would love me as a man, then live as a man. Travel as a man.”

“She said you were traveling.”

“I was.” He looked at his hands, at the ring she gave him, “The way men do. Slowly.” He says the word like the idea is an insult to him, the next two words his defense, his battle against it, digging his nails into his palm. “No more.”

What is a man?

What is this woman? What is she to him but a quavering voice that he could all-too-easily break? What is she to him that he should deem her life worth something?

No. She is someone who is kind, says something in the back of his brain. She is someone who didn’t stand and watch. Who protested in the only way she knew how. She is someone who knew Lisa, and honored Lisa, and for that she ought not be punished. As the rest of his mind, the rest of his body, burns in an undead fire of kill, kill, kill them, kill them all, that other part of him says She is someone worth saving.

So he does. One last kindness in her name.

And, as he teleports in a flash of flames, with little regard for the flowers she left, he is a vampire again. After all those years of walking he does not walk those last steps to his castle. He trades the clothing of kind words for the garb of contempt again. After all those years of fasting from murder’s nectar, he is ready to raid their skins and pillage their blood.

“What the fu—! Father!” There’s someone else here, a man—well, not fully, he is half-vampire too, on his father’s side—who was previously reading in the chair.

Dracula motions for the mirror shards on the floor to raise themselves, giving no sign that he even noticed his son.

“You’ve returned!” Alucard stands, a little haphazardly, pushing back his hair, muttering, “I would have appreciated some warning…But I’m—!”

He stops himself, his eyes flashing, gold tinted with fear.

This is no ordinary mirror; its image is not the room in reverse. It is a cracked, silver lens, and Alucard sees within its glass a crowd of humans, all around a sort of altar, shouting, raising bitter fists around a pile of wood—one piece higher than the rest, like another hand lifted in a plea for mercy—and is this what hell looks like?—worshipping a single word, the color orange, and the smell of smoke.

And in the center of it all, tied to that drifted piece of wood, is a woman, a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, like a gold piece glinting amongst the river sludge. A woman who is different from them—and perhaps they are killing for it.

And they are killing her.

They are tossing wood onto those flames, egging it to reach up and grab her.

The same woman who held Adrian when he scraped his knees, and kissed him goodnight, and told him of the world out there, and how it wasn’t so bad, in fact it was quite good, and the people were the best part.

They are killing his mother.

“That isn’t—?!” The words are little more than a gasp for air.

His father doesn’t answer, as if there are none left in him anymore, but when he steps into the mirror the look in his eyes—like a soldier going back into war—is enough to make Adrian follow.

With a single step the atmosphere shifts; the cozy warmth of the tame fire becoming a fetid heat that could suffocate you if you sat in it in long enough, the smell of smoke and something…cooking enough to make anyone with a sense of right and wrong feel sick, the quiet air of the study shredded with a single word:

“Witch.”

Like that word—that name, that truth, that lie— is enough to damn her.

The fire is not the creature it was in the study, curled up quietly behind bars, providing warmth to the space. They let it loose for the beast it is when allowed to gorge itself, and that warmth, once so inviting, has become something hot enough to bite. To kill.

Like too many things, something calm has become mad at the sound of a human’s voice; something tender a weapon in human hands.

They’re burning her.

Oh God—and it is God they’re doing this for, or at least they think they are—they’re burning her. They’re burning her. They’re burning his wife. They’re burning my wife!

Bloodthirst is an all-too familiar friend to the vampire king, but this is different. Different in them. Different in him.

In them it is a sick thing. Some sort of red lunacy. That word “witch” is laced; a drug that makes them less sane the more they shout it, turning them from intelligent beings with some sense of propriety into things that would eat their own children if given the chance. Severing their tongues, sharpening their teeth, infesting their mouths, rotting their eyes, wriggling in and out of their ears, corroding their faces into the form of beasts, ghouls and demons. They are far more undead than the king of vampires ever was.

In him, before, it was hunger, instinct. A single string in an undead thing. This is alive. This is not some out-of-his-control link, tying a lifeless toy to its animator. This comes from within. It rushes through him like a well-timed-lightning strike; like love, like rage. This is hurt-them-like-they-hurt-me, like-they’re-hurting-her. This is more than just wanting to drink blood; he wants to see them bleed. He wants to stain their oh-so-holy ground with the sins that would send them to beneath it. To dye their pious sky the color of heresy.

What is a man?

It’s been a long time. A long time since he’s killed. Killing was an exotic pet—admirable to own, but formidable to control—which he gave up for adoption, for someone who could better care for, tame it. A cause he no longer believed in. A game he hit quit on.

It’s been a long time, a long time since he viewed men and women as merely blood to be spilled.

It’s been a long time since that field of skeletons choking on stakes.

The Vlad of today—or, at least, a few hours ago—was different. He knew that those bones were people, once. That they had souls, and only the most bloodthirsty of humans deserved to have those souls stolen by a stake. Now that he had a family, he knew what he had taken those bloody bones away from.

He gave up the malice for her. Because of her the word ‘massacre’ didn’t flutter so dulcetly upon his ears. She cleared the red from his eyes. She’s the one who taught him to walk again—as she did with their son. She’s the one who told him that peasants with knowledge would be something more; not a lost cause, a beast to be put down, but something that could do some good. That there was something deep beneath their skin worth saving…just like him.

The other vampires may view them as livestock, but they’re not animals. They have dreams and brains, and hearts, and they are capable of being better than this.

And that’s what makes this so damn sick.

Now…now she is not by his side. She is up there, with her hands behind her back, and the color orange desecrating all the other hues on the canvas that is her life, and they’re all sitting there watching like some macabre stage show…not a single one of them standing up to say “No. No we won’t behave like animals anymore.” And the things he did with and for and because of her he can’t remember, blocked off by the barrier of blood between her and him.

Well, if they are going to act like animals—

if they are going to stand and watchhis wife—the woman who he lie in the grass and counted the stars with, who made them cookies, and who he could never beat at chess—burn—

If they’re going to sit here and shout to the Lord while her hands, which wrapped around him so gently, turn red, then black, char—

Her lips, which kissed his cheek, crack and bleed and break—

Her voice, which raised at him, then fell quietly that on his ears, which spoke so passionately about medicine, rip until it didn’t work anymore—

Her heart, which was always for this creatures, which was bigger than all their evil, melt—

Her soul—she has one too, you know, she didn’t sell it or anything—get devoured by their insolence, like she isn’t one of them—

Then he’s going to treat them like animals.

“Father—!” Adrian’s voice is dull in the back of his mind, like his own conscience and all its foolish wisdom.

Alucard probably thinks they can do this quietly. They can talk it out with the beasts. They can explain that she isn’t a witch, and there’s no need for burning. That they will be able to untie her and take her home safely, and no one has to die. That he can unfork their tongues. That he can unravel the thirst from their mouths, the insanity from their brains.

What is a man?

But Dracula, Dracula knows what they are. They are mongrels. They are demons. And what’s the use trying to talk to a thing that can only grunt back? What’s the use speaking of heaven to a thing with hell woven behind its eyes?

He forgot how sweet death tasted.

And the moon, once a quiet guide of their stargazing, is a fuming guard on his side. He takes their royal blue night in his grasp and wrings its neck—with nothing more than a thought—its blood poured out until their sky, their earth, their eyes fill with the color he sees everything in.

It doesn’t take long before screams cut that ignorant word from the air. Until they fall like dominoes, one after the other in this game of life with no winners or losers, only destined to come crashing down.

Dracula doesn’t catch sight of their faces, doesn’t remember that they are individuals, and have souls. He forsakes the part of him that says worth saving, worth saving, worth saving for the thing on his shoulder chanting kill, kill, kill. He knows only the taste of iron, the sound of their hearts breaking, the smell of meat and charcoal, the feeling of flesh breaking beneath his nails, hearts still beating in his dripping fingers, the warmth of blood on his skin, his tongue.

“NO!”

Then there is another voice. And this voice does not belong to the faceless horde. This voice that sounds like sunlight feels, but which is weathering beneath the elements.

“No! Please…don’t do this! Don’t hurt them! Don’t kill them!”

And something, something comes rushing back to him. Decorating the castle for Christmas. Her head on his shoulder as she sat with him by fire, hiding out from the cold. Her laying in bed, draped in light, a boy with her golden hair, and his features laying his head on her shoulder as she read to him. Her kissing Adrian goodnight with a smile and a lullaby—

Don’t say goodnight just yet.

And the sound of that voice makes the blood taste sour. Makes the flesh feel too soft, the bones harder to break. Makes the cries sink teeth into his ears. Slices the moment, turning the sky-light blue again. Makes him freeze, not with the cold; but with the warmth the blood made him feel. And her name is barely a breath in his mouth, more like the beat of his heart…more like every breath.

No. Not this. Not here. Not now, when Lisa—when his sun and stars and to-the-moon-and-back—is watching.

“Mother!” their son has strength, virtue enough to speak in the face of her voice, and in a flash of red he is on the altar near her.

Her husband follows, a growl and a blink and he is beside their reason for coming here.

As Adrian goes to cut his mother down. Dracula turns to the surrounding humans, looking like vultures surrounding a corpse, waiting to feast on death.

“I am Vlad Dracula Tepes,” he magically magnifies his voice, “and you will tell me why this thing is happening to my wife.”

“Oh no! Oh God, Dracula! He was supposed to be a myth!” The mayor says like this was some grand cat’s-out-of-the-bag moment, “A story made up by heretics!

“She…she’s a witch.” The man, the one who started this all, speaks.

He is old and balding, wearing the red and gold that said he presided over holy things, his features set like he judged people so much it changed the shape of his face, making it impossible for him to smile without it looking like a twisted thing.

What is a man?

Well, the vampire king knows what this man is. He doesn’t need a second’s consideration to know what kind of demon he is dealing with. That he’s the kind of creature who condemns virtuous men, twists the minds of children, and burns women, for fun, and thinks that his ego and his God are the same thing.

“Lisa Tepes is a woman of science, and the one thing that justifies humanity’s stench upon this planet.”

“You are not real.” He says like he can bend existence to his will, like if he just says it enough the demons will suddenly disappear. “You are a fiction that justified the practice of black magic!”

“A fiction?!” the words blazed on his tongue, “You take my wife and deny I even exist!” he digs his nails into his palm, breaking the skin, his pain the only thing keeping from disobeying his wife and digging those nails straight through this man’s chest—(it will all be okay when they return home, he tells himself)—“Tell me, do I seem so fictional now?” He grabs his cloak, holding it up, shooting a wall of fireballs towards them, the orange beast changing allegiance, turning from his wife’s side to gorge itself on the one who set it.

Many bystanders scream, leap out of the way. Windows of nearby buildings shatter, the flames scooping up their innards. The mayor grabs the priest and pulls him away just in time, just; the fire snatches his robes, and he indignantly stamps it out.

Vlad now returns his gaze to his family and sees Adrian talking to Lisa….talking not acting, just talking, like she isn’t going to burn if she remains there.

With teeth bared slightly he raises his claw to cut her rope.

“No…don’t…” Lisa interrupts him, coughing, “If my death can save others…”

His eyes widen. “I’m not leaving you.” His voice is low and irrefutable.

“And I’m not letting you—kill any more of these people.”

“Well?!” The bishop stands, looking at the mayor as if he ought to be doing something, then at Dracula like his existence is more of a great offense to him than an actual threat.

The mayor looks at him, then at Dracula in the way he should: knowing full well what sort of threat a thing with a taste for human blood poses to those who tried to kill his wife.

The bishop closes his eyes, taking out a cross, holding it in front of him “In nomine Patris et Filii…God—”

Vlad teleports before the man-of-something-other-than-God, his cloak dancing in the wind, his eyes red sparks as he stalks his praying prey.

“‘God…’? You say your God is one of love, then proceed burn an innocent woman in His name? Either you have a very poor God, or you are a very poor follower. Regardless, I’d like to see what He thinks of you.” He raises a claw, forgetting for a moment his wife’s command in the face of all this red, about to send it slashing through this man’s chest.

But someone grabs his arm. He’s about to rip the hand off when he realizes it’s not one of the priest’s dogs, but that of his own son. The look in Adrian’s eyes is far too similar to those Lisa gave him when she chastised him…he never understood how something so gentle could be so hard to oppose.

“Father.”

Dracula slowly begins to lower his hand.

But the clergyman does not fall on his knees in a heap of thank-yous and I’m-sorrys; does not look upon the vampire’s son as someone he owes a great debt for deeming his life worth sparing. His lips aren’t capable of admitting such things anymore. His eyes are as beastly as the fire reflected within them, gorging themselves on every scrap of sin they can find. That arrogant gaze falls again upon his wife—Alucard has to keep his father from ripping them out just for looking at her—and his words are, low, horrified, laced with the same drug he put in everyone else’s mouths;

“You...You lie with the devil?!” Then question becomes condemnation, and he says like Dracula, and not he, is the simpering worm, “How utterly vile.”

Alucard’s eye twitches.

“The situation is far worse than we thought,” his knuckles turn white around the cross, “This woman is more than a mere witch. She is the wife of a devil and the mother of a demonspawn!” he jerks his head to the mayor, indignance fused into his irises, “What are you waiting for?!”

Dracula tries to raise his talon again but his son steps in front of him and grabs his other arm, digging his boots into the dirt as he struggles to hold him back, every indication in his eye demanding let me talk to them.

Dracula loses the staring contest.

The fire reflected in the Mayor’s gaze has gotten out of hand. He vaguely motions to the men around him—who look like they’re about to piss in their pants—to do something.

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.” The vampire king brings his hand to his face, letting the blood drip down it and drain onto his tongue, “I’ll make sure you live to tell the tale.”

They stare it him, then at each other, the fire, the red, covering their eyes, and they run.

“Cowards.” The priest’s closed fists mutter.

“Please!” Adrian finally makes his move, and his father can tell he’s trying to temper his own rage, “We can talk about this! Like people! Not one sent us, hell or otherwise! The only thing that sent us here was you! Your ignorance, your lunacy! My mother is not a witch! And we are not devils! Just because she had a few beakers and flasks in her house doesn’t mean she’s a witch. And just because my father has a nasty temper”—he gave Dracula a reproving look—“doesn’t mean we’re demons. If you just let her go we will leave in peace!”

The bishop turns to what’s left of the crowd, which now consists of mostly his own followers, no longer waiting for another to act, for the mayor too is nowhere to be found. “Let a pack of rabid mongrels go wild, he says.” He pauses. “What do you say to that?”

“Put them down!” Someone shouts.

The others cry in agreement.

If only they knew how much they looked like mongrels.

The priest gives that gnarled old smile.

“Well fuck you too,” Adrian mutters as they return to Lisa’s side, and his parents, for once, don’t scold him for his foul language.

He’s about to raise his voice again when Lisa breathes,

“It’s okay, Son…they don’t know what they’re doing…”

He stares at her, his mouth slightly open.

No, that can’t be what she’s saying. She can’t be telling him to give up. He can’t go home with well, you tried. He blinks at her, then at his father, and he looks so much like he did when he was a child confronted with a difficult choice that he wants to scoop him up and tell him everything’s going to be okay.

“Yes, I’m inclined to agree with you. Let’s put them down, shall we?” the priest’s mouth is even fouler, and it’s as if he thinks he’s a war commander, not a man who is supposed to sit in quiet places and pray.

Someone comes up the steps behind Alucard, and his floating sword is at his throat before the man even raises his own. “I think we can all agree backing away would be best, yes?”

When one of them touches Dracula’s arm his hand burns. Another comes up behind the first and Dracula wraps his hand around his throat with barely a change in expression.

“Stop!” Lisa cries. “Don’t hurt them!”

He stares her way like he’s a dog with something in his mouth he’s not supposed to. His arm shakes, ever so slightly, caught between two instincts; follow her voice, and kill those who dared hurt her.

“I know it’s cruel, and it’s not your fault, and I wish there was another way too, but you have to let me go. I don’t want you killing anyone else!”

His grip tightens on the man’s throat, and Dracula doesn’t even notice how much the man is grappling at him, trying to scratch his skin, to get him to release him. “If you think I’m letting you go, after everything we’ve been through—”

Something slams into his back, not enough to make him fall over, but enough to cause him to drop the man, who gasps for air pitifully on the ground. The vampire king whirls around to face his attacker and once again sees his son rubbing his shoulder.

He doesn’t have time to demand why he stopped him, for he must block a priest’s sword—“That’s a funny weapon for a priest to be carrying.” he quips aloud—the blade not even piercing his skin. Then he reaches over and grabs his teammate by the collar, sending him flying into a wall nearby before returning to the first, twisting the man’s arm, breaking it.

“Vlad, please!”

One of the holy men pick up a rather large rock, resorting to the other method the church is known for using to judge women of ill-repute.

If Dracula had seen it, he would have been able to stop it.

But it was Alucard who saw it, and the only method he had of stopping it was getting in its way.

“Son!” Dracula teleports catching his wounded son before he hit the ground, his head falling against his father’s shoulder.

What is a man?

Even the cruelest of animals only kill out of instinct. They don’t hit children because they want to send their mothers to hell.

“Vlad! Take Adrian and go!”

The vampire king looks from the two patches of light in his life, then to the humans who want to snuff them out.

How could he ever choose them over her? How could he ever choose the dark over the light?

“You won’t be able to save us both!”

She’s right…it will be difficult to protect them both…impossible without killing or hurting the humans.

So he has a choice; kill, or otherwise harm, most, if not all, the humans here, desecrating his wife’s wishes in order to save her life. Or let his wife die for the sake of these—these—these…

What is a man?

Mongrels? Demons? Blood to be spilled? Maybe.

Someone comes at him, sword raised, and he throws Adrian high into the air, knocking the man down the steps, catching his son before he hits the ground.

“Vlad…please…” her voice is weak but her eyes are strong.

What is a man?

He looks into the twisted faces of these creatures, rushing at him with consecrated blades and blasphemous gaze.

A thing she loves.

That is what they are. No matter what else they are, dogs, ghouls, and hellish things, men, woman, children…she loves humanity. From the day he met her it was clear just how much she cared for them; enough that she wanted to dedicate her own brief existence to saving their equally short, worthless lives. Enough she wanted to remind him how they were capable of more than the pitchforks and the flames, that there was flavor in more than just their blood. Enough that she made him promise to live like his life was as short as hers, and every moment counted.

His time with her was short…But that doesn’t mean that time, that her life was worthless. That every second he spent with her wasn’t a little pocket of eternity.

…And he’s not going to throw away everything she worked for for a few human lives.

He flickers to an alleyway some distance away and sets Adrian down against the wall.

Then he returns, fixes his gaze on the pyre, attempting to wipe the blood off his lips before floating up beside her, out of the clutches of the flames and the fools.

“Vlad…” she tries to look at him out of the corner of her eye, question, reproach there.

He wants to run his hand along her cheek, but his fingers are covered in blood, and he dares not mar her pristine features.

“I said—” Lisa chokes out.

He kisses her hair, and cuts her ropes with one swipe of his claw, catching her before she falls into the fire like a dip in this dance.

“I heard you.”

He sets her down at the wall beside Adrian—gently as if she were a precious vase he ought not break. His son’s eyes blink open, (being the son of Dracula had its perks).

“Father…?” he asks, his voice so small, glancing then at his mother.

He bends down and kisses Adrian on the forehead as if trying to make a booboo feel better.

“Did I ever tell you what a wonderful young man you’ve become?” he’s about to reach his hand to his cheek but thinks better of the blood. “You’ve… grown so much since I last saw you.”

“What—?”

Next to Lisa, “Did I ever tell you you’re as beautiful as the sun on the morning dew?”

“What tavern did you steal that line from?” she coughs, trying to smile.

“Do you have the strength to get out of here?”

They glance at each other.

“What are you going to do?”

Vlad stands up, lets the wind pass them by. “The sun will be up before long.”

“Vlad…I told you—!”

He shakes his head ever so slightly.

Her brow furrows, then upon realizing, her eyes widen.

“But you…no…you can’t!”

It takes Alucard a second, his expression going through a similar metamorphosis. “Wha—Father, you—?! Don’t be a hero!”

“Better than being the villain, don’t you think?”

Adrian grits his teeth.

“As long as I know you two are alright, it will all have been worth it.”

“But…you’re Dracula!” Lisa coughs again, standing shakily, holding on to Adrian for support, “You can’t possibly think my life is worth—!”

“If you think the immortal existence of Dracula is worth more to the world than the mortal life of Lisa and then I suggest you do more research, Doctor.” He smiles wryly.

They stare his way, that fire now twinkling monstrous and wild in their eyes too, their mouths opening and closing, pleas dying on their tongues.

He glances at the shadows of the oncoming attackers on the walls.

He pulls them into a hug, squeezing them tighter than he ever has.

“I love you both so very much,” he whispers into their ears, trying not to let red tears stain their perfect images.

And before they can reply he shoves them back with all the strength he can muster, giving them the best chance of escape he can.

He takes one last look at them, his sun-struck secret, as the sound of holy footsteps rush to him like water.

What is a man?

He turns to the distorted faces of those who will drive stakes, and forks, and blades, and flames into him, and just might succeed if he can’t hurt them in return, all rage and hate and mindless obedience. Twisted, ugly little devils.

But they have families somewhere. Parents. Children. Wives of their own. They have their reasons, their gods, their demons, hidden beneath their skin. Draining their blood won’t show you what they’re made of, not really.

But they forget. They forget that others are the same. That our faces, that our actions, our words today, never show all our yesterdays, the value of leaving us to our tomorrows.

“Have at me.” He mutters sardonically.

He stares up at the moon, the fury of red fading to tranquil blue, blood into water, heresy into holy.

He thinks of his wife and son—who were classified information to the rest of the world—returning safely to his castle tonight, sitting together beneath a blanket before the tame fire.

And that is enough.

What is a man?

He gives a crooked little smile, thinking of himself; looking at him, you’d never know that a loving husband and father was behind those bloody fangs.

A miserable little pile of secrets.

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[iwhumpyou]

Brother (Part 4)

Masterlist.  Assassin.

Part 3.

~#~#~#~#~#~

The return to consciousness this time, thankfully, came accompanied by drugs.  A lot of them.  Aliya opened her eyes to a fuzzy white ceiling and waited until it resolved itself into clarity.  She felt sore and stiff, but there was no pain. 

There was also no Livia Redford, which made Aliya feel a lot of things, but she identified relief and clung to it.  The assassin had abducted her, dislocated her shoulder, and dragged her on a wild goose chase that had ended with her being used as a hostage and even more injury to her poor shoulder.  The very least she could do was not be made to suffer her presence during her convalescence.

As if the universe was listening to her thoughts and waiting for the most ironic moment, the door that moment and Livia walked in.

“You’re awake, sweetheart,” Livia said, curling her lips into a smile.

Aliya threw her head back on her pillows and muffled her groan.  She didn’t want to deal with Livia’s games.  Not ever, preferably, but especially not when she was aching and on pain medication.  She might say something stupid.

“Why do you call me that?”

Scratch that.  She would most definitely say something stupid.

“Call you what?” Livia asked, smirking.  Aliya merely frowned – she had no patience for the assassin’s mind games.

Livia relented with a laugh, “You are so adorable when you pout, dearest.”  She took a seat at Aliya’s bedside and peered at Aliya over crossed fingers.  “Because it confuses my enemies when I address them with terms of endearment.” 

“No, it pisses them off,” Aliya scowled.

“A wonderful side effect,” Livia was still smiling, softer than her usual sneer.

“So I’m your enemy,” Aliya summarized, feeling just a bit more tired, because of course she was, saving Livia’s brother didn’t change that.  

If you were accused of being a witch, you were burned at the stake.  If you protested your innocence, you were thrown in the river.  Either way, if you were innocent, you would die.

“Not necessarily,” Livia said, her smile relaxing, “Perhaps I should rephrase my answer – because it confuses you when I address you with terms of endearment.”

“Why do you want to confuse me?” Aliya asked softly.

“I don’t yet know,” Livia mused, “Or maybe I do, and I’m just not willing to accept the answer. Either way, it’s entertaining until I manage to figure it out.”  There was another quick flash of a smile before Livia returned to her contemplative expression.

She didn’t like the way Livia was looking at her.  It wasn’t the detached fascination of observing a specimen under a microscope. It was…softer, for lack of a better word, and Aliya didn’t want to name the confusing emotions it inspired.

She shifted slightly and her hands caught her eyes – her wrists were blue and purple and black.

She remembered kneeling, she remembered hands wrenched behind her and cramping thighs and the dread of hearing heels click against the floor.

“Am I free to go?” Aliya asked.  Livia stilled and Aliya froze – she wanted to stuff the words back in her mouth, for all the good that would do.  She should never have asked.  She should’ve waited till Livia left the room before jumping out a window.

She remembered what the man had called her.  Livia would remember too.  And Aliya knew Nathan was Livia’s brother and the people that had kidnapped him knew who Aliya was – it wasn’t difficult to connect those pieces.

Even if Livia didn’t, even if she believed Aliya’s innocence, her brother had already once been placed at risk.  Aliya wouldn’t be surprised if she hunted down every last person who knew his name and killed them all.

“You want to leave?” Livia asked after a long pause.  Something crossed her face – Aliya couldn’t name it, it was gone too fast.

Aliya narrowed her eyes, “Have you forgotten that you kidnapped me?”  If she was going to die anyway, sneering at Livia Redford wasn’t a bad way to go.

But Livia didn’t react like she thought she would, didn’t conjure up a dark smile and a thinly veiled threat.  She looked…discomfited, almost, her eyes catching on the bruises at Aliya’s wrists, at the large bandage dwarfing her shoulder.  “Yes,” she said, so quiet Aliya could barely hear, “I suppose I forgot.” 

And then, louder, she said, “You’re free to go whenever you’d like, darling, I’m not keeping you here.” She stood up, gave her a tight smile, and stalked out of the room, her heels clacking against the floor.

Aliya watched her go, certain it was too good to be true.

But she waited, counted to a hundred in her head, and Livia didn’t reappear.  She slowly pushed herself up, careful not to pull at her right side, and still nothing.  She swung her legs off the side of the bed, frowned at the pajamas with bright blue teddy bears on them, and stepped down onto the icy tiled floor. 

Livia didn’t reemerge with a pair of handcuffs, or a lascivious smirk, or a quip.  She didn’t appear at all. 

The lack of people held for the hallway outside and down the stairs.  The place was silent and the front door was a few steps away when Aliya abruptly realized that she didn’t know where she was.

She had a hood over her head both when they’d dragged her to the dungeon to shackle her arms to the ceiling, and when she’d left it to accompany Livia on her rampage.  She’d been too hurt and exhausted to notice where Livia was taking her the last time.  And she doubted that she could just wave down a cab.

She signed and turned to head back to find a phone or some car keys or something that didn’t involve tracking Livia down and asking for a ride.

But there was someone in the hallway now, hovering in the door frame of the next room and looking at her cautiously.

“Nathan Redford,” she said, surprised.

“Hi,” he came out of the shadow of the doorway, a smile on his face, but she could see how he glanced around him, tracking to see if anything moved.  A part of her felt hollow – he wasn’t part of their world. He should never have had to do that. “You’re Aliya, right?  Liv’s friend?”

Aliya was unable to stop the bark of laughter, and Nathan hovered in place, looking concerned.  “I wouldn’t call us friends,” she said simply, electing not to tell him about the chains and the dislocated shoulder. Livia might actually kill her for that.

“Oh,” a flash of confusion crossed his face, “I’m sorry.  Um, I wanted to say thank you.”  He smiled a little brighter, “Liv said that you helped her find me and…” he chewed on his lip for a moment before continuing, “I don’t remember much from the warehouse, but I know – I heard –”

Aliya stopped him, because whatever he’d heard would’ve been out of context.  “You’re welcome,” she said, and tried a small smile.  Nathan smiled brighter in response. 

“If you ever need anything,” Nathan shuffled in place, rubbing the back of his head, “I mean, I don’t know what Liv promised you or anything, but you helped rescue me.  If you want my help with anything, just let me know.”

Livia had promised her that she was free to go, which was a greater concession than Aliya had expected, and she suppressed the hysterical giggle in response to Nathan’s words.  If she ever took him up on the offer, she had no doubt that Livia would finish the torture.  Permanently.

“Thank you,” Aliya said, turning away and freezing when a thought struck her.  “Actually,” she turned back to Nathan, “There is something you can help me with.” 

~#~

Aliya watched the house disappear down the road, a ball of tension in her stomach loosening when it was finally out of view.

She turned back to the driver, watching his hands on the wheel, and let herself relax as she left Livia Redford behind her.

If she was truly lucky, she’d never run into the assassin again.

~#~

Fin.

#whump #whumpfic #assassin #arc: brother #aftermath #she's not that lucky

[thewhumpstuff]

You and I, Me and You [28]

[CW: References to gore, leading up to some descriptions involving eyes, fingers and needles. References to an OC held captive.]

[Teaser and Master List] [Archives of our Own] (Lost and Found: Chapter 3)

[<– Previous] ~ [Next –>]

Eyeronies.

The carpet under her feet was so soft and still felt like a sheet of coals. This study… His study was a place of nightmares. She tiptoed in front of the bookshelf, fiddling with the book that held the slot for some sort of a key-card. Nova knew Zizi could not hear her and yet, illogically she spoke in reassurances.

“I’ll get you out. I will! You’ll be fine, I promise.” Nova was trying to latch onto her own dwindling sense of hope. The weight of one life lost had already been too heavy to bear.  “... Can’t go to Aki or Jared right now…”

Nova had exhausted herself trying to access the room. It now presented as a dangerous conundrum. She paced and then curled up by the bookcase that stood propped against the heavy door to the hidden chamber. Despite its perturbed nature, slumber held Nova in its grips for the whole following day. She woke with a start. The room looked exactly like it had, but she could tell precious time had been lost. Unwelcome as it had been, the rest provided her with courage and clarity. No, I must do this on my own. I can do this. -

The advantage of being a sniper was knowing where to be, where to aim and when to shoot. Vivi sat in the pitch-black cell, out of her own free will in absolute silence, even her breathing mingled with the quietude of the night.

And it was that sound, of the inhale and exhale that divulged the location of the occupant in the cell next to her. She could hear the indignation in every draw of air that Ezekiel took. He was cornered, disgraced and resolute in his lack of protests. Perhaps, he was still in denial. Or maybe he thought active resistance was beneath him. This was somewhat impressive. For a whole night and a day, since Eze’s arrest, he had had no visitors. No one knew she was there, she lurked when she could, usually slinking into the cell, into her spot past sunset. After the arrival of Jared fanned the fire in the blonde and drove him to cross new lines, Vivi was left intrigued. It vexed her that she knew of the ex-second-in-command but had never bothered to know him.

Better late than never.

The sharp clanging of the bars had shattered the eerie tranquillity that was unwittingly shared by the free and the imprisoned, by the witness and the witnessed. And it irritated Vivi. But did not compel her to make her presence known. “I hope you’re happy Eze!” “Revenge is a petty look on you, T… But you wear it oh-so-often” The sniper could make out that Tariq’s quest for vengeance was rather hollow. It was his frustration and a keen sense of guilt that added an untrammelled ferocity to the way his baton struck the only thing keeping him from breaking his friend. He managed to speak over the din, “You best hope I don’t find a way in Eze...” The east-facing cells had painfully antiquated technology securing them. In Q.B.’s defence, a security upgrade was futile when no prisoner had attempted a breakout from these cells. There was nowhere to go from here, where they would not be found. Vivi could help Tariq find his way in with ease, a part of her was curious to see if his words were a bluff. But she waited. That lilt of betrayal that made Tariq sound so wounded, just made Eze scoff. According to him, Tariq latched onto being the victim of duplicity, so he did not have to face being the passive perpetrator. He had turned a blind eye too and conveniently; accepted too many things at face value. And acted upon them. Ezekiel felt safe behind the bars, safe behind the curtain of the title he once had, even though it was now lost. They can’t hurt the ex-SiC. “Why, do you miss it? Being in here? I’m certain you’ll do something to find your way back soon enough. Now that you don’t have me protecting you.” The bars were rattled. How dare he suggest that he was protecting me? And the rattling stopped abruptly. A lone figure approached, this one Vivi had not been expecting. She tucked a strand of her freshly dyed pink hair behind her ears and remained lurking in the safe shadows of her open cell. She sat up straighter as she watched the frail silhouette pass her. “Nova?” Nova had already noticed Tariq before he called out. The BioHacker was still in the black bodice and leggings. She looked like a lithe, black cat… carrying bad news and bad luck. She wanted to do this alone, but she could not turn tail now. This was a time sensitive matter. She would have to deal with whatever judgement followed when Tariq learned about Zizi. She swallowed and ignored the ex-squadron leader, her voice was a whisper and directed at the man in the cell. “Eze, I need to let her out.” The blonde spoke over her, deliberately. “Aww… My SuperNova, I expected you sooner. Are you enjoying having the house all to yourself?” His drawl had only worsened with his circumstance. He knew she was not alone in what used to be his home. She stiffened and cleared her throat.   Tariq’s confused questions found words. “Let who out? From where?” Everybody he knew was safe…  She ignored him again. “Please, just tell me how, Eze…” Even a state of disgraced imprisonment, her pleading, especially when it was so genuine, was like music. He teetered to the bars and hung onto them. If Tariq could not see the gravity of the moment and if he had not been distracted by the unanswered questions, his baton would have broken the pale clutching fingers. Ezekiel couldn’t help taunting her, she made it so easy.    “Do say that again, SuperNova… I so dearly miss you begging.” Two pairs of amber eyes pinned Eze, one set desperate, one livid, just like he liked them. He laughed, even with his back against a wall and in a cell, Ezekiel knew how to play them. He still had cards up his sleeve. The golden eyes averted and found each other instead. Tariq searched for an explanation in her features. Nova realised that there was no point in hiding it anymore. She looked at the floor of the cell as she answered, guiltily.   “He is keeping a woman in a hidden room against her wishes. I can’t find a way to let her out…” Ezekiel was smart to step away and take his hands off the rods, just as the baton clanged against where his digits had been moments ago. Tariq’s gaze darkened considerably. The blonde clicked his tongue and smirked. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.” 

“She’ll die.” Nova stated, as though that would change anything. It did not. Ezekiel shrugged. “And whose fault would that really be?” Tariq gave up on the man he had once called a friend and offered a naive solution. “Why can’t we report this, Nova? I’m sure someone will find a way…” Ezekiel receded deeper into his cell, his voice echoed in the dingy room as shadows and soft light made his features appear more menacing than ever. “Yeah, SuperNova, tell him why you can’t report this. Because it was not me who used her for experiments now, was it? The same ones that allowed her to fix you and Kira by the way, T.”  I just wanted to find a way to help her before she was handed off to authorities. Nova did not trust Q.B. to be able to handle Zizi’s life with the sensitivity she thought it would require. But between life and discomfort, Nova’s choice for herself and for the people around her had always been obvious. Life. It’ll be difficult, but at least she’ll live…  I do not care what happens to me… Nova’s thoughts only served as a reminder that there may be no other way. Before Tariq could fathom the implications of what Ezekiel just shared, her clear voice cut through his thoughts like broken glass. “We can. We should just report it, we must, in fact. I don’t care what they do to me. I don’t want her dying in there. Who should I go to? Who would be able to help her best?” Nova seemed to have convinced herself already and now was bolstering her spirit and coming to terms with this being the only option if there was no way to make Ezekiel give up the information on how to get into the room. They will have to believe me if what I say implicates me and I tell them anyway, right? Nova had surrendered herself to this option in her mind, she needed to act. Zizi is not dying on my watch. I will find a way. Some way. Any way.   Tariq was certain that there was more to it than he knew. This was something she probably did not want to do. Nova was driven, but the tendencies Tariq had seen did not reconcile with the picture Ezekiel painted. You are not fooling me anymore, Eze. He knew Nova would willingly suffer for something she did not have to suffer for, just for the life that was at stake here. She shared that trait with him… Just like Akira did. “There must be another way.” The conundrum was infectious and now had its claws in him.   “There is.” Vivi’s voice startled both Tariq and Nova in equal measure, Tariq visibly recoiled and then drew himself into a stance to strike. The BioHacker was better at stifling the jump. He did not strike when he saw the bubble-gum hair emerged from the neighbouring cell, “What the fuck, Viv?” Tariq was ignored again. A trio now pooled outside Ezekiel’s cell. “Eze… This certainly doesn’t have to do anything with that private Biometric ScanLock you had me work on, does it?” Vivi’s voice sounded like she was reciting a moving poem. The Blonde’s absolute silence was an answer. There was no sneering now. Anna’s scalpel flashed in the pale moonlight as Vivi twirled it in her fingers. Only the sniper spoke and asked the questions now. “Nova, you do know where this room and the scanner is, right?” The medic wearily nodded. Vivi described the gadget she had created for Ezekiel a few months ago. Nova confirmed with another small nod, that it was the scanner tucked away in a book on the bookshelf that covered the hidden door.  “You can’t - you can’t get in here.” Ezekiel tried; his voice finally faltered. Vivi removed a small device from her satchel and let it snap onto the lock of the cell with a soft click. A few beeps followed and then another click - The cell door swung open. Ezekiel’s back was already against the wall—literally now, he had scurried to the very back of the small cell on instinct as he spewed the promises of unpleasant consequences. “They’ll know! They’ll know! You will all land up here for taking matters into your own hand.” “Well you did say I’ll wind up in here, anyways right? At least it’ll be worth i-” Vivi’s fingers found Tariq’s shoulder as he spoke and was about to step in. He shrugged her hand off. He had still not forgiven her for what she did to Akira. But he did wait. The sniper spoke exclusively to Nova in a whisper. The silence let Tariq catch a few of the hushed questions. ‘Iris… print... serum healing?’ Nova had resorted to using only nods.  “Then no one has to know…” Vivi finished. Uncharacteristically, she waited for Nova to confirm that the plan was fine. Nova’s eyes went wide, then narrowed… And then she closed them and drew a breath. As usual, when she opened them again, there was a newfound resolution in them. She stood up straighter, squaring her delicate shoulders like a warrior and she used words again.  “If it must be done and there is no other way...” 

The plan was relayed to Tariq in his entirety. The soft peal of Anna’s giggle haunted the man inside the cell as much as the dark gratification in Tariq’s amber eyes. But the sight that truly chilled him to the bone, was Nova’s indifference. She did not avert her eyes. Not as Tariq easily overpowered the blonde and held him down, not as Anna’s scalpel made the cuts. Three agents walked into the prison and came out with the things they needed to free Zizi. The night bore witness to the howls of a man who had taken so much pleasure in drawing them out of others in the past. - Much later that night, Novara carried a small silicone satchel, a couple of bottles of BuzzBo and a larger bottle of water to the cell. To his cell. He sat in a corner, slumped onto the floor exactly where Tariq, Vivi-Anna and she had left him. A roughly tied makeshift bandage futilely sought to wipe the tear of blood his wounded eye cried, it only left more red streaks in its wake. The wrapped stump was oozing its own share. His injured eye remained clenched shut and hidden behind the cage of the four fingers that remained attached to the hand. The left half of his face was shrouded in the streaks of crimson and the other half was graced by the soft pale light of the moon. The contrast was as striking as it was scary… And it did nothing to deter the BioMedic standing outside his cell.

“You… fucking bitch.” He spat in a pained hiss. She didn’t respond and crouched to carefully set the bottles she had procured onto the floor of the cell through the thin dark poles. He did not make any motions towards her. He could not, not with the intention to harm anyway. “Do you want them back?” She asked and pursed her lips. “You… you’re just burying evidence, you-” His curses were lost in a pained whisper. It was her turn to shrug. She did not care, a part of her wanted him to deny the help and reconstructive healing. She knew he would not. He cared about appearances way too much and cared about perfection even more. Now it was only a matter of time for him to decide what he was willing to endure for it. She repeated her question, slower. Her tone was ever so slightly patronizing. “Do you want them back?” She had already begun to draw the serum into the syringe. He swallowed and looked at her. Disgusted at the predicament he was in. “Yes.” He croaked. Perhaps, in some other universe, Nova would have found it within her to make him beg for it. The large needle glinted menacingly. She did not enter the cell. All the experiments had certainly allowed her to iterate things and learn. The method was mad, but it taught her to be precise, in practice and in instruction.   She did not need to instruct; he knew about it all too well, too. After all, he had made it a point to witness the process. After indirectly being the reason, it was required to begin with… Repeatedly.

For Zizi, for Akira and for Tariq… She did not need to instruct him, but she pointedly did. And there was something powerful in watching actions follow her words, for once. He slipped the bandage off and stumbled to the front of the prison. “C-can you s-ee?” Panic and uncertainty tumbled out of his lips. A trembling hand was hoisted up the horizontal spoke. “Well, Anna isn’t here… So, you’ll have to take your chances.” He did not call her SuperNova now, when she truly was being super. The needle teetered. “We should probably start with the eye; it’ll require you to stay… stiller.” The single eye that stared at her, shed a bitter, fearful tear. She stared on, almost like she could not see him. “Hold it open and try not to move.” The ruby eye squinted inwards, watching the needle as his thumb and forefinger, and hers (Nova’s work ethic did not allow her to be entirely irresponsible), held the other one open.  They had to scoop out his cornea and iris, the oddly reflective lens lurked behind the wound. Nova steadied herself, which was easier than she had anticipated. Carefully she inserted the needle into the pinked and bloody white, deep enough to reach the right targets. Once, twice and then another few times. Ezekiel had just become the first human subject to have the serum tried on his eye. There certainly was a poetic eyerony, to that. Hopefully, this works. Most probably, it will... There is a chance it may not. They both thought. Till the agony wiped any thoughts from Eze’s mind.

On this rare occasion, Nova didn’t care too much if she happened to fail. The only reason she wished it didn’t, in some capacity was not for herself, or for him... But for everyone else involved in helping her. They deserved better than to get into trouble for this. The gruff cry that his lips issued, rose to a screech then to a siren-like wail. It would only get worse. He fell to his knees, leaving crimson trails on the bars as his grip slackened.  “Please… please come back for the thumb… Please… I cannot take it. Please SuperNova.” He should have stuck to not calling her that. The name he had called her for so long and in such a derogatory manner, was spoken with sincerity, but that did not matter. It slipped out of his lips before he could stop himself, maybe if it had not, she would have found herself to be merciful. “I’m not coming back here, no one is.” She said that with a heartfelt conviction. “So, now, or never.”  Four jittery fingers rose to grip the horizontal bar again, pale and weak. A needle found its way into the stump. The night would continue to bear witness to the excruciating process required to fix a broken man.

[Category - 2] Tags: @lettuceknighted, @quirkykayleetam, @straight-to-the-pain [My attempt at eye/finger stuff is back!]

#eye gore whump #fingore whump #bad guy gets it good #referenced captivity #some revenge #oc Tariq #oc Novara #oc Vivi-Anna #oc Ezekiel #you and I me and you