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theimpossiblescheme · 1 year

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Through a Glass, Shining

Inspired by a prompt from @the-cat-at-the-theatre-door, here is my entry for Old Deuteronomy’s day of Oldies Week! I hope everyone enjoys!

There was a face right at the edge of his memory… a blurry, frosted-glass sort of face. All in shadow, no eyes or discernible features… just a long shape with long whiskers, cast in greyish-blue. No matter how much he squinted, he couldn’t make it out. Was it his own face from long ago? The face of a mate or child or dear friend? There was no telling. But he could tell by the lurch and rush of heat through his chest that it was supposed to mean something.

This was always the worst part… what kind of Keeper of Memory didn’t even know themselves?

Stirring very slightly from the elegant curve she’d folded herself into, Maladeen glanced at him sideways. “You’re starting to glimpse your last life,” she drawled, her voice slow and deliberate as ever. “Can you make it out?”

Deuteronomy shook his head. “Nothing… I see a face, except it isn’t really a face. It’s like… one of those human dolls that hasn’t been painted yet.”

Maladeen nodded sagely, as if that was all she needed to know. “Perhaps you might look again. You have so trained yourself to look for differences between old faces, you might not notice the similarities. Some cats carry the same eyes through each of their lives. Others might carry a coat pattern or… a certain set of their ears. I remember a very good friend of mine… he had been reborn with the same scar across his nose. Even with no explanation for it in his new life. The Everlasting Cat must have a sense of whimsy.” She pulled her paws underneath her, leaving nothing but silvery fur draped across the stone. “You may be able to glean something of this life… from the one previous.” And she fell silent again, eyes drifting shut as if she were about to fall asleep.

Well… that didn’t prove useful. Deuteronomy sat for the next several minutes trying to pull the greyish-blue face back to the forefront of his mind, but what was he supposed to look for? How could he see past the shadow? What… blockage couldn’t he clear in his mind that was stopping him? Eventually he gave up trying and just fell to watching a beetle crawling near his feet. Maladeen never looked down. She didn’t look at him at all—just sat, trancelike, face tilted toward the sun. Let her sit like all day, for all he cared.

There was a part of Deuteronomy that both loved and dreaded his training as a Keeper of Memory. Loved because he knew how important it was… but dreaded because it could be both terrifying and tedious by turns. The first time he had met his father’s Keeper, Maladeen, the look she’d given him—like she was looking past his face into the bones and sinew underneath—was one he’d never forget. She had the sort of pale, staring eyes that seemed to shoot small bursts of lightning down your back every time they met yours, and he only barely got used to them the more time they spent together.

Every so often, she would insist on sitting alone, but most days she would invite Deuteronomy to join her, and that would be the bulk of their training. Just sitting on the Junkyard wall like this, not a sound between them but the faint static of each other’s thoughts. Whenever his couldn’t organize into anything important or even coherent, he would just watch the world around them—the cars on the road, the bugs dipping in and out of cracks on the sidewalk, the shadows in the shop windows. Sometimes he’d just look over at Maladeen, to see if she’d move beyond the flick of an ear. Watching Maladeen was like trying to watch for fish swimming under a frozen lake: maybe there was some sign of life deep down, but it was impossible to see under the ice. And he felt that cold every moment he was with her, even if some days it gnawed a little less than usual. The only time it seemed to thaw was when she spoke. If she could sense something burning at the corners of his thoughts—a fragment of a memory he couldn’t recognize, or a voice he’d never heard before, or even just a flash of foreign emotion stealing his breath—she would attempt to give him some context or advice on how to rein it in. Key word being attempt, of course, since she spoke so slowly and would sometimes trail off into rambling tangents or even long stretches of nothing, and Deuteronomy would end more confused than when he began.

Some days, he found himself trying to actively suppress his thoughts around her. If she couldn’t sense them, she couldn’t lecture him… and she couldn’t be disappointed in him. And he knew how wrong it was, how much it went against the point of his training, but some days he just couldn’t bring himself to care. It was too much. Every single day. His mind was too sharp, too raw, a rattle of broken glass he couldn’t shape. What use did was there for faces he only saw centimeters of, an eye or a nose or a whisker he couldn’t identify? What comfort did he have whenever waves of grief or fear or even joy that he couldn’t parse choked him, and anything Maladeen said only made them heavier? At least if he smothered them, banished everything that didn’t make sense to the corners of his mind, they couldn’t hurt him. But even there, the muffled voices and softened stings remained. He couldn’t be like Maladeen, silent and still. Not a single emotion showing on her face, the serenity of the moon reflected on snow. She didn’t care. She never had. He wanted that, and yet he didn’t… maybe he just wanted the ice to crack. To know there was something underneath.

He didn’t expect to actually find a crack.

He hadn’t gone looking for it, nor did it occur to him that perhaps Maladeen had meant for him to find it. But as they sat, apparently out of the blue, he felt more than just her usual chill reserve a few feet away. Like a gust of real wind, salt-tinged and frosted from the northernmost oceans, blowing at his fur. Maladeen didn’t move, but all at once, even as he was looking at her, he felt a rush of sensation greater than any he’d felt in the past. Some kind of fissure had opened between them, and he was falling through. This was greater than any shards of faces and places… he could barely understand his own lives after all this time, but he could see hers.

He could see long cobblestone roads coated in snow, across which floated horse-drawn carriages full of fur-wrapped humans. In one woman’s lap sat a contented grey queen. The luster and length of her fur was different, but there was that same opalescent shine in her eyes… it was definitely Maladeen. He saw that same queen surrounded by kittens and an adoring mate one moment, only for them to be wrenched apart the next, held away from a squirming bag by the scruff of the neck as she yowled and writhed in another man’s grip. He saw the same eyes in a brown tom stalking through dense forests, nursing a crooked leg before resting next to a doe in her nest, who nuzzled his head as she would her own fawn. He felt the same rush of affection toward a large fluffy dog as a tabby kitten gamboled between his legs and rode at breakneck speed on its back, and he felt the shock of pain through his own chest as the dog was struck by a milk truck. He shuddered as a black cat jostled in their humans’ arms as she raced through darkened streets to escape distant screams. He felt his own cheeks dampen as a golden tom helped his mates clean off the faces of some abandoned kittens, and he could just make out their names from voices muffled in each other’s fur. He could hear long streams of names all rushing past him, voices that faded in wisps of smoke between his claws when he grasped for them. He could feel the warmth of fire, of soft carpet, of gentle hands, of familiar flanks against his fur, and he could feel unbearably cold when they withdrew.

He felt… everything. Or what felt like everything, and it wasn’t until the flood faded that he thought to feel overwhelmed. Every memory welled up in his throat, and it was a moment before he could catch his breath. He’d glimpsed a single crack, and the entire lake came rushing at him all at once…

How had it happened? Did Maladeen want him to see all of that? Was he always able to see, and he’d never thought to try? He looked over at Maladeen and saw her ears give the slightest twitch against the breeze… did she know what he’d seen? Did she suspect at all?

I know more than just your name, he wanted to tell her. He wanted to cry out until his lungs collapsed from the force of everything he’d seen and felt. I know every name you’ve ever been called. I’ve seen every life you’ve lived, every home you’ve claimed, every love in your heart… and he suddenly felt very ashamed. How could he have assumed she didn’t care, that she didn’t feel? What had he ignored in the past—those flickers of light beneath the ice’s surface that showed where her heart beat? How could he had been so arrogant, so inconsiderate of his mentor… so caught up in his own struggles that seemed like only a drop in the ocean now…

Then another thought occurred to him. Was this part of a Keeper’s duty, too? Was he supposed to have quite this much insight into the thoughts and memories of other Jellicles? It seemed like certain things were meant to be sacred, and he’d just violated that sanctity… but what if somecat had a problem they were too ashamed to talk about out loud? What was he supposed to do then? Could he just shut it off—everything he could see and feel? Would it be right? Tears stung at his eyes, both from the runoff of sensation and the overwhelming guilt from what he’d done, and he tried to wipe them away before Maladeen could see.

But she did see. Of course she did.

And when she looked over at him this time, there was a smile on her face. Only a small one, but it was summer in a moment there on the Junkyard wall. “It’s only another facet of your gift,” she said. “One you’ll learn to control… in time. I shall help you with that as well… perhaps it can help you past your own blind spots,” she added with what Deuteronomy could have sworn was a wink.

Deuteronomy couldn’t think of a time he’d been comforted by Maladeen’s presence before now. There truly was a first time for everything.

#This piece couldn't decide on what shape it wanted to take as I was writing but... well this was where I ended up. XD #Maladeen is one of Jemi's wonderful OCs. <3 #cats the musical #fanfic #oldiesweek #old deuteronomy #OCs

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 2 months

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Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

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Chapter 6: Remembrance

Any vestiges of vitality she has left follow Elijah out the front door. Lucie leans into the wall to support her wobbling legs and regrets it. Her gashed shoulder throbs, reminding the rest of her body that it's been running on fumes for hours.

Beyond the brick wall of exhaustion, she can glimpse the mounting pile of concerns waiting for her. But there is no room to reflect, not tonight. She's pushed herself far beyond her limit in every sense. Her body aches and her courage trickles away. Calling on a shallow reserve of magic that's laid dormant for years leaves her feeling drained and hollow. All are worthy of consideration, but Lucie can't form a coherent thought beyond an all-consuming desire to sleep.

She makes it as far as the living room, only taking time to check the locks, flip the lights, and kick off her muddy boots before dropping face-first onto the couch. Any worries she might have are forgotten the second she hits the cushions. Sleep takes her as soon as she shuts her eyes and she falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

When she wakes sometime in the late morning, it's to a different world. The storm passes sometimes in the night, yielding to a golden morning. Light streams through the gaps in the linen curtains, bright strands that settle over her closed lids, coaxing her into full wakefulness.

She rises with a groan, limbs stiff. Her arms reach above her, fingers wiggling away any numbness as her eyes flutter open with some reluctance.

Motes of dust dance in her field of view. She yawns, savoring the warmth of the morning sunlight on her skin. It's always been her favorite time of day, those peaceful, sleepy hours when everything seems to still be coming back to life.

There's a brief, perfect moment that often comes after a deep sleep, when there are no memories or worries, no thoughts beyond I am alive and I am awake. Lucie revels in it while it lasts.

In the blink of an eye, it fades and reality seeps in at the edges. Her stomach turns as it all returns to her in a rush. Each recollection is more troubling than the last, crystal clear in the light of day. The attack by the river, the Original vampire that had saved her, that she had invited in, berated, and then all but shoved out the front door.

Your smart mouth will bring you nothing but trouble, Violette’s voice sounds in her head, clear as if she were sitting on the couch beside her. Stern words that had been delivered with little bite to a little girl with a penchant for talking back. She doubts even her great-aunt could have foreseen the mess she's dug herself into now.

Grief flares, cutting through the anxiety. A terrible ache settles as the full truth of where she is sinks in.

The walls of the living room close in on her, alternating vertical stripes of soft yellows that only amplify the sunny feel. Her eyes drift to the dark wood of the fireplace, a permanent fixture from when this place was built sometime in the 1870s. A thick layer of dust covers the mantle as well as the framed photos resting there.

She pretends not to see them, every inch of her bruised body crying in protest as she rises to her feet and heads out into the main hall.

The door across the narrow width of the hall is cracked open just enough for a glimpse of the rich, patterned rug inside. Violette’s room is the closest to the front door, perfectly positioned as a last obstacle for teenagers trying to sneak out —or in. The smell of cloves and jasmine lingers around the doorframe, haunting the threshold of the room where her aunt had once slept — the room where she died.

She doesn't linger. Her feet still remember the best path for avoiding the creakiest floorboards, a testament to years of rebellion.

Two more rooms branch off from the same side of the hallways following Violette’s. The next one, settled in the middle, is closed. There’s a resolve to the barred passage, a divider between the present and the painful memories on the other side.

She slips past it, not realizing she's holding her breath until it's behind her.

At the end of the hall is a final bedroom, directly across from the kitchen. Unlike the others, this door is flung open wide. She can't help but look inside.

Her breath catches and she falters, hand wrapping around the doorframe for support. The first thing she sees is sage green walls, haphazardly plastered in band posters and album inserts, all relics of the interests of an adolescent girl. The twin bed sits in the middle of the little room, splitting it in two. The dark gray coverlet is neatly pressed, not a wrinkle to be found as Lucie ventures in and runs a hand over the fabric. The headboard is ancient, made of curved wood. It’s part of a matching set alongside the nightstand and a long dresser.

The chest of drawers is covered with small stacks of books, an anthology of a college freshman’s curriculum. An attached mirror rests above, serving as both a jewelry hanger and photo album, polaroid prints tucked into the edges.

And there, set in the middle is a music box, a delicate construction of carved wood and hand painted. Lucie takes hold of it with shaking hands, sinking down onto the bed as she winds it up.

The high, clanking notes fill the room, only slightly off-key from years of disuse.

It's as if she's traveled in time, each and every aspect of her childhood bedroom exactly as she remembers. She'd assumed that Violette emptied it, repurposing the space and striking the memory of her wayward girl from the record.

But she hadn't. The room stands as a shrine to a willful girl who hadn't appreciated what she had, who had done something wrong and ran far, far away. Not a single speck of dust can be found.

The first sob that breaks free is small and tearless, a decibel above a whimper. The next is bigger, constricting in her chest. She braces for tears, longs for the catharsis they'll bring. But they don't come, trapped in the cage of her ribs, buried somewhere beneath all the aching.

The music stops. She clutches the box to her chest and waits for the pain to pass.

In the days that follow, Lucie spends more time than she'd like to admit looking over her shoulder. For more nightwalkers seeking to whisk her away, for Marcel to descend upon the Garden District to punish her for using magic. Even for Klaus to appear in all his fury and rip her heart from her chest. But somehow, in all her paranoia she never thinks to keep an eye out for a threat dressed up in a suit.

She follows his advice, checking out of her hotel early and keeping her head down. The morning after their argument, her bags appear on her porch, contents all accounted for and neatly packed. She tips the delivery man, who can't quite seem to recall who had hired him, returning to his van slightly stupefied.

And she watches as he pulls away and, clutching the mug of coffee, in her hands, she feels the beginnings of regret.

She's still angry at Elijah and it's mostly justified. His judgment and his attempt to drag her headlong into problems she wants nothing to do with fester like a sore tooth. And can't leave it alone, leaving the wound red and raw. But as she returns to the kitchen and spots the borrowed suit jacket draped over the back of a chair, she concedes that she'd allowed her emotions to run away with her and maybe —just maybe— he hadn't deserved all of her ire.

A day passes and then two. The initial shock fades and reality takes its place. She finds herself with long stretches of free time and nothing to do but think.

Someone had enlisted those vampires to take her, someone connected neither to the Original faction nor Marcel—

Marcel. Another sword hanging above her head. She waits with bated breath for his men to beat down her door or corner her in the neglected back garden and enact his retribution. But it never comes.

She spends much of the time within the confines of the house, amongst dusty photographs and empty furniture. Occasionally, she makes it out onto the back patio to observe the comings and goings of life in the back garden -if it can even be called that. The arched trellis entrance, once verdant with bright, climbing ivy is a sad cluster of dry, dead vines framing the graveyard of neglected plants. Long rows of overgrown shrubbery border the narrow pathway, the flagstones covered over by dirt, as it meanders around patches of struggling stems and shriveled blooms. The flowers that used to fill the air with sweet perfume are now dormant and sickly. She wonders how long it’s been since anything bloomed here. Even the birdbath at the center is devoid of life, its visitors long gone in search of more pleasant places to pass the time.

Lucie feels a flicker of regret. This place had been Violette’s dominion, more so than any other aspect of the house. She’d attended to each fixture with a devotion that bordered on obsessive. A stooped figure in a broad sunhat, she would spend hours out here, pulling weeds and whispering encouragement with the same sternness she used to rear the children. And the plants responded, thriving under her steady hand. It had been the beating heart of the LeMarche residence. Now it lies in a state of decline brought about by years of arthritis flare-ups and summer illness. She stays outside, even after the discomfort becomes heavy, forcing herself to take it in. Only when she can’t bear it another moment does she retreat back into the shady refuge of the kitchen.

The Lower Garden District remains quiet and her unease slowly settles into a desperate need to see something other than the inside of this graveyard of memories, to hear a voice that isn't her own.

She ventures out if only to prove to herself that Elijah isn't right, that she isn't hiding. At first, it's only to the coffee shop at the end of the block, then further out to the shopping district to window-shop and get some sun.

She would be more afraid if her stay here wasn't about to end.

In two days she’ll be gone. The chaos of New Orleans fading in the rearview, easily forgotten in the shuffle of routine. She isn't exactly looking forward to long shifts and tv dinners, but she's carved out a semblance of a life for herself in the Southwest. A shabby haven free of magic and vampires and secrets.

Her outings beyond the old house pass without incident. She tests her luck by making her way to the French Quarter, enjoying the fresh air from the St. Charles Streetcar.

In the coffee shop on Conti where they'd agreed to meet, she finds Cami with her nose tucked in the pages of a backbreaking psychology book. She doesn't notice her until Lucie slips into the seat across from her.

Her face lights up with a smile.

“Hey!” She tucks a bookmark between the pages before closing the volume. “Good to see you.”

“Hi,” she smiles back, settling in. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“No need to thank me. I'm surprised you called. I wasn't really sure if I'd hear from you.”

Lucie feels a twinge of guilt. She'd left Rousseau's on her first day in town with Cami’s number and the intention of meeting up but the exchange had been forgotten in the chaos of the last days.

It doesn't last long. Cami is friendly and easy to talk to, and before long the conversation finds a rhythm. An hour passes, discussing shared teenage hangouts around the city and exchanging memories ranging from sweet to embarrassing.

“Are you sure you don't want to hang around for a few days?” Cami asks her after an hour passes. “I'm off this weekend and we can find something fun to get into.”

Her expression is earnest and so without guile that for the first time, Lucie feels a flicker of regret over her impending departure, enough for her to hesitate before saying, “My boss is already pissed at me for being away this long…”

“All the more reason to blow off steam before going back,” Cami replies without missing a beat. “If not the weekend, then just one more night. You know you want to.”

There's no real pressure behind the sing-song suggestion. Cami doesn't strike her as the type.

She is in the process of voicing a denial when a figure sidles up at the end of their table, too close to be passing by.

Lucie stills like a rabbit caught in the open, but Marcel only has eyes for Cami.

“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls with a smirk. “I was beginning to think you were a permanent fixture over at Rousseau's.”

“This coming from a man who spends most of his time in the bar,” Cami rolls her eyes, offset by a good-natured sparkle in her eyes. “Unlike you, I have hobbies beyond drinking and bothering innocent bartenders.”

“Like?” His almond eyes glitter flirtatiously.

“Like spending time with friends. Something that you're currently interrupting, I might add.”

His eyes slip from her face and fix on Lucie, truly seeing her for the first time.

Goosebumps prick her skin, muscle tensing on instinct. He won't make a scene here –will he?

She's ready to spring from her seat when he says, “Hey there Lucie. You sure have a habit of popping up all over the Quarter, don't you?”

His tone is friendly, she scans his dark eyes for any flicker of recognition, any indication of threat. She finds none.

“You two know each other?”

The two supernatural beings eye one another, waiting for the other to speak.

“Oh me and Lucie's family go way back,” Marcel says, breaking the silence. “Been a while though.”

Cami looks to her to confirm and Lucie nods.

“Feel free to join us then, if you two want to catch up.”

“No, it's all good,” he says with a casual wave. “I'm passing through to meet a friend too. Just saw an innocent bartender to bother and couldn't resist.”

There’s a little ‘hmmph’ from Cami’s end of the table. His smile broadens as he says his goodbyes to the bartender. Then he turns to Lucie. They lock eyes.

“It was good to see you too, Lucie,” he says without a particular inflection. “Maybe we’ll see each other around.

She seizes the second before he turns to retreat to search his eyes, scanning them for any sort of indication of double meaning. But his dark eyes are soft and she can’t catch a hint of malice. Either he has no idea or he's a damned good actor. She knows Marcel can lie with the best of them, but something tells her that he’s not playing a part.

Could it be possible he really doesn't know?

____

Elijah’s phone is never far from his person as he waits for word from Niklaus. All the while, he does his best to keep himself busy, fills the time attending to other matters and for the most part, it’s effective. There’s enough on his plate —though none are quite as pressing as Niklaus holding up their carefully brokered bargain with Marcel.

He's done all he can on that front. Now it's up to Niklaus to handle the rest. It's an unsettling notion, one that forms a stubborn knot in his gut that won't leave no matter his level of distraction, but overthinking will accomplish nothing. All he can do now is trust his brother will do his part and hope that his temper won't get in the way.

The screen lights up as he checks his phone once more. Finding no new notifications, he sets about occupying his mind with something else. The bookshelves that occupy three of the four walls from floor to ceiling provide a worthy diversion as he sets about exploring their contents with an air of determination.

The encounter with the LeMarche girl had been disappointing, to say the least. He had not expected her to embrace an alliance with enthusiasm and had prepared himself for some level of hesitance, but an outright refusal was not something he had planned for. Perhaps it was his fault for not conveying the gravity of their situation, for not fully highlighting what was at stake. Or maybe, presented with the broader picture, he had neatly filled in the lines of how the encounter might go and overlooked that which did not fit.

And had he not allowed his own hopes to cloud his judgment, he would have seen the signs clear as day. She had been frightened and disoriented at times, but surprisingly steady for someone who had just lived through what she had. And while she had been reserved, she did not shy away from answering his questions or from posing her own, following the lines of logic with a sharp astuteness. A ll of it pointed to a steelier resolve and a shrewder mind than he had initially believed. These characteristics he had missed and then in his anger, he had pushed her and found himself met with a blazing defiance.

Elijah flips through a hand-bound journal, perusing the contents before placing it back on a high shelf.

He had underestimated the girl. It is not a mistake he will make twice. He only hopes she survives long enough for them to find a way forward.

In the meanwhile, he commits himself to discovering the meaning behind the lead she had given them in a reluctant show of gratitude.

And so he settles in the leather armchair near the empty fireplace, a glass of bourbon in hand, and begins to read. He's pulled an impressive number of materials from the shelves, ranging from dense, leather-bound grimoires to handwritten manuscripts - the byproducts of six lifetimes of careful collection. Anything that might possibly yield information of a Harvest Ritual he had tugged from its place and added to the piles steadily collecting around him.

The first hour yields little success. A folio on the heightened magical properties of plants harvested at the autumnal equinox. A waterlogged grimoire rendered nearly illegible with a smeared depiction of a snake swallowing its own tail. Each is interesting and valuable in its own right, but utterly irrelevant to his current purpose.

That is until he reaches the journal at the bottom of the second pile. The cracked leather is soft beneath his fingers, a rich, earthy red. His body responds to it before his head can catch up, his heart lurching painfully before he realizes what he's holding. It's enough to give him pause, to debate whether or not he should leave this one be. Celeste’s journal had been one of the few possessions that had survived the mob, Elijah had taken it into his own keeping as a memory, a warning.

Chasing away old ghosts, he cracks it open. A sprig of lavender slips from the pages and lands in his lap. He plucks it up, setting it delicately on the end table, and reads. The intimate details of her day-to-day life are interspersed with diagrams, the specifics of spells, and celestial movements. A star chart draws his particular attention, fingers grazing over the elegant lines of her handwriting. It reveals to him the workings of a planetary alignment that happens once every three hundred years. Under a sketch of a constellation, the word ‘harvest’ is written beneath one end and ‘reaping’ at the other. His breath catches. There's nothing on the next page or the one after that. The journal ends, punctuating Celeste’s life.

Groaning furniture echoes, breaking the spell. He leaves the book on the table and follows the sounds of coughing into the main hall, digesting the information.

Hayley Marshall stands in the middle of the salon, barefoot amidst heaps of covered furniture and piled storage. The edges of a tarp knotted in her hand, she inspects an antique crib, a holdover from when the governor had owned the place. Dust scatters in all directions, settling in a haze across the surfaces in the interior of the grand plantation home.

The girl coughs again, hand drifting up to cover her mouth.

“Are you alright?” Had he known she was of a mind of unpacking, he might have offered his help. Or at least suggested she wear shoes. The floor is dirty, unfinished and home to errant nails.

“Just dust,” she replies, voice a little hoarse. “This place is ancient.”

It prompts him to look around, taking in the columns and fine white moulding of a place that he once called home.

“Yes, it should serve our purposes. It's a sanctuary from our business in the Quarter.” There’s a detachment between the life lived here before and the present situation, like an opaque veil dividing them. It unsettles him in a way he does not expect. Thus, like Elijah is prone to do when faced with the discomfort of his own emotions, he turns all his attention to someone else. “Right now, you are the most important person in this family. You need a good home. So I'm curious... in all this time, has anyone asked you how you feel?”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, hazel eyes glinting with sarcasm. “About having a miracle baby with a psychotic one-night-stand?”

“About being a mother.”

Her expression softens, vulnerable as she wraps her arms over her stomach. “I – I was abandoned when I was born and my adoptive parents kicked me out the second that I turned into a wolf,” she says, softly. She pulls away from his stare to look up at a point on the far wall. “So... I don't really know how I feel about being a mother because I... I never really had a good one.”

It impacts him more than he expects, this revelation. And he feels for the girl. To be thrust from a life of self-reliance and rejection only to have all autonomy stripped away —dragged into the center of a supernatural conflict that began years before her birth— it must be harrowing.

“This family will always protect you,” he says. “You have my word on that.”

It surprises him, the force of truth backing the vow as well as a surge of protectiveness. She reminds him of Rebekah sometimes —or rather how Rebekah had been as a human. Something in her movements every now and then when she tosses her head a certain way or makes a specific gesture.

But as they grow to know each other, he's reminded more and more of Niklaus too. She's only a little younger than his brother had been when they were turned. And there's a harshness to her, a defensiveness used to protect the sensitive nature beneath — a fierce, burning desire for love and acceptance. He's beginning to understand how the werewolf girl and his volatile brother had been drawn into each other’s orbits.

“And noble Elijah always keeps his word.” Klaus saunters in, as if summoned by Elijah’s thoughts.

He elects to ignore the jab. Conflict with his brother often tends to escalate. “Is it done?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Your underhanded deal worked quite well. Marcel was only too happy to accept my blood even as he accepted my heartfelt apologies. His man, Thierry, yet lives, and I remain a welcome guest in the French Quarter.” Elijah breathes a sigh of relief. “My only concern now is this coven of impudent witches.”

Ah yes, the witches. It’s the one looming issue that offered him the most resistance to conquering. “I believe them to be honorable. They did release Hayley to me. Although, they haven't been entirely forthcoming. Marcel obviously has something that they need. They don't want him dead. There must be a reason why.”

He does not tell Niklaus that he’s on his way to discovering what that reason may be.

#elijah mikaelson fic #elijah mikaelson x oc #elijah mikaelson x ofc #keepsdeathhiscourt fic #original female character #elijah x ofc #elijah x oc #the originals fic

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ceaselesssong · 9 months

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Azothoth

When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men; when grey cities reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the sun or of spring’s flowering meads; when learning stripped earth of her mantle of beauty, and poets sang no more save of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward-looking eyes; when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone away forever, there was a man who travelled out of life on a quest into the spaces whither the world’s dreams had fled.

Of the name and abode of this girl but little is written, for they were of the waking world only; yet it is said that both were obscure. It is enough to know that she dwelt in a city of high walls where sterile twilight reigned, and that she toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening to a room whose one window opened not on the fields and groves but on a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. From that casement one might see only walls and windows, except sometimes when one leaned far out and peered aloft at the small stars that passed. And because mere walls and windows must soon drive to madness a girl who dreams and reads much, the dweller in that room used night after night to lean out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world and the greyness of tall cities. After years she began to call the slow-sailing stars by name, and to follow them in fancy when they glided regretfully out of sight; till at length her vision opened to many secret vistas whose existence no common eye suspects. And one night a mighty gulf was bridged, and the dream-haunted skies swelled down to the lonely watcher’s window to merge with the close air of his room and make her a part of their fabulous wonder.

There came to that room wild streams of violet midnight glittering with dust of gold; vortices of dust and fire, swirling out of the ultimate spaces and heavy with perfumes from beyond the worlds. Opiate oceans poured there, litten by suns that the eye may never behold and having in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-nymphs of unrememberable deeps. Noiseless infinity eddied around the dreamer and wafted her away without even touching the body that leaned stiffly from the lonely window; and for days not counted in men’s calendars the tides of far spheres bare her gently to join the dreams for which she longed; the dreams that men have lost. And in the course of many cycles they tenderly left her sleeping on a green sunrise shore; a green shore fragrant with lotus-blossoms and starred by red camalotes.

#hp lovecraft

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heliads · 3 years

Text

Over the Edge

Based on this request: “One shot of reader getting shot and hides from everybody including Wanda. She ignores it and continues to fight sword agents. At the end reader faint due to the injuries she has and Wanda take him and goes to the cabin where she cries.”

masterlist

You feel as if you’re standing on a precipice. One push, one shove, and you’ll be falling down, beyond the reach of anyone save a dark-winged angel.

You’ve always known that there will come a moment in time when your life will end. An injury, a sickness. A battle, maybe. You could sense that something would stop you from living life until the last- old age may be a guarantee to some, but to you, it was a privilege that you would never attain. No, you would die a moment too soon, a time before all others.

You had a certain affinity for seeing into the future. Your gift was frustratingly vague, always coming when you least wanted or expected it and never showing the final result. Your death was one of the first things you had ever seen. It was fitting, in a way: your birth of power was used to show how you would die. You would be alone, maybe. Whatever it was, it would be before you got the chance to grow old.

Ever since you’d gotten that first vision, witnessed the horrible sensation of something utterly wrong happening to snuff out your last breath, it was as if you’d been haunted by the promise of what would happen. You always checked behind you for someone watching your back, for an attacker or accident that could fulfill your vision. For a while, you were safe in the knowledge that your death wouldn’t be coming for a while as you had visions involving a future you, but you have no idea when those would run out, spelling the end for you.

The Avengers had come for you after the rumors spread. They always seemed to show up for cases like yours, cropping up like flies before the bodies can rot on a battlefield. This time, you’d predicted something too well: an attack on S.H.I.E.L.D. in the form of a HYDRA mole. You had seen the entire organization crumble as friend turned on friend, and no one had believed you.

Your family and friends had laughed. HYDRA? Shield? Girl, you’re stuck in fairy tales and ghost stories. Then it happened, the Triskelion falling flame to fiery explosions. Suddenly, your freak hallucinations weren’t quite so funny after all.

Representatives of the Avengers had shown up after that. No one knows about S.H.I.E.L.D. until after they come, that’s the way it always is. Yet you had known, and you would have to explain it all. You were sure that they would kill you for knowing, and that’s how your abrupt death would begin. However, you weren’t to be granted that reprieve of life just yet- when they offered a gun, it wasn’t a barrel pointed at you but a handle offered to you. A job, not a death sentence.

You took it. Of course you did. There is no way to politely turn down an organization with that much power, with that many members willing and able to dole out death like a greeting card. You had agreed, taking the job, and flowing along with the tide wherever it took you. No matter where you went, though, no matter how many prophecies you made, you always kept returning to the precipice. Somewhere, somehow, you would die. Did anything before that really matter?

The knowledge haunts you. It is hard to avoid. You might have saved yourself from certain death by taking up the Avengers’ offer, but by starting down that line of work, you might have damned yourself even more. Death threats and violent confrontations were a cup of coffee in the mornings with the Avengers, and by involving yourself with them, you increased the amount of times you could die. Sometimes, you wished you had never spoken those words allowed, never made the prophecy so they wouldn’t have found you.

Then you met Wanda Maximoff, and that was when you realized it might have all been worthwhile after all. She was like you- fleeing death, doing her best to do it on her own times. She practically sang with the tune of the dying, of her city and parents and brother. People tended to avoid you, afraid that you would see their end and they’d have to live with it just like you. Wanda, on the other hand, was not afraid. She’d seen enough death to know that you were no harbinger, just a Cassandra born to speak aloud. Why fear the speaker if you’ve seen enough of the stories?

The two of you stayed together. She woke up screaming on nights when the air was cold and the sights reminded her of all the damage she’d lived through. You didn’t want to speak for days at a time, when you’d had another vision and were horrified by what would come to be. No matter what happened to either of you, you’d always be by each other’s side.

It was good for a time. Maybe too good. Maybe you should have known then, that nothing in this world ever stays good for too long. You’d seen enough stories fracture to never place any trust in hope. Yet when you had that vision, seen the Infinity Stones brought together under Thanos’ watch, it had still torn you utterly apart.

You had told the Avengers, been the first call to muster the forces and prepare for war. It didn’t do much in the end. They still fought, bled, and died. Thanos snapped his fingers, and you were one of the first ones to go. Wanda had reached out to you just before you went. She was just a hair too far away. Her outstretched hand was too slow to reach you before you turned to ash and dust. In your last moments, you weren’t afraid at all. You had known it all along, hadn’t you? One last step off the precipice. You had seen it coming for years.

You had expected that to be it, that Thanos’ snap and your resulting death fulfilled your very first prophecy. However, your eyes still opened on the battlefield. From what they told you, it had been five years. You had spent a very long time in the dark, forced to behold hundreds and thousands of prophecies. Your mind felt like it could scream and tear itself apart from all that you had witnessed, yet you kept fighting as they asked. A wind up soldier, dealing out destruction wherever they pointed your weapons.

You knew that the fight wouldn’t end, even after Tony Stark sacrificed his life to save you all. The precipice would still loom. You had found Wanda in the fight, and she had finally wrapped her arms around you and pulled you close. Later, she would tell you that not being able to reach you in time had been one of her greatest regrets. It was one of the first times you had truly been separated in many years. She had never felt more alone as she died, even though it would bring you closer to the same home in the dark.

You had found her after the battle, after the funeral. You had told her in a trembling voice of all that you had seen, the countless prophecies and visions you had witnessed. If the Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. knew about them, they would send you down to record everything until your mind ran dark with blood and you went mad. Some of the visions weren’t yours to tell, you knew that, but spies have rarely cared for the price of secrets. By now they would already know that you had seen too much, and already be on the move. You had seen people following you for the past couple of days. It had already begun.

You didn’t know what you thought Wanda would say. You weren’t the mind reader, and you had only seen bare glimpses of what she would do in the future: a rushing wall of red, loud sobs, a house in the mountains. Twin boys. You had no idea what any of it would mean, just that she would continue to live. That alone was enough for you.

Wanda had stayed silent for a minute. You were used to her silence, welcomed it as much as a hearty conversation. At last, she rose, taking your hand to guide you back to the road. We will have a home, she had said, and they shall not hurt us here. When you arrived at Westview, New Jersey, you at last understood. You had seen this very sign when you were dead, and you had seen the scarlet barrier before even as Wanda casts it now. The very scope of her powers is astonishing, but everything was proceeding as it had been foretold. There is nothing you can do to stop the tide of time from flowing, nothing to stop the precipice from drawing ever closer.

When you look around you again, you’re still in Westview. Technically, your feet haven’t moved an inch. But the town itself is different- walls are brighter, people are happier. If you look closely, you can tell that something is wrong. This isn’t the way people are supposed to move, like they’re being jerked around on strings. This isn’t the way time progresses, or the way everyone seems to look at you like they’re screaming for help. This is wrong, horribly so, but it’s so tempting to be safe for once that you can glance away and pretend not to see.

It’s just so good here. So nice. Wanda smiles at you, and you smile back. They cannot hurt you here, cannot reach you. There are no labs or interrogations or people begging for details on your visions. For once, you’re not living in the future, but the present. You haven’t made a prophecy since you came, and your head is blessedly yours. Wanda understands what it is like to be a prisoner of your own powers, and she’s given you a chance to live.

You can tell which people are being manipulated by Wanda’s magic, which people are given scripts and lines to rehearse. You are not among their numbers; Wanda wants you to be you, and that means that you two can have your perfect future. It’s not a prison, it’s a refuge, and that means that you won’t need protection from her.

For the first time, you have the chance to grow old. You have always loved Wanda, and it is so easy here. There are no wars, no guards, no soldiers. You pick wildflowers in the park and present them to her with a flourish, she makes the entire town look like your favorite sitcom so you can practically be living in your favorite reality. You are both fighters who have bled for too long, but for once, you are whole. It’s an opportunity you wouldn’t give up for the world.

When the sky begins to fall, you pretend you don’t see it. You’re silently begging with the future, pleading it not to come. It has never listened to you before, but you can’t help but hope it will stay its hand this once. You see Agnes become Agatha, see the twisting wires of purple magic infiltrate the red. You see S.W.O.R.D. arriving outside the town, and you turn away. Please, you ask, just this once. Let me live this once.

Your pleas are ignored. They send people through the barrier, then armored trucks and weapons. Suddenly, your picture perfect home is shot through with rot, your happy future crumbling away to ash. You try to find Wanda, but she is gone, locked away with Agatha. Everything comes true. The cycle will always turn. You cannot find your love, and you cannot live as you hope.

When it breaks down fully, you know what must happen. So does Wanda. She finds you before she takes down the barrier, holding you in her arms. You can feel her on your hands, breath hot against your cheek. You’ll never stop being on the run from the precipice, from the watchers who want your visions. At least you had this with her. It was worth it, all of it.

The fight begins as they always do. Guns rattle, people cry out in terror. You have seen this scene before in countless different ways and places. However, you’ve taken part in enough battles to know how to continue. Knock out a soldier, take his gun. Keep fighting. Wanda is by your side, lovers staying together once more.

You hear the gunshot from across the town square. Distantly, a voice in the back of your head cries out in relief. This is it, what you’ve seen all along. The bullet hits you a moment later, a piercing pain that seems to shake your very bones. Your hand presses to your stomach, and when you pull it back only a second afterwards, scarlet is already starting to dye your shirt red. You look up, searching for Wanda. She doesn’t know yet. No one does.

Clarity is falling upon you. This is it, at last. The precipice. You stand up, forcing yourself to keep moving. You have always been born to die. At least let your last moments be worth something. S.W.O.R.D. agents fall, but it’s not enough. Will it ever be enough? You don’t have a choice. Wanda is turning to you now, eyes widening as she at last sees the red smear on your side.

When your head hits the pavement, you realize that it’s finally over. The gun falls from your head, clatters to the pavement. Wanda lunges for you, but she arrives too late again. Why is it that she is always one step too far? You don’t have any more visions of yourself, just of her. You’ve always been looking at her. When you die, you have a smile on your face.

Death is not peaceful. It never is for you. Your eyes are forced open by invisible hands, and you watch once more as the future is laid bare for you. I’m dead, you want to shout, stop making me see any more. But the prophecies keep coming. You are the one who sees them, and so you must see the world through. That is how it works.

Wanda, however, is not willing to give you up so easily. You’re not sure what price she paid to put breath back into your lungs and keep your heart beating, but when you wake, you’re in a cabin in the woods. You’ve seen it before, you realize, when you died the first time. This means you’re still alive, and you’ve eluded the precipice once more.

Wanda is leaning over you, relief written in every line of her face. When she sees you look at her again, she starts to sob in earnest. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I can’t take your death.” It is a shame, then, when you know how it ends. For now, though, you manage to crack a smile. “I don’t much enjoy it either.”

Death still weighs upon you, heavy as an anvil. There will come a day when even Wanda’s magic won’t be enough to save you, when love falls through the gaps and you will finally be laid to rest. The precipice still looms, as it always will. But for now, you sit up and take Wanda’s hand. At least when you face that fight, you will have your lover by your side. You can look far enough into the future for that. For now, you can keep on fighting, even when the precipice seems inevitable. You’ve accepted your death, but you would live for her.

marvel tag list: @mycosmicparadise

wanda maximoff tag list: @mionemymind, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff imagines #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff oneshot #scarlet witch #scarlet witch imagines #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch oneshot #marvel #marvel imagines #marvel oneshot #mcu #mcu imagines #mcu oneshot #wandavision #avengers #avengers imagines #avengers oneshot

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imaginedisish · 3 years

Text

Devil’s Advocate (Tenet) Neil x Reader

Chapter 1: Paper Planes

A/N: Hey guys!! Here is the first chapter of the fic, “Devil’s Advocate”!!! I’m excited about this, and writing it is getting me through a lot right now, so I hope you all enjoy it too! Here ya go :)

Summary: After a traumatic experience, you are forced back into the field with Neil, but the mission is personal and possibly too close for home for you to handle. Neil helps you through it, but you’re not sure if you can get the job done.

Warnings: Violence, guns, death, drowning, injuries, angst, cursing, and yes, luckily some fluff :)

Word Count: 4,405

The weight of your cold, dark black glock settles heavily into your right hand as you pick it up off the table to your left. You secure a pair of noise cancelling headphones around the top of your head. You load the gun and cock it.

The headphones blast with music, helping you to concentrate on the man-shaped target in front of you.

Everyone’s a winner, we’re making our fame.

Bonafide hustler making my name.

You extend your gun out in front of you as you shut your left eye tightly to aim.

All I wanna do is…

BANG BANG BANG BANG

And uh, and take your money.

You lower the gun as the target pushes forward towards you. You can’t help but smile confidently as you look at the deep hole you made in center of the paper man. You reach to take it down, but a warm hand grabs onto your shoulder, squeezing you tightly, freezing you in place.

The hand twists your body slightly, just enough to make you turn around. You reach up to the top of your head and slip your off headphones, letting them rest around your neck.

A charming, wild grin pulls at Neil’s lips as his gaze meets yours. “That was bloody incredible!” He shouts. There’s a bright flash of excitement in his eyes. His hands gesture towards the hole you made in the wall. You had aimed perfectly, shooting in the exact same spot each time you pulled the trigger.

“Thanks,” You say back as your cheeks flush with heat despite the boost of confidence rushing through your veins from Neil’s praise. A compliment from Neil means a lot to you, even though you’ve known him for years. He was your closest friend and made sure to tell you the truth, even when it hurt. That honesty grounded you in the chaos of your life. He was a constant, a steadfast star in your sky.

Neil chuckles a bit as his eyes look down to the headphones hanging around your neck. You don’t hear how loud your music still is. Your mind is too focused on the sound of Neil’s laugh.

M.I.A Third World Democracy

Yeah I got more records than the KGB

So uh, no funny business!

“A bit loud, isn’t it?” Neil laughs again as he steps closer to you. He brings his hands to the back of your neck, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin as he grabs the headphones and slips them off of you.

That smile, You think before mentally slapping yourself across the face. Snap the fuck out of it.

Your feelings for him were always at the back of your throat, clawing for supremacy, climbing up to the tip of your tongue, threatening to force your mouth open to spill your guts. Somehow, even after all these years, you were able to hold back. Maybe it was because you didn’t need more than what you had with him. That was an absolute lie. Maybe it was because he never belonged to anyone else. There was no need to be jealous. Maybe it was because there was a certain, silent promise of belonging to each other despite the lack of an official relationship.

That was more like it.

Neil puts the headphones back on the table as the next song plays. The absurdly loud riff of the guitar pulls you back into reality.

Fell in love with a girl,

I fell in love once and I almost completely.

She’s in love with the world

But sometimes these feelings can be so misleading.

Blushing again, you reach into your pocket and pull out your phone to press the pause button. The music stops and you smile shyly. A creeping sense of embarrassment crawls into your stomach. You were beyond happy that Neil was able to see you in your element, and usually his presence made you feel good, but his attention was overwhelming at times. Now, the confidence that settled in before had been sucked from your soul and replaced with a racing heart and a cluttered mind.

You push thoughts of Neil to the back of your head. “So what’s up?” You ask, setting the gun on the table next to your headphones. You casually slip your hands into the pockets of your baggy jeans. You mentally acknowledge that you may be overdoing the whole ‘playing it cool’ thing in front of Neil, possibly even to the point that he might be able to see straight through your act.

“Well,” Neil pauses. His hand moves to the back of his neck. “I’ve got some news,” Neil says finally, his smirk falling from his lips. Your heart skips a beat. He looks unbelievably nervous. His brows furrow cautiously, knowing his next words are going to achieve some sort of poor reaction from you.

You gulp anxiously and nod. “W-what is it?” You stutter as you predict the words Neil is about to say.

I can’t fucking do this, not yet.

Neil steps closer to you and grabs your hand in his. The touch was familiar but still shocked you to your very core, your nerves tingly frantically under his fingers.

Please don’t say it, please don’t fucking say it.

Neil’s voice is quiet in anticipation of your panic. “The boss, he wants you back in the field…” Neil trails off, continuing on about something in London, something about him going with you. You feel your chest tightening. You’re not listening anymore. You’re too focused on what happened last time, too focused on the trauma, too focused on the tears, the shouts, the deaths.

“NO!” You scream, your long, HDM hung heavily in your hand. The lifeless body of a new recruit crashes to the floor.

You raise up your arm and cock the gun. You’re ready to aim and shoot, but two large men grab your hands. Your gun falls to the ground with a clatter.

The man with the dark hair cackles cacophonously. He shakes his head, his piercing emerald eyes dissolving your soul as he picks a new body to hold roughly in his arms. A revolver presses tightly against the person’s head. You can’t tell exactly who it is, as there’s a burlap sack covering their face. There are 8 other people in a semi circle, each appearing the same as the last, tied up in a chair with a burlap sack hiding their identity.

“What?” He shouted barbarically, his voice echoing against the silver, metal walls of the chamber. “You think your fucking screams can get you out of this?” He grinned maliciously, licking his lips as he cocked the gun. Tears roll down your cheeks.

You are helpless.

You are useless.

“(Y/N),” The voice of the person cries out, knowing that their fate is already sealed. It was a woman’s voice, and you felt a bit guilty as you prayed to God that it wasn’t Wheeler.

BANG!

The lifeless body slumps into the chair. You whimper, stifling a sob in the back of your throat.

The man with the dark hair moves onto his next victim. You struggle, trying to shake off the two men holding you back. You look around the room, searching for something, anything to get you out of this.

The man’s face lights up with malignant excitement, sensing that his next kill would hurt you the most.

Fuck, no no no no no, You think to yourself. You could recognize those stupid, posh little black dress shoes anywhere. You knew the curves of his body, the shape of his hands. Blood dripped down his neck from the cut on his forehead he had gotten earlier.

Neil.

“Please,” You beg. “Don’t touch him. Just kill me instead.”

The man with the dark hair only grins more widely now. “Darling,” He snarls. You cringe at his use of the nickname. Neil usually was the one to call you that. “Your begging only makes this more fun for me. In fact, it makes me want to kill you even less, just so you have to live with the image of everyone you care for dying in front of your very eyes for the rest of your life.” His cold words send shivers down your spine.

He maneuvers differently around Neil, as he grabs the bottom of the burlap sack and removes it from his face.

Neil’s blue gaze meets yours. You heart feels like it’s being stepped on as it sinks deeply to the bottom of your chest. You can barely breathe now. You huff, trying to keep your sanity, trying to find a way out of this fucking mess.

“I figured you would want to watch the life drain from his pretty little face, (Y/N),” The man retorts. You shake your head violently. You look left to right, searching for some sort of weakness in the two large men that were keeping you in place. You notice a brace around the knee of the man on your right.

Thank God for shorts, You think to yourself.

The man with the dark hair raises the revolver to Neil’s right temple.

“(Y/N),” Neil mutters. “I l-,”

Before Neil can get his last words out, you raise your right leg, bending it in and snapping it out at the back of the man’s knees, launching him forward. With your right hand now free, you sucker punch the man to your left square in the nose. You round house him in the stomach, sending him backwards. You grab your gun off the floor and aim it back to the man with the dark hair.

The man chuckles evilly. “You shoot me, and I shoot him. It’s really as simple as that.” Your heart pounds in your chest.

An idea suddenly dawns upon you. You shift subtly enough so that the man doesn’t catch on to your train of thought. The gun is already cocked, all you need to do is pull the trigger.

BANG!

“Fuck!” The man cries out, stumbling forwards into the center of the semi circle as he releases Neil from his grasp. His gun falls to the floor. You turn away sharply at the realization that you blew his hand off.

You run over to Neil first, quickly untying his hands and setting him free. He starts untying everyone else and you walk over the the man with the dark hair. You catch a quick glimpse of Wheeler, and sigh in relief that she’s safe.

You breathe in hard and part your lips. “Don’t you dare ever fuck with me or my team again,” You pause, kicking the man in your ribs. There’s something extremely personal about your tone. He grunts in response. “Now tell me where Edgar is keeping the weapons. And tell me where the fuck the lab is, you prick.”

He chuckles, breathing shallowly. “Prick?” He pronounces the word articulately. “That’s no way to address your uncle.”

“Fucking answer my question ass hat!” You shout, aiming your gun at his head. With another swift kick to the stomach, he curls up in a ball, clutching at his core. You cock your gun again, ready to shoot. Neil rushes to your side, giving you a look that implored you to let him finish before you blew his brains out.

“F-fine,” He stutters. “It’s in London.” He gives you a set of coordinates, and Neil takes them down. “I suppose I should tell your father that you’re calling him by his first name now, hm?”

“No, you won’t be getting the chance to,” You say.

You pull the trigger.

BANG!

You hear someone in the distance calling your name.

Two slender, toned arms wrap around your back, resting on your waist as they pull you into an embrace. The smell of Neil’s musky, cinnamon and citrus cologne heightens your senses and brings you back down to Earth.

Your breathing slows down a good deal as you press your face into Neil’s chest. His right hand comes up to the nape of your neck, and he begins to rake his long fingers through your hair.

“Are you alright, (Y/N)?” Neil whispers in your ear.

You swallow roughly. “No,” You say without even needing to think. “I’m not ready yet. I can’t leave Headquarters yet. I’m just not ready.” You feel tears begin to swell in your eyes and you bite down on your lip, hoping to keep them at bay. It had only been a month since you had killed your own uncle. He was a piece of shit, but that didn’t make the situation much easier to deal with.

It had only been a week since you watched two of your friends die. That part may have been the hardest for you to swallow.

Neil shakes his head and breaks away from you bit, just enough to get a good look at you. “You’re ready, (Y/N).” His voice is calm and reassuring. “And unfortunately, you don’t have a choice. We have to leave for the airport in,” Neil pauses, checking his silver watch, “45 minutes.”

“W-what?” You gasp. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I just found out a few minutes ago,” Neil admits. “If I knew earlier, I would’ve told you.”

You nod, believing him entirely. “So we’re going to London? To the coordinates?” You ask, looking up into Neil’s ocean eyes. You could feel yourself beginning to drown in them, just as you always were.

Neil simply nods back. He rests a hand on the center of your chest, feeling your heartbeat quicken with anxiety. “It’s just going to be you and I for a few days, and then everyone else will join when we confront…” He doesn’t same his name. He doesn’t want to make you panic again. But you know exactly who he means.

Your father. Your heart hammers in your chest at the thought of him.

“It’ll be okay,” Neil’s comforting tone relaxes you a bit. “I won’t leave your side for a second,” He adds. You sigh audibly in relief.

You let a single tear slide down your cheek. “Thank you,” You whisper.

Neil pulls you into his chest again. “Anything for you,” Neil responds. You shudder at his words. Sometimes you could swear that he didn’t only see you as his best friend, but something more.

You let the ideas ruminate and run freely in your mind for a few seconds before shooing them away like pesky little children.

You take a step back, allowing a small space to fill between the two of you. “I guess I should go pack now.”

Neil instinctively closes the gap again. You can tell that he’s worried you’ll break down, and you hate it, but his support feels nice. “Do you want me to go with you? I’ve been told I’m good company.” He grins and sends a wink in your direction.

The corner of your mouth turns up a bit into a half smile, and you let out a small giggle. He always had a way of making you smile, of making you feel good.

“Nah,” You say, smiling fully now. “I’ll be alright by myself.”

Neil nods and smiles back. “Alright. I’ll meet you in the lobby at two o’clock,” Neil says. His smile turns into a smug smirk, and he turns his back to you. His dress shoes tap against the floor as he walks away.

“Make sure to bring that silk pajama set you wore that time we went undercover in Monte Carlo,” He calls finally, wagging his pointer finger in the air. “I liked it.”

You felt heat rising in your cheeks at his words. You almost tripped over the completely flat ground as Neil’s chuckle echoed down the hallway.

————

You clutched the handle of your suitcase in your hands. You let it dangle in front of your legs, nervously bouncing it with your knees every few seconds. Your eyes searched the lobby for a head of fluffy blonde hair, but it was nowhere to be seen. You glance up to the analog clock above the front door.

1:59. You were early. You were always early, for everything. Being late made you too anxious. You never wanted to miss a beat.

The clock ticked 45 more times, and you counted each second. Finally, the sound of dress shoes echoed from down the hall. You looked past the reception desk to see Neil carrying a leather duffle bag in his right hand, and a bottle of water in his left.

He smiled, releasing your butterflies from their cage inside your stomach as he finally reached your side. You open your mouth to say something, but Neil cuts you off.

“Don’t try to tell me I’m late,” Neil remarks sardonically, his eyes drifting off of you and onto the analog clock. “You’re just always early.” His smirk tugs at your heart, and you can’t help but smirk back.

“I wasn’t going to say you were late!” You playfully smack his arm with your hand. “I was just going to tell you to be earlier next time.”

Neil grins and shakes his head. He brings his hand up to the small of your back and brushes lightly. Outside the front doors, underneath the awning, a sleek, jet black town car pulls up. You feel your breath hitch in your throat at the realization that it was time.

This was it.

Neil looks to you. “Are you ready?” His voice is reserved, almost as if he was scared to ask the question in the first place.

You nod once. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” You swallow your fear and let Neil guide you out the doors. He grabs your duffle bag out of your hand, and opens the already popped trunk, carefully placing the luggage inside. You go to open the door, but Neil beats you to it.

“I can open doors you know,” You say sarcastically, glaring disapprovingly in his direction.

Neil doesn’t seem to care. “A thank you would be nice, love,” Neil says, shooting a charming smile in your direction. His hand is still holding the door open for you. You step inside the car and look up at Neil.

“Thank you Neil,” You say mockingly. Neil smiles slyly and closes the door.

The car ride to the airport is relatively uneventful. Neil gave you the run down. He told you your cover, where you were staying, and the overall gist of the mission.

“So we’re married?” You ask, making sure you had heard that part of the plan right and hadn’t dreamt it up from a fantasy.

Neil smiles and nods. “We’re newlyweds, traveling the world together one city at a time.” There’s a whimsy in his voice, almost as if he’s telling a fairytale. You can’t help but chuckle a bit, despite the anxiety growing in your stomach.

The car turns onto an exit ramp, and suddenly the airport is in plain sight. You shiver a bit, feeling the air around you growing colder and colder. You check the temperature gauge at the front of the car, and notice that he hasn’t changed at all. You wrap your arms around your chest, rubbing up and down along your body, hoping to warm up.

Neil’s smile fades away as he furrows his brows in concern. He wraps his right arm around your shoulders. You jump at the sudden warmth.

“Are you alright?” He asks as he brings his other arm up to wrap around you completely.

Your anxiety is begging you to tell him no. “Yeah, I’ll be okay,” You lie. Neil doesn’t buy it, and rightfully so.

Neil squeezes you tightly. “I know you’re not okay, you don’t need to lie to me,” He whispers. “I’m here for you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes begin to well up, and a single tear rolls down your cheek. “Alright,” You sigh, wiping the tear away. You sniffle a bit, trying to clear your head in the process. The car rolls to a stop. “I’m ready whenever you are,” You say, trying to seem more confident than you actually were.

You open the door and slip out. The chaos of the outside of the airport takes you aback, despite the fact you had been in an airport millions of times before. Neil steps out behind you, and goes over to the trunk. He takes the luggage out and steps towards to you. You stare up at the massive building, petrified to enter.

Neil ticks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “There’s not much time, (Y/N). We have to go inside now,” He says, his gaze staring into the side of your head. You refuse to meet his eyes, you’re too focused on the building, the mission, the future.

After a few seconds, you nod to Neil and walk into the airport. You and Neil only have one duffle bag each, and thus you could skip checking in any bags. He guides you over to security, which happened to be a breeze.

A short walk later, you approach the gate. There was a line of people waiting to enter, and you and Neil shuffled to the back of it. A few minutes later, a nice steward scanned your ticket.

“Alright Mr. and Mrs. Ryan, you’ll be in row 2, seats A and B. Have a nice flight,” He smiles, and gestures for you to enter the bridge to the plane.

Your heartbeat quickens as you take small steps. “N-Neil,” You stutter as you reach to center of the bridge. “I can’t do this. I really can’t do this. I mean it. I-I’m sorry I just can’t.” Panic is heavy in your voice. It feels as though the walls are closing in on you.

Neil puts the luggage down and brings you to the side of the bridge. He pushes strands of your hair out of your eyes. “It’s going to be okay,” Neil reassures. “You can do this. I’m said I’m not going anywhere, and I meant that.”

Neil picks the luggage back up, and guides you through the entrance of the plane and to your seat. You hesitantly sit down, quickly placing your hand on the armrest, wondering if there’s still time for you to run out of the door and back to headquarters. To your dismay, you watch the doors of the plane begin to shut. Neil wasn’t kidding before when he said there wasn’t much time.

He stores the luggage in the overhead compartment, and takes his place next to you. He notices that you’re still shaking, and he places his hand on top of yours and brushes your skin lightly with his thumb.

A comfortable silence rests gently between you and Neil as his hand remains on top of yours. Sometimes words aren’t necessary. You can get the idea of what someone means by their actions alone.

A few moments later, the captain makes an announcement, followed by a series of other voices sharing information. You're too wrapped up in your thoughts to pay attention to anything they have to say. Before you know it, the plane begins to move down the tarmac. It gains speed, and suddenly, you feel yourself being lifted in the air.

You shiver again, the anxiety becoming too much to handle. You try to ease into your seat in an attempt to calm down, but to no avail. You’re petrified and uncomfortable, a terrible duo of emotions to be faced with simultaneously.

Suddenly, you feel Neil’s warm hand leave yours. You watch in confusion as he lifts the armrest up, tucking it in between the seats. He lifts his arm, and wraps it around your shoulder, just like he had done in the car, and so many countless times before. You accept the invitation willingly, and snuggle into his side.

Minutes later, you’re fast asleep in Neil’s arms.

———

An evil chuckle echoes against the concrete and spreads down to the grassy beach below. “There’s no saving him now, (Y/N)!” A man shouts from the top of an overpass.

You look down and watch as a familiar figure waves their arms frantically underwater, trying to swim up to the surface, but they can’t. There’s a brick tied around each of their angles. Their dirty blonde hair floats freely in the water as they continue to sink to the bottom.

“N-Neil!” You shout, trying to step forward to dive in after him. But your stuck, tied against a chair, guarded by two large men. “Please, please stop this!”

The man laughs, ignoring your pleas. “This is what you get, (Y/N). You’re worthless, and you fucking know it. Don’t you ever forget it, darling.”

You shake side to side. The chair tumbles over and you fall into the dark, black, cold water. Your nerves are shot by the shock of the frigidness, and you can’t move.

“Neil!” You gargle, left to watch as he sinks to the bottom of the lake. “Neil!”

“(Y/N)?”

“Neil!”

“(Y/N)?”

Your eyes shoot open and you practically jump out of your seat. Your seatbelt pushes you down, keeping held tightly. You’re trembling. You can’t breathe at all.

“(Y/N),” Neil repeats. “It was just a nightmare, you’re okay.” He wraps his arms around you, bringing you tightly into his chest.

You bury your face into his white shirt, sobbing softly. His right hand reaches up to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently combing through your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” Neil whispers, his voice filled with kindness. “I’m so, so sorry, love.”

You whimper into his chest as pain explodes in your heart. “What am I going to do?” You mutter.

“Don’t worry about that,” Neil says, his kind tone persisting in each word he utters. “I’ve got you, it’ll be okay.”

It needed to be okay. You needed to be okay. You couldn’t risk any fuck ups, not this time. This was real. This was life or death.

This was the end of the world.

Or at least it could be.

“I’m going to fucking kill him for what he’s done to you,” Neil states, the kindness in his voice is replaced with anger and frustration. “I’m going to kill Edgar, I swear.”

You shake your head against his chest. “No…

“Leave that part up to me.”

>>> Chapter 2

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karlyfr13s · 3 years

Text

One Love, One Lifetime

A Phantom of the Opera inspired Captain Swan AU

Chapter 6: Music of the Night

AO3 Links: 1 Overture, 2 Think of Me, 3 Angel of Music, 4 Poor Fool, 5 All I Ask of You

Note: Again, some violent imagery in this chapter, though this time it is self-harm. Nothing lethal, but avoid paragraph 4 if reading about someone intentionally injuring themselves will cause you unease.

Summary: This time, we shift narrative perspective to follow the struggle for dominance between Killian and the Dark One. A glimpse into the world as seen from behind Dark Killian's eyes.

He’d broken everything. The tenuous trust forming between them, the connection he’d felt when at long last he’d given in and allowed himself a moment’s pleasure at the brush of her lips--all of it discarded with the crumbling of that loathsome stagehand’s heart. Though the other fools who prowled the halls of his theatre might remain oblivious, he had no doubt Madame Lucas would make the connection. Given her maternal feelings toward Emma Nolan, the ballet instructor would undoubtedly caution the young woman against seeing him again.

Not that she would choose to see you anyway, a voice slithered through his mind, the unwelcome intrusion that had snaked its way back into his consciousness at the sight of the viscount down on one knee.

A murderer, chastised the voice. A jealous wretch who dwells underground, who hides from the light like the demon they all know you to be. What did you think would happen? That they would forgive your crimes? That she would stay with you in this bleak pit?

“She deserves more,” Killian mumbled, pacing the length of the cavernous space. “But he doesn’t deserve her. Now get out of my head.” Gritting his teeth, Killian hauled back, slamming his fist against the stone walls of the cavern again and again. His knuckles now bleeding, he carefully unfurled his fingers, throbbing echoing through his hand as he cataloged his injuries. Likely he’d fractured a knuckle on his middle finger, several lacerations from his rings cutting into his skin, inconsequential abrasions from the rough stone walls, but all of them might be worth it. Sometimes pain drove the darkness back to the inner recesses of his mind. A broken bone here or there often provided him a measure of freedom for a time.

Unfortunately, it did not appear to work this time. As the dust he’d kicked up drifted through the air, catching the soft firelight from the many candles whose warmth Killian sneered at, the oil-slick voice wormed its way through his consciousness. The poor misguided hero, it crooned. Locked away in a tomb of his own making, fighting against his very nature after his fall from grace.

Killian caught his reflection in one of the many mirrors meant to reflect and amplify light in this dank dwelling. His eyes were wild, his hair a chaotic tangle, and more than anything he resented seeing his own lips move as the other voice filled the chamber and his mind. What would dear Liam think? To see you now: thrumming with hatred, and pining for someone pure and true as the North Star? Though using the Dark One’s magic left no physical trace, Killian wiped his hand on his trousers and knelt by the underground lake, attempting in vain to wash both hand and hook of the violence he’d earlier committed. The cold water brought some numbing relief, but the unseen filth of his actions and loss of control remained.

“It’s your fault,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “You took the man’s life, you forced me into this position.” A small part of him knew he was rationalizing, attempting to avoid blame after the Dark One brought up Liam. His brother would be beyond ashamed to see him now, he would be disgusted by what Killian had become--had been forced to become. It wasn’t as though the damned dagger came with instructions. If he’d known the sacrifice required of him…would he still have gone through with it?

He paused, hearing the high lilt of her voice as it trickled through the stone to reach this place. Taking a slow, steadying breath, Killian rose from the lakeshore and waited. The other voice inside him was silent now and Killian had the strange impression of it listening, head cocked in curiosity. Even the Dark One couldn’t resist the heart-shattering beauty of Emma’s clear soprano.

Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime.

Let me lead you from your solitude.

Say you need me with you, here beside you,

Anywhere you go, let me go too,

Love me, that's all I ask of you

She was working on another piece, the one he’d written with her in mind. It was meant to be a duet, really. He’d meant to bring her here, to practice alongside her. She didn't know the whole piece--he hadn’t finished teaching her since so much of her time was taken up practicing for the season’s shows--but as she repeated the stanza they’d worked on together, the presence of the other voice within him began to fade. It clawed at his mind, grasping to get a foothold once more, but the darkness was no match for Emma’s light. As pure and true as the North Star indeed, and now it guided Killian back to himself.

He let himself remember her expression when she found the trove of sheet music he’d written. He filled his mind with her gentle laugh and the slight pout she wore as she asked repeatedly for him to play something for her--” Anything, really. Please, Killian?” How could he deny her? And so he’d shared a few stanzas of the piece he was working on, had listened to her humming along the second time through as she harmonized with him, and later that night he’d kissed her.

Letting the memory of that night fill him, Killian shoved the darkness back into its cage, locking the space in his mind before bringing himself to the doorway disguised as a mirror in her room. She sat at her vanity, hair unbound and falling down her back in a waterfall of shimmering gold. He drank in the sight of her, hungry for every detail as though her mere presence might wash away the atrocities of this night. She wore only a nightgown of palest blush pink, and when her eyes flicked over to the mirror he watched their emerald depths widen in surprise before her brow knitted in concern.

She was on her feet, closing the distance between them and taking his hand as she gently tugged him into the room. Her eyes searched his, and Killian had to drop his gaze, ashamed of the worry and bafflement he saw written there. As he did, he realized the ring he’d glimpsed earlier was nowhere to be seen. Her long pale fingers remained unadorned.

“Killian?” She spoke softly, ducking to try and catch his eye. He frowned at the floor, realization hitting him with far more force than his earlier self-induced punishment. A punishment she now seemed to notice. A featherlight touch brought his attention to his hand. It looked far worse than he’d thought, his middle finger at an odd angle, his knuckles swollen and bloodied. “Killian, what happened tonight? Where were you?”

Even now she was willing to give him a chance, was willing to listen where he’d only allowed himself to cower in darkness and lash out. He felt his unworthiness as keenly as he felt the warmth of her hands and so he slipped out of her grasp, taking a step back toward the door and squaring his shoulders.

“I was on the rooftop as planned,” he explained blandly, slipping his hand in his pocket. “As were you, it seems; though apparently mine was not the company you sought.” He arched a brow at her, warring emotions of fear and rage masked by feigned indifference. This was the one gift the Dark One had given, the one aspect he appreciated within the accursed fate he’d brought upon himself. The passion of his youth, the fact his heart was on his sleeve and emotions writ large across his face for all to read, was no longer. They had been replaced by a mask of control and lethal calm.

Without giving her a chance to interject, he went on. “Once I left the two of you there, I ran across that abominable stagehand. As he was, yet again, leering at your friends and peers, and as he has chosen time and again to fabricate all manner of tales about me, I chose to end his storytelling career a few pages early. It is no great loss, I assure you.

“Tell me, Emma, are glad tidings in order at this sudden betrothal?” He leaned in, tucking a finger under her chin and tilting her head so their lips were a mere breath apart. “Am I to be nothing but a fond memory as you sit by the fire, working at embroidery while a troupe of children play on the floor at your feet? No doubt, your valiant viscount will be away often. We could make other arrangements if that pounding heart is any indication of your desires.”

He knew he was pushing, knew she flushed not merely with want but with the shame of that want. Emma had been schooled as a proper young lady and here he was insinuating some torrid affair, but he had to know. That dark thing within him rubbed against his mind, a cat luxuriating in the warmth of his suggestion. He waited and watched expectantly as she mouthed a reply, clearing her throat twice before her words were finally audible.

“I said no.”

“What?” He hadn’t dared hope. Had assumed her reply had asked for time or proper courting, that perhaps the ring hadn’t fit, or she’d simply removed it when she called him to her side. His beautiful brilliant siren.

She straightened, the muscles in her throat working as she gulped down whatever emotions had caught there. He watched as her chest heaved with a deep sign. “I told Graham I cannot marry a stranger,” she admitted after a moment’s silence. “Just because we knew one another as children does not mean he knows me now. To think he can ask this of me when he’s not taken the time to truly know who I am now--” She chewed at her bottom lip and Killian fought the impulse to close the small distance between them.

With a shake of her head, Emma led Killian to the small loveseat in the corner of her room and sat, patting the space next to her in invitation. He complied, feeling more than a bit off kilter at this strangely domestic scene: the two of them sitting in her room, neither dressed for company. Taking both his hand and hook in hers, Emma spoke softly.

“I need more than to become a dutiful housewife. I don’t want to be a viscountess whose sole purpose is to bear children and run a household staff. I was born to two artists, Killian.” His heart ticked up at the sound of his name. “While Ruby may dream of the latest fashions and hosting a gaggle of her female friends for parties each weekend, that’s never been my dream. My best friend is more suited to that life than I’ll ever be.”

Thoughts wheeled through his mind in rapid succession, trying to decipher the intention behind her words, seeing multiple divergent pathways depending entirely on his reaction here and now. In his experience, a life of luxury, safety, and comfort defined the wants of women. Objectively, the viscount was handsome, he was certainly well-off, and he had a lingering devotion to the woman who now sat knee to knee with Killian. Why should she be any different from the rest?

She isn’t. The voice spoke from behind the locked door within his mind. She’s an opportunist and will use you to gain fame before she uses him to gain fortune. They’re all the same.

Pocketing the thought for another time, Killian chose the simplest route forward. “Then what is your dream, Emma Nolan?”

“No one but Ruby’s ever asked that,” she mused, lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. “I want to make a name for myself. I want to not simply be ‘David Nolan’s orphaned daughter’, but to be known for my own talents, my hard work.” She fidgeted with the rings on his fingers, bringing his hand to her lips and brushing them softly across his knuckles, avoiding those that were most injured. He saw the question in her eyes but waited for her to continue.

“A season as the lead soprano, maybe even two.” Her voice was wistful and she stared at the flowers filling the small dressing table nearby. “Some time to show Paris what I know I can do, and maybe later...to show the rest of the world.” Her sigh was resigned and Killian knew she saw this merely as a dream, not a goal, not something achievable. His heart went out to her, he knew the pain of desiring something without any possibility of having that desire fulfilled. Hell, he was looking at it now, if he was honest for a moment.

“I was angry earlier,” he said, nodding toward his injured hand. Honesty. Let it be honest between them always, even if it hurt. “There are times when I’m...not myself. Tonight was one example. In attempting to free someone I loved long ago, I instead bound myself to the darkness that once held her captive. That once kept her from rising to be the magnificent woman I knew she was capable of becoming.”

It tore at an old wound, speaking of the loss of Milah and the loss of his own independence. He’d sought to free her from her atrocious husband, to marry her and live a proper life together, but their plans went to hell the moment he’d killed the man she’d shackled herself to.

“I hadn’t known, Emma, I swear it. I’d thought the dagger would simply end his life and rid us of the darkness.” He scoffed at his own ignorance, hearing Milah’s scream in the back of his mind, the final sound her voice had made before her husband ripped her heart from her chest. Fighting the tears pricking behind his eyes, and knowing this made little sense to the woman whose green eyes burned with curiosity as she sat with him, he laughed bitterly. “I should have known nothing could be so simple. Instead, I am as you see here before you: a man cursed to live a life of eternal damnation and darkness.”

The quiet of the space consumed them. Killian counted their breaths, counted the moments that passed in utter silence. He was a killer and a sorry wretch of a man. He waited for her to dismiss him.

“That’s not true,” were the first words to break that silence. Spoken with clear conviction, her face set in stern resolution.

“Forgive me for disagreeing, love, but it is. I have killed without remorse, I could not defend the woman I loved, and I am host to a parasitic darkness that will dwell in my mind forever. I’m the villain.”

“Not to me,” was all she said before gracing him with a kiss. This one was filled not with fire and need, but with sweetness and comfort. She was the first breath of spring that thawed the icy dark of winter, the golden sunlight come to wake the world from its long slumber. In that moment, Emma Nolan was everything, and he drank down every bit of light and warmth she offered.

Thank you @ultraluckycatnd for beta-ing this piece, and @lonelyspectator12 for being an encourager and brainstorming partner. And a special thank you to @teamhook for keeping me going on this (even when I try to chicken out).

Tagging those who've asked:

@kmomof4, @teamhook, @veryverynotgood, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @laschatzi, @donteattheappleshook, @lonelyspectator12, @the-darkdragonfly, @zaharadessert, @winterbaby89, @jrob64, @wefoundloveunderthelight, @ultraluckycatnd, @stahlop, @alexa-fangirl-forever, @superchocovian, @monosalvatore16, @snowbellewells, @batana54

#One Love One Lifetime #karly tries to write #CSMM #Captain Swan #emma swan #killian jones #dark hook #phantom of the opera inspired #cs fan fic #captain swan au

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hellowkatey · 3 years

Text

Febuwhump Day 19

Prompt: sleep deprivation

Warnings: graphic descriptions of torture, hallucinations

Read on AO3

Eyes Wide Shut

Panic rises in his throat as he stares at the shadows that creep up the wall. Obi-Wan flinches at flashes of light and dark, secretly hoping that they are some sort of hallucination.

Hallucinations would mean he would have an excuse to feel like the world is unraveling. Maybe the lack of sleep is finally clouding his mind enough for him to see what isn't there, or worse, a glimpse into what is beyond. He feels close enough to death to touch it, so why shouldn't he see it too?

He needs to rest. Shut his eyes and let his jail cell fade into darkness. But the analog clock hasn't moved in what feels like hours, but he knows it's only been seconds. In the rare moments when his captors aren't blaring horrible sounds that blew out his eardrums days ago, he still seems to be able to hear the damned clock. Tick, tick, ticking continuously until it makes him forget how many tick tick's he's counted and the tick tick tick longer hand is pointing at a new number. He doesn't remember that much time passing (tick tick tick tick), but such is life in captivity. Periods that feel long are actually a blink or two, and moments that he thinks he's finally found control again turn out to only be an illusion.

He lies on his side, knees tucked into his chest. Wiping away tears he doesn't remember shedding, he pretends he isn't alone. He has never told anyone, but some nights, he finds no sleep unless he imagines imaginary arms encompassing his body. A certain someone that makes his chest ache when he thinks about them too much tucked against his side and acting as his valiant protector from the horrors of the night. It's been a long time since he last shared a bed. As much as he knows he doesn't need it, he wants it because for once it would be nice to feel an ounce of comfort.

Because laying on the freezing, hard ground for any longer than a few minutes makes his body go numb. And even if he manages to muster enough strength to manifest the ghost of warm arms wrapping around his torso and a chin nestling into the crook of his neck, it fades before he has a chance to pretend he's anywhere else but locked in this prison.

He thinks he sees a flash of bright blue, or maybe green, and for a moment he thinks he's saved. But no, his mind has seemingly decided that his current torturers aren't doing a well enough job, so it dangled hope in front of his face for good measure. It's a trick of the mind. Another convincing piece of evidence that his heart pounding against his chest cavity and the pressure building in his veins aren't the only things manifesting in his sleeplessness.

Hallucinations would mean maybe he's finally cracking. Finally breaking under the pressure as many before have hoped to do to him. Obi-Wan has been through worse feats-- more pain, more bodily harm, but somehow this is a new circle of hell. Worse than a couple of days with no shut-eye. At least then he has battles or missions or other people to distract him from the exhaustion in his bones. But this... this is like a piece of Zigoola resurfacing from its hiding space in the depths of his mind.

(Sometimes if he's quiet enough he can hear the prayerful chant die Jedi, die Jedi die. Interestingly enough, he can't hear it now. Only the tick of the clock.)

Hallucinations would mean the lines between reality and whatever the hell else there is would blur completely.

Strangely, the prospect of such an existence is becoming more and more appealing.

Maybe in this augmented reality, he could finally find peace. For himself. For the galaxy. Never in his life has he wished so earnestly for a moment of quiet and stillness. Everything seems to be going wrong. The tides are turning and as much as the Republic likes to spout off about how they're the ones to come out on top, Obi-Wan has a feeling they're going to be the ones swept under the tidal wave.

(He has no evidence for this except for a lifetime of being told to trust his feelings.)

So how do you tell that to millions of soldiers created for the sole purpose of war? Or to the Jedi he fights alongside? The padawans who had to grow up too fast, and the Masters who have lost everyone in their lineage? Perhaps they're thinking it too-- he isn't so vain to assume he is the only one who cannot stand the sight of the Holonet anymore because none of it lines up with what actually happens on those battlefields. Or that he sees the way the civilians cower from both the Separatists and the Republic. Likewise, how they air their disdain with equal prejudice. They have to see it, right? The foundation crumbling beneath their feet? The chasm they walk a very thin tightrope across?

If he's lucky, all of this has been one big dream. One big escape from reality and he will wake up in the Jedi Temple with the smell of Qui-Gon's favorite tea brewing and a padawan braid hanging from behind his ear. Because Obi-Wan is pretty sure the last time the galaxy had some semblance of normalcy was before he was forced to cut Maul in half.

He stares at the shadows that claw across the ceiling, menacing and vile as they draw in the last drops of light. If the faces he sees staring back at him are only a hallucination, he will be satisfied. Because facing them for real is a feat he isn't ready for, so he closes his eyes as though that will keep the ghosts from following him.

And that's the problem with dreams, he thinks, I yield control to the wills of my mind, and I have no confidence it will be any less horrifying than the reality I currently live.

But the moment ends with what sounds like the scream of a dying krayt dragon being blasted into the room from all directions, and Obi-Wan jumps to his knees in surprise before toppling over once again. He covers his ears as though that will keep out the noise or the vibrations that shake every cell of his existence, curling back into the ball he just had himself in. If he separates from himself enough, goes to another place where the gray walls become mere blurs and the Force acts as static, the screaming of the krayt dragon becomes nothing but background noise. Enough to ignore the pain as the scars in his ears tear open and blood drips down his collar. Enough to hope that the next noise they play might be slightly more pleasant.

Maybe if they play one loud enough, he will go deaf completely, and then Obi-Wan will find some peace.

The cell is fourteen of his foot length across, and fourteen wide. He hasn't yet measured, but he suspects they're fourteen tall as well. Made entirely of reinforced durasteel with no clear door, he suspects they built the prison around him.

For the thousandth time since he awoke here, he screams into the Force: why?

On the third day, he received an answer: why not?

For some reason, this doesn't surprise him.

He sees the face of Qui-Gon, stoic yet kind-eyed. For a moment at least, and then his expression changes to wide eyes and deathly pale complexion.

"Promise me," he says. Obi-Wan doesn't need to hear the rest to know what he's promising. It's been a staple of his nightmares for years.

"Promise me," Satine says as he leaves his master lying on the ground. He looks up in horror.

"Promise what?"

"Promise me you will move on."

He swallows hard, reaching out for her slender face and bright eyes. "Move on from what, my darling?" But as he tries to cradle her cheek and feel her soft skin against his hand, she vanishes into thin air. "Move on from what?" he whispers.

And he is alone again.

If he really is seeing lightsabers floating through space and ghosts of people that he held in his arms as they passed and hearing the voices of the dark side lingering somewhere in the nearby shadows, then maybe this is his final spiral. He isn't even sure if anyone has noticed he's even gone yet. The worst part is he has no idea what the purpose of all of this.

Why?

They haven't asked him any questions, haven't tried to take anything from him. Just put him in this cell and decided to keep him awake.

Why not?

Sleep was never a natural state for Obi-Wan, but five days without a moment of unconsciousness is enough to drive anyone mad.

There is no end, there is only the Force. He reminds himself of this as he presses his fingers against the quickened pulse against his neck at the tempo of an upbeat cantina band. He's past the point of caring about the cold water they spray on him or the racket they blast through the speakers or the things that may or may not be real. Let them. I welcome it, now.

But a part of him still screams at him to fight. Oh, how he wants to silence the bugger, but it only makes another part of him speak up to remember his training and what he stands for. I've withstood worse, his mind reminds him. And yes, he has. But his life has been a continuous pursuit of one-upping his last mission injury or torture regiment and stars Obi-Wan is so tired.

What about Anakin?

Obi-Wan lets out a shaky breath.

Promise me, Obi-Wan...

Not even the voice of Qui-Gon comforts him anymore, and he buries his face in his hands.

It isn't even the hallucinations or the torture anymore. What is really wrong is that the galaxy is crumbling and the Force is on fire and he's choking on the smoke. Limbs pinned down by the screaming that's he's okay. I don't need help. Which is such a fucking lie because he can feel the life draining as quickly as time feels like it's passing. He can feel that darkness is coming and coming quickly. There is no way to stop it. No way to slow it. Like waiting for the whistle tone to drone out his next attempt to nap, all he can do is watch it as it arrives.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

But when he looks, the clock hand hasn't moved yet, and a part of him is happy another hour hasn't passed. And a part of him dreads the idea that maybe he'll be stuck in this moment forever.

__________

Anakin stands among a room full of dismembered bodies, his chest heaving with residual adrenaline from the fight. He wields not only his own weapon but his former Master's. All that was left behind when he disappeared. The clone troopers pour in moments later, unsurprised by the carnage. Anakin wastes no time in taking the two weapons and plunging them into the durasteel wall of the suspended prison.

He forms a circle large enough for two people to fit through, and he jumps into the tiny cell. The first thing that hits him is the smell. It's not of death, but of the moments before. They've arrived just in time it seems.

"Obi-Wan?" he says gently as his gaze falls on a crumbled figure tucked in the corner. His former master looks horrendous, dirty and bloody and deathly pale. When Anakin says his name his eyes raise slowly, and he is shocked to see the wild look in them.

"Anakin?" he rasps, his voice sounding raw. From the red rims around his eyes and the puffiness of his cheeks, it's obvious he's been crying. "No... it can't be." he whispers, and rolls into himself, turning toward the wall. Anakin is stunned. What the hell did they do to you, Master?

"No, Obi-Wan, it's really me," he says, kneeling down next to him and placing a hand on his wrist. When he touches his skin, Obi-Wan jumps as though he's seen a ghost. He looks at Anakin with wide eyes and mouth agape.

"Anakin?" he repeats, grabbing his hand and then his wrist and feeling the material of his tunic. "Anakin!" Before he can react, Obi-Wan has thrown himself into his arms. Anakin ignores the stench and hugs him tightly, relief washing through him to be near his former master again.

"I've got you, Master. I've got you."

Obi-Wan's head rests on his shoulder, holding the embrace long enough Anakin's body starts to cramp. When he pulls back, the Jedi Master's head bobs back, lightly snoring.

"Obi-Wan did you... did you fall asleep?"

"Sir," Rex's voice rings out as Anakin gently lays his master on his back until they can get a stretcher in here.

"What is it?"

Rex's helmet is off, and he looks at him with serious eyes. "They've been keeping him awake."

"The whole time?"

"I only skimmed through the footage but..."

Anakin looks back at him, sleeping soundly-- probably for the first time in 120 hours. His knuckles go white as he grips the hilt of his lightsaber.

"Have medical take him in. And by no means wake him up."

Rex nods and walks out of the doorway Anakin cut to call for Kix. Anakin stands from the ground, looking around the tiny cell. The only thing that stands out is a clock hanging on the wall, the old kind that they don't really make anymore. The kind with the hands. The ticking is obnoxiously loud, echoing off the unpadded walls of the cell.

He takes Obi-Wan's saber, ignites it, and swiftly slices the clock in half. It falls, but he catches it with the Force before it hits the ground.

The cell goes quiet, except for the quiet snores of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday19 #sleep deprivation #obi-wan kenobi #hallucinations #torture #anakin skywalker #this one got angsty #i actually started writing it at 3am #and decided to keep the ramblings #welcome to the inner workings of my insomnia mind

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melanielocke · 3 years

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Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 20

AO3

Taglist: @nott-the-best @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised

Previous Chapter: Chapter 19

Next Chapter: to be posted

After a long consideration, Lucie decided to wear her fit flops into the woods. Perhaps not the best choice of shoe, but she still had blisters on both feet and any other shoe would make it worse. She regretted that decision when her feet started to get cold, but if she’d chosen different shoes she would probably regret them being painful just the same. She began to understand why middle aged men insisted on wearing socks with sandals, no matter how awful it looked.

‘Are you seriously wearing flip flops?’ Alastair asked when he noticed.

‘They’re fit flops,’ Lucie protested.

‘Which are not flip flops?’

‘These are structured and very good for the feet. Also I have blisters everywhere. This is how I can still walk.’

No one had additional questions. Alastair checked the pictures on his phone every once in a while and compared with their surroundings. The pictures he and Thomas had taken off the ruins had become pictures of this world instead of the one in between, and Alastair was trying to pinpoint the location of the ruins. None of them felt it was a good idea to spend an extended time in the land in between, considering the danger of being sucked all the way into the realm of the thief of souls. It was possible Lucie could portal them back from there as well, but even entering that realm could also kill them all. Lucie wasn’t willing to take chances.

‘I think these plants match the pictures,’ Alastair said.

Lucie tried to look over his shoulder at his phone, and got a glimpse of the same shrubs that were in front of her. It wasn’t conclusive, this could have been anywhere, but Alastair scrolled through his pictures and made more comparisons. Not to mention he’d been to the ruins before so he at least knew what path he’d taken to get there.

‘Alright, I’ll open a portal,’ Lucie said. ‘Darkness, create a gateway to the land in between only open to myself, Cordelia Carstairs, Alastair Carstairs and Thomas Lightwood, a gateway that remains open until all four of us make our way back through the same gateway.’

The gateway of shadows was subtle as always, but soon the four of them disappeared through it. Lucie tripped over something as soon as she was through, falling over and falling onto her knee.

She scrambled upright and inspected the parts of her body that were hurting. Her knees were bleeding, but the wounds were superficial and she could walk just fine. She’d probably have to clean and disinfect it when they got back.

Of course, the floor of the ruins was higher than the path in the wood, so stepping through the portal meant she had to step upwards while not seeing the floor. Honestly, it was a miracle she was the only one who’d tripped.

‘Are you alright?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Just a little clumsy,’ Lucie said. ‘Next time we go here I’ll open the gateway before the ruins and not in the middle of them.’

Lucie sat down on an a block of stone and looked around. Her knees did hurt. As a child she’d been rather uncoordinated and had had bleeding knees all the time, but she thought she’d grown over that. Nowadays Thomas, who wasn’t quite used to his size, was the clumsy one.

The ruins looked the same as she remembered from seeing them in Alastair’s memory. It had been a weird experience, to look through his eyes. Looking in Alastair’s memory let her experience the memory as he had sensory wise. Somehow his senses were even more overwhelming than her own. It made her wonder if Alastair was autistic too. She wasn’t the only who experienced his memories that way, according to Cordelia it was much easier for her to revisit her own memories than his, since his memories tended to be so overwhelming even when they were very neutral memories. Alastair believed Cordelia’s memories were duller and less detailed because they belonged to someone else and he was just visiting, but Lucie wasn’t so sure.

He definitely struggled socially and had specific and sometimes odd interests, it wouldn’t surprise her if he were autistic, or at least not neurotypical somehow. Although she guessed considering he had PTSD that already made him not neurotypical. She was never quite sure what did or did not fall under the neurodivergent umbrella.

‘Is this the trap door you couldn’t get open?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Right here,’ Alastair said.

Thomas knelt down and started pulling on the handle. ‘I still can’t get it to open.’

‘Let me,’ Cordelia said, and she firmly grabbed her sword and swung it at the trap door, shattering the wood until there was an opening and a ladder leading down somewhere.

‘Who wants to go first?’ Alastair asked, studying his nails.

‘I’ll go,’ Cordelia said.

Alastair didn’t listen to her and instead descended the ladder himself, disappearing into the darkness. Cordelia groaned.

‘I’m the one with the magic sword!’ she shouted into the opening. ‘What part of “I’ll go” do you not understand?’

Alastair called something back, but Lucie was too far away to make out what either of them were saying. She stood up from her rock, which was hurting her butt, and walked over to Cordelia and Thomas.

‘Anything down there, Alastair?’ she called into the opening.

‘It’s dark,’ he yelled back. ‘I’m turning on my flashlight.’

Lucie didn’t realize he’d brought a flashlight. Then it occurred to her he probably had one on his phone. She could see a shimmer of light coming from down the trap door. Whatever it was down there, it was deep.

A howl pierced the air, not unlike the sounds the werewolf Cordelia had killed had produced. It came from downstairs.

‘Alastair, get back up here!’ Thomas yelled down.

Alastair did not respond. There was another howl. A growling sound. Something Lucie interpreted as a struggle.

‘Alastair!’ Cordelia yelled.

A deafening silence. None of them dared to breathe.

‘I’m alright!’ Alastair called back.

The creature growled again, the sound of nails screeching against the floor. Lucie didn’t recognize everything that was happening down there.

A moment later Alastair emerged from the trap door, some dust on him which he carefully petted off, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

‘Did you kill it?’ Lucie asked, eyes wide.

‘Not yet,’ Alastair said. ‘It’s another werewolf, and last time I used this dagger on it, it didn’t work. We need cortana.’

‘How come you’re not dead?’ Cordelia asked, smacking him over the head. ‘You bloody fool, why did you go down there without me?’

‘Because otherwise you would have,’ Alastair said. ‘There’s a werewolf down there, but it’s bound by a chain. It tried to attack me, but it wasn’t nearly close enough to reach me. There were two doors behind it, it’s protecting something. Meaning we’re in the right place.’

‘If it’s not the skin then it must be something else important,’ Cordelia said. ‘So, I kill the wolf and then we open the doors.’

‘Careful, it’s starved and very aggressive,’ Alastair said.

‘I killed a werewolf before.’

‘One that had its eyes on me and Thomas. You could surprise it from behind, that is not possible right now… Unless I distract it first.’

Cordelia frowned. ‘I’m not sure…’

‘I know now where I’m safe. I’ll try to provoke it into attacking me while remaining someplace it cannot reach me. You follow me down, quietly, and then attack from behind.’

Alastair went back down. Cordelia looked nervous and Lucie squeezed her hand for a moment. ‘You can do this. Come back when you’re safe.’

Lucie was nervous too, but she had faith in Cordelia. She’d killed a werewolf before, she could do it again. And this one was chained, she could always run and make her way back to a location it couldn’t reach.

Waiting seemed like forever. She heard the werewolf, she heard it howl and screech and make sounds Lucie interpreted as an attempt to attack. She didn’t hear any screams, no sign Alastair or Cordelia were in danger. Then the werewolf made a pained sound. Silence.

‘It’s dead!’ Cordelia yelled. ‘You can come down.’

Lucie went first, carefully gripping the ladder and going down. It creaked under her feet and she held her breath as she descended slowly. The ladder had held both Alastair and Cordelia, she reminded herself. She might have gained weight the last few months, but she suspected she was still lighter than Cordelia and it had held her.

Lucie took in a deep breath when she was all the way down. She turned around and took a good look, taking out her phone and putting on the flashlight. In front of her, its ankle chained to the wall, was a dead woman. Lucie shrieked. She was beheaded, and an arm was lying a little farther away from the rest of the body.

‘That’s the werewolf,’ Cordelia said.

‘It’s horrifying how they return to human when they’re dead,’ Lucie said.

‘It is. No ghosts here?’

Lucie shone her flashlight in all directions, but didn’t recognize anyone beyond Cordelia and Alastair. ‘No, no one. And there are two doors. Which one do you think we should take?’

‘One is locked, one is not,’ Alastair said. ‘I imagine the interesting things are behind the locked door.’

Cordelia hacked at the locked door with her sword, but when the door was out of the way something else was stopping her. Lucie walked over to take a look, shining her flashlight into the room. It was a big room with a table, on top of which lay something that resembled maybe a blanket? Lucie tried to get a closer look, but an invisible barrier stopped her.

‘I think that’s it,’ Cordelia said. ‘That’s Grace’ skin.’

Lucie realized it was indeed a skin of sorts, not a blanket.

‘Cortana cannot breach magical barriers,’ Alastair said. ‘So how are we going to get through? Lucie, can you dispel it?’

‘I have no idea how,’ Lucie said, ‘but I can try. Darkness, please lift the barrier that keeps us from entering this room.’

What remained of the door disappeared, but when Lucie stepped forward the invisible barrier was still there. ‘That’s odd. I couldn’t open or close any doors at home, much less make anything disappear.’

It was one of the things she’d tried, but nothing had worked.

‘Perhaps your power is different in this realm,’ Alastair mused. ‘Perhaps this is where it comes from.’

Lucie wondered why that would be. The land in between was something layered over their own, tied to the thief of souls who waited on the other side. Lucie suspected the souls that were taken were similar to ghosts as she knew them in her world, so that was one connection. Her magic seemed to be tied to darkness, at least it was according to Grace, and the land in between was certainly darker than the normal world. But what was the connection between her and the thief of souls? Was there one? Lucie wasn’t sure she was ready to find out.

‘Perhaps,’ Lucie said. ‘I might have disappeared the door, but the magical barrier is still there. What is behind the other door?’

Thomas opened it and bent down to fit through. Lucie wasn’t sure when or where these ruins were built, but the people who lived in it were not accustomed to tall people. The doorways were wide enough, but not very high.

Thomas returned, hitting his head against the doorframe this time.

‘Careful,’ Lucie said.

Thomas rubbed his head, wincing in pain. ‘Why are the door openings so low?’

‘Probably because tall people hadn’t been invented yet when this was built,’ Alastair said. ‘Anything interesting there?’

‘Corridors, doors, vines… it’s a bit of a mess down there, and there’s a part that’s underwater. I think it’s a maze. Which probably means it hides something interesting.’

Alastair frowned. ‘Would Tatiana have reason to go there and hide anything beyond the skin? I’m assuming the barrier lets her through.’

‘But perhaps there’s something else down there someone else hid,’ Lucie said. ‘Or there’s a key that can get us through the room. Perhaps we were supposed to find the key there instead of shatter the door. Like in a legend of Zelda dungeon.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ Alastair said.

‘It’s a video game,’ Thomas offered. ‘Well, a series of video games. It is common for the key to a locked door with something important behind it to be hidden someplace else.’

‘But this isn’t a video game,’ Alastair said. ‘If I wanted to defend something at all costs, there would be no puzzle solution to getting it, and the only way to shatter that magical barrier would be by casting magic on it of such force it would be unable to withstand it. If there was a key, I would take it with me, not hide it in a maze this close by.’

‘But the text did say something about every puzzle having a solution. Perhaps that’s against the rules. Since we can’t cast enough magic to dispel the barrier, it’s worth taking a look there,’ Lucie said, entering the next room.

It did look like something out of a legend of Zelda dungeon, although perhaps a bit more decayed and creepy. There was a lower level beside where she was walking, which was flooded. Lucie didn’t think it was safe to go in the water. Flooded areas could be treacherous, and filled with bacteria. She placed her steps carefully, there was nothing keeping her from falling into the water. There was a bridge farther ahead, leading to a series of doors, most of which had locks on them. There were vines growing along the walls, but none of the doors appeared blocked so far. The atmosphere was dark and gloomy, but bright enough to see even if she couldn’t identify a source of light. She wondered how the vines grew here without sunlight.

Cordelia followed her, sword still ready, but when Thomas tried go through the door something stopped him.

‘There’s a barrier here too,’ Thomas called.

Lucie immediately turned back, worried she’d locked herself in. She put her hand out to feel for the barrier, only to feel… nothing. She moved back into the first room.

‘Oh, it’s gone,’ Thomas said, moving into the second room again, carefully bending down to protect his head.

When Lucie tried to follow him, she felt what Thomas had noticed, a barrier just like the one keeping them from Grace’ skin. Which was odd, because just moments ago she’d been able to go through both ways. Alastair tried as well, but it didn’t let him through. Not until Cordelia returned and he suddenly stumbled through as if he’d been leaning on the invisible barrier and now he’d fallen, catching himself by taking a few steps until he’d found balance.

‘Maybe it will only let two of us through,’ Thomas speculated. ‘It doesn’t seem particular on who enters, but when there are two of us on the other side the barrier closes for the ones left behind.’

‘That’s an odd mechanic,’ Alastair said. ‘Why not keep everyone out if you’re so keen to place a barrier?’

‘The inscription said something about every puzzle having a solution and every lock having a key,’ Lucie said. ‘What if it means that there must always be a way, and you cannot guard a treasure in such a way it’s impossible to reach? You can only make it so long and complicated that people would give up or get lost in there, but there has to be a solution. So this is like a dungeon, and maybe Tatiana created it not to make it impossible to get the skin, but make it hard enough most people won’t succeed. There had to be a key to the skin and it has to be somewhere here.’

Lucie figured this land played by its own rules, and she hoped she was right and getting past the magical barrier was possible if they solved whatever was here.

‘But if we stay too long, we’ll end up trapped in the realm of the thief of souls,’ Alastair said. ‘Is it worth the risk?’

‘Perhaps there is a way to keep track of this realm changing into the other one,’ Thomas said. ‘Just before I followed you down, something changed into the ruin structure. Small, but some bricks were added to a wall. Lucie, would you be able to reverse the changes, and freeze the realm in this state, so to say? To give us more time?’

Lucie guessed that meant she had to stay here. So much for exploring the dungeon. At the same time, her knees still hurt and getting to sit in the ruins and cast magic might be better than stumbling through dark caverns. Not to mention her chances of catching an infection from whatever was in that water was far greater.

‘I could give it a try,’ Lucie said. ‘I think it should be possible, but I won’t keep up forever.’

‘Only two can go in, so one person should stay with Lucie whereas the other two go explore,’ Cordelia said.

Part of Lucie hoped Cordelia would stay with her, but she suspected there might be more dangers lurking inside, more beasts chained up blocking exits, and it made sense for Cordelia to go.

Cordelia had the same idea. ‘I’ll go, I’ll have my sword to protect myself.’

‘You’ll get lost in there,’ Alastair said. ‘I’ll have to join you since I can always trace our way back.’

Lucie imagined with his memory he’d never get lost as long as he made sure to take in his surroundings and look for landmarks. She’d never considered that use of his ability.

‘I’ll stay with Lucie,’ Thomas said. ‘If we can’t hold on anymore, if we’re attacked, what do we do?’

Alastair grimaced. ‘You run. You take the gateway back. Do not wait for us. The gateway should remain open in case we do make it back. Depending on how deep this complex is, one of us will return every once in a while to check how you are doing. Just make sure you stick close enough to the entrance that you’ll hear us yell. If there’s no response, we will leave immediately.’

Lucie wasn’t comfortable running and leaving Alastair and Cordelia behind, but she agreed that they had little other choice. The gateway would remain open for them either way, they’d have a way back.

‘If we have to leave without you, I will stay around and check every once in a while,’ Lucie said. ‘However, if I leave and then enter again, does that not reset the time before it has been too long?’

‘If we stay too long we might get trapped with the thief,’ Alastair said. ‘Leaving and entering might reset the count until that happens, we should try that before delving in. But I do not want to end up buried alive.’

Alastair had a point, if she opened a gateway here they might be very well end up somewhere under the ground. All four of them ascended the ladder, and made their way to the still open gateway, a ray of light, stepping through. The difference was subtle and yet their world felt so much safer, warmer, kinder. The greatest difference was the ruins disappearing. When all of them were back, the gateway closed.

Lucie checked the time on her phone. One in the afternoon. It didn’t feel that long, but she was used to that by now. Time ran differently in the land in between.

Lucie opened another, using the same conditions. When they entered again, the ruins did look different than they had upon leaving, but only slightly.

‘That wall was much higher,’ Alastair said, pointing his finger. Lucie was impressed by his attention to detail. ‘Now it is crumbling. I think this is a complete castle in the realm of the thief of souls.’

‘Yes,’ Lucie said. ‘So we must make sure the castle doesn’t get built.’

Lucie hugged Cordelia before she left. ‘Don’t die, alright?’

‘I’ll do the best I can, and we’ll be careful. We won’t take any unnecessary risks.’

Lucie found a comfortable stone to sit on close to the trap door, while Alastair and Cordelia descended the ladder once more, disappearing into the darkness.

‘Darkness, freeze this place in time so that we will not be transported to the realm of the thief of souls,’ Lucie commanded.

She wasn’t sure if anything was happening, but she would keep her eyes open to see if anything changed. She might not have Alastair’s memory to keep track off the difference but Lucie had always had an eye for detail.

Thomas was pacing restlessly, head down, posture slumped, walking everywhere across the ruins. It was getting on Lucie’s nerves, but she tried to ignore it and let him do whatever he needed to.

‘Everything alright up there?’

It was Cordelia. Some time had passed and she was checking up for the first time.

‘Nothing has changed yet,’ Lucie called back into the opening. ‘Any progress?’

‘We checked which doors open and which don’t,’ Cordelia said. ‘There’s a mechanism here that we think will drain the flood water, but Alastair’s still trying to figure out how to operate it. And most of the locked doors only give us more keys to open new locked doors, so that’s not exactly helpful.’

‘Alright, good luck! If you need anything, just let us know!’

Cordelia went back inside and Lucie was starting to get very irritated with Thomas’ pacing. She knew it was irrational, but it was too much sensory wise.

‘Will you sit down for a moment?’ she snapped.

Thomas’ eyes went wide in shock and he immediately came to sit down next to her. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s nothing to apologize for, it’s just getting on my nerves,’ Lucie said, remembering Thomas’ tendency to apologize for everything, always worried he was taking up too much space.

‘I’m nervous too,’ Thomas admitted.

‘Cordelia was here not long ago,’ Lucie said. ‘They’re alright.’

‘I have faith in them,’ Thomas said. ‘But that doesn’t mean I like waiting up there. I hate not being able to do anything. Alastair and Cordelia are trying to figure out how to get Grace’ skin, you are keeping us from falling into the realm of the thief of souls with no way back, and I am useless.’

‘You’re not useless,’ Lucie said. ‘You can help me. I need to be very focused on these ruins, so I need you to keep me safe.’

Thomas nodded, clutching a dagger in his hand. Another one of Alastair’s collection. Cordelia always claimed he was very possessive of his daggers, but now he seemed alright with sharing them. She knew there was a bad story behind the one he’d given her though, she knew this dagger had once been a gift from his ex lover, someone who had apparently been rich enough to buy this for him. She wondered how Alastair had felt upon receiving such a gift. Lucie guessed she’d feel uncomfortable receiving an expensive gift from a lover. But perhaps he’d felt indebted to his former lover too, had felt like no one else would love him like this person.

‘How are you and Alastair?’ Lucie asked. ‘Was it nice, sleeping over?’

‘Uhm, yes, it was nice. Well, I did accidently trigger a flashback and I’m terrified it’ll happen again. I don’t want to hurt him.’

‘Did you say anything weird?’ Lucie asked. ‘What happened?’

‘I think getting intimate with him brought up memories of his ex,’ Thomas admitted. ‘He said it wasn’t my fault, but maybe I did push him too much, or did not consider…’

Lucie wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t think it was Thomas’ fault, especially if Alastair said so. She knew he had a tendency to get angry when he was hurt, although she hadn’t witnessed many outbursts lately. According to Cordelia, his anger had calmed a bit since going to therapy. Lucie wasn’t sure if the way he always seemed tired, the fight drained from him was much better, and Cordelia agreed that sometimes it seemed worse.

‘What did you do after that?’ Lucie asked.

‘I took him outside to look at the stars,’ Thomas said. ‘It was a little cold, but it was nice. And Alastair did want to touch me again, so I’m guessing that’s a good sign.’

‘I really don’t think he blames you, or he would have gotten angry,’ Lucie said. ‘He tends to lash out when he’s hurt.’

‘He used to,’ Thomas said. ‘I don’t think he does that anymore. Not against others anyway.’

‘Do you like being with him?’ Lucie asked.

‘It’s amazing,’ Thomas said. ‘I mean, it’s difficult sometimes because I hate seeing him in pain, and I don’t always know how to help, but we also have fun together. He liked watching the stars with me, or going swimming.’

‘You can’t take all his pain away by yourself,’ Lucie said. ‘I know in novels it’s always love will fix everything, but unfortunately in real life that’s not how it works.’

‘I know,’ Thomas said. ‘But that doesn’t make it easier, watching him suffer in silence. If anything, it’s worse knowing that I can’t make it go away. The best I can do is support him and help him through it. How is it going with you and Cordelia?’

‘Not great,’ Lucie admitted. ‘I haven’t figured out how to tell her I like her.’

‘Blurting out feelings after nearly being mauled by a werewolf worked out for me,’ Thomas said. ‘Maybe you could tell her after today’s mission if we’re all still alive.’

‘Maybe,’ Lucie said.

She noticed a change in the wall, the same wall Alastair had pointed out earlier. It had grown, some bricks added to it until the wall seemed complete, no longer crumbled.

‘Darkness, reverse the progression to another realm and take us back to the land in between we entered.’

It worked, the bricks disappeared and the wall was crumbled again. Lucie felt as if she’d lifted all the bricks by herself. She wasn’t sure how many more times she’d be able to do this. Lucie tried to even out her breath, and lay back on the stone. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she didn’t think she could find something better around here.

‘As Nico di Angelo once said, with great power comes the need to take a nap,’ Lucie said. ‘Can you keep in touch with Alastair and Cordelia for me? And alert me if anything else changes.’

Lucie closed her eyes and tried to find a comfortable position. Next time she’d bring a pillow. And a blanket.

#Alastair Carstairs #Lucie Herondale #Thomas Lightwood #Cordelia Carstairs #james herondale #alastair carstairs #fanfiction #the last hours #tlh

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

She [1]

Warnings: non-consent sex (series)

This is dark! Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Steve Rogers’ life is turned upside down by a reporter.

Chapter Summary: You meet Steve Rogers for an interview but he’s not what you expected.

Note: I’ve been trying to chill the last five days but I obviously got some writing in. It has resulted in this impromptu series and I hope you all like it. It’s looking like it will be about 10 chapters when all is said is done but that being said, I am still working on it.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Reader

Your left ankle bent as you leaned heavily on your heel. You stood before the thick walnut door, a round frosted window on its face. The townhouse stuck out on the old Brooklyn row and all knew its resident. It surprised many that he remained in the borough and he was cherished all the more for it. He was the golden boy of New York.

Well, that’s what people like to believe. You weren’t there to paint another flowery picture of the saviour. You were there to speak with the real man behind the plan. There was a story behind Steve Rogers that had yet to be told and when you were selected to tell it, you knew you had to do it right. The task was both daunting and humbling. It could be your big break.

You knocked and adjusted the bag that hung from your shoulder. You didn’t miss the group of kids at the end of the block gathered around for a glimpse of their hero. The door opened and you were greeted by the man himself. He smiled at you as his hand rested on the curled door handle.

“Hi,” He greeted you. “Thanks for coming. It saves me a lot of trouble.”

“Not at all,” You shook his hand.

You’d spoken to him briefly over the phone and negotiated the time and place for your interview. You agreed that him coming to the office would cause too much of a flurry. You were sure he was over that.

“Come in,” He stepped back and waved you through.

He closed the door as you looked around the entryway. A thick banister with the same dark wood as the walls led up to the second level and a finely carved archway peeked through to the next room. It was cozy and a lot quainter than you expected. The exposed brick above the panelling lent it a warmth.

“Shoes?” You stopped by the mat.

“Your call,” He said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers, but I’m fine,” You assured him as you stepped out of your heels. You’d hate to scuff the hardwood. “I’m sure you're just as impatient as me to begin.”

“Steve. And yeah, I suppose. I don’t really do much more than pressers and usually, I don’t do much talking.” He confessed. “Just through here,” He pointed to the front room.

You nodded and stepped through. He directed you to the pair of armchairs before the artificial fireplace and you set your bag down as you sat. He lowered himself across from you as you reached into your bag and pulled out your phone and notebook. You swiped up and flicked your finger across the screen.

“Do you mind if I record you? It helps with editing and of course, accuracy,” You said.

He scratched his jaw and shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Great,” You hit the red dot and set the phone down on the small table with the mic facing him.

🖋️

You were a bit surprised by how it had all unfolded, but, you supposed, you were right when you said no one was ever exactly what they seemed. Steve was nice enough as he showed you the door but you could see the agitated impatience behind his eyes. You should’ve eased him into it more. Timing was everything.

Even so, you had promised your editor a story and if you didn’t deliver after being chosen for such a coveted one, well, you would never see its likes again.

So you sat at your desk in your small but comfortable city apartment. It was nothing compared to the star-spangled hero’s walk-up but it was home. If you could work the interview the right way, it might mean an upgrade, or at least a television that didn’t flicker.

You hit play on your phone for the third time that night. Steve Rogers’ voice was etched into your brain. And that tension in his forehead, the tic in his jaw. A thinly veiled wrath unexpected of the valiant soldier-turned-saviour. You shivered and paused the recording. It was almost startling how quickly he’d turned on you, but you weren’t entirely innocent.

You stretched your fingers over the keyboard and sighed as you stared at your blinking cursor. You couldn’t just sit on this forever. You had a deadline and an extension was an impossibility, if not a death warrant for your career.

So you hit play and began to type, pausing to play back snippets as you went.

🖋️

‘It’s early afternoon in the heart of Brooklyn. Amidst the old brick buildings that line the cracked sidewalks is a townhouse unlike any other. The home of a man born there over a century ago. A living ghost that haunts the block. Most would say he is a friendly spirit.

Steve Rogers answers the door as a boy lets his baseball roll under a car and his friends lower their mitts to watch. A teen on a bike, a ring in his nose, even slows to admire the hometown hero as he smiles; a beacon of the borough. A glimmer of hope for all to think that the block is not the whole world.

He greets me like an old friend. “Hi.” The same smile seen in newsprint. He thanks me for coming and ushers me inside. This is the first time I’ve met him in person. I can’t lie; I’m intimidated. I’m just another person in debt to this great veteran.

His house isn’t what you would expect from a man as prestigious as him. No medals hanging on the wall, no vainglorious cut-outs of his image, or pictures of him shaking hands with men in suits. Only framed baseball cards along freshly laid wood-panels. It’s like any other house in Brooklyn, just newer. An ancient skeleton revived.

We sit in the front room, he offers me a drink. I’m not very thirsty. I’m more anxious to start talking. I can see he is too though his facade is hard to crack. He tells me to call him Steve as my recitations of ‘Mr. Rogers’ become almost pathetic. We begin.

Interviewer: “Great.” I hit ‘record’. “I’ll start by saying you have a nice place.”

Steve: “Thanks.” He seems to relax as he leans back in the chair which is nearly too narrow for his broad shoulders. “It took a while but I think it’s coming together.”

Interviewer: “Can’t take the boy out of Brooklyn, I guess.”

Steve: “Wouldn’t leave it for the world.” He smiles again, though he never truly looks less than amiable.

I: “Only to save it,”

S: “I do what I can.

I: “More than most; New York, Sekovia, the world. You’ve done it all. Do you ever just take a break?”

S: “I try. And sometimes I get a chance to just… be here.”

He looks around, proud of himself, of his home.

I: “Any hobbies?”

S: “You know, I used to love to draw. Nothing special, you know. But I found it calming. I actually bought a bunch of pencils and a pad but I never touched them. I’m sure they're just sitting up in my closet, neglected.”

I listen intently, imagining this man bent over a notebook. It’s an absurd picture as my mind returns to the man in his cowl with shield in hand. The red, white, and blue bullseye is more suiting in my head than a pen.

I: “Anything else? Anything you actually do?”

S: “I like to run. Helps me get to know my neighbours, reconnect with my roots. I read… a little. I’m still not really into the whole internet thing but I try. I still get the newspaper just to read the strips and fill in the weekly crosswords.”

He confirms my suspicion. A man lost in time, but it seems he has found his place.

I: “A man for all times. And you work? I’m sure you get tired of talking about it but well, there’s been a lot of speculation about a possible retirement.”

He ‘s silent as he looks away and fidgets in his chair. He becomes the rehearsed hero at his podium.

S: “I’d hate to fan that fire but I think it’s only natural to consider it.”

I: “Thinking of settling down?”

S: “It’s always a thought but I’m not stupid. It’s not that simple. I’m not the type of man that gets to settle down.”

This remark might break the heart of every woman in Brooklyn and beyond but it seems to hurt him more. A grim truth for a man who many would say has the world in his hands.

I: “And if you did hang up the shield, is there anything you want to do? Anywhere you want to go?”

S: “I’d like to try fishing. I’ve heard it’s relaxing. I love the city but it’s nice to get away now and then.”

I: “Is there anything keeping you from retiring? Besides the obvious; we all know you’re a good man and a great hero. You’ve shown commitment to the city, the world, humanity.”

He looks to the artificial fireplace and shrugs. He’s thinking; perhaps censoring his response.

I: “Co-workers? The world is well aware of what you did for your old friend. And it has proven to be a point of contention, even after the pardon.”

He clears his throat and he’s no longer smiling.

S: “Bucky is an old friend and a commendable soldier. He does his job well. I wouldn’t take anything back. He has more than earned his place.”

I: “So, if you retired, you believe that he would retain his place among the team?”

He’s frowning now. He adjusts his posture so that he seems even bigger than before. A formidable opponent, if not an overwhelming one.

S: “He is not there because of me. He’s there because of himself. Because he is an asset to the world.”

His blue eyes are darker now. No longer the crystalline waves shining in the sun but those foreboding tides which crash together beneath the moonless sky. My ship has gone awry, carried by an errant wind.

I: “Well, I can’t help but point out that many wouldn’t agree. You put yourself and several of your associates on the line to save him. To bring him into your fold. To place a man who was once a national enemy beside you. I hate to say it but, frankly, even if he were pardoned on his own merit, I fail to imagine him being allowed the same access to confidential intelligence and tasked with the protection of civilian life.”

His hands are fists. I could put up a front and say I’m not nervous, but I am. I have done what I once thought impossible. I have angered Steve Rogers.

S: “He wasn’r Bucky, but he is now and he has been cleared. I’m sorry, but I thought you were here to talk about me.”

I: “Yes, I am, but the world is well aware of your friendship with Mr. Barnes and all its implications. It is hard to separate him from your life.”

S: “I agreed to talk about me.”

His tone is set in stone. I attempt to stay calm myself.

I: “We are talking about you, but we can move on. Now, even with its dissolution, there are still questions being asked about the Sokovia Accords and your opposition to it. While many can acknowledge the need for your team and their work, they can’t help but wonder at the lack of restraints placed upon it. There are regulations even for the FBI and CIA and other protective services. So why should you be exempt?”

He sniffs and stands up slowly. He retreats behind his chair and nears a table along the wall. He distracts himself with a signed baseball. I don’t have a chance to ask who scribbled along the stitches as he tosses it and finds his voice.

S: “I never disagreed with the sentiment of the Accords. As heroes, of course, we should have obligations. Our first and foremost being the protection of innocent lives. The hardest to uphold but we do it.”

He is ever the statesman but he isn’t finished and his voice gets low. Dangerous, even.

S: “At the same time, we put our own lives on the line and you come here and nag me about formalities? What is it you want? Paperwork? Reports on how I threw my shield to stop a bullet from striking an innocent bystander? How a piece of shrapnel nearly severed my tendon as I threw myself in front of a speeding vehicle?”

I: “With all due respect, I am only asking about transparency. People deserve to know more. They deserve the truth.”

S: “Is that what you’re looking for? The truth? You want to know what we don’t tell you and your readers?”

He puts the baseball down and his hand is on his hip, disapproving. I suspect his lecture will continue. He nears the chair and grips the back of it as he narrows his eyes at me. I fear he might throw it in my direction though for now, I hope it should act as my own shield against him.

S: “About how I have to lie about how many men I lose to keep this world safe. Because I can’t scare the people. Because I have to keep on this mask of the brave hero.”

His eyes go to the ceiling. He takes a breath to calm himself. I can tell he wants to continue. That he is holding back something which has brewed within him for a very long time. It is a moment before he speaks again.

S: “We’re done here. That’s it. Turn your phone off and go.”

The interview is over. What happens next will remain off the record. I leave with a mouth full of bile. My childlike wonder has been extinguished. I came to seek out the man behind the shield and I have done just that, but he is not who I expected.

I was ready for a humble man, a man like any of us; the same wants and desires. Still human despite his enhancements; despite his superhuman status. What I discovered was a man who’s exceptionality has nurtured a sense of entitlement.

And we do owe him our lives, our gratitude, we owe him the world. Yet I cannot dismiss the sense that he might regret his good deeds. That to him, it has become a thankless chore. That we are the needy children and he has been burdened with our cries for help.

So we should not be surprised or upset upon his retirement, not if, but when it comes. And we cannot fault him for his departure. It has been a long-time coming.’

🖋️

You took a breath and sat back in your chair. You rubbed your cheeks as the recording began to repeat itself. You stopped it and checked the time. You’d spend your morning editing and hope you would be ready for submission by the evening.

As you hit save, you felt an odd tremor deep inside. This could be it. Your big story. Or you could be tired and entirely up your own ass. You only hoped it was the former.

🖋️

You sat across from Poppy as she read your article through the glasses which sat low on her long nose. She was just past forty and wouldn’t look it if she didn’t wear the ridiculous half-circle spectacles. She wore a shade of red which paid homage to her name and her lipstick was just as bold. Her long lashes flicked up as she lowered the pages and her blonde hair fell behind her shoulder.

“Well…” She said carefully. “It is…interesting.”

You swallowed nervously as you teetered on the edge of the acrylic seat. Her long manicured nails played with the corner of the article.

“I had initially planned to have this in the back pages. No one really cares about the Avengers anymore.” She said. “But this is… I will discuss it with our marketing team but I know a feature when I see it.”

“A feature?” Your lips parted and you sat back as you gripped the thin arms of the chair.

“Oh, yes,” She said. “Another celebrity break-up is not exactly scandalous and to be frank, I do tire of that ridiculous narrative. But this… you will be hearing from me soon.”

“Uh,” You stood awkwardly at what you were sure was a dismissal. “Thank you.”

“For what? Doing my job? Should I thank you for doing yours?” She countered.

“N-no,” You stuttered.

“Go on then. I’m certain you have other work to do.” She tapped her long nails. “You certainly will once this is ready to print.”

You nodded and left her. She was already on her phone before the door closer behind you and you looked around the blindly bright office. It would be your first feature and it was the first article which had earned you more than a passive grumble from the woman. Perhaps you hadn’t been so foolish to think you had actually done something well.

#Steve Rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #she #dark fic #dark!fic #au #series #fic #mcu #marvel #captain america

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kinglazrus · 3 years

Text

Not Your Danny – Ch 4. Who Understands

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Word count: 3739

The memorial notebook sits open on Jazz's desk. For the twenty minutes, Jazz has sat here with her rule and pencil carefully tracing out a template for the event schedule. The hour of the event, pencilled in as one to two p.m., is broken into fifteen-minute increments which have three bullet points each. The bullet points, along with the fifteen-minute boxes, are colour coded and measured out to perfect, equal distance.

At the top of the page, the words "Memorial Schedule" are written in a loose, flowing script and dark ink. Eraser smudges behind the ink are the only indication of how much time and care Jazz put into making those letters.

Now, the blank schedule stares up at her, waiting only for Jazz to finalize the plans. The memorial itself is still three weeks out, but it is still too soon. Even though they buried Danny a fortnight ago, the memorial feels more final. Jazz doesn't want to say it, but she already knows why she feels this way.

Danny was a halfa. He was her sweet, human brother, but he was the town hero, too. There's a chance, no matter how slim, that he might still be out there as a full ghost. There has to be a chance. It doesn't matter that he died as Phantom. It doesn't matter that Sam and Tucker themselves were there to see his ghost half fizzle out, see the human body it left behind. There has to be a chance.

The funeral was for Danny Fenton, but the memorial is for Danny Phantom, for the whole city to mourn the loss of their hero. For Jazz to acknowledge that her brother, in his entirety, is gone forever.

Suddenly, looking at the notebook makes her feel nauseous. She closes it and shoves it aside. It's late enough now that she could go to bed, but she doesn't feel tired, not physically. After the fiasco at dinner, Jazz wants to shut everything out for a little bit. Pretend she lives in her own bubble where everything is fine.

How could she have forgotten? Seeing Dani's human face certainly took her by surprise, but she was not unprepared for it. Unlike their parents, Jazz didn't have trouble separating Fenton from Phantom. They were the same to her and looking at Dani's ghostly face was already close enough to seeing her little brother. Instead of the face itself, Jazz was stunned to see Dani in human form at all. At the same time, it brought her comfort. Dani and Danny, no matter how similar, are not the same. But having her here, seeing her do the things Danny used to do...

It's so easy. Having Dani fill her little brother's place on the couch when the watch TV. Having her by Jazz's side when they cook. She can't help it. It's almost like having Danny back, so soon after they lost him. And every time Dani doesn't fill that hole, it hurts in a way Jazz never expected.

She rubs her eyes and leans back in her chair. Maybe she should go to sleep after all.

—

"You want us to host... a memorial?" her mother asked. It was obvious Maddie had been crying that day, her eyes red and puffy. Perhaps not too long before Jazz came to talk to her parents.

Jazz herself had been in tears not too long ago when Sam phoned her with the idea. She nodded. "Yes. I know it's only been a few days, but this is Sam's idea and I think it's a good one. Mom, Dad..." she took a deep breath, bracing herself. "I knew. All along, I knew about Danny being Phantom. And it was so important to him. A memorial to Phantom could help you come to terms with not knowing about this side of Danny."

Maddie's hand, flat on the table, curled into a fist. "Jazz, we haven't even... the funeral is tomorrow. I've been on the phone with Alicia all day because she can't make it down in time. Chartering a plane costs too much and there isn't a flight out for weeks. I know this is important, but—"

"I think it's a good idea," Jack said. Stretching forward, he reached across the table and patted Jazz's shoulder. "But I think what you mother means is that we need time to consider it. It's hard adjusting to all this."

"I know. But promise me you really will think about it? It would mean a lot to him." Jazz waited until her father nodded. "Okay. I'll just... yeah. Think about it."

She left the kitchen in silence. That went okay. A shorter conversation than Jazz would have liked, but small steps are still steps. She needed to text Sam later and let her know the verdict, as tentative as it was. For now, she will leave her parents to think, hoping they eventually agree.

Halfway to her bedroom, a noise from Danny's room made her pause. She couldn't be certain, but it sounded like the squeak of his bed springs. Tip-toeing closer, Jazz stared at the crack under his door. A faint white light shone through.

"Danny?" Jazz whispered.

There came another creak.

Jazz's breath stopped, caught in her throat. She crept closer, pressing her hand against the door, and eased it open. In the dark of Danny's room, the figured outline in glowing light leapt from the shadows, impossible to miss. The aura, far brighter than the dim light of hall, nearly blinded Jazz, but its colour was unmistakable.

She pushed the door open. "Danny!"

The figure flinched and threw themselves into the air, twisting around to face Jazz. She slapped her hand against the switch on the wall, flooding the room with orange light. No longer blinded, she found herself now face-to-face with a Phantom. Not Danny, though, but Dani-with-an-I.

She looked horrible, her white hair caked with mud, dirt smeared along half her face. Suit wrinkled and damp.

"Oh, my God, Danielle." Jazz gasped.

"It's true?" Tears welled in Dani's eyes. "It's true? He's gone?"

"I'm so sorry, I didn't even think..."

That was all Dani needed to hear. She spun away and bolted, flying through the wall.

"Dani, wait!" Jazz called after her, but the young halfa was already gone. Jazz threw the window open, leaning out over the alley to a dangerous degree. Searching the sky, she tried to find and trace of Danny's clone, but everything around her was dark. Not a single glimpse of silver light to be seen.

Jazz pulled herself back inside and dropped to the floor, hands pressed over her mouth. She had forgotten, completely, that there was another person out there important to Danny, someone who wouldn't know about his death right away. In the days since Danny's death, Danielle's existence hadn't crossed Jazz's mind. It made her feel rotten. Dani had been important to Danny, but she slipped so easily from Jazz's memory.

However, through the wave of guilt, Jazz could not forget that single moment before she turned on the light. No more than a second, but still the happiest she felt in days, when she saw the aura of a Phantom and believed that her brother had not died after all.

—

The star shirt fits well, better than Dani expected it to. She drapes her hoodie across the back of Danny's desk chair before sliding in front of the mirror. It fits and it looks good. Looking herself up and down, Dani blushes. She has never thought of herself as a self-conscious person but seeing herself in something other than her regular hoodie fills her with warmth. She likes wearing something that doesn't look two times too big for her, showing off more of her form.

Although she has never said it out loud, that is part of the reason why she likes being in her ghost form so much more. The pants, the crop top, she likes them so much better than her human clothes. Until now, they were her only option, since she didn't want to cart around a backpack full of clothes, but now she has a room. She has a place to keep things, her things.

She could actually have things. The temptation to own stuff has always eluded her, but the longer she stays at Fenton Works surrounded by things that are not hers, the more she understands.

Dani rarely stays in one place for so long. Only a week and one day, but it feels so much longer. Looking at herself in the mirror, she's struck by the realization that this is home now. She has a home. Her mind still struggles to wrap around the idea, but the word does not feel so foreign anymore. After Vlad, all she wanted was freedom, and she got it. But while roaming the world was fun and exciting, it was also incredibly lonely.

She had always had Danny, though. Their relationship wasn't perfect, and they never acknowledged how they were related beyond the loose label of cousins, but she had him. And then he was gone without her even realizing.

Dani didn't know what to expect when Jazz extended her the offer of moving into Fenton Works. And, to be honest, she still doesn't know. Things are strange, and still lonely sometimes, but not bad. That has to count for something, right?

She toys with the buttons of the shirt, wondering if she could somehow tie the bottom, wear it shorter than it is. As she considers the style, her hands drop to the waist of her shorts, bright red and loose. They don't go with the shirt very well. Unfortunately for Dani, she has already been through all of Danny's clothes, and she does not like any of his pants, even if there were some smaller, older pairs that might have fit her.

There is a hint of promise, though. Dani has seen how much junk fills the Fenton garage. They are the kind of people who hold on to things until they absolutely do not need it anymore. Judging by Danny's drawers and closet, clothes get the same treatment as any other junk.

Jazz must have a few old pants lying about. A skirt sounds nice. Dani has never worn one of those, but girls always look so pretty in them.

Her door is open when Dani makes the trek down the hall. Jazz herself is slumped over at her desk, arms folded under her head.

Dani walks into the room and pokes Jazz's shoulder. "Did you sleep at your desk last night?"

Jazz wakes with a start, flinching at Dani's touch. She rubs her eyes, then the side of her face. A thick red mark overtakes her cheek where it had been laying on her arm.

"Dani?" Jazz's voice is thick with sleep. She sits up, stretching her arms and arching her back until it pops. Her neck cracks a few times as she roles her head. "What are you doing?"

"Do you have any old clothes?"

Jazz blinks. "It's rude to walk into someone's room without warning them."

"You were asleep, though. Clothes?"

Blinking a few more times, Jazz clears her eyes and looks Dani up and down. Her gaze lingers on the shirt. "That’s..."

"Found it in Danny's closet. I can't believe he actually wore something like this."

Jazz shook her head. "No, he didn't like it. Sam got it for him as a joke, because of the stars. I don't think he ever wore it."

"Really?" A smile breaks out across Dani's face. If Danny didn't wear this shirt, then technically that makes it hers. She owns something now.

"Yeah. Did nothing else of his fit? It's okay if you want to wear it. I think that would feel better than packing it all up," Jazz says. "You don't have any clothes besides the pyjamas Mom bought, right?"

Dani actually forgot that she has those. "I went through his clothes already. Didn't really like them much. Do you have a skirt?"

Jazz's eyes go wide. "A skirt?" For reasons' Dani can't fathom, Jazz says it like it is the strangest thing in a world. Dani wanting a skirt? Preposterous. "Danny never liked skirts."

There it is. "Duh, Danny was a dude."

"I know, but I mean. He wasn't comfortable in that kind of clothing before he transitioned. Your hoodie and cargo shorts aren't so different from what he used to wear, so I thought..." Jazz trails off, but her point is already made.

"Jazz, I'm comfortable being a girl. I like being a girl. Being made from his DNA doesn't make me his clone."

Jazz opens her mouth to correct Dani.

"You know what I meant." Dani wraps her arms around herself, feeling small like she did her first day here. "I don't know why I need to keep saying this, but I'm not Danny, okay?"

Jazz grimaces. "I know, Dani. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you were."

That isn't what Dani meant, but she doesn't press further. "So, about that skirt?"

—

Later that day, when Jazz asks Dani if she wants to watch a show, Dani says no.

—

"What did you do when you weren't in Amity Park?" Jack asks. The question comes out of nowhere, as they always do. In the few days since he took Dani's samples, she has seen him outside the lab far more often. Joining them at mealtimes, coming upstairs in the evening. Sometimes she hears the heavy beats of his approach moments before he pops into the room with a question on his tongue, like now.

Dani holds a moment, her gaze lingering on the models surrounding Danny's desk, before spinning in the chair to face Jack. "I travelled."

Jack, rightfully so, takes her answer as an invitation and comes further into the room. "Oh, yeah?" He sits down on the bed facing her. "Where did you go?"

"All over. I mostly stayed in the United States, at first, but there's so much stuff to see out there. The pyramids were awesome."

Just as Dani found her rhythm with Maddie and Jazz in her first days at Fenton Works, she and Jack seem to be finding what works for them. She likes the time they spend together. His questions feel genuine. Sometimes, he asks her about what being a ghost is like, what abilities she has. His eyes glow with fascination every time she answers. Dani has never seen anyone so engrossed by a single topic before.

But her favourite times are when he asks about her. What does she like? Does she have any hobbies? She gets the feeling that this is how Jack shows interest in people, by asking about themselves, and she returns the favour whenever she can.

"Have you ever been to Egypt?" Nudging the desk, Dani pushes herself back and forth on the chair, turning slowly in place. Her eyes keep catching on the models she had been examining when Jack entered.

Danny had a lot of models, all of them related to space, apparently. Planets, spaceships, little astronaut figures. Much like the posters on his wall, Dani sees no use for them, but Danny obviously liked them. He has two spaceships that look identical. One sits on his desk, safely kept behind a glass box. The other stands tall on the shelf above the desk.

"No." Jack's voice pulls Dani back to the conversation. "Mads wants to go, though. What was your favourite place that you saw?"

Dani has to pause and think about this. The pyramids are high contenders. She went to Japan for a few weeks last year and explored the natural landscape. There was so much beauty there. She has been to a lot of beautiful places, but none of them are her favourite.

"I don't know where it was. It was back when I could barely hold myself together, when I was destabilizing, remember?"

Jack nods. Dani told him that story only yesterday.

"Flying was really hard then, and it made me tired. I got lost a lot between cities if I wasn't following a highway. When I was heading back to Amity Park, I passed out once when flying." Dani hugs her knees. That was one of the scariest moments of her life, second only to melting in Vlad's lab. Before passing out, she could barely see, the sky and the ground blurring together. Her very core ached and, when the darkness started creeping in, she thought she was done fore.

"I woke up in this woman's home. She found me out in the forest and took me in. Didn't care that I was a ghost. I stayed with her for a few days. She actually... she offered to let me stay forever." Dani said no, of course. She had to get to Amity Park, to Danny, to get fixed. "She didn't even know me, but when I told her I didn't have any family beyond a cousin, she just... said I could stay. I left as soon as I could fly again. Haven't been able to find my way back."

Jack's heavy hand settles on her head. He ruffles her hair, the small act of comfort filling her with warmth. "Sorry you didn't get to take that chance, kiddo."

Dani ducks her head and rubs her eyes. There are no tears, but she needs the excuse to look away. There is a weight behind Jack's words, one Dani can feel, but not decipher. She thinks, perhaps, that Jack's words aren't entirely for her.

"So, what were you doing just now?"

Grateful for the distraction, Dani slides the chair over so Jack can see the desk. "Looking at stuff."

Her endeavour of going through of Danny's things has proved harder than she originally thought. It's so easy to get distracted by some small trinket, and she often finds herself wondering what Danny did with it, why he kept it all. Cheap toys from fast food restaurants. Paper airplanes stuck between book pages. A ball of rubber bands bigger than Dani's fist.

At first, she only wanted to look, commit these items to memory. Jazz said it took time before people put away a lost loved one's things, and even though Dani didn't understand, she would respect it. But Jazz's comment about the clothes has been lingering in her mind all day.

Despite Dani's own assurance of her personhood, was there anything she could like only because Danny did? She thought she might find the answer if she pondered long enough, but so far all its done is made her question why people collect things.

She touches the box encasing spaceship.

"That was his favourite."

Dani starts, jerking her hand away from the glass. For a moment, she forgot he was there. His face is turned toward her, but his eyes fixate on a point to her left. Dani doesn't need to turn back around to know what he's looking at.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Space Shuttle Columbia, the first of the Space Shuttle program. At least that's what Danny said it was. I can never tell the difference."

Dani looks from the Columbia to the second model on the shelf, this one smaller and lacking a protective case.

"Are you sure they aren't the same shuttle?" she asks.

Jack chuckles. "Absolutely. Danny never let it go if anyone mixed the two up."

"What's so special about this one?" Dani taps the Columbia's box.

"It was maybe the third model that he got? The first two were pretty cheap. He saved up for them himself. Took a while. I didn't even realize he had them until he mentioned wanting a third. Didn't even realize he liked space so much... I bought this for him a week later and gave it to him after school."

Dani nods along as Jack speaks, although she doesn't see the point yet. Lots of people have expensive things; that doesn't automatically make them special.

"We built it together. I wasn't interested in stars and astronomy, but Danny asked me to help him with it, so I did. I never got why it was his favourite, though. He had better ones, models he saved up for penny by penny. He made that one"—Jack nods to the model on the shelf—"with Sam and Tucker. But sometimes, I think..."

Jack falls silent.

Dani catches his reflection in the glass display case. He has one hand pressed over his eyes, the other fisted at his side. Dani has yet to see either Maddie or Jack cry since coming to Fenton Works, and she thinks that streak is about to end.

"I know we weren't the best parents. There've been times when we've... neglected our duties to focus on ghosts instead. I never thought about it before, but it couldn't have been easy on a couple of young kids. All I ever wanted was for Danny to follow the Fenton family footsteps. But space was his. And sometimes I think he liked this model the best because it was the first time I showed any interest in something he liked."

Jack shudders as he exhales.

Dani resists the urge to go invisible. This heart-to-heart stuff really isn't her thing. Their little question and answer sessions have been fun, but talking about the woman in the forest was already deep enough for Dani. Now things are getting a little too intense.

If Jack does start to cry, she might flee out of sheer awkwardness. He doesn't—thank God—but when he pulls his hand away from his face, he looks old and tired.

Dani racks her brain for something to say. "I think... maybe... he liked it the most because it showed that you loved him, not just because it was about space. Or something."

Jack meets Dani's eye through his reflection and cracks a smile. "I guess if anyone could say what Danny might think, it would be you."

The words cut through her.

"Right," Dani says, her voice empty. "Sure."

Jack nods, as if Dani has revealed some great truth to him, and turns away. His footsteps are louder as he heads for the door, more like his regular self. Dani has no doubt that Jack is leaving this room feeling brighter than before.

All Dani feels is an uncomfortable twist in her gut.

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#phic phight #phic phight 2021 #notyourdanny #phanfic #phicc #dp fanfiction #danny phantom #dani phantom #danielle phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #trans danny fenton #trans danny #nyd chapter four

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

Text

Pastime (with good company) (ao3) (aka NMJ/WWX/LWJ) - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, past 5, part 6, part 7

Wei Wuxian still wasn’t sure how Lan Wangji had convinced him to come to Qinghe in the middle of the night, even flying through the middle of a thunderstorm to get there.

Possibly he’d still been thinking with his lower half at the time that he’d agreed – he’d been so close to the edge, skating on it, holding himself back intentionally so that the eventual peak would be even better, and to have it snatched away at the last moment had been brutal.

Or maybe it had been the panic in Lan Wangji’s eyes. The worry, the fear.

The realization that someone knew.

He hadn’t been all that concerned with pleasure after that.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he’d begged, desperate. “Please, Lan Zhan – not anyone! No one can know!”

Lan Wangji had wavered, seeing how much it mattered to him and wanting to honor his wishes, wanting to help him - Lan Wangji always wanted to help him - but also needing to share the unexpected burden. In the end he had insisted: “One person. Wei Ying, a marriage cannot be founded on a lie.”

Nothing else in the world would have worked to convince him, given the risks of disclosure, the risk that if more people knew that the secret would get out, that Jiang Cheng would find out, but that –

That did.

Lan Wangji was right: it was one thing to enter a marriage for convenience, for political gain; if that was all there was to it, then Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have needed to say anything. He could have hidden it forever, refused to dual cultivate beyond acting as a passive vessel; he could have presented himself in the marriage not as Wei Wuxian but as the Yiling Patriach, with all the benefits and disadvantages that came with it, and that would be that.

But it wasn’t just that.

Maybe it started out that way, but it wasn’t that way now. Not with the way Nie Mingjue had smiled at him, the way he’d looked at him, intense and serious, after that spar – the discussion they’d had afterwards, when he’d raised his proposal again, serious this time, that they would all marry, the three of them. When he had made clear that his offer could be rejected at will without insult, that he meant it as something that was not for politics, not for need, just…to be married. To be together, the three of them, all three of them, to exchange bows and vow to live together as husbands for the rest of their lives, simply because they wanted to.

Nie Mingjue and Lan Wangji both - they’d been clear about what they wanted, and they wanted a marriage with Wei Wuxian, and not his reputation.

Lan Wangji was right.

A marriage like that – a marriage like the ones his parents had, when his mother had picked an outstanding servant over all the other more promising or well-respected men she could have had simply because he made her laugh, the type of marriage he’d always dreamed of, the type he’d always wanted for himself – couldn’t be founded on a lie.

And so they were on their way to Qinghe.

The journey was long, even by sword, even for someone with cultivation as high as Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian had not enjoyed flying on a sword since the he’d been thrown into the Burial Mounds, refusing Wen Qing’s occasional well-intentioned offers; he tried to get some enjoyment out of the fact that his arms were wrapped around Lan Wangji’s waist, his front pressed up against Lan Wangji’s back (he wondered if Lan Wangji would let him rut up against him like this, put himself between those white thighs until they were dirty –) but even the most sexually charged fantasies faded away into the cold reality that he was going to need to talk about this.

And that was before it started raining.

The last shichen of the trip was in complete silence, and only the warmth of Lan Wangji’s hand against his, his spiritual energy flowing calmly between them, kept Wei Wuxian from true panic. And then they were in Qinghe, landing in front of the door, and the guards at the gate were letting them in and then –

Nie Mingjue was there, waiting the entry hall.

Beautiful Nie Mingjue, who was only half-dressed, his hair unbound and with only an outer robe over his underclothing that he’d thrown on but hadn’t bothered to belt before rushing to the doorway, concern clearly written all over his face.

“What happened?” he asked.

“There’s no emergency,” Wei Wuxian said, and when Lan Wangji turned to glare at him, he raised his hands. “There isn’t! It’s been like this for months, Lan Zhan, and nothing will change if we let Mingjue-xiong get some sleep; we really didn’t have to fly here in the middle of the night –”

“To confirm – no attack has broken out, and no one is imminently dying?” Nie Mingjue interrupted.

Even Lan Wangji was forced to nod at that.

“In that case, you can come inside and have some tea while you explain,” Nie Mingjue said, waving his hand at one of the deputies that was lingering there. “I don’t mind being awake at this hour, but our sentries saw you coming through the storm and I thought it might be a situation where we would need to raise the army.”

Wei Wuxian’s shoulders hunched up. He should have thought about that, they both should have thought about that: Nie Mingjue was not merely a sect leader but a general, not merely a general but the leader of the Sunshot Campaign, the general that had given orders to generals; of course he would think first of war. “Nothing like that.”

“My apologies,” Lan Wangji said. “Our urgency was only my eagerness.”

“Don’t apologize,” Nie Mingjue said briskly. “Matters can be urgent even without a battle; it’s only a question of scale. Follow me.”

He led them to a small receiving room – it wasn’t the one usually used for guests, which Wei Wuxian had been to before, but something more intimate, warmer: the wooden furniture was sparse in the way it always was in Qinghe, with a restrained sort of charm, but there were intricate metal whorls on the walls that caught the eye and soft tapestries that made the cold stone feel less hostile.

“All right,” Nie Mingjue said as he strode into the room. “There’s tea in the corner; one of you can prepare it. Now tell me what the matter is.”

Wei Wuxian looked at him.

“…perhaps Sect Leader Nie would like to get dressed first?” he suggested, a little desperately.

It was a stalling method, yes, but also – really. There was a certain amount of stress a man could be under at one time, and trying to actually tell someone about everything that had happened would be bad enough without having to also figure out how not to stare at the part of Nie Mingjue’s white under-robes that had started gaping open at the chest, a glimpse of supple flesh and the barest hint of pink –

Nie Mingjue huffed, though it was unclear whether it was out of annoyance or recognition of the effect he was having. “Very well. Wangji, the tea?”

The second he left, Wei Wuxian turned to Lan Wangji. “I know we’re here for a very serious reason and we’re going to need to talk about things and all that, but you saw that, right?”

Lan Wangji’s ears went red.

“Oh, you saw it all right,” Wei Wuxian said, and grinned. “Did it make you want to bite?”

“Wei Ying.”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop. And yes, I’ll – I’ll explain. To both of you.”

A marriage cannot be built on a lie.

Wei Wuxian wanted this marriage to work. He wanted it to be a partnership, like the one his parents had, not – not what Uncle Jiang and Madame Yu had.

The only way he could get what he wanted was if he told them the truth: that he had lost (given up) his golden core during the war, that he could no longer cultivate the orthodox path of the sword, that demonic cultivation was not only a choice but a mandate.

(They didn’t need to know about Jiang Cheng.)

When Nie Mingjue returned, now fully dressed and his hair pulled back in the simplest possible crown, no braids or anything, Wei Wuxian didn’t hesitate.

Nie Mingjue and Lan Wangji were mercifully silent during his explanation, interrupting only long enough to ask some questions – good ones, thoughtful ones. Some were aimed at understanding more of what he went through in the Burial Mounds, while others gently pointed out flaws in his story, sometimes embarrassing ones; if he were ever to tell this story to others, he would need to cover those up better.

They knew he was hiding something, but they let him hide it.

They trusted him.

(Maybe he would tell them about Jiang Cheng after all. But – not yet.)

When he finished, they were quiet for a long moment.

“Thank you for telling me,” Nie Mingjue finally said, and he meant it, too; he was Nie Mingjue, he didn’t say things lightly. If he was angry, he would have shown it, just as he had when Wei Wuxian had described what Wen Chao had done to him before rushing ahead and making clear that Wen Qing had helped him (a deliberate blurring of the timeline, but there was nothing he could do about it) but now there was no anger anywhere on his face, just thoughtfulness. “It explains – a great deal.”

Lan Wangji nodded in agreement, and Wei Wuxian felt the stickiness of guilt: would Lan Wangji think of all those times he’d begged Wei Wuxian to come with him to Gusu, to stop using demonic cultivation, and think himself a fool? Would he think Wei Wuxian had been laughing at him, knowing it was impossible?

He wouldn’t, of course, but Wei Wuxian felt guilty regardless.

“Not to get stuck on technical matters,” Nie Mingjue continued, “but curiosity compels me to ask. What forging are you using as the channel?”

Whatever Wei Wuxian might have expected Nie Mingjue to say, whether scolding or sympathy or even pity, it wasn’t that.

He didn’t even understand that.

“What?” he said blankly.

“Is it that seal of yours? Or something else?”

“Forging?” Lan Wangji asked. He looked as confused as Wei Wuxian. “Wei Ying uses his flute to cultivate.”

Nie Mingjue’s frown deepened. “Resentful energy corrodes the protections of the souls if used for too long without a venting channel – without a proper outlet, the corrosion will build up in the meridians and dantian, and will ultimately lead to a backlash…are you saying you aren’t using one at all?”

“Are you saying you know about the effects of resentful energy?” Wei Wuxian asked, eyes lighting up. “I’ve never heard anything about venting, corrosion, or build-up – though it makes sense, actually, given some of the other aspects of resentful energy that I’ve observed or theorized. Gathering resentful energy has an exponential effect, the reason why a bunch of drownings in one place don’t just make more water ghouls, but a Waterborne Abyss, and why a battlefield is easier to raise than a single grave…everyone says demonic cultivation affects the temperament, but there’s never any detail. I haven’t been able to find any books on it.”

“Nor I,” Lan Wangji said. “Even in the forbidden portion of the clan library.”

“There aren’t many books,” Nie Mingjue agreed. “Demonic cultivation is well known to be forbidden, so most of the knowledge is handed down orally.”

Lan Wangji’s back got even straighter, if that was even possible, and Wei Wuxian understood the implication a second later: the Nie sect had always been a bit of an outlier from the other sects, Qinghe with its reputation for oddity, with its strange rituals and bizarre customs, its pride in having descended from butchers, a bloody profession associated with resentment, rather than gentry –

“You use demonic cultivation,” Wei Wuxian breathed.

“Not the way you use it, we don’t,” Nie Mingjue said dryly. “Let us not take away from the magnitude of your achievement in creating an entirely new cultivation path, Wei Wuxian, and one that can be used by those who cannot cultivate in the traditional fashion no less. We do not cultivate the ability to manipulate fierce corpses through their resentful energy, I’d never even heard of such a thing before, but we do utilize resentful energy in a fashion that other sects do not.”

“What do you use it for?” Lan Wangji asked. He looked as fascinated as Wei Wuxian was – really, he wasn’t that hard to read at all, once you had an idea of what to look for. All of his expressions were in the little things, the way his eyes curved or narrowed, the redness of his ears, the corners of his lips.

Nie Mingjue’s fingers flicked, a seemingly casual movement, but only a few seconds later the door slammed open as his saber flew into the room, hovering for a moment before whistling through the air as it made its way to Nie Mingjue’s hand.

Wei Wuxian turned to stare.

“The personal quarters of the Nie clan aren’t anywhere near this hall,” he said slowly. “You clearly left your saber behind when you came to greet us, which I appreciate as a gesture of trust even though we wouldn’t have taken insult if you did…you summoned it all the way from here, and it came on its own? How could you guide it through all those hallways without using hand seals?”

“For something so straightforward, Baxia does not require guidance,” Nie Mingjue said, and held the saber out lengthwise for them to look at. “You asked what we use resentful energy for: this is the answer.”

“Only the most powerful spiritual weapons have enough awareness to recognize their masters,” Lan Wangji said, leaning forward. His eyes were bright with curiosity, with not a trace of judgment for the unorthodoxy they were discussing, and Wei Wuxian would spare some time to think about how beautiful Lan Wangji was in full scholar mode if he wasn’t equally entranced by Nie Mingjue’s revelations. “Much less find their way through a complicated series of hallways when their master wants them, without even a single hand seal acting as a summon…the Nie sect’s sabers have always been regarded as the finest weapons one can use against resentful beasts.”

“Very good as always, Wangji,” Nie Mingjue said, and Lan Wangji looked pleased at the recognition. “The founder of our sect was a butcher as well as a cultivator. As you know, occupations that require blood are notoriously considered bad for cultivation, the resentful energy from the work affecting their temperament and potential – take the traditional example of the fate of the executioner, who might arise as a fierce corpse despite lacking any resentments of his own. But my ancestor realized that the resentful energy of the beasts he slaughtered could be channeled not in the wielder of the saber, but the saber itself, and in doing so it would grow more powerful in its own right – power that could then be used to supplement the traditional orthodoxy of the dao of the sword and saber.”

Wei Wuxian’s brain was bubbling full of new ideas that had never even occurred to him before. The approach wasn’t as unorthodox as his own cultivation, nor perhaps would it be as reviled – the resentful energy of yao would be far less pernicious than the type he used, which came from humans, and using it as a whetstone to sharpen a sword’s spirit was far less intrusive than manipulating it directly as if it were spiritual energy – but it was fascinatingly different from everything he’d grown up hearing.

“What’s the cost?” he asked, because that was important. There had to be a cost, something the Nie sect was willing to pay that others weren’t, or else the secret would have gotten out at some point and become widespread.

“The difficulty in managing the process as the saber strengthens,” Nie Mingjue said. “The saber can store resentful energy, but we are the ones to cultivate it; it passes through us, and in time the strain will become too much unless we break through the limits of our cultivation and reach the heavens in a single bound. We trade the latter half of our lives for the power to make a difference in the first.”

“Qi deviation,” Lan Wangji murmured. All the Nie sect leaders had died of it, eventually; the fact of it was well known.

“Every generation tries some new means to mitigate it, some of which work better than others,” Nie Mingjue said with a shrug. “I had meant to make it clear to both of you before the wedding, but chances are high that the two of you will outlive me – though with luck the time is still some distance off.”

Wei Wuxian’s fingers curled together into fists in his lap, and he sees the stiffness in Lan Wangji’s spine that has nothing to do with pride; he didn’t need to share glances with him to know that they were both in violent agreement that something would need to be done about that.

After all, neither of them were interested in becoming widows, and together they could do marvelous things, unthinkable things – especially if Lan Wangji were willing, as Wei Wuxian for the very first time thought he might be, to help him research the more esoteric possibilities, to delve into the mysteries of his demonic cultivation and find out its reaches, the benefits and the costs that could be extracted from it.

If Nie Mingjue thought his husbands would just placidly accept a future without him, he would just have to wait and see what they would do.

“The tendency towards qi imbalances cause by our way of cultivating is aggravated by the hereditary Nie temper, which is said to be aggravated by the cultivation style in turn,” Nie Mingjue said, his voice a little dry; he was clearly well aware of his faults. “That’s one of the reasons I want to leave my sect to Huaisang in the future – he might not be the strongest cultivator, whether due to his naturally weaker talent or just because of how lazy he is, but he’s calm and thoughtful instead of temperamental, capable of great patience, and he cultivated a golden core using our traditional methods without losing those qualities.”

“I mean, I guess I’ve seen him with his saber,” Wei Wuxian said, a little doubtfully. “Not to be rude, but has he ever used it?”

Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes. “Not as much as he should, but yes, he’s even cultivated the spirit within it. Unfortunately, the saber and the master reflect each other, which means his saber turned out to be a lazy plonk that would rather act as a paperweight than actually stab someone.”

Wei Wuxian tried, and failed, to hide his smirk. He wondered if he could somehow use Nie techniques to regain control over Suibian, despite lacking a golden core – how wonderful it would be, if that were possible!

He thought there was a good chance Nie Mingjue would agree to teach him what he needed to know to do it, too.

“I had assumed you were using the Stygian Tiger Seal as a channel in a similar manner to the way I use my saber,” Nie Mingjue continued, frowning again. “That’s clearly not the case, and that means your demonic cultivation is even more radical an innovation than I had previously considered it to be. However, with your consent, I would like to build you a channel for you to try to start processing your cultivation through, in the hopes that it will work to ease the strain of it on you. My clan uses forging, a mixture of metal and qi, to create a base that can be built up into a saber, though I suppose in your case it doesn’t have to be. Tonight, if you’re not too tired.”

Wei Wuxian nodded. He’d known that backlash was a possibility, had already accepted that he’d likely have an early death as a result of it, had arrogantly assumed he’d be able to come up with something to prevent it, but just because he was doing something new didn’t mean he couldn’t try to supplement it with something that had been practiced for generations – especially since given how he’d used demonic cultivation so far, any backlash would probably end up with him ripped to pieces by a thousand fierce ghosts.

Not really his ideal death.

Especially not before he managed to marry these two!

“I don’t want other people to know, though,” he said, his fingers twisting in his robes at the mere thought. The same anxiety as before: the more people knew his secret, the more chance there was of someone slipping up, of someone finding out – of Jiang Cheng finding out, and his shidi wasn’t stupid, merely too trusting to those he loved; he’d figure it out as soon as the pieces came together. “How many do we need to tell to do it?”

“None,” Nie Mingjue said, and Wei Wuxian started in surprise. “Are you not my intended husband? I can do it myself.”

He paused a moment, and then smiled. “Thank you.”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him. “For what?”

“For allowing me the opportunity to finally get Huaisang off my case about picking your betrothal gift.”

Lan Wangji huffed in amusement, as if some guess had been confirmed, and Wei Wuxian thought that maybe there was a chance this whole thing wouldn’t be a disaster after all.

#mdzs #wei wuxian #lan wangji #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #academic discussion of demonic cultivation #for those following along you may have a hint of what happens next chapter #pastime with good company

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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 4 years

Note

Onyx and MC find out that they're having Twins

Written by: @evoedbd

It was a usual peaceful day in the clinic. Sunlight shone through the windows, reflecting the off coloured white walls to bathe the room in a soft, bright light. The air was so light, light enough that one could forgive the beige linoleum floors and the sterile smell which betrayed the calm and gave a hospital vibe. Combatting the sterile nature was a large fish tank, illuminated with gentle blues through driftwood and aquarium plants. The plants waved gently in the currents, joyfully curling around the playful bubbles escaping an ornament amidst the driftwood. The fish danced around their environment, fins occasionally flaring before they dashed off, merrily oblivious to the incoming storm.

Standing guardian to the peaceful waiting room was a lone secretary, stationed behind her large corner desk. Immaculately dressed, as she had been every day for ten years on the job, her occasionally stern gaze held the rabble in line. Under her eye, even the most anxious of patients stayed quiet, perhaps mistaking her for harsh. She was not. These patients who came in were under her care until they met their doctors. For the lives they grew, the secretary owed them a moment of peace. A place to feel safe. Whether it was to hand them pamphlets from her desk with cliche titles such as “what to expect while expecting” or handing them pamphlets to support groups. Sometimes, a simple glass of water or some biscuits were what her patients needed, and she loyally provided, honoured by her small role in helping healthy babies be brought into the world. Though, there was a darker side to her observations. She had to pick out the women at risk, the women in tough circumstances. These women stayed with her, even long after they left her sight. The “unfortunate” accidents which could not be proven as anything but. The husbands and wives who looked just a little bit too angry at being there. The expecting mothers who were too twitchy. The noble secretary kept them all marked, a tiny yellow flag on their appointments.

She had known the moment miss Onyx Wren had come in all those years ago that something was horribly wrong. A lone, terrified young woman who had done her best to be bright and chirpy. She’d talked about her loving boyfriend, how he was so excited for her baby, how he was working extra hard and making her work harder to provide the best life for their coming child. It had come as no surprise when the clinic heard she had lost her baby in a training accident. When the following check-up was under the watchful eyes of her boyfriend. The way he had looked at Onyx still chilled the Secretary to the core, and when she had heard his line of questioning. All about physicality. All about when Onyx could have sex again. She knew. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had done something horrific, and that Onyx was too scared to speak, too trapped in denial to accept her reality.

Today, the scene had been something entirely different. Onyx had been quiet, terrified even, but she was not alone. With her was a little Asian woman, a hurricane barely restraining herself. The air had changed the moment they stepped in, the Asian woman holding the doors for Onyx, comforting her with amusing faces and gentle touches. The Asian woman hadn’t seemed to care how childish she seemed; her focus was devoted to Onyx. Over her shoulder, a bag containing several textbooks had bounced, textbooks the Secretary recognised as medical schoolbooks on pregnancy and reproduction. That had given her pause. For all the childish energy and wild excitement, the girl had shown, she was so clearly committed. So seriously dedicated to whatever role she was playing for the expectant mother. And Onyx? Onyx, for all her fright, seemed to gravitate to that energy, feeding off it until the two seamlessly worked together, as if they felt the other in their very soul. As if reading one another’s thoughts before they even occurred. It was sickeningly adorable. If only that Asian woman could keep her voice down, then the Secretary might have even been cooing over them.

“TWINS!” The gleeful cry cut through the peaceful din of the waiting room; the roar of a dragon across the countryside. Like the beating of wings, the faithful pounding of footsteps against the floor crescendoed, growing closer and closer. Occasionally, the sound of shoes squeaking from the friction against the floor broke the pattern, or a pause to the steps cued more joyous shouting.

The Secretary cringed, her dedicated typing coming to a halt as she braced herself for the human hurricane. The one she’d read as the emergency contact. Cali Meng Xi.

“Twins! Twins! Its twins! She’s having twins!” Cali continued to shout, leaping and whooping through the waiting room in a flurry of her tie-dyed hoodie and long, powerful legs. The bike mechanic danced, kicking her white high tops into the air with each leap and stride, reminiscent of a frolicking stallion amidst the spring grass. How could she stop? The excitement burning in her body was too powerful to contain, too pure to be tainted by something as cold as rational, mature behaviour or logic. Onyx was having babies. Plural. Not A baby. But BABIES. Twins! Two baby Onyx’s! Double the adorableness in the world. Double the miracles! Her heart was going to beat out of her chest; was going to explode into a shower of rainbow glitter and unicorns delivering bombs of happiness to all. Onyx! Babies!

Behind her, a melodic giggle twinkled. A sound of delight and embarrassment at the same time. Onyx followed at a far more sedate pace, reaching out in an effort to catch Cali’s arm whenever the mechanic was within reach. Of course, Cali didn’t stop bouncing around, her face split by the dopiest grin ever seen. Instead, she took Onyx’s hand, spinning the shorter woman as if they were in a ballroom instead of a waiting room.

“Cali, calm down. Just watching you is making me tired.” Onyx laughed; her voice filled with that undeniable note of happiness. Even as Cali’s behaviour embarrassed her a little, it also filled her with pride. It was evident in the healthy glow of her cheeks, the delighted, adoring twinkle in her oceanic emerald eyes. Her plea was heeded. Cali slowed, sweeping Onyx up into a loving embrace, only to spin her around once again. Onyx simply laughed, kicking her feet playfully before she was gently set down.

“The most beautiful woman in the world is having twins! I love you! I love you all, so, so much! I’m so excited, Onyx. I’m so happy I feel like I’m gonna explode if I don’t let it out!” Cali cried, fat tears of joy rolling down the curve of her cheeks. The truth of her words was evident. Standing still, Cali’s muscles twitched, all rebelling beneath her skin. She trembled, a tangle of energy with nowhere to go. Still, when she lifted her hands to Onyx’s cheeks, Cali was so very gentle. Even trembling, her fingers never became rough as they tucked strand after strand of golden hair behind Onyx’s delicate ear. For all her overwhelming energy, Cali’s hands were nothing but sweet again Onyx’s cheeks, as if cradling her world in her rugged palms. Gently, she lured Onyx into a kiss, the sweetest she could offer. Her lips caressed Onyx’s, pleading, writing her love into every romantic memory. A gesture of such vulnerability offered without fear or shame, unperturbed as to who witnessed such a moment.

The Secretary smiled, surrendering to her impulse to croon over the young women. Even from across the room, she could see the devotion in Cali’s dark eyes, could see how Onyx was her entire world. It was laced through every touch. The tenderness of her hands to Onyx’s barely showing stomach. The love in even the most chaste of kisses, in how Cali pressed them everywhere she could. This hurricane of excitement had no qualms about kneeling to Onyx, to pressing her lips to Onyx’s tummy. About sobbing with happiness. This woman was proud, without being prideful. Intense without becoming domineering. Cali Meng Xi was nothing like the boyfriend Onyx had tried to sell as loving. The longer The Secretary watched, the more apparent it became. Cali’s actions were all for Onyx. Cali wasn’t out to disturb the others, nor was she putting on a show for the crowds. This was her, raw and unbridled, unable to contain herself. She wasn’t trying to seize the stage, she was trying to share her happiness. She was blessing the waiting room with her genuine joy, gifting a glimpse of her soul as she worshipped a goddess in her own life. As she praised the lives growing.

“Six fucking pages.” The doctor whispered as he drew closer, bending down to slide the documentation to the Secretary and keep his words private.

“That woman took six pages of notes. If only all the expecting fathers were as dedicated.” He elaborated, earning a gentle chuckle from the Secretary. The woman gazed into the doctor's eyes for a moment, reading everything he hadn’t said. She watched, assessing for a few moments before accepting the files.

“Miss Wren better put a ring on that girl. They’re perfect together.” The Secretary commented, earning a sound of agreement from the doctor.

Quietly, she flipped to the page, pausing at the yellow sticky dot in the corner. The doctor simply nodded, confirming her thoughts with a smile so large it looked as if his aged face might split in two. The Secretary’s heart almost burst as she worked her nails beneath it, picking and plucking until the label came free. Nothing honored her as much as when she worked it into a nasty ball, then flicked it from her nails straight into the trash. Right where it belonged.

Onyx Wren wasn’t in danger any longer.

#Anonymous #lovestruck #lovestruck sin with me #sin with me #sin with me onyx #sin with me envy #onyx wren #onyx x mc #angst #fluffy angst #fluff #sfw #tw: past abuse #tw: abuse #tw: child loss #woeful wednesday

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captainscanadian · 4 years

Text

Hope | Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part 1)

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Summary: Being back in your childhood home had certainly brought you some well-needed inspiration.

Word Count: 2900+

Pairing: (Eventual) Doctor!Bucky Barnes x Patient!Reader, OMC Harry Nelson x FWB!Reader, Rebecca Barnes x OFC Rosie Bender

Warnings: Heartbreak, Bullying, Grey’s Anatomy Spoilers

A/N: This fic was my entry for @wkemeup‘s 4K Writing Challenge. I DON’T DO TAGLISTS!

When Harry Nelson had first moved to Los Angeles at the age of eighteen, he’d had many dreams of becoming a screenwriter and director. He wanted to make movies that seemed relatable to the general public, with no action sequences or elements of science-fiction, no monsters or magic, no million dollar budget to be spent on visual effects. Just simple stories about real people, whether it was the kind that made them laugh or the kind that made them cry.

Throughout the span of his twenty-year long career in Hollywood, he had come to realize that the genre of romance movies had their own built-in audience that he could definitely make money off of. The hopeless romantics, as he liked to call them, were a group of people who were always longing to see love stories that don’t necessarily end happily, but still leave them believing that true love existed.

While he had since directed several romance films that went on to have the cultural impact in the likes of Notting Hill and The Notebook, it hadn’t been until he had met another hopeless romantic did he realize that he was one of them. For a man who never believed in true love, he sure enjoyed love stories. He was a hopeless romantic, as much as he hated to admit it. Whether his story was going to end happily or not, he still had a part to play in it.

Back when the first instalment of the Hopeless series had turned out to be a success, Harry had simply approached you in request of the movie rights to your novel series. While you hadn’t given in to his request due to not knowing how you might even end the series yourself, he decided to play the long game and wait until you figured out the ending.

Years had gone by and the two of you had only become best friends, bonding over your mutual love for the romance genre. Many movie nights were spent watching the classics such as Casablanca and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He had invited you to his premieres and parties, to simply take part in the discourse of what it meant to write a beautiful love story that stood beyond its time. But the friendship you shared had turned to something more when you had found yourselves drunk at an after-party and consumed by lust of all things and not love as one would have assumed.

Even though becoming one of the love interests in your story had certainly not been his plan all along, he couldn’t complain about it either. A newly single romance novelist and a divorced filmmaker with a knack for romance getting involved with each other was not the strangest thing to take place in Hollywood, not even when you had a ten year age difference. You had kept your arrangement as secretive as you could though, for you did not need the prying eyes of the media to ruin what you had.

By the time the third instalment had been published, no one had suspected that the muse behind Dr. Jake Winston was Harry Nelson himself. Harry had seemed to figure it out early on though, when you had let him have a glimpse of the first draft. But when he gave you his approval to go ahead with the story, you had made him promise you that he would play the role he helped create if your novels were ever made into movies. Harry had been delighted to accept that if he were to make his acting debut, it would be as one of the love interests of Hope Anderson.

Being the man who taught you what it felt like to be safe in a relationship, he had always given you a way out of your friendship with benefits. After all, the strings had never been attached to begin with. But that was a path you did not think you would want to take, at least not until now.

Not that the two of you had managed to drive each other crazy like most Hollywood couples. As unsurprising as that would have been, you felt that you really needed a break from living the California dream and that included what you had with Harry.

With the fourth and final instalment of your series being due in just a few more months, you found yourself hitting a brick wall with where you wanted Hope Anderson’s story to go. Writer’s block was a curse that you hadn’t really experienced with the last three novels. But inspiration for the fourth novel had just not struck.

You were well aware that your readers were longing for a happy ending for the girl who had spent a majority of her life being heartbroken. For a strong and career-driven woman like herself, she could easily find someone to settle down with. But that wasn’t what you wanted when it came to the ending of your series.

You wanted Hope to find some kind of purpose for the journey that she had taken since leaving her hometown for college. You wanted things to be right for her, even if they weren’t necessarily right for you. There needed to be a purpose behind her journey, that was meant to be fulfilled in the final book.

It had been Harry’s suggestion, being a fellow writer himself, that it might be plausible if the fourth novel took a rather ‘coming-of-age’ kind of path compared to the last three instalment. Reid made her realize that she had moved on too soon, Ethan made her realize that love was messy, and Jake made her realize that there are good men in this world. Neither of these men had been right for her, but then who was?

“I think our girl Hope needs to go home.” Harry had suggested one night in the midst of your pillow talk. “She hasn’t been home in ten years. I think she needs a little trip of self-discovery, a walk down memory lane… she needs to find herself in order to find her one true love.”

“What makes you think that she’ll find her true love when she finds herself?” You had asked him, curiously.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

The air was crisp as you stepped out of your Uber and grabbed your suitcases from the trunk, leaving a heavy tip for the driver at the end of this dreadfully quiet ride from Indianapolis International Airport to your humble home in Shelbyville, Indiana.

Being back in this little city after an entire decade in the West Coast sure brought back the good old days for a moment there. But when the cold breeze hit you, you were reminded why you had fled your hometown in the first place. Certainly, you had gotten used to the California sun. But who could blame you though? This place was hell on earth.

As you dragged your suitcases up the driveway, you could not help but look around the neighborhood that you had grown up in. It seemed as though nothing had changed in the last ten years. Or perhaps, it was just the nostalgia of being back here that made it seem as though everything was still the same when it wasn’t.

Old man Nick who lived next door still had his ratty old truck parked out front - was that thing still kicking; you couldn’t believe it. The last you heard, his daughters Carol and Maria had moved out to Indianapolis after college and visited the man every now and then. Apparently, he refused to leave Shelbyville as he had lived there his whole life. His wife had lived and died at that house, and he could not see himself leaving behind the memory of her.

The girls had asked your mother to keep an eye on him, and she had kept an eye on him because she seemed to be the only one in the neighborhood he trusted. Your mother had told you that they were bonding over their mutual empty nest syndrome, but not even her attempt to guilt trip you had brought you back here.

You hadn’t even bothered to come back here when you had found out that your mother was ill. You had flown her out to Los Angeles instead, and did the best you could to give her the medical care she needed at one of the best hospitals in the country.

Not even when she had passed away did you ever try to come back and take care of the house she’d left behind for you. You just hated everything about Shelbyville, Indiana, to ever come back.

But nothing like a little writer’s block to bring you back here.

You made a mental note to leave a rather sarcastic voicemail for Harry, for convincing you to fly out here on your own and facing a part of your life that you never wanted to return to. God, you hated him sometimes, mostly because he was always right and he seemed to know it. You loved him too. Not the kind of love that destroys you, but the kind that made you realize that you always deserved to feel loved by someone.

Truth be told, the house was not as bad as you had thought it would be. It just needed a little dusting and maybe a paint job, but it was still your childhood home in every way. Nick had kept it in good shape while you were gone, because your mother had asked him to take care of it in case you had ever thought about coming back home.

You thanked the man when he handed you the keys, and asked him if you could borrow his truck to run some errands later that day. You just needed to run into town to pick up some groceries and stop by the hardware store to grab some supplies.

In the meantime, you could use the quiet and the nostalgia to come up with the perfect plot for the final instalment of your novel series. Perhaps you could start off with Hope Anderson returning to her hometown due to her mother being ill, putting a pin on completing her residency and giving herself a break from her arrangement with Jake.

She spends hours on end sitting by her mother’s bedside, losing her hope as the days rolled by. And when her mother passes away, she copes with her loss by spring cleaning her childhood home and fixing it up.

*EDIT: 4th love interest?

You had written a few pages of your first draft when you finally decided to take a break, stretching your arms as you stepped away from your laptop on the dining table. You had been avoiding your childhood bedroom like the plague ever since you had arrived, claiming the master bedroom as yours for the duration of your stay.

But as you ascended up the creaky stairway and turned the corner to your childhood bedroom, you could have sworn that the last ten years had never gone by. The paint was chipping off of the cream colored walls, multiple posters of the Jonas Brothers pasted against them, never being taken down in your years away.

You recalled the time you’d had the chance to meet them following their comeback, as one of their wives had starred in one of Harry’s films. You may not have been an overly enthusiastic fangirl on the red carpet, but you were certainly proud of how far you had come from your childhood bedroom. The teenage girl who used to live in this room had clearly grown up, living every dream she’d always had… except one.

You walked over to the desk at the corner of your room, where the first few scenes of your Grey’s Anatomy fanfiction had been written. You had written more than one hundred thousand words about the undying love between Mark Sloan and Lexie Grey, as though they had never died after that plane crash, not even realizing that the basis of that story would eventually inspire the plot of your third novel. The attending and the resident with a significant age difference - God, could you ever be original with your own writing?

This was the room where you fell in love with writing, but writing was not the only thing you had fallen in love with at the time. On the bulletin board above your desk remained one photograph, being held together by a thumb tack.

You remembered the day after your high school graduation, when you had forcefully ripped out most of the photographs you had pinned to that bulletin board and chucked them in the trash bin, along with the feelings you had for the seventeen year old boy who was in those photographs with you.

A part of you wanted to rip up the last remaining photograph that still remained on that bulletin board, but the ten years you had been away had certainly suppressed the anger you felt towards him. So instead, you left that photo where it was and returned to your laptop, picking up your writing from where you had left off but the thought of him now lingering through your mind.

James Buchanan Barnes. Your best friend. Your first love. Your first heartbreak. The reason why Hope Anderson’s love life, and yours, had become hopeless in the first place. Perhaps the best way to end this story was to go back to the very beginning, to where it all had started, to the man who had been a part of her life before Jake, Ethan and Reid.

“Oh Harry, you son of a bitch!”

Dr. James Barnes let out a yawn as he eyed the CT scans in front of him, even though it was only the beginning of his twelve hour call shift. Only into the second year of his three year residency in emergency medicine, he was starting to familiarize with the intensity of his life as an emergency room physician. Sleepless nights were only the bare minimum.

Not that he could not handle the stress of running the ER one day, but Bucky was well aware that outside of the walls of Shelbyville Hospital, he did not have a life. No girlfriend to go home to, no hobbies to kill time with and no friends from outside of work to hang out with. Work, sleep, repeat… life was starting to get boring for the poor twenty-eight year old man.

“You look miserable.” Rosie Bender, the ER nurse on call and Bucky’s former classmate, remarked cheekily at her friend before she slipped into the seat next to him.

He shot her a fake smile as he set down his patient file back onto the rack, leaning back in his chair and looked over at the nurse. “I’m just bored as fuck, Rosie. As you can see, the ER’s pretty quiet tonight. I just want something to do.”

“If you’re so bored, you can help me make some calls. I have to finalize the number of people who are coming to this thing by the end of the week. The catering people have been asking for numbers… and don’t even get me started on picking the menu.”

For the woman who had been head of the Prom Committee back in senior year, planning their ten year reunion was supposed to be a piece of cake. But Rosie was struggling with juggling all of the responsibilities that came with planning this reunion, being the only who seemed to care so much about being able to reunite with some old friends from what had been the best four years of her life. Why did no one else care about this as much as she did?

Truth be told, Bucky could care any less about this so-called ten year reunion. He was well aware that the one person he would be hoping to see would never show up. You hadn’t even come back to town when your mother had gotten sick, let alone to this stupid reunion that was meant to be a remainder of your senior year - the memory that he had ruined for you by being so inconsiderate towards your feelings for him.

He could never forgive himself for what he had done to you, and to think that he would never have the chance to apologize to you in person. He fucked up, and he pushed away the one friend he had. If he could just see you one last time and tell you how sorry he was, Bucky would give anything. But he knew that all hope was lost on that, at least until Becca Barnes had come rushing into the ER.

He had just assumed that she was only dropping off some dinner for him and Rosie, but instead she looked over at the two of them with beaming eyes. “You two are not going to believe who I ran into at the hardware store just now...”

“Is old man Nick renovating the Y/L/Ns’ house again because he’s bored?” Rosie perked up at her girlfriend, giggling softly as she stood from her chair to lean over the desk and peck her lips.

“No, but close…” The younger Barnes chirped before she turned to her brother. “Y/N’s back in town.”

Perhaps, all of his hope was not lost after all.

#kas4kwc #hope #aj writes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes au #doctor au #doctor!Bucky

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