#some of us shrivel or scuttle away

[wythedumpstercat]

Hookey

(campaign excerpt. This was too good to not write down. We were only three players for the session, so DM took us through a small sidequest. Setting: we left Mentlederith with the entire caravan, and are headed to a library somewhere...I'm not quite sure of all the names of places....on our way however...)

-:-

The party is made aware of an argument that erupted by the entrance to an area of interest nearby. Wy doesn't care much for mediation, but Laenor convinces Ezekiel to at the very least try, which leads to Wy getting pulled along, just in case there is a need for his skill set. Durendil and Ally decides to stay at the front of the caravan so as not to leave the position empty.

When the three arrive at the site of the argument. Two heavily eroded statues loom over the group from where they stand on either side of an entrance that looks like it was once ornate. A Deep Gnome expressed that they wanted someone to fireball the tunnels past the two statues as he was sure there had to be treasure in there, but as there seemed to be Gnolls in the area, fire seemed to be the most efficient method of clearing them out. Wy was inclined to agree, until Jayda and some other guy explains that they'd found signs of another type of creature that were probably nesting nearby. While mediation comences, Wy pays the people no mind and finds a small spider scuttling down the foot of one of the statues. He asks it about the place. The spider babbles 'gottaleavethenest! Loud! Bigtwolegs! Fourlegs?! Trampletrample. Four! Six?' before scuttling off into the dark.

Its decided that Ezekiel, Laenor and Wy heads in to clear the Gnoll, and try to locate and restrain the other creatures. Jada and her companion is to join a little bit after, for additional support with the creatures they wanted to protect.

The tunnels are surprisingly lush and green going in, vegetation clinging to the ground and walls. But while the air is damp, showing signs of a water source nearby, the ground is dry. A fire in here would rush out of control fast...Wy thinks as he looks around.

The sound of cackling Gnolls echoes, and Laenor scouts ahead while Wy checks the first side room. He spots the tail end of a Gnoll disappearing around the corner to another tunnel, and notifies Ezekiel of it. Ezekiel runs past Wy and seems to catch it with a spell. Laenor comes rushing back, and follows Ezekiel down the tunnel around the corner joining the fight but the sound of the Gnolls move, so Wy opts for following the sound instead of the others.

Running down the tunnel Laenor first scouted, he follows the sound to a crack in the tunnel wall that is just wide enough for him to squeeze through. On the other side he glimpses a procession of three Gnolls heading away from him. He quickly casts entangle at them, before turning and shouting for the others through the crack in the wall. Grasping weeds and vines sprout from the ground and walls of the tunnel, entangling the three Gnoll. Two of them cut and break themselves out of the plants' grasp, but the closest of the three is too surprised to react and is covered in vines, unable to move. The two who broke free slink around the corner just as Wy hears movement closing in through the crack he came through, followed by the sound of battle breaking out.

Wy squeezes back through the crack only to bump into Jayda and the other dude from outside. He pushes them aside just in time to see the biggest of the two Gnolls from earlier cackling gleefully, readying for another strike. Wy doesn't think, the incantation for Blight comes naturally to him, and the Gnoll screeches as it shrivels and dries up when Wy slaps it away from him. He sees Ezekiel give him a wide eyed look before taking down the other smaller Gnoll.

Informing the others of the third one that's stuck right around the corner, Ezekiel heads for it immediately, Laenor on his heels. Jayda and the man meanwhile disappears through the crack Wy came from, heading further into the tunnels where the sound of more Gnoll is still echoing.

A roar sounds from a female throat. Seems like they found what they were looking for, but judging by the triumphant cackling that accompanies it, the Gnolls found them as well.

Worried, Wy follows through the crack once again. He glances at the entangled area and finds the trapped Gnoll still alive, but struggling. The tail end sparkles of Ezekiel's attack still hangs in the air, so he throws a Frostbite down the tunnel at it as he rushes in the direction of Jayda's voice. Or he would have rushed off after her, but instead does a double take at the Gnoll as it crumples and dies as the frost takes hold. He looks incredulously between his hand and the dead Gnoll for a moment. What the...

While he's distracted, the others find the last of the Gnolls, and the cackles finally, thankfully, fades to silence. When he arrives at the scene, Jayda and the man is busy treating the only surviving hook-armed creature. The second hooked creature already way beyond saving, it's innards strewn across the ground.

Jayda is furious. Disappointed, and sad. She explains that it was a mated pair, and that their nest was probably nearby. Hopefully it hadn't been disturbed, so maybe the eggs were salvageable, if only they could find them.

Laenor runs off to the place he thinks sounds the most likely based on the description Jayda supplies but finds nothing. The group checks everywhere else but finds no nest. Instead, in one of the innermost rooms, they find a pitch black marble and a slime covered musical horn that both make Ezekiel's magic senses tingle. Everything else they find is mostly trash.

Before they leave the tunnel system entirely, Wy decides to check the room Laenor went to check, one last time. Not because he doesn't trust him...no. Actually. Totally because he doesn't trust him to be thorough.

Ezekiel helps, but Wy finds it without much need for assistance. The wall of loose rocks crumbles easily with some prodding, and Wy crawls through. There's a trickle of running water down one of the walls that soaks straight into the ground and on to deeper places in the rock. The greenery is lusher in here, and there's a heightened mound of soft sand and dried out plant matter. Upon some careful digging, Wy unearths 4 whole eggs. They're all warm, and occasionally vibrating. He wraps them in his cloak, using it as a makeshift bag, and crawls back out. He asks the others where they think Jayda wants them, and both Ezekiel and Laenor looks mildly alarmed. They wonder wether they were supposed to disturb the eggs at all.

Jayda arrives, and while she looks alarmed as well when updated on the Situation, takes two of the eggs from Wy to lighten his load, obviously concerned for the eggs' wellbeing.

Laenor and Ezekiel whispers conspiratorially in Drow, so WY tunes them out, concentrating on carrying the precious eggs safely out of there. On the way out Wy asks Jayda if he may keep one of the eggs. Confused as to why he'd want to do that, she eventually just shrugs.

When they get out and reconvene with the deep gnome, Ezekiel hands over everything that wasn't magical to him, much to the gnome's disappointment. He laments it rather loudly, but Wy is not paying attention. He's occupied the most knowledgeable person about the Hooked Horrors, and grilling them on how to care for a Chick as they're heading back to the caravan. They're very confused, but they do give him a thorough breakdown of all the information they have on the beasts. Wy feels it's a bit lacking in the specifics on 'care' but figures he can just go talk to the still surviving adult...teenage? Hooked Horror later when it wakes.

Back at camp, there's more inter-faction drama unfolding, but Wy can't bother with that either, too busy thinking of what needs to be done to keep the egg warm till the Chick hatches. A sling with a pouch is what he settles on.

Just as he's digging out his sewing kit and a few of the spare scraps of fabric from the bag of holding, Ezekiel grabs his elbow and drags him along to sit by the fire with a group from the Obathion Club. The others drink wine and talk and banter and squabble over the smallest things, and looking around Wy gets the feeling of having seen this scene before. The people are different, but the feeling is familiar. Comforting even. The egg is a reassuring weight, radiating warmth where it is cradled between his crossed shins and thoroughly bundled up in his big cape as he begins sewing.

Being surrounded by noise as he is, he doesn't notice it at first, but eventually the vibrations has him checking the egg, and sure enough. There's a crack.

He shoves the sewing project to the side, clamping the needle between his teeth for safekeeping  as he pulls his fists up in a show of cheering on the little one silently.

Another crack appears. Then another. Then some more, until finally a piece falls out, and a tiny beak pokes through. Followed by whiskers...and two hooked appendages.

Wy grins down at the ugly little thing.

"Hey there, Hookey."

-:-

(Let's just say the entire party does not appreciate Wy's naming sense. He gives no fucks. Hookey is Babey Name for Hooker. Until Babey is able to decide on its own name, according to Wy. As of now...my chat name in the Chat Group has been updated to HookerDaddy. Idk how to feel about that one 😂😂)

#dnd #oc #out of the abyss #wy: the written saga

[xcziel]

i am getting concerned: tumblr is starting to have more and more relevant ads and i don't know what that means for this place

they still have the dating site ads but like the tub full of noodles is gone, and instead there's ads for verizon and movie/tv stuff

what will we do if corporations somehow decide tumblr is a feeding ground again?

#the opportunists and influencers and profit bloggers will come back #ugh no i want to be left in peace #in this our irrelevant custom niche #it's damp and uncomfortable but we're used to it #don't shine the light in here #some of us shrivel or scuttle away #under those conditions #argh it's like someone finally read my rant #from like 3 or for years ago #on how to make tumblr work #by actually advertising to the base it has #but that was pre-pornban exodus #and honestly i like it better without all the clutter #even if i do miss the smexy #why couldn't we stick with the powerwash ad? #that was so soothing #i also warned about that particular show #with the ad that made the whole site rebel #they thought the advertising they did for go #was what made it a fandom hit #uh no #the need to fine tune their content selection criteria #when accepting media push ads #to make sure they fit the climate here #oh pfft why am i helping again

[cryptiql]

riptide

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, some mildly suggestive flashbacks + detailed descriptions of drowning. as always, please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 4.9k

a/n: welcome to the sequel of smoke signals. perish :)

dabi made a mistake. the knowledge sits in the bottom of his stomach like a lump of lead; his innards twisting into a knot whenever the memory of you crosses the expanse of his sleep deprived mind. the burns under his eyes might as well be bags, but they aren't large enough to bear the weight of his guilt. it isn't much better sitting on his shoulders, but the repercussions of pain are what keep him from letting it go, and that's exactly what he wants. no—it's what he deserves. he deserves the feeling like his head is going to burst; the ache in his spine from too many hours spent hunched over himself with a bottle clutched between his shaking hands; the burning intensity from overuse of his quirk. the extra inches of marred skin serve as reminders of what he did, but it's not half as satisfying when the pain doesn't last.

he wants to scratch at the wounds until they ooze that bitter garnet liquid; until he's suffocated by the metallic scent and forced to endure as the taste of blood engraves itself on his tongue when he chokes on it. he wants to suffer—the slower the better—because not even the strongest alcohol can cleanse his sins, nor the stench of his regret.

dabi made a mistake. it won't be the last time, he's able to admit, because his ego is too shriveled from the lack of your warmth, and his heart yearns for the passion of your kiss that still lingers on his lips. when the loft echoes with fragments of the city's ambience, drowning him in an incessant racket, he longs for the lighthouse. this place is infested with selfish ingrates, scuttling about in search of the next outcast to torment, and it makes him wish he still had that safe space at the shore. your siren song was a drug to put him at ease, and now he is without it, and the withdrawal has taken effect.

he knew this would come to pass. dabi overdosed on your love; your affection; your everything; all while watching the consequences unravel at a snail's pace, almost as if he were being teased by the inevitable end. he let it happen. he did this to himself, so he won't shake his hands at the sky, cursing gods he doesn't know exist; as if they would concern themselves with the faults of men like him.

he knew this would happen.

but then, so did you. you had to have known by the empty space in your bed where he used to lay; by the dates that kept getting postponed and the meaningless promises made to make up for them; by the shortage of visits, even just to say "hello" before he dropped from the face of the earth once more. if this were true, it meant that you were suffering just the same—nay, more than him, by forcing yourself into a state of compliance whenever he told you it was time for him to go. dabi could pretend like he didn't see your fingers twitching; resisting the urge to reach out for him; just as he could pretend like the rivulets of tears on your cheeks did not exist, though they begged to be swept away by him. god, he wants to hold your face again, noses brushing together and your dreamy sighs melding with his raspy laughter.

he had told himself that you wouldn't deter him from his goal, but even that seems like a pipe dream now. he feels like an underachiever, chasing a future that can't be set in stone when he already had you, which should have been enough. dabi realizes that the flames of his own passionate desire for freedom have burned you in the process, and it hurts more than he can put into words. you were always better with words, he reminisces, tracing the coffee stained parchment sitting in his pocket.

dabi has long since stopped reading the letters you sent, but he still carries them with him wherever he goes. they anchor him to both earth and sky; the reality that he's lost you, threatening to swallow him from under his feet; and the hope that he'll find you again, one day, after all this is over. "and just what do you think you're doing?"

you can see his reflection in the stove's glass sheen, his mouth drawn up into a devious smirk as he leans on the bedroom doorframe, clad in nothing but his briefs from the previous night. the purplish burns scaling his collarbone and abdomen give him a roguish look that—if you possessed no self-restraint—would normally have you lunging at him like a starved beast. you manage to smirk back at him, subtly shaking your hips while opening the stove door to pull out the doughy mound of bread inside. to your delight, you hear him grumble something not-so family-friendly before he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. you had never once thought that the feeling of staples against your skin would feel so good, but now you can hardly imagine being without it, and you immediately melt into dabi's touch.

he breathes softly in your ear, chuckling when you flinch in response, goosebumps stippling your flesh. by the way your cheeks puff out in embarrassment, he should take that as a sign to stop, but fuck, your pouting is just too cute for him to resist, especially when your worship-able body is basking in the afterglow of dusk. you keen when dabi starts peppering your shoulder blades with kisses, but nearly dropping the pan causes your senses to return, and you whisper a plea. luckily, he appears to be in a merciful mood, because he relents his onslaught of affection to rest his chin in the crook of your neck.

when he finally notices what you're making, he can't help but squeeze you tighter.

"is that a cake?"

you turn to give him a peck on the nose, which is rewarded with a halfhearted snap of his teeth just millimeters from your mouth.

"that'd be right. though, i'm astonished you know which way is up after last night." your sing-song tone of voice spurs him to squeeze your thigh, and you would have shooed him away if not for how much you liked it. dabi murmurs something unintelligible, the vibrations shooting straight down your spine, and proceeds to remove himself from you in order to better observe the baked delicacy.

"mm. what's it for?" he asks, discretely swiping a bit of the pink colored icing from the bowl to his right. sweet, but not sickeningly so.

you are none the wiser when dipping a spatula into the contents and smoothing it over the cake, a soft smile playing at your lips.

"you never told me when your birthday is, so i'm taking a wild guess. figured i'd whip this up as a surprise, but you woke up earlier than i suspected." dabi swears that his heart is about to burst from behind his ribcage, and all because you're too goddamn perfect. you may as well be a priceless work of art in museum that he's been prohibited from touching. however, the fading marks on your skin signify that he's done more than just touch, and he takes pride in the fact you can't seem to move further than two steps in any direction without faltering.

"i know angel food cake is your favorite—" dabi silences you with a kiss; bruising and passionate; and takes the spatula from your hand, blindly setting it aside on the counter. your protests are short-winded as he lifts you from your behind before promptly turning the oven off and spinning on his heel. he's memorized these halls well enough to not bump into anything during his trek back to the bedroom. you pull away, albeit with a hint of reluctance, just to glare at him.

"what about the—" dabi kisses you again, and while you don't seem too happy about being interrupted twice in a row, the shared heat between your bodies distracts you from being upset.

"you're off by about two months, doll. besides, i think i'd much rather have you as a late birthday treat."

dabi clenches his jaw at the memory, his knuckles whitening with how tenaciously he grips the tattered fabric of his jeans. the league's new base is just as rundown and close to crumbling as he feels, but his despair is masked by the rage that overpowers it. why couldn't you have been a normal couple? why couldn't dabi have grown up with a father who loved him; with a quirk that didn't gradually destroy him and without the resulting scars that made him a hideous monster in the eyes of all who saw him? why couldn't he be as beautiful on the inside as you said he was on the outside? why couldn't he just be happy, after all this time?

why? why? why?

dabi finds his answer hidden in the ashen battleground strewn with rubble and remnants of burnt remains. he finds it in the fear of his victims' expressions before the snare of death claims them in a flourish of blue inferno. it's written there in bold, ichor dripping from his fingers as they smear the message with red.

the privilege of living a normal life is, and always will be, beyond his reach. murder does not warrant mercy, and the only person willing to give it to him is miles away, still desperate for him to come back.

as fate would have it, you and dabi lived worlds apart, but you still look at the same sunset; the same array of stars forming constellations that told stories of your life shared together. they replay in his head like a record stuck on repeat, and only when the song ends does he find himself back in the clutches of his childhood trauma, rather than your embrace.

"dabi? dabi!" his trademark scowl automatically takes place when a finger prods and pulls at his cheek, the familiar voice of twice shaking him from his deep contemplation. jin has been so unfortunate as to suffer minor scorches from the ravenette's flames, on account of him being too bothersome at the wrong moments, and so he instantly backs away at the first indication of danger brewing in the air around him. with how on edge he's felt lately, he really should have gone on a walk to relieve some stress, but the looming knowledge that he can't go to the lighthouse would only ruin the trip.

dabi is fully prepared to smack jin's hand away until he sees what he's holding. he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, and even without it, the scent of saltwater and freshly baked bread clings to the paper, altering him of yet another one of your efforts to communicate with him. dabi feigns indifference towards the object; quite the contrary to his thinning patience as twice waves it above his head excitedly.

"you've got mail! who's is from? probably a useless nobody! or maybe a secret admirer? but who would admire you?"

to his dismay, the commotion has grabbed toga's attention, and she veers over to their location with a giddy grin on her face. she all but drapes herself over dabi as he snatches the letter from jin, and it doesn't help his struggle when she clings to him like a koala. after a bout of kicking and shoving, he manages to break free of her grasp, grimacing at her lengthy, high-pitched whines of disapproval.

"and can you believe hawks was the one to deliver it? i didn't take him for a carrier bird. . ."

dabi doesn't hear the rest, nor does he intent to, because he's already making his way to the nearest exit with haggard breaths. whoever calls out for him and whatever they say are the last of his concerns right now, and they're abruptly cut off when he slams the door behind him. the summer heat wills beads of sweat to paint his forehead, but he soon finds comfort under the shade of a tree, cicadas buzzing noisily overhead. he would sooner keel over and die than thank the birdbrain hero for catering to him—and by extension, you—but now that the note is there, begging to be read, he can't help but feel some sort of gratitude.

"i need you to do something for me."

the bristles of hawks' feather hover over dabi's pulse in a threatening manner, but he feels no more in peril than he would at the cruelty of a baby chick. he knows the number two hero won't harm him, at least not without regretting it later, and this is the perfect time to use that to his advantage. hawks narrows his eyes at him, nose wrinkling in accord.

"why would i do anything for you after that stunt you pulled?" he snarls, and dabi almost has to laugh at the drastic switch in personality. the way he presents himself to the public is a true contrast compared to the persona only he and the league have had the pleasure of seeing.

"because if you don't, everyone will know you've been fraternizing with the enemy, and we wouldn't want number two falling off his high pedestal, now would we?"

this time, dabi audibly laughs when hawks' guise wavers. the other grits his teeth, slowly withdrawing the feather and allowing it to fall limp at his side. he revels in his victory, short though it be, and reaches into his pocket to procure a letter marked with your name and address. putting your location at the disposal of a hero isn't something he's proud of doing, but it's all he has left, and he doesn't have the resolve to tell you directly.

coward, his conscious mocks as he holds it out for hawks to take. the winged man stares at it with befuddlement, his movements stalling here and there when he seizes the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. dabi tuts lightly but menacingly, yanking hawks towards him by the wrist and igniting his quirk to leave a faint mark there.

"you're gonna deliver this for me, no questions asked. don't you dare open it."

despite the clear uncertainty, hawks took heed of the ominous demand and carried it out later that night. he had not expected a young man with tear-stained cheeks to greet him at the door, much less the endless babble of 'thank you's as you took the letter with shaking hands.

dabi hadn't wished for you to send one back, but the ongoing stream of them was considered fair, after he'd left without much of a trace. still, he had promised himself that he would never read them, for fear of it opening the wound inflicted by having to say goodbye.

dabi can't understand the sudden change of mind for the life of him, and yet, he finds that he doesn't care whether it opposes every rule he set to keep you safe—to keep himself safe. he tears open the envelope and slumps against the tree trunk, bark and leather grating together as he hesitantly unfolds the parchment, briefly shutting his eyes as a last act of resistance to the helpless cry from within; longing for the familiarity of your poetic words. instead of the delicate precision that was to be anticipated, dabi stared down at your messy scrawl, a carnal fear rising from within and causing his throat to clamp up. the memories begin to flash at a faster rate, like an old-timey picture film. dabi has just finished putting the kettle on to boil when hears the floorboards creak, followed by the sound of your slippers shuffling across the floor. he snickers, remembering that the only pair you have is the one he bought you; a well worn match that looks oddly like cloud bunnies. you've made sure to exemplify how much you love the gift by wearing them around the house on rainy or lazy days, all paired with a wistful smile. this morning is no different as you worm your way under dabi's hold and press your face into his chest, a satisfied groan escaping you when he cards his fingers through your hair and scratches the scalp.

the robe you wear is half-hanging from your shoulders, which makes for an enticing view from where dabi stands, but he simply kisses the crown of your head and continues waiting for the pot to simmer.

"did you hear that noise?" you slur, just barely discernable over the kettle's shrieking. dabi quirks a brow in question as you rub the leftover grogginess from your eyes, tiredly nodding at the back window.

"little past midnight, i think. coulda sworn i heard somethin' rifling around in the trash." dabi squints at this new information while eyeing your appearance. the dark circles and intermittent yawning indicate a lack of sleep, and if he weren't there to keep you steady, you might collapse onto the floor as a snoring heap. if it really disturbed him, he should have woken me up, he thinks, pulling you closer with an ever-deepening frown. you snuggle up to him as if it's second nature, sleepily giggling away when his digits stray too close to your side.

"s'probably raccoons, but if you're worried, i can stay longer just to make sure." you look up at him with nothing short of pure, unbridled adoration, cupping his face and squishing it gently, to your own entertainment. after a moment of consideration, you shake your head.

"nah, you're probably right."

the feeling hits dabi like a tidal wave, dragging him below the raging surface; far below where the light of day cannot touch. it suffocates him and brings rise to the sickening taste of bile on his tongue, but he doesn't have time to spare in throwing it all up, so he swallows it. withered patches of grass crunch under his feet as he peels himself from the tree and breaks into a dash, sparing your letter the flames fueled by his anguish as to let it drift in the breeze, the single sentence written on it already engraved in his mind.

it wasn't raccoons.

dabi doesn't care what shigaraki will have to say about this when he gets back. the only thing he cares about is that you'll still be alive to say anything to him when he reaches you, and that whoever has invaded your home is willing to die for what they've done, or what they're currently doing, and fuck—he isn't even sure if this is you calling for help or not, but he can't risk being right.

the distance between the base and the lighthouse feels lightyears apart, yet simultaneously at arms length when dabi is running at speeds he hasn't ever been able to achieve before. if he stumbles at any point during his sprint, or if he happens to bump into an unsuspecting civilian on the street, he doesn't notice. the resonant thumping of his own heartbeat is all that he can hear as he thanks the gods for the flow of traffic being so spaced out, otherwise it would be near impossible for him to reach you in time.

in time for what? he has to ask. dabi doesn't even want to think about the repercussions, but the scenarios arrive in rivulets despite the mental trapeze he goes through to push them down, and they only continue to grow into oceans; darker, colder and harboring thoughts too gruesome for even someone of his caliber to handle. he won't realize until much later that he'd forgotten to put on his disguise, but the way people ogle at him with fear and disgust does not suppress the need to protect you.

even now, he can sense the pressure building behind his eyes, though it's more painful that it used to be. dabi hasn't cried in months, and it shows by how unabating the rivers of blood trickle from his skin grafts, despite his feverish attempts to stop them. look at yourself, holding together by a thread and weeping in public like a child whose lost his mother in the crowd. it wouldn't have come to this if he had stayed.

something shifts in the scenery; a distinct line drawn between the city and its neighboring countryside; but it makes no difference to the impending peril that looms ahead. the closer he gets, the sooner he'll find you waiting for him, dead or alive. dabi staggers, his breath hitching at the thought, as well as the harsh sting of pain that erupts when his knee collides with the gravel below. he pushes himself forward in little time, a strangled yell ripping his throat raw as his vision settles on the top of the lighthouse, peeking over the hillside. you have to be there—you just have to. he isn't done with you yet, and you're sure as hell not done with him.

the earth is damp beneath his feet, and it soaks through the canvas of his shoes whilst he darts past the boulevard and onto your property, crying out to you. surely, you must hear him. surely—

dabi practically hurls himself at the front door, his blood running cold when it opens for him effortlessly and swings ajar to reveal the living room, upturned and scattered with broken bits and pieces of furniture. there's no sign of you or whoever did this. the oakwood flooring groans under his weight as he barrels down the hall, peering into every room, beneath your bed and any other place where you could be hiding. nothing. his search ends in vain at the front doorstep, where he stands hunched over and dry heaving. no, no, no. you can't be gone.

"y/n!" he shouts. his only response is the crashing of waves against the shore and the incessant cawing of seagulls. for a moment, dabi forgets how to breathe, and then the ability returns to him; his legs aching horribly as he rushes to the beach. the arrangement of rocks is sporadic at first, but they gradually form large clumps the further he carries on, urging him to squeeze between the narrower openings. it comes with some difficulty, but at last he is able to hobble onto the sandy coast and rest his sights upon the vast sea. he can recall when seeing its murky blue sea would have put him at ease, but now it only causes his senses to be clouded with distress.

"y/n!" the once calm ripples rise into rolling billows that drench the shoreline in frothy heaps of algae, wreckage and blood. it curls and disbands within the ocean to pollute its cerulean hues with ones of scarlet red, and just like that, dabi's heart sinks like the titanic. he'll never forget the sight of you, face-down in the water; your favorite shirt slashed to shreds, clinging to your body as nothing more than a tattered mess. dabi wades into the water until it reaches his ankles, completely numb to its freezing temperature as he sinks down to hoist you up. he rests you on his thighs and presses his lips onto yours with urgency, shortly pulling back so that he can thrust his palms upon your chest and push. he doesn't care to remember how many times he repeats this, but when he finally sits back on his haunches to release a stifled curse, the feeling of dread has only just begun to take control.

you've never looked so pale.

a guttural sob wrenches itself past his grinding teeth as more tears arise, dappling your cheeks like raindrops. it wracks his body and sends forth a surge of agony to course through his veins. dabi cups your face with a shaking hand, the other secured around your waist while he kisses you, his erratic pleas falling upon deaf ears.

"come back. . .come back." his bawling ceases to end, no matter the abrasive pain blossoming in his gullet.

"c'mon, doll. where's that sweet voice of yours?" his thumb strokes your bottom lip as though beckoning you to speak. when nothing follows, he makes a pathetic sniveling sound mixed with something broken; a blubber or whine, he does not know. the burden of your lifeless form causes the reality to set in; a dagger piercing his insides and twisting as to drag the most blood-curdling screams from him.

dabi loved you, and he wishes he had the strength to say it when you were still there. it was only within the presence of his own demons that he was able to utter his affections; curled into himself and waiting for a reply that would never come, carried on the wind that bit his skin. he loved you because you held him like a child when his father hadn't even the heart to acknowledge him as his own. you spoke his name—his real name—as though the blood on his hands was not there; like you had washed it away yourself through acts of tenderness that he did not deserve.

and now you're gone.

you're gone, and—

dabi's entire body jolts with a start, a familiar heat dancing across the grafts of his marred skin. a faint blue glow radiates from his fists, which are tightly fastened the weighted blanket that lays crumpled atop his legs. he lets go with a shuttering gasp, observing the black smudges that reside where his flames once were, then blinking owlishly at his surroundings. the room is shrouded in darkness, all save for the bedside table to the left of him that is dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. that, and the spaces illuminated by the moon's brilliance, showering the floor with multicolored spots as it glistens through the stained glass window. something slots into place, but all it does is send dabi's mind into overdrive.

where is he? where are you? are you really dead? everything hurts.

his nails drag down the length of his arms, seeking some sort of comfort in the pain that blooms there. it doesn't last long, however, when the bed suddenly dips, and a soothing warmth is placed on the small of his back.

"touya?" you croak, your words lingering with the remnants of sleep. dabi—no—touya, swears that he could cry again, right then and there. his eyes flit over your torso, where several scars in varying sizes have desecrated the skin. as he idly traces the pink lines, one final memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious. him, desperately pounding your sternum; the last threads of denial snapping in tune; and you, coughing and spewing both curses and whatever seawater that had clogged up your lungs. touya held you in that same position for hours, listening as your ragged wheezing turned into hiccupping sobs. hauling you inside had been no easy feat, and having to hear your muffled groans while he stitched you up by the crackling hearth was no better, but the evening after had been pleasant.

you could not recollect the face of the intruder, and with such little information to go off of, touya was left to wallow in self-loathing for love he had almost lost. no amount of therapy could prevent the following nightmares and panic attacks, but in time, the rekindling of your relationship was proved successful, and dabi was prepared to repay you for the moments where you consoled him.

it wasn't just a dream. it had all happened, and yet here you were, alive and well.

a pensive look crosses your features when you note how quiet touya is, and you take it as a sign to break the tension with a tried-and-true method from the past. he doesn't resist as you coo softly, pulling him under the covers and wrapping yourself around him, a garbled tune fleeing from past your lips before you press them to his shoulder. you trail the faintest of butterfly kisses along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and so on. the anxiety coiled in touya's chest starts to untangle, leaving him as a trembling bundle of nerves in your arms as you shush him, your nimble fingers carting through his hair.

if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed at how the tables have turned; with you cradling him in the way he's so used to doing. still, not even he can deny that it feels nice to be held like this.

"s'alright sweetheart. i'm here. . ." you whisper, and the effect is instantaneous. touya stills as he inhales the scent of buttercream and fresh pine that wafts into the bedroom, his eyelids fluttering shut. all he can hope for is that your presence will drive away any nightmares that foreshadow his well-needed rest, and that when he wakes up in the morning, you'll still be at his side.

dabi made a mistake, and thousands more will come to pass, because underneath the grit and grime that makes up his callous exterior, there is a human being; struggling to survive and struggling to please, just as much as the next. but he'll never leave you again. he had promised you as such with the band of gold now encircling your ring finger, and as long as he lives, he'll never break it.

#⛓.dabi #dabi x male reader #dabi x reader #anime x male reader #mha x male reader #touya todoroki x male reader #my hero x reader #my hero x y/n #boku no hero x reader #x male reader #bnha x you #dabi fluff #dabi angst #dabi imagine

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 39

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​ Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers

Running is a funny thing. Despite what you probably think, it can actually bring a lot of pleasure if done in the right circumstances. A lot of people run to feel better. Some do it for sport, or for health reasons. There's running through the park, or in the gym. There are many types of running and most of them are actually quite enjoyable.

Running for your life is not one of those.

Running for your life overrides everything you think you know about running. The adrenaline pumped into your veins allows your body to overlook some of its limits, which is very handy. It lets you do things you'd never have thought about pulling off, like, for example, cutting corners with godspeed, while also ducking your head to avoid having it bitten off. It also allows your legs to fly you through the tangled mess of gardens despite the breath hitching in your throat. 

The chemistry of the human body is truly a marvelous thing. 

You'd give it more thought, but the beast of a spider scuttling behind you occupied too much of your mind. It was a marvelous thing too, and one you wished to never mull over too deeply. There was little you wanted to do less than think about its abnormally sharp chelicerae trying to bite the flesh off your back. Or the spindly, wiry legs sending it running after you with the speed no insect, and definitely not one of that size, should ever be allowed to achieve. It was simply unfair. 

The dagger Loki gave you was still buried into one of the creature's huge, glowing eyes, now leaking a greyish muck. It should raise your morale, to see it hurt. It didn't. 

You slipped on the mud, and slid down between the trees. Thorns broke your skin and roots slammed into your legs. The spider hissed, strings of saliva spraying from its gaping mouth, when you ducked under one of the lower branches - a thick, sturdy thing that shook when the spider threw itself at it, but didn't break. Not at first, at least. 

It gave you enough time to push yourself up and back in the direction of the massive castle looming over everything. The mountain that was a part of it rose over even the highest trees. Under different circumstances, it would be a menacing sight. In yours, it was a relief not to get lost. 

The wood creaked and groaned and then broke somewhere behind you. What a pleasant way of reminding your legs that they could run even faster. 

You broke out of the woods and back onto the winding paths leading to the fountain. It was broken now, and its pieces cemented in the mud; as if running wasn't difficult enough. 

The castle was so close. There must've been someone who’d seen all that mess, someone who would surely come to help. 

But they didn't. 

"Loki!" you screamed at the top of your lungs toward the pile of marble - all that was left of the original construction. "Could you not be dead right now?!" 

There was little that could have reached the god laid sprawled among the debris. It would fit the romantic narrative if hearing your voice gave Loki new strength and raised him from the dead, but the truth was, all that he could hear was the blood pumping in his veins, the water rushing from the damaged pipes, and on top of it all the—powerful, although turned inward—scream of his devastated pride. 

To be swept like a bug, like an insect unworthy of any more attention, like a nuisance to get rid of - what a pitiful sight he must be. 

Even just imagining that made his blood boil. Steam rose from the debris and fueled his rage further. Loki was no bug. 

He was angry. 

An explosion sent the debris flying. You scuttled forward, shielding your head in your arms. For a moment, you thought something even worse than a bizarrely overgrown spider came to ruin your day. 

The golden helmet shone as Loki rose, his eyes immediately turning to the monster behind you. The god reached into the depths of his magic. It awakened eagerly.

"That's quite enough," he groaned from the heights of the pile. 

He was battered, bruised, and a little embarrassed, which was never a good sign. The green light crackled hungrily around his fingers as he eyed the monster rushing after you, stumbling through the mud. 

Mud was not what he'd prefer, but mud was all he had. 

The magic surged out of Loki's hands in a wave of shivering air and glistening frost. It writhed and bit and raised in a wave of freezing spikes. Ice crackled with sudden chill as it pierced through the belly of the spider and raised it off the ground, helplessly wriggling its legs. 

The ground was freezing under your hands as you pushed yourself up, balancing on the coat of ice. 

"Glad to see you alive," you said, backing away from the writhing spider. Yellow entrails oozed over the ice, but it still refused to die. 

Loki shot you his best grin, brushing the dirt off the leathers of his armor. "It would be rude to just leave you on your own. Besides, you'd probably hate me if I didn't take you to Valhalla with me." 

"You know me too well." 

Relief clutched his chest when you looked mostly unharmed, even if a little out of breath. There was a lot Loki wanted to say to that smile you gave him, and to the hand that grasped his in looking for balance. He even started on the words- but wasn't able to finish. The spider was a wicked thing, born of feral magic and it did not want to die. 

The spikes broke and rained shards of ice around. The huge, bulbous body shook with the impact of striking the ground again. Hissing and shaking, the spider's fury rose as it clawed the frozen mud, digging trenches into the ice.  Its eight legs were perfect for keeping balance and hurtling it with terrifying speed forward. 

Loki pushed you away as the magic surged around him and struck the monster to the side. It curled as it hit one of the statues of people long gone, and sent it flying in pieces. The cracks on the spider's back were deep, but they were already healing when it raised again like it couldn't even feel the pain. And maybe it was true and the reason why it was such a vicious, unstoppable enemy. Loki sent another spear of ice through it, washing the frost in yellow. 

You cursed, looking around for anything or anyone. 

The castle walls were right there, and the corridors you'd walked not so long ago all overlooked the gardens you now fought for your lives in, and yet, no one seemed to be aware of it. You'd waited, and hoped, and it did nothing to change the tides, so you gave that up and focused on what you knew best. 

The spider hissed and spat greenish acid as it tore itself open on Loki's spikes, pushing itself despite ripping parts of its body off. Loki kept on cutting its legs off with a lance bleeding golden dust, but it slowed the spider down only a little. 

If only there was something you could use for a bigger impact… Like the huge, already half-crumbled marble statues just standing around. 

Well, you'd already ruined some of them, how much would one more matter in the grand scheme of things? 

Loki had the full attention of the monstrous spider, which was very convenient and equally dramatic. He looked unfairly good with his green cape flowing behind him as he cut, ducked and stabbed the spider while also trying to freeze its remaining legs to the ground. 

You tried to be less dramatic while you snuck around and made it to the back of one of the statues nearby. It stood high on a pedestal, with the figure majestically carved like a moving warrior. Whoever it depicted, was standing on one leg, in the middle of a run. It was such a perfect little detail, you thought, as you took a nice, heavy block of stone and climbed up the pedestal. 

"Loki!" you shouted while chopping the marble and watching the cracks spread up its surface. "Get your ass over here!" 

There was not much time Loki could spare to see what you were doing, but he retreated a little, luring the spider after him, closer and closer to where you now stood. You pushed with your remaining strength. 

Right when the statue started to fall, Loki cut off the spider's front legs and sent another wave of frost over the already frozen ground. He jumped away while the spider struggled to stand. 

The statue had fallen with a loud, nauseating crack of splitting stone and splashed juices. 

You half-slipped, half-climbed down the now empty pedestal, trying to avoid the disgusting yellowish muck that coated everything thickly. 

You watched Loki push some bigger pieces of the carcass around with the tip of his spear. He was very focused on whatever he was doing, which was convenient, because you'd had absolutely no desire to lend him a hand. 

The ground was wonderfully cold as you knelt on it a healthy distance away from the mess. Sweat covered every part of your body that was now trembling out of exhaustion. Your breath came out in a cloud of white as you laid down on the frozen mud and crumbled stone. The stars were beautiful as always, and so huge they looked as if in your reach. 

There was nothing short of disgust on Loki's face as he held up something hidden in the soaking remains of the shriveled spider. It was a piece of stone with a slim handprint in the middle. He felt its magic under his fingers, angry to have its vessel ruined. Now that it was taken out of the carcass, its power was not enough to heal it yet again. 

Loki was very glad about that. His evening was eventful enough for his liking. He hid the stone in his pocket. 

He headed your way, discarding his golden helmet and the spear as he went. They disappeared in a shimmer.. 

You looked up at him. Blood covered the right side of his face in what a painter would call violent brushstrokes, and what looked to you like a face slammed into a fountain. 

"You look like shit." 

Loki looked at the arm you held stiffly over your stomach, and at all the scratches and scrapes you'd collected like autographs from every tree and a bush on your way. 

"At least we match." 

His face contorted in pain as he lowered himself next to you, embracing the blessed chill of the ground against his bruised flesh. The magic was a flickery thing on the Edge, and it did not like outsiders. Loki could already feel it working against his spells and undoing the coat of ice around. 

"You know what," he said, laying in the mud and looking at the stars. "I used to like spiders."

"I used to think magic was cool," you said, watching galaxies travel through the never ending night. "Now I feel like it hates me." 

"I can assure you, that abomination was aimed at us by someone much more real than the general concept of magic. And I know how to track that someone. Tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow?" 

"Yes. I think I'm done with today." 

You nodded. Your joints felt stiff and loose at the same time. "Agreed.."

The stars looked down on you, boneless in the melting sea of mud and marble. The stars understood little of the ways of mortals, but they knew what it felt to be tired. 

"Loki." 

"What." 

"How is it that you got injured by that thing?" 

"My face had been introduced to a few surfaces, you know. That smile of yours tells me enough about how much you'd seen."

"Yeah, that was marvelous, I wish I got it on tape. But, usually you don't get so roughed up. Remember when you got hit on Earth? You said it hurt, but you never blacked out." 

"It doesn't work that way. I wasn't born on Earth, so things that are inherently earthly, and lack the magic matching the one in my veins can't influence my state much. I might feel pain, and maybe get a few bruises, but it just doesn't work on my… being." 

You frowned. 

"But back when you invaded New York, you got smashed quite a few times by Hulk, and you, from what I could tell, didn't enjoy it. "

Loki sighed. "...I don't want to be talking about that incident ever again. That beast is… not entirely like everyone else on your precious Earth, that's all the explanation I can piece together."

"And that's why it Hulk-smashed you for good?" 

"To put it in terms that you can understand without any knowledge on the theory of magic, you can't destroy water with a stone, no matter how many times you clash them together in your hands. They have different… cores. But if two stones clash, they will both take damage, because their very being is similar in nature and they can interact with each other fully. I am a being born of magic. The spider was too, so every hit from it did more damage than anything else invented on Earth."

 "...so you're saying you're too stoned for guns?"

"I swear on Valhalla, on one of those nights I'm gonna murder you. Your puns are not half as funny as you think."

"That's fair, I guess. Could you please at least choose a pretty night?" 

Loki took your hand in his. He liked the feeling of your fingers linked together. "I will." 

"You're so romantic. I promise to only ever share the mud with you." 

Loki chuckled, despite the sharp pain in his cut face. He looked at you and saw stars in your eyes and love in your smile. There was dust in the kiss you shared, and blood on your tongues that didn't stop you. There were very few things in the universe that could've stopped your embrace there. In fact the stomping of the castle guards that finally made it to the gardens qualified. 

Loki still held your face in his hands when their swords aimed at you. Despite the gentleness he embraced you with, there was nothing warm in the gaze he met the guards with. 

"I suggest you reconsider your hostility," Loki's voice dripped with threat. 

The lean man with a needle-like rapier you'd seen earlier, stepped out. There was a growl in his features, and tension in his arms. The star-like freckles that used to cover the night expanse of his skin were now dim and grey. 

"My name is Faroq and I am the captain of the guard. I demand answers, now," was all he said, still as a statue himself. 

Loki didn't rise from the ground, and neither did you. He only gestured to the steaming remains of the spider behind their backs. "I believe someone has lost their pet. Do me a favor and give it back to them."

Faroq snapped orders at his guards to check on the muck underneath the broken stone. In the meantime, Loki helped you to your feet with a charming smile and his back to Faroq. Whatever the stone he had found was, Loki had no intention of sharing it with the fuming lord. 

The captain of the guard only asked you a few questions, but it was clear that he believed nothing you said, even though for once you weren't even lying. It was not your fault that someone on the Edge wanted to silence you before the investigation found the ambassador's murderer. There was no point in Loki or you setting a ravenous murder-spider on yourselves, but Faroq didn't buy it. 

When he ordered you to return to your chambers, both of you gladly followed, with as much dignity as you could muster while covered head to toe in mud. 

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki imagine #loki #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson imagine #loki mcu #loki marvel #i love loki

[waitineedaname]

frame the halves and call them a whole

also on ao3

--

“Alright, I’ve got a bad one.”

“Oh, lord.”

“Brace yourself.”

“I’m bracing!” Sasha made a show of gripping the short carpet on her living room floor and Tim grinned, leaning back against her coffee table.

“Would you rather… date a spider with the head of a human, or a human with the head of a spider?”

“Jesus. I see someone has been reading the discredited statements.”

“Guilty.” Tim shrugged cheekily. 

The two of them were sitting on the floor in Sasha’s flat, and she’d long since lost track of what time it was. Ever since they’d been moved to the Archives, they’d made an agreement to go out and do something together once a week. Sometimes that meant getting sloshed and losing at pub trivia, sometimes that meant dragging each other to whatever new film had made it to theaters that week, and sometimes that meant playing sleepover games in the middle of the night, as if they were twelve year olds and not thirty-somethings with 9-to-5’s. Neither of them had the energy to go out drinking and there wasn’t anything good in the theaters that week, so the third option had won out. They’d ended up on the floor when Sasha made an ill-advised comment about not being ticklish and Tim called her bluff. She’d dissolved into hysterical giggles and he’d said something about how being an oldest sibling meant having a sixth sense for someone’s ticklish spots, and then he’d gone very still and quiet. She’d taken his hand and squeezed and initiated the game of would-you-rather they found themselves in now.

“Okay. Let me think about this.” She drummed her fingers on her lips contemplatively. Tim smiled in that fond way he did when he didn’t want to outright laugh at her. “Are the human and spider bits proportional?”

“Ooh, very good question, Sash. Let’s say they’re the normal sizes for your average spiders and humans.”

“So my options are a human head scuttling around on spider legs or a human with an absolutely microscopic spider head?”

“Yep!” Tim said, popping the ‘p.’

“I’m going to go with option A. I mean, if it’s a human head, I could still hold a conversation with it, right? And I don’t think spiders would make good kissers.”

“I think some of our statement givers would disagree with that judgment.”

“Please don’t tell me we have a statement about a human body with a spider head. I don’t think I could take it.”

“Sure do! Statement number 9170108, or something like that. Some freaked out old coot convinced his neighbor’s head was fake and he was keeping a tiny little spider underneath the fake head.”

“Christ. I’m glad Jon didn’t ask me to look into that one. I might have quit on the spot.” Sasha laughed.

“Aw, and then leave me and Martin to deal with Jon? You know how he gets with the spider ones.” 

“Hm, fair. The Archives need someone sensible around.”

“Hey, you’re not the sole voice of reason down there!”

“You’re right. Martin can be fairly practical when he wants.” She failed to bite back her smirk when Tim clutched his chest, feigning pain.

“Oh, how you wound me, Ms. James! Here I was, thinking it was Tim and Sasha versus the world, but you’ve betrayed me for Martin!”

“Is that your proposal for a Scott Pilgrim reboot? Am I Ramona in this scenario?”

“No, we’re both Scott Pilgrim because combined, we can equal the pure sexual energy of one Michael Cera.”

“Eugh! Gross!” She retched and kicked at him, making him laugh. 

“I’m kidding!”

“You better be! Any and all horniness for Michael Cera is banned in this flat!”

“That’s fair.” He caught her foot and shoved it back at her. “Knives and Ramona were both way too good for him, anyway. They should’ve ended up together at the end.”

“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all night.”

“You’re really not pulling any punches tonight, huh?”

“Nope. My turn. Would you rather...” She crossed her arms and stared him down long enough to make him squirm, “get stoned with Jon or Elias?”

Tim groaned so loud she worried her neighbors would complain. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot make me choose that.”

“Hey, you asked about spider people!”

“Yeah, and I’d argue that dealing with my bosses while stoned is worse than a human head skittering around on the walls!”

“Oh, come on. Jon isn’t that bad.”

“Sasha. You were friends with him in Research. I was friends with him in Research. Last time we got drinks, he talked about South American moths for forty minutes. I’m getting a headache just thinking about listening to him while he’s stoned.”

“Maybe it’ll calm him down.”

“Maybe.” Tim pouted, and Sasha did her best not to giggle. “Alright fine. I choose Jon, but only because I cannot imagine Elias getting within eyesight of anything as fun as weed without shriveling up and acting like an affronted Victorian gentleman.”

“Okay, first of all, the Victorians loved drugs, they were high on opiates all the time-"

"Like hell am I doing opiates with Elias."

"Second of all, I may have looked into what Elias was like before he got promoted…” She trailed off and bit back a laugh when Tim's jaw dropped.

“No.” 

“And he was a major stoner.”

“You can’t just say these things. I refuse to accept it.”

“I’m serious!”

“Are we talking about the same Elias? The Elias Bouchard that uses words like grandiloquent and apropos? The Elias Bouchard that gets pissy if you round up on your time card?”

“You know what’s even worse?”

“Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’ve seen him wear those socks with weed patterns on them.”

“I told you not to make it worse.” Tim wailed and covered his face. “I swear, if I saw that, I would gouge my eyes out without hesitation.” Sasha patted his leg sympathetically. 

“Well, good thing you chose Jon, then.”

“I guess so! Fuck’s sake.” He sighed and flopped over onto his side to lie on the floor. Sasha laughed at him goodnaturedly, and then joined him on the floor. She expected him to be thinking of his next would-you-rather prompt, but after a long minute of him silently running his fingers through the carpet, he surprised her by asking, “Do you ever miss Jon?”

“Sorry?” She said, confused. “We see him every day, Tim.”

“No, I…” He huffed, “You know what I mean. Do you miss the Jon we knew in Research?”

“Oh…” Sasha caught onto his drift and fell silent, unsure what to say. Tim was clearly brimming with emotions that he was struggling to get out, so she let him take a minute.

“Not saying he’s a completely different person now, but… I don’t know. We used to get drinks with him. He used to laugh at our jokes. He used to make jokes. Weird, dark jokes, but still jokes, you know? But these days, it’s all business, all the time. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile in months. All… All snappish comments and ‘research this, call this statement giver, stop goofing off during work hours.’ Never mind that just a year ago, he was the one using work hours to show us cat videos because he got distracted during his lunch break.” The side of Tim’s face was smushed into the floor and his one free eye was focused on the whorls he was creating with his fingers in the carpet. Up close as they were, Sasha could see the light scar on his chin that he’d once told her was the result of an ill-advised dare as a child, when his brother had challenged him to see if they could jump off the back deck of their house. She touched it, and he leaned into her hand, eyes distant and sad. “I just…” He spoke softly, “I miss my friend.”

“I miss him too.” Sasha said honestly, though she knew Tim was taking it harder than she was. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know that.” Tim said, and she believed him. “It’s this stupid job. The stupid Archives. I miss being in Research, where I could make fun of the weirdos in the Archives, but now we’re the weirdos in the Archives.”

“We work at an institute that studies the supernatural. I think we’re the weirdos no matter which department we’re in.” She said, aiming for some levity and feeling relieved when Tim let out a soft huff of laughter.

“Fair. Still. The vibes in there are…”

“Bad.” She finished for him.

“You can say that again.” He finally shifted to look at her again. “If you were the Head Archivist-”

“Tim-” She warned, not wanting to dig up an old sore point. 

“I’m serious. If you were the Archivist, do you think you’d act like this?”

“Would I push you away, you mean.” She said. He shrugged and nodded. “I don’t know. I really don’t, Tim. I’d like to say I wouldn’t, but who knows what kind of pressure it involves. I can be just as intense as Jon when I feel pressured.”

“Yeah, but you’d be way nicer than him.”

“You don’t know that.” Sasha said, firm but gentle. 

“...Guess I don’t.” Tim sighed and shut his eyes. She reached down and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

“Next time you’re missing Jon, call me instead, okay? Or Martin, he’d love that.” She ran her thumb over his and gave him a small smile. “You can always count on me.”

His gaze is impossibly soft as he looks up at her, and he seems to almost forget to respond at first. “Yeah.” He finally says. “I can always count on you, Sash.” A cheeky grin spread across his face, breaking the tender moment. “The Pilgrim to my Scott.”

She laughed and let go of his hand to push his shoulder into the leg of the coffee table playfully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense!” He protested despite his own laughter. “Okay, maybe it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m poetic.”

“No, you’re sleep-deprived.” She sat up enough to eye the microwave from her vantage point in the kitchen. “Oh lord, it’s 2am, no wonder. You always get sappy at 2am.”

“I do not!”

“You do. Big sap.” She patted his cheek playfully and stood. “Want me to get you some extra blankets for the couch?”

“That’d be great.” He hauled himself to his feet, groaning all the way. She snickered.

“You sound like an old man.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m young and spry.” He complained, stretching.

“Mhm.” She rolled her eyes and went to the closet.

“At the prime of my life.”

“And yet you make dad noises getting out of a chair.”

“Hey, lying on the floor isn’t good for your back! Aren’t you older than me anyway?”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one complaining about my back.” She cut off whatever complaint he had prepared by throwing a quilt at him. He caught it and stuck his tongue out at her. She returned the gesture and grabbed another blanket. “Are two blankets good?”

“That’s perfect.” He took the blanket gratefully and settled on the couch. “Should I make breakfast as thanks?”

“You don’t have to,” Sasha immediately said out of politeness, but then added, “But if you want to make pancakes…”

“Understood. I’ll see you bright and early with some pancakes, then.” Tim smiled up at her and made himself comfortable on the couch.

“See you in the morning, Tim.” She turned to walk to her room, but stopped at the doorway when Tim piped up again.

“Sasha?”

“Hm?” She looked back at him and saw his best flirty grin on his face. He winked and blew a kiss at her. More than used to his nonsense, she gasped and pretended to catch the invisible kiss, then promptly put her hand to mouth and pretended to eat the kiss. Tim clutched his heart and fell back onto the couch, trying to act like he wasn’t holding back laughter. “No, you’re so cruel!”

“Good night, Tim.” She said, closing the door behind herself before her poker face could break.

“Good night, Sasha.” She heard through the door, full of fondness and amusement in equal parts. 

Sasha rolled out of bed the next morning to find Tim making pancakes, as promised. They sat at her kitchen table and bickered playfully about movies; Tim listened patiently as she infodumped about the history of science fiction as a genre, and she let him rant for the fiftieth time about Indiana Jones. Tim insisted on washing the dishes like a gentleman, and Sasha insisted on squirting bubbles out of the dish detergent bottle at him. They didn’t speak a word about work or their conversation from the night before, but she hugged him very tightly before he left, as if conveying all the emotion she could through touch alone. From the way he squished his face into her shoulder, it seemed the message came across. 

“I’ll make sure to get you the spider guy’s number.” He said when they finally pulled apart, and she snorted.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” She said, shoving him out the door.

“So I’ve heard.” He winked and walked backwards down the hall outside her flat. She sighed and waved, a smile on her face as she shut the door.

If he bugged her and Martin more than usual after talking to Jon the following week, she didn’t mention it.

#tma #the magnus archives #sasha james #tim stoker #ambiguous timsasha #my writing #okay to reblog #I blame the liveshow for making this more emotional than intended #wrote more than half of this in one sitting instead of writing my final paper how are y'all doing #my hobbies include infusing dialogue with as much dramatic irony as possibly and crying about s1 archival gang

[talesfromlordaeron]

Bai’s Apprentice Part 2: Meeting Zully

Only an orc, Bai considered, would look at the barren and dusty expanse of Durotar and think it would make a good home.

Admittedly, the rock formations surrounding the canyon path leading from Orgrimmar to Razor Hill and south did have an element of beauty to it. But as her faithful hawkstrider ran south down the dirt path, she couldn’t help but compare it to growing up surrounded by the colorful sunset trees, the crystalline waters, and of course, the thrilling energy of being surrounded by arcane magic all around. She could still sense magic in this landscape, of course, but it was muted, almost as if it too -- like the few trees or stubborn herbs that dotted the landscape -- were trapped in an internal fight for survival.

How powerful a mage must be to learn to tap into magic in an environment like this, she thought...

She couldn’t help but draw some comparisons, even though she hadn’t yet met her apprentice. Her training had gone well -- and quickly -- while surrounded by the abundant magic of the Sin’dorei lands, but she had suffered once she traveled beyond the reaches of the Sunwell and had to fight for enough magic to defend herself. Of course, many times, she had someone there to help defend her... although not always. And eventually, not at all.

At least she’d managed to survive and grow (again, eventually), despite the fact that so many other mages seemed to think she either wouldn’t or couldn’t. Never mind that for a couple years, they’d at least partially been right -- but she’d figured it out on her own, without their help even (of course they were too busy mocking her to actually help). And now, she had this opportunity to both prove to the Kirin Tor that she was, in fact, serious about her studies, and to help offer an up-and-coming mage the same mentorship that she herself had been denied.

A bit ironic, she considered, that a mage who got left to her own devices would be pausing her own travels and studies to make sure that a young apprentice wouldn’t have to suffer on his own.

Her hawkstrider slowed and squawked, bringing Bai out of her reverie and back to the present. On the road ahead, a troll in a tattered robe was jogging in her direction. She recognized the style of the staff slung over his shoulder immediately: the carving on the top bore the symbol of the Kirin Tor, an apprentice’s staff. This had to have been who she was looking for... but why hadn’t he waited in Sen’jin Village like the letter had said he would?

Both the troll and Bai’s hawkstrider stopped in front of one another. There was a pause as both mages regarded one another. “You be here for Zully, mon?” the troll finally asked.

“Yes,” she replied, dismounting from her hawkstrider. “Yes, I am.”

The troll grinned widely. “Me be Zully, mon! Me be your magic learner!”

Bai couldn’t help but smile back in response to Zully’s enthusiasm.  “Nice to meet you, Zully,” she replied, bowing respectfully. “I am Bai.”

Underneath her calm and respectful pose, Bai’s heart sank at the hidden insults behind the phrasing of the letter the Kirin Tor had sent her. His “noticeable lack of any sort of formal education” and her knack for “connections with those less properly educated” indeed -- unlike Bai, who had gotten used to enough regional dialects in her travels, those elitist snobs wouldn’t recognize any other complexly-organized syntax structure if it slapped them across the face.

She couldn’t possibly comprehend, though, how his accent could have possibly “overshadowed” his “innate natural ability” for magic; even at level 1 (and why was he wandering out here on his own instead of waiting in Sen’jin Village for her, at that level?), she could sense the untapped magical power within him. Her blood boiled at the thought that so many mages arguably better suited for the job than herself took one look -- or listen -- and decided he wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe it was for the best that they considered themselves “too good” for this troll. She couldn’t even imagine the levels of insults and corrections Zully would have suffered from otherwise just in the first five minutes of having a mentor -- and before even getting to the actual mage training itself.

“You coming, mon?” Zully asked, gesturing off to the north in the direction Bai had come from. He started walking again.

“Wait, where are you going?” Bai asked. She contemplated getting back on her hawkstrider, before realizing that it would likely be improper as Zully clearly didn’t have a mount of his own yet. “And why didn’t you wait in Sen’jin Village for me?” she added as she ran to catch up.

“Zully be going to da big orc city,” he replied without slowing down. “He be starting business to support family.”

“Wait, you mean... Orgrimmar? You’re heading to Orgrimmar?”

“Yes. Big orc city.”

“Oh, I see... I actually thought we could start our training down here, where you’re familiar with the territory...” Zully kept going, almost as if he’d not heard her. Bai wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this; she’d had something of an idea of how she’d begin the training lessons, but Zully seemed intent on challenging even that faintest wisp of a plan she’d had. “It’s a long ways to walk to Orgrimmar, and dangerous for someone as young as you,” she added in an attempt to persuade him.

Zully spun around, facing Bai with a big grin as he jogged backward; stories of troll agility were clearly not exaggerated, as Bai would have likely tripped trying to do that herself. “Zully fine wit da walk. He walk everywhere. And Zully strong -- he can shoot magic fire at enemies, he can protect himself. Watch!”

He stopped running and made an elaborate gesture; a thin layer of ice shimmered across his skin. Well, Bai considered with some degree of relief, at least the Kirin Tor recruiters had taught him how to cast Ice Armor. It wouldn’t offer much protection at his level, but it was better than nothing.

“Zully be practicing all week!” he added, smiling happily at his success.

Bai returned the smile -- so full of joy and enthusiasm. Even she hadn’t been so excited in her first few days as a magic student. It was refreshing, and definitely contagious. “Nicely done,” she praised. “Practicing is how you get better. Keep that up, and...”

She paused, her ears catching the sound of scuttling in the dirt. In his haste to show off, Zully failed to notice the scorpion that -- having no doubt noticed what easy prey a young and unobservant troll this far away from the safety of his village would be -- was steadily sneaking up behind him, its tail posed to strike--

“Look out!” Bai shouted, instantly pulling Zully behind her and annihilating the scorpion with a Fire Blast that probably invested way more magic than she really needed. The scorched creature didn’t even have the chance to hiss before shriveling into a dead husk.

“Oh.” Zully regarded the dead scorpion with a look somewhere between curiosity and what Bai could only describe as some weird sort of longing. “Dat be good skinning, da scorpion. Zully see people use da scales to make stuff."

She blinked, unsure of how to reply to that and slightly unsettled by Zully’s seemingly complete lack of concern over the danger he had just been in. “Okay, first lesson,” she finally said, squashing any sort of irritation -- and perhaps a little bit of panic -- down deeply inside her. “You are a mage, and as such, our magic is stronger than our bodies. Always make sure that you know what’s around you--”

“Zully still need to go to da orc city. You talk as we travel, mon?”

Bai sighed, letting her impromptu lecture fade. “Alright, let’s go,” she said in quiet resignation, gesturing back down the road. Clearly, Zully was just as impatient and headstrong as she had been when she was his level. Maybe for that reason too, her being paired with him was a good thing. Her first lessons weren’t quite going as planned, but at least she could keep an eye on him for now, until he learned to watch out for himself.

Although she couldn’t help but wonder how she was going to teach him to do something that she’d only learned out of necessity...

#bai's stories #world of warcraft #wotlk #warmane #fantasy rp #mage

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs “Dihydrogen Monoxide”

Hello, everyone, I hope you are having a good week, and I hope you enjoy reading. Please feel free to critique comment, ask a question, request an idea or a prompt :)

The humans stood aboard the spaceship in near darkness shuffling nervously as they waited. Captain Kelly stood next to one of the UN representatives: She was a stern woman with a stiff resolve, but she was clearly very uncomfortable aboard the alien spaceship. This would have been her first venture off world. She hadn’t even visited Mars yet

As of that current moment they had been waiting in the ship for almost two hours. They had been told that Lieutenant Vir was being shipped in, one his way from the medical facility, and would be there within the next few hours. The aliens had wanted to wait until all the humans were together before allowing them onto the central planet.

Turns out there was another important reason for Vir’s contribution to alien science. As expected, diseases could be carried over from planet to planet. To allow them onto the planet, the entire population would have to be inoculated against human disease, and in turn, they would have to be inoculated against alien diseases. Vir would have received his at the medical facility, they received theirs earlier in the day. It was a little disconcerting knowing that the vaccines had only been tested on one human, but members of the Galactic Assembly had assured them that, out of necessity, they had become very proficient at creating vaccines.

Either way, no one was experiencing any adverse effects, yet.

One of the soldiers slumped down in the darkness to rest his legs.

The tension remained for another thirty minutes before a door in the side of room hissed open and a human figure stepped into the room. A stream of decontamination fog spilling around him. The youthful face of lieutenant Vir peered at them through the gloom blinking, “Who turned the lights off.” He wondered.

Members of the crew got up to greet him breaking the tense silence with some friendly teasing.

“Look its alien boy, finally got to live your dreams getting probed by aliens.”

The lieutenant rolled his eyes brushing condensation form his skin, “I’ve had army physicals more invasive than getting probed by aliens.” He leaned against the wall as the rest of the soldiers crowded around him. The kid seemed rather excited to be getting all of the attention, and despite herself, Captain Kelly moved closer to listen as he talked animatedly about his lone experience with the aliens.

“What did they want?”

“Mostly like specimens and stuff, skin, hair, saliva. You should have seen them freaking out over stomach acid. Looking at me like they thought I was going to melt into a puddle on the floor. Oh also, they totally think we are nasty. Apparently the amount of bacteria and vaccines they had to synthesize was…. Uh…. What did they say…. Unprecedented. “

The UN official moved forward to listen in, “Really, I never assumed…”

Vir shrugged, “Well we always knew that there was more bacteria on the human body than there are cells of human in the human body.

The crew murmured in surprise, but just then, another decontamination door opened up and one of the aliens stepped in.

It was a Rundi; that much Kelly knew. She was only beginning to learn all the new species names, and was still slow on the uptake. She was sure that lieutenant Vir already had their names, genetic phylum and species memorized. He was like that, the kid was like a sports geek collecting baseball cards, accepted he collected aliens. She walked past his room once, and the entire place was plastered in sketches and drawings of the aliens that they had already cataloged.

The Rundi greeted them with a bow of its insectoid head, “The inoculation has been complete. The atmosphere should be compatible for you.”

The UN woman adjusted her suit, “We thank you.”

The creature bowed at them again, and then scuttled across the room stopping by the far wall before pressing a button. Vir had moved forward towards the front of the room eyes wide with curiosity.

A burst of sunlight flooded through the cargo bay, and the humans lifted their eyes against the light. The Alien seemed rather confused at their reaction. The blinding light took longer to wear off for her than anyone else, she heard the gasps of shock and wonder before finally blinking her eyes open exposing her face to a waft of hot air.

Her eyes widened in shock and surprise.

Exposed as they were to a glittering white city and hundreds of aliens staring at them from a ten meter radius.

***

The strange creatures stepped from the ship and into the light of their Starr, they were tall, and walked on ONLY TWO LEGS. The entire crowd shifted back in mild anxiety upon spotting their eyes. They were forward facing, and pared with two rows of sharp glittering teeth. The eyes rolled around in their head tracking up and down the crowd with those slimy white orbs. The small dots within widened and shrank as if their brains were targeting systems set ready to kill.

Though they waked on two legs, their bodies moved with a fluid, and perfectly balanced grace. Whey they stopped, they still managed to balance even despite their completely unusual distribution of weight. The endo-skeleton allowed the crowd to watch as the muscles moved beneath their skin.

Hesitantly, one of the creatures approached the barricade. The crowd pulled back in worried tension. The creature stopped, “Uh…. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The other creatures jiggled their heads in an odd motion before agreeing with the first.

The crowd finally allowed the strange predators to approach, moving around them like they would ravenous desert lurkers.

***

The first problem they encountered when dealing with the humans happened a few hours into the day, it was hot and the humans were beginning to lag in their energy levels. They had been meeting many very important people throughout the day, and they were all hot and tired, this planet ranged about eighty to ninety degrees throughout the day. They had met up with another member of the council who had attempted to greet them in a human fashion, Moments after their hands made contact, the creature’s arm burst out into a horrible purple rash, apparently very painful.

The UN woman looked down at her hand as medical personnel pulled the representative away holding his arm out in front of him in horror. Humans and aliens staring alike, they all noted no such rash on the woman’s hands. They were quarantined for almost half the day after that incident while they attempted to identify the bacteria that had done the damage. Turns out they found some sort of chemical irritant.

By the tie they came into test, the humans had cooled off, and, once her hand’s had been swabbed, no chemical was found. It was a complete mystery, so the humans were finally let out into the sun, which had only grown more intense.

Soon the heat was growing oppressive as the humans desperately looked around for a water source.

Eventually they made it towards the Galactic assembly entrance, and one of the humans spotted something the assembly hoped they would overlook. It was a dihydrogen monoxide pit quarantined by a high wall and multiple caution lines.

By this time the humans were practically sagging under the sun. The aliens didn’t know what to do for them, they didn’t understand what they needed. Were they about to keel over and die, was there something in the atmosphere. What was happening?

And then the humans saw the pit, and the worst thing imaginable happened, one of them responded, “F*** it, I’m dying.” And broke into a run towards the pit. The aliens screamed confused by the translation.

The human had chosen to die!

They tried to stop him, but he leaped over the caution lines setting off alarms before pitching himself over the wall and into the burbling pit of poison. Screaming all around, security officers raced from the building running as close to the edge as they dared expecting to watch as the human shriveled up as it’s juices were sucked into the water.

But, instead, they found the human floating on his back in the substance ducking under before coming back up gasping a serene look on his face. A couple of the humans joined in unable to contain themselves.

The one named Captain Kelly and their leader stayed behind both looking oddly sick and envious as they watched the other humans frolicking in the deadly liquid.

“What is the meaning of this?!” One of the officers demanded

The UN woman raised her hand playacting, “It’s just water…. I don’t.”

The security officer jabbed an appendage at the water, “Dihydrogen monoxide is a deadly poison to some of the species on this world, you can’t just play in it.”

Knowledge was beginning to dawn on Captain Kelly, “I…. our world is covered 2/3s by water. We need it to survive. Our bodies are over 60% water, and the heat is dehydrating us. If we don’t get water soon we will get sick.”

The officer stared at her incredulous.

“You’re not serious.”

“Yes we are, please they’re just thirsty. It’s the one thing we need before everything else.” Captain Kelly was growing desperate now. She was so thirsty.

“You drink poison?” The guard asked again.

“Yes, yes we do…..” She paused, and then it dawned on her, “I, yes and it comes out of our skin to keep us cool in heat, that’s what happened earlier, the council woman’s hands were sweaty and that’s why the representative broke out.”

All around them the alien creatures paused in surprise and confusion. They hadn’t even considered that.

***

A couple minutes later, Captain Kelly had retrieved her unit from the poison pit, and made them to stand out to dry before bringing them inside. Once there, a hazmat team came bearing bowls of water. Members of the Assembly looked on in horror as the humans downed what must have been gallons of poison. Bowl after bowl was brought to them until they seemed satisfied.

There were going to have to be laws and precautions put in place for this. As it turned out water made up pretty much everything in the human body, making them toxic to a small minority of Gamma class species. The two would be able to interact on a small time basis assuming the human wasn’t sweating, but in a climate like this that was almost impossible to secure.

In short, humans drank poison and could be toxic.

#humans are space orcs #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians #earth is space australia

[aelysalthea]

The Secret Lives of Neil Josten

Chapter 3: Dan's Academic Pursuits

Dan was bored already. Bored when it wasn't even the end of her first class? It made for a long semester to come.

Mathematics wasn't really a choice she'd wanted to make. Even Introductory Statistics was so far out of her realm of expertise that it would be a struggle, regardless of how often Matt preached that it was "only a first-year subject". Dan wasn't a math person.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean she wouldn't take it. It would be useful, she knew, just as she'd known that Introductory Mathematics would be to her benefit in the long haul. It would. Hopefully. Surely her arduous struggle two years before couldn't be for nothing.

The first class of Statistics wasn't setting a good precedent for successive lectures, however. The lecturer was a younger man, thin and plain, unremarkable but was a remarkably boring voice which he used to make a dull subject seem even duller. He spoke at the room rather than to the students and seemed to forget for the better part of the class that he had an audience at all. That, and that the words he droned and the solutions he detailed were in perfectly legible font on the screen overhead.

There wasn't a need to read it out when Dan was fairly sure that everyone in the class could read. Almost one-hundred percent sure.

"This was a bad idea," Kelsey muttered at her side exactly fifty-four minutes into the lecture. Professor Drone-A-Lot looked to be only contemplating the prospect of wrapping up. "A really, really bad idea."

Dan nodded in heartfelt agreement. She and Kelsey weren't really friends, just as she wasn't really friends with Thomas at her other side, or Jackson another chair along. She didn't even know the girl who sat on Kelsey's other side but to recognise her as a fellow athlete. They tended to group together these days, and especially the seniors. Juggling a sports-life and college studies was nothing short of a circus act.

If Dan had her choice, however, she would have sat with one of her Foxes. Even a freshman would have been better than Kelsey the netballer or Thomas, who played - what did he play again? Hockey, was it? She couldn't remember. Unfortunately, a quick glance around the enormous, ominous, mostly full lecture hall when she'd first stepped through the doorway hadn't spotted any of her own. That in itself was strange, because Dan could have sworn she had one. A valuable one, too. Neil was reportedly good at math, or so Matt had claimed the previous year.

The professor was still droning, still dictating what was already written on the screen over his head, by the time Dan's watch ticked onto the hour. As if to the sound of a bell, motion rippled through every student. No one spoke, not a one interrupting the professor, but unspoken agreement sounded the end of class. A sidelong glance saw the boy at the end of Dan's row slink into the aisle, twisting in place to scuttle up the stairs and through the door in short order. He wasn't even the first one to leave.

"Should've picked a spot closer to the door," Thomas murmured, and Dan nodded again. A shuffle behind her signalled more escapees, and though the professor seemed to be making an attempt to wrap up the session, she didn't wait for him to properly finish. Her notes were minimal at best, and she hadn't written a word for the past twenty minutes. Scooping her bag from beneath her feet, Dan swept pens and books within and was scooting along the line of seats in Kelsey's wake before she'd even zipped it shut.

"Don't be the last one in," Kelsey's friend whispered over her shoulder, teeth flashing in a grin. "I heard from Monica that this guy sometimes tries to keep lecturing to anyone that gets caught behind if they hang around."

Kelsey gagged and Dan gave a shudder that wasn't wholly theatrical. Snickering with the rest of her not-quite friends, she hastened up the stairs in then thickening stream of escaping students - only to pause at the top. Thomas nearly ran into her from behind with a muted yelp.

"Dan," he scolded, but didn't wait for a reply before skirting around her and making through the doorway. Dan barely noticed. Hitching her bag over her shoulder, she slipped instead down the line of desks and seats along the back row, the chairs already emptied, and paused alongside the only one that still held an occupant.

"I thought I remembered seeing you'd picked statistics this semester," she said, not bothering to dampen her voice anymore. The ruckus of escapees had climbed to careless abandon, drowning out the vestiges of the professor's words. "I didn't see you come in."

Neil started slightly, snapping his attention from his notepad up towards her. He blinked owlishly for a moment, as quietly disconcerted as he always was when someone 'crept up' on him, even if he did seem to be getting better with it these days. When he realised it was only Dan, he eased immediately, shoulders releasing their tension.

"Hey," he said, sitting back in his chair and dropping his pen onto the notepad. "I came in at the last second."

"I'll say. I thought I was cutting it close and you got here after me." Dan propped herself against the desk alongside Neil's. "You're sitting with me next time, though."

Neil cocked his head. "Hm? Why?"

"Because you're good at math."

"I'm not that good at math. I just enjoy it."

"Bullshit. And that's weird."

Neil shrugged. "It's fun."

It's scary that he's not even joking, Dan thought with a mental roll of her eyes. Once, she probably wouldn't have been able to discern Neil's blank-faced humour from sincerity, but it was a little more apparent these days. In this instance, he was definitely being honest. "So weird," she said, shaking her head. "Come on, though, throw me a bone. I'm in my last year and could use all the help I can get."

"If you're not good at statistics then why did you pick it?" Neil asked.

"Because it'll be useful."

"I suppose. For you."

"I'll do a trade with you," Dan offered, turning against the desk to drop her elbows onto the back of the chair instead. "You're taking psych this semester, right? I'll give you my notes and even help you read my scrawl, and you can -"

Gesturing at Neil's notepad, Dan waved an indicative hand. It wasn't for lack of necessity that her words died, however. Her offer abruptly sidelined, Dan straightened and peered at Neil's paper. "What is that?"

Neil followed the line of her gaze. "What is what?"

"That." Dan pointed at a square of the page, barely post-it sized and covered in arching lines of pen. "Did you draw that?"

Neil shrugged, shoulders regaining some of their tension, but Dan barely noticed. She was more concerned with the pictures in black ink that the bleached the paper, making a mockery of the blue lines and disregarding any notes that Neil had taken above it.

It was difficult to discern just what it was that she was looking at, for it seemed a part of something larger. Like a jigsaw puzzle piece isolated from its kin, what appeared to be a landscape image in immaculate detail and various intensities of shading consumed the square piece. The outline of a tree trunk, gnarled knots at its base and twisted branches extending higher. Tufts of grass stretched from its roots, and debris surrounded its base. Foliage and stunted bushes, a shrivelled flower and a misshapen rock. Something that looked like the shadow of an animal – a fox maybe? – and something else that looked far more sinister but less discernible.

As Dan drew her gaze across the picture, she shook her head slowly. It was… unexpected, to say the least. She couldn't have withheld the wondering smile that grew on her lips if she'd tried.

"Neil, you drew this yourself?" Dan asked without really needing an answer.

"It's just doodling," Neil said.

Dan ignored that uncomfortable edge to his tone. She reached for the notepad, fingers trailing over the surface made bumpy by the footprints of the pen. "This is really good."

"What?"

"Yeah, it's - Neil, you're a really good drawer."

"Not really."

Dan shot him a glance. "Don't tell me I'm wrong. You suck at school work in everything that isn't math or, like, Spanish or whatever else you and Andrew decided to take up at the moment -"

"It's Russian, actually," Neil said.

"Whatever. What I'm saying is that I know you suck at things, but this," she tapped the picture with a finger, "does not suck."

Neil shrugged tightly again. His face bore the kind of closed blankness of discomfort that Dan knew so well of him, and the tension in his shoulders bespoke it even more. Why he should find such a thing uncomfortable Dan didn't know, but she'd learned a long time ago not to ask. It would be an unkindness when the answer could potentially dredge forth bad memories. Neil had a lot of those, and they were often sparked by the most unexpected triggers.

Straightening, sparing a last glance for the artistic spread of penmanship, Dan forced aside the urge to explore it further. "Well, whatever," she said. "It's not like it's relevant, just kind of cool. You won't be completely distracted doing drawings in every statistics class, will you? Because that would be a problem if I'm planning to mooch off of you. And if you actually want to pass."

When Neil slowly shook his head, Dan gave a short nod. "Good. That's good then." Another nod pointed towards the doors, almost vacated of fleeing students. "Let's go, then. We don't want to get trapped by Professor Mitchell, right? Apparently he has a tendency of doing things like that."

Dan didn't wait for Neil to agree. She barely waited long enough to be sure he was packing his gear away and rising to follow her. Leading the way from the lecture hall, Dan shrugged the incident aside, even if she did stick a mental pin into the reminder.

Neil had been, and likely always would be, something of an enigma. It seemed that, even without trying to hide it, he had a wealth of secrets buried just beneath the surface. Dan found herself smiling as she cast a glance over her shoulder at Neil, his chin tucked and head bowed in utter contrast to how he usually held himself on the court but nothing if not typical of what she'd seen of him in the college hallways.

Always secrets and accidental revelations. Dan doubted they'd ever stop coming, though if they were as curiously unexpected as this latest discovery was, she found she didn't mind finding them out piece by piece. Not anymore.

***

When Neil returned to Fox Tower that afternoon, the room was silent. Such wasn't uncommon, both when it was empty and when either of his roommates were present; more often than not Kevin would be sprawled on his bed with headphones on and oblivious to the world, or Andrew at a window deliberately ignoring anyone around him. Neil didn't care. He was just as often blotting his surroundings out himself.

Dumping his bag at his desk, he dug through its contents briefly before disregarding delicacy and upending it and tipping the contents out. As he flipped through his books, the door opened behind him and he glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey," Neil said as Andrew entered, gravitating towards his own desk to offload his shoulder bag. Its thud was surprisingly heavy given Neil knew he rarely carried books with him, though he'd never asked just what Andrew filled it with instead.

Andrew tipped his head in an acknowledging nod before turning towards the kitchen. "I'm hungry," he said.

In anyone else, Neil probably would have ignored such a comment. When it came from Andrew, there was question, offer, and suggestion wrapped up in the two simple words. Flipping through his extracted notebook, Neil followed after Andrew.

"There's mac 'n' cheese on the bottom shelf," he said.

"You don't like that," Andrew said, turning to the pantry.

Neil shrugged. He wasn't hungry anyway, and even if he hadn't a taste for the goop, Andrew liked it. "I don't care."

Andrew crouched before the shelves as Neil dropped onto his own haunches before the fridge. He rearranged the collection of magnets, crumpling a couple of brochures Kevin had stuck up, a receipt that Kevin said was important but definitely wasn't, and tore the sheet of his statistics notes from the book.

"You hid it," Andrew said behind him, shuffling through tins and boxes for the admittedly hidden box.

"Kevin would have tossed it otherwise," Neil said.

"Asshole."

"He's kicked up his game on dieting this season for some reason."

"We have diet plans already. Let him suffer alone. He shouldn't inflict his poor life choices onto others."

Neil snorted as he rearranged the fridge magnets, adding his paper to the motley collection. He could agree with Andrew's sentiment, if only in part. Without a dark cloud hanging over Kevin's head that year, he seemed to have launched himself into the life of a committed athlete with a vigour that put his previous attempts to shame. That meant monitoring every mouthful, and not only of his own meals but frustratingly those of every teammate. He'd nearly gotten his throat cut when he threatened to throw out Andrew's tub of ice-cream barely two weeks before.

Rocking back onto his heels, Neil glanced over his shoulder to where Andrew was pulling pots out of the cupboard before turning back to the mosaic on the fridge. The collection of paper pieces, torn slips in some instances and larger chunks of pen-lined paper in others, consumed most of the lower half of the fridge door, overriding what had once been cluttered with Kevin's choice of 'relevant' content in the form of pictures, newspaper clippings, and loud advertisements. In Neil's opinion, what took its place was distinctly better.

The image hadn't rhyme, reason, or intention behind it, but somehow each picture-piece contributed to the whole. What had started as an offhanded doodle, something sketched mindlessly in the boredom of a classroom, had expanded into something more. A crevasse in a tree that evolved into the entirety of that tree, had produced a branch, a root, and then the shadow of another alongside it. The arch of a hill scattered with clumps of dirt, pawprints, and grass flattened by a departed foot.

What had started as an offhanded glance over Andrew's shoulder, a simple request and a chipped magnet to hold it in place had expanded. Hours of mindless scratchings in the back of classrooms when he could have been prepping for the end of year exams, sitting in silence and barely attending to the movements of his pen, unintentional but subconsciously deliberate nonetheless. The result was an expanse of fragmented but somehow continuous depictions in lead or ink. To look at it, Neil could determine in an instant which scraps of paper and sketched images were his own and which were Andrew's. It was somehow satisfying to see them all click together.

He didn't know why Andrew drew. He didn't know if he even liked to do it or if he simply… did it.

Neil didn't know why he drew, either. He couldn't have said if he liked it, or if he was good at it as Dan had suggested at the end of their earlier class. He just… did it.

"That's the third one," Andrew said from behind Neil.

Neil cocked his head, arms folding as he glanced over the mishmash pieces of the picture they'd unintentionally made. "Third what?" he asked.

"Fox."

Neil eyed Andrew sidelong. Andrew was regarding his latest addition with his usual hooded, nonchalant gaze. It was difficult to get a read on him sometimes, still difficult even after over a year of knowing him, but Neil thought he knew. In this instance, with the beats of silence and staring, Neil thought he knew.

He shrugged. "So long as you're okay with it," he said, turning towards the cupboard to extract a pair of bowls.

"I didn't say I liked it."

"Neither did I."

"It's a little obsessive if anything."

"Yeah, well, it's typical of me. Right?" When he turned, Neil found himself the focus of Andrews attention. He stared back silently, expectantly, but Andrew only rolled his eyes, returning to his mac 'n' cheese. Neil followed behind him. "Your turn next," he said, just as he always did as an unnecessary reminder.

"Whatever," Andrew replied. "If I can be fucked. The entire pastime is growing increasingly pointless."

"So you agree it had a point at least at some time?" Andrew didn't reply but Neil shrugged anyway. "Then I guess it doesn't matter."

Andrew still didn't reply, didn't confirm, but though Neil had never partaken in the betting habits of his teammates, he would confidently wager there would be another addition before the end of the week.

#aftg #the foxhole court #post-canon #neil josten #andrew minyard #dan wilds #headcanons #fanfiction #domestic #college life #the secret lives of neil josten

[lookbluesoup]

Whumptober 9 - Shackled

So, kinda stoked to share this one!! It’s part of (another) idea I’ve had sitting around for ages that I would love to turn into a multichapter story someday. If I can find the courage to commit to a longer fic xD I also think it would be a really fun premise to make a quest mod of. But alas, I don’t know how to mod. x’D This story is inspired by “The Most Dangerous Game” by Richard Connell. Which, if you haven’t read, I highly recommend! It’s free online! c: 

Also, Butler is crazy. Which is fun to write for, and hopefully fun to read, but fair warning - he is an unhinged villain and says/does some deliberately inflammatory things!

-------

Heavy, molded cloth suctioned to Nate’s face. What staggered breath he could inhale tasted poisonous. Black. Tight. Suffocating. Rough hands shoved him forward, but beyond that no sense of space except for the fabric squeezing tighter and tighter. Panic pulled all the air from Nate’s lungs, leaving him light-headed. Trapped. Helpless. He writhed, wanted to scream, but his throat had collapsed. 

Metal pincers closed a vice-grip around Nate’s arm, dragging him along even when he dug in his heels. “Do. Not. Resist.” The stilted voice of the protectron ordered. “Injuries. Will. Lessen. Your chances. Of survival.”

Nate was a little too distracted by the world caving in around him to comprehend. A boot kicked him in the back, sending Nate against wet concrete. Even through the fetor of the hood, he could smell rot beneath. The cold steel kiss of shackles clamped over his wrists. 

Then General Butler ripped the sack from Nate’s head and turned on the light. Blinding fluorescence made it hard to focus on anything outside of the immediate few feet. 

Shuddering, Nate tugged against his shackles. “The hell?” He snarled up at Butler, only to be met with dark, accusing eyes. 

Butler took an even breath. “Seein’ as I bought you dinner and all,” He unholstered his pistol, examining it with superficial interest. “Maybe we can finally get down to the dirty business this evening. General to general.”

“General to general, huh? Could just be where I’m standing, but I think our playing field’s a little uneven.” Nate jabbed back. “What is this, an interrogation?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Grinned Butler, spinning the pistol around a withered finger. “Guessin’ you figured out the truth by now. About this place. About my little… hobby.”

“I dunno what you’re-”

Butler’s patchwork face flushed with rage. “What, you think I’m stupid? That nosy reporter comes snooping around and then an old pre-war army dog shows up at my doorstep, wantin’ to buddy up? I knew you were a plant the minute I laid eyes on ye.” He jammed his pistol hard under Nate’s chin, forcing the man to meet his eyes and grinning savagely, “So the way I see it, the only way to keep playing my game… is to make the both of ya part of it.” 

Nate’s stomach dropped, “I came alone, Butler.” 

The general leaned back and smiled. “Boy, you really should learn when to cut the bullshit.” Motioning to a shadowed door, an inhumane chuckle seethed out of him. 

An unpainted assaultron, headpiece replaced by a gawking skull, shambled into the light. It drug Piper into the room, bound and bruised, spewing acrimony and adding a few new Wasteland obscenities to Nate’s vocabulary.

Lips pursed, Butler studied her like a hawk sizing up a morsel of prey. “Mouthy thing. I can’t hear myself think.”

The assaultron pulled her head back, shoving a dirty rag down her throat so roughly Piper was left gagging in a heap on the floor.

Nate’s jaw clenched until his ears started whistling. She met his gaze, only for a moment. Enough to reassure him that she was alright. He didn’t know how she’d been caught, but the reason hardly mattered. With both of them trapped down here, they were at the mercy of Butler’s insanity. 

“That’s better.” The old general stalked around her, rubbing at the gap where his nose used to be. “My but you are pretty, aren’t you?” He knelt without regard for personal space, peering at her with abject intrusiveness. “Why, if I were a little younger…” His fingers scuttled through the locks of her hair.

Piper’s eyebrows arched, a nuclear explosion in her hazel eyes as she jerked away.

“Get your shriveled hands off her!” Nate snarled, lunging against the restraints so hard he felt his skin break under the steel. 

Butler turned, sitting up a little straighter when he saw the abrasions. “Does it bother you? Tch. So touchy!” He stood, sauntering back to where Nate still dug against his shackles. “Now, I wonder why that could be…” The general’s brow furrowed thoughtfully, then splayed upward. “Ahhh-” He laughed once, hollow with arrogant delight. “I understand.”

Nate’s eyelids creased, a crater opening in his chest. 

Smirking with rancid glee, Butler’s beady eyes flexed open as he studied his captive with renewed interest. “You know, the instinct to protect a mate is a fierce impulse. It can drive almost any creature to kill. Humans though? They’ll even die for it. Crazy, isn’t that? Just crazy! It makes no sense, from evolutionary terms.” Dropping down beside Nate, Butler leaned to the side, tilting his head to peer at Piper. 

Nate stared at her, and she kept her focus squarely on him in return, drawing strength from one another. 

Butler continued his twaddling. “I mean, she’s a looker, no denying it. I bet she’s got your dick wrapped around her finger all kinda ways. Hell, she convinced you to come out here!” He laughed abrasively, clapping Nate on the back like an old pal.

Nate didn’t laugh back.

Butler thought that was even funnier. His guffawing seemed liable to crack his chest open, “You would die for her, wouldn’t you?” He gawked between them, “Even if you knew she wouldn’t be far behind crossing the veil. What, you don’t think that’s strange? You’re a smart man Nathaniel, doesn’t it occur to you to think how insane a thing like that is?”

“The only insane thing here is you!” Nate spat. “Kidnapping innocent people off the road, killing them like animals.”

“Oh, c’mon now.” Butler’s amusement faded, “Where’s the legendary General of the Minutemen I’ve heard so much about? You exterminated those Brotherhood bucketheads, didn’tcha? And the big bad Boogeyman underground. Old soldier, where do you get by criticizing me, hunh? Dead is dead.” He holstered his pistol. “I bet you were raised by Christians - real orthodox ones. Catholics? Baptists? Yeah, that must be it. No other reason to be such a damn hypocritical fool.”

Standing, he sauntered back toward Piper with an arrogant frown, “Thank God for the bombs. This world, now, this is the way things oughta be. None of that prewar greater-good nonsense. Life is for the strong. I got every right to do whatever the hell I want with anything weaker than me. And why shouldn’t I? I’m the apex predator.”

“You’re a murdering psychopath is what you are.” Nate sneered. “A senile old-”

The general’s fist collided hard with Nate’s jaw. He went reeling, would have hit concrete hard if the handcuffs hadn’t pulled him taut against the metal pin. 

A grunt bubbled through Nate’s throat as he swallowed back metallic-tasting drool, refusing to give Butler the satisfaction of seeing blood. 

Lurching forward, Piper let out a muffled cry, “BLUE!” distinguishable even through her gag. 

Butler shook his fist out with a deep scowl, then smiled again with a mouth full of wooden teeth. “I think I’ll enjoy hunting the pair of you.”

#think I'll be doing some fluff tomorrow x'DD #whumptober #whumptober2019 #no.9 #shackled #claustrophobia #nate ronan #piper wright #pipan #the most dangerous game #fanfic #my fanfic #suspense #personal fav

[snootysith]

Chapter 3 (2/?) Note: Dinnertime yikes.

@fluffynexu and @chivalin chapter 1 chapter 2 Chapter 3 - part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Vowrawn’s eyes fell shut. 

Noticing his less than captivated listener had finally forfeited the act altogether, Gravus’s rant came to a halt over the holocomm speakers. “What is it?” he asked annoyed. 

“I sense...” Vowrawn’s voice trailed off into a thoughtful hum and he stroked his facial tendril. Over his many years, he had accumulated an impressive web of Force bonds. Some were stronger than others, older and well-entrenched, easy to perceive. Some were simply too fresh and allowed intruders to slip by... like this very moment. 

Gravus grumbled low under his breath but otherwise allowed him to concentrate in relative peace. Unfortunately, the unfamiliar presence left as quickly as it came. A flare of uglier emotions threatened to crack Vowrawn’s mask but he mustered a thin smile and opened his eyes. “Ah... it's nothing.”

“Nothing? You're losing your touch.”

An insult sat on the tip of Vowrawn's tongue but after a moment’s thought he swallowed it. Beneath ice and chiseled stone, burned Gravus’s heart that, in their youth, easily gave way to unfettered passion that was channeled in war and love in equal measure. Or what felt like love. Vowrawn’s hand still lingered over Gravus’s heart but as time past he had slowly but surely begun to push away from it. He wondered if Gravus ever noticed. Neither of them dwelled on what they shared but one thing had become apparent: however much Gravus endeared him, he still kept him on his toes. 

It would have been easier to confide in Marr. 

“How is your back?” Vowrawn asked instead, plucking his teacup from its saucer. 

Gravus gave a dismissive grunt.

“Are the spinal implants giving you trouble? Any negative feedback between your cybernetics?”

“Don't start. I don't need you coddling me.”

Vowrawn snorted into his teacup.

“Speaking of coddling... what’s become of that boy? How long do you intend to withhold my dinner invitation?”

“You couldn't find a single person to warm your bed?”

“Appetizers. I’ve been waiting months for dessert.”

“These things take time,” Vowrawn said smoothly. “And you can hardly afford to spend time with us when you still don't have an apprentice. There are only so many academies left, you know. Where did you say you were traveling this time? Odacer-Faustin?”

“Something like that.” Gravus's voice thinned to a brittle edge. “If Arctis doesn't uproot my headquarters again, that is.” 

“You've gotten out of worse entanglements.” Vowrawn gave a careless shrug. “And Arctis is hardly worth the trouble with Thanaton breathing down his neck. He’ll be out of your hair sooner than later.”

“I wouldn't have to contend with bureaucratic tripe if I was a Dark Councilor,” Gravus bit back.

Ah. This again. 

Ever since he ascended to his seat, Gravus had tugged at his robes and whined for his own like a spoiled child, well and truly testing the limit of Vowrawn's patience. Oh, he could very easily give him a seat if he deigned to spare the effort but it wouldn't be without consequence. Vowrawn fell in love with his wild ambition and he never doubted it would lead him to fall out of love eventually. Every lie and dirty secret he whispered to him as a foolish boy would be used against him. Then Vowrawn would have no choice but to extinguish his old flame. Permanently. 

For his own sake, Gravus must not ascend and Vowrawn went to great pains to ensure it. Like leaving mere scraps of acolytes in every academy. Like fanning the flames of his passion to keep him off-kilter.   

Like quietly leading Arctis in circles around him.

Vowrawn sipped his tea, tuning out of Gravus’s tirade and allowing his focus to scuttle up and down his network of Force bonds again. The intrusion still rankled. He looked forward to a very thorough distraction.

Alas...

“Why the long face, dear boy? Curry not to your liking?”

The gray cloud only followed him from his office to the dining room. 

Vowrawn rose to greet his favorite acolyte with a kiss, as had become a habit, when Cytharat inexplicitly flinched away. Something was wrong. The personality Vowrawn had so carefully lured out had retreated ten steps back into stiff propriety. 

Cytharat picked at his food without meeting Vowrawn’s eyes. “It’s delicious,” he said quietly. 

Distantly, Vowrawn wondered if there was something running rampant in the water. 

They ate in relative silence, broken now and then by spurts of gossip that merely elicited monosyllabic replies. It was excruciating, watching with thinning patience, as months of work shriveled with each passing minute. If Cytharat had any lingering doubts— and he had many before— Vowrawn put aside time to dispel them, promising power and connections, all things any Sith craved but all things disgraced Sith would die for. Cytharat ate out of his hand all too eagerly, surprising both of them when he took several initiatives that same day. 

A far cry from the young man before him now. What happened? 

Cytharat sighed. “My apologies, it’s only... saber practice. I... I’m afraid I’ve ruined the robes you gave me.”

Indeed, upon closer inspection Vowrawn noticed ashy discoloration littered across the pale fabric. "No need to apologize. They can be replaced." 

Cytharat smiled thinly and returned to pushing his vegetables around like a sullen child and— no, no. Perish the thought. He’d almost put himself in danger of feeling his age! Now that would have well and truly spoiled an appetite.  

“I thought we had an understanding,” Vowrawn said slowly. “Have I proven myself unworthy of your confidence?” Feigning hurt was far too easy but it still brought him a small measure of satisfaction at how quickly it earned him a response. Cytharat made a noise as though he'd been shot and Vowrawn lazily floated along a stream of apologies and clumsy assurances before stopping it with a press of his fingers. “There, there. You mean well. But what troubles you, troubles me. If you believe we cannot overcome this together then truly I have failed you.” 

Cytharat’s face crumpled and it seemed, for a moment, that he was ready to fling open the door to his secret, but fate contrived in that precise moment to reward Vowrawn with a slap on the wrist. 

For a man of his size, Qet was surprisingly light on his feet. So light that Cytharat didn't seem to realize he stood at his shoulder until Vowrawn looked directly at him. “Master,” he began. “Darth Gravus is—” 

Vowrawn couldn’t even muster surprise anymore. He held up a finger. “Is he dead? Is he dying?”

“No, he’s—”

“He’ll wish he was. Give me the comm, I will speak to him personally.”

Qet sighed. “Master, he’s here.”

Cytharat caught sight of Vowrawn’s narrow-eyed look before a shadow fell over him and a pair of unfamiliar hands came to rest on his shoulders. He tilted back and stared up at the face of Darth Gravus himself. Cytharat shivered under the cold sweep of his gaze, only finding his breath once his attention shifted to Vowrawn. 

The two of them exchanged a long look. 

“Have you no love for me?” Gravus asked, his voice swinging precariously between sincerity and mockery. “No plate to spare?”

Vowrawn’s fork lowered and hit the side of his plate with an soft ting, a crack of thunder in the deafening silence. “How very kind of you to drop by, old friend. Especially with almost no notice at all. I could have sworn you were supposed to be elsewhere. Right. Now."

Gravus finally released his hold on Cytharat and prowled to the other side of the table to take a seat for himself. “I don't recall ever confirming that.” He beckoned to a nearby servant with a crook of his finger. “You there. Fetch me a plate. I'm feeling peckish.”

The servant froze, eyes darting towards Vowrawn in a panic. Commanding the servants of one’s host without permission wasn’t done. It was highly irregular. Indecent. Cytharat knew this. Vowrawn knew this. And Gravus most assuredly knew this. Yet it came as a surprise when Vowrawn bowed to Gravus’s demand, his expression softening to exasperated fondness as he directed the servant to deliver a portion of spiced brog-and-vegetable stew to him. 

Five dinner courses later and there seemed to be no end in sight. 

The discussion inevitably turned to Cytharat’s family and though Vowrawn attempted to skim past the matter, Gravus was not so merciful. 

“I'm surprised you have a family to return to,” Gravus said. “Blood purges have transpired for lesser crimes.”

Cytharat went very still. “I... I beg your pardon?”

“Rotten luck, isn't it?” Gravus asked flippantly. “To wind up on the losing side of a power struggle. How does it feel to be the son of a traitor?”

Color drained from Cytharat’s face and his mouth opened and shut like a fish choking on air. The table gave a sudden almighty rattle and Gravus winced in pain as if he’d stubbed his toe— or as if a certain Dark Councilor had kicked him directly in the shins. It was not enough to deter him, however, merely bringing a smirk to his lips.

“I...” Cytharat’s voice quivered. “I was only a boy when it happened.”

“And your family still hasn’t lost their holdings? How curious. Sith tradition would have you thrown out into the street by association, no?”

“My mother...” Cytharat sank low in his chair under Gravus's gaze, twenty years worth of shame hanging from his neck like a weight. “Please, my lord, I don't—”

“Darth Gravus, won't you try the dip?” Vowrawn interrupted. “It’s delicious but might burn the tongue out of your mouth if you aren't careful.”

“I don't believe I asked for your opinion, old friend. I am asking for his. You should be turning attention to more important matters.”

“Oh?”

“A disturbance in the Force," Gravus said, his eyes level and unblinking. “Do you not sense it?”

Momentarily distracted, Cytharat stretched out his senses in search of it but Vowrawn had no such illusions. It was a simple, common phrase. One that he and Gravus employed regularly since their academy days; a code word telling the other to leave. No doubt Gravus wanted to judge Cytharat for himself without Vowrawn’s interference. A terrifying endeavor for the uninitiated. Gravus would surely tear Cytharat to pretty little pieces.

Vowrawn opened his mouth to object, to dismiss him with one sweep of a witty rejoinder, but then Gravus’s mouth twisted into a petulant little scowl and sentiment won out. “Must be the old relic acting up again.” He rose to his feet. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Don’t stop on my account.”

Gravus idly waved a hand. “By all means. I’ll take good care of your guest for you.”

“Do try to behave,” Vowrawn sighed, pretending to miss the flicker of panic in Cytharat’s eyes before the doors closed soundlessly behind him.

#a wild update appears #swtor #darth vowrawn #darth gravus #lord cytharat #star wars #the old republic #fic: the mark of a good sith #my fic

[hollyhomburg]

Don't Care if it Hurts:pt.2

(Dog hybrid! + Gaurd dog!Jimin x Reader) (ft.olderBrother! + Mafia boss!Namjoon)

Part 1  Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Summary: After a rival gang makes an attempt on your life, Your older brother, the infamous leader of Seoul’s largest gang; Kim Namjoon gets you a guard hybrid; Park Jimin, The reigning champion of Seoul’s underground hybrid fighting ring.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Warnings/tags: Past abuse, Blood, Mafia!reader, Mafia!Namjoon, Older brother!Namjoon, DogHybrid!Jimin, fighting, slow burn, general angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut.

Wordcount: 6.1k

A/N: I probably could have split this into two parts but I didn't want to leave you hanging after the Jimin/Jungkook fight scene. This part was particularly hard to write because I knew where I wanted to be by part 3 but not how to get there. I know it's not as good as part one but  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Song to play during this chapter: House of cards~

Jimin and his new master arrive at the compound inside of the hour.  On the front gate (guarded by 3 guards- probably armed) hung a golden sign; Serendipity Gardens. Jimin felt his eyes widen as they pulled through the gate and into a wide circle, a fountain spitting water in the center.

The place was emptier than a graveyard. There where no children playing in the park. Not a person was walking in the gardens and not a soul on any of the balconies of the two upscale apartment complexes or the smaller but no less grand private residences. 

The car pulled left and into an underground parking garage. Other sleek cars were parked here. Namjoon didn’t wait for the driver to open his door when they stopped, and Jimin scuttled after him careful not to fall behind.

In the space that should have been parking, rooms had been erected- some with clear dividers and others out of plain brick. A safe was tucked into the wall as people walked this way and that; some carting crates off to storerooms.  

Everywhere there were cameras. Every door had a key card and every person was armed in some way. Revolvers where Tucked into waistbands, or in holsters on their sides, and machine guns where slung casually over shoulders as a man cleaned dirt out from under his fingernails with a switchblade. 

People nodded or cast his master greetings some even bowing. Jimin cast his gaze to his master scanning him for any budges- it didn’t look like he was armed- but Jimin was beginning to think that his new master wasn’t the kind of man who ever gave secrets away for free. 

He stopped for no one- even as they made their way down a set of stairs almost running into a group of people who were attempting to carry a large box up the flight of stares. 

“Take the fucking ramp it will be easier you idiots.” Monster growled. The youths almost dropped the box. Yes, boss, they muttered shaking in their boots. they all Scattered the second they both had passed. 

The training room on the third floor stank with the smell of sweat and blood just like his old one, Jimin’s sensitive nose stung. Blue mats where tossed on the floor while a makeshift platform with a circle made a ring in the center, while exercise equipment was pushed against a wall.

Around 20 people were clustered around the ring- watching a fight that Jimin could tell would be over in seconds. Most of them turned to bow to his master. Some of their eyes landed on Jimin- and flashed up quickly to his ears, which twitched anxiously whenever he caught someone staring. Hybrids where a common thing- most people had either met one or seen one, but most people had never seen a hybrid that looked like Jimin. Eventually, their gazes returned to the fighting ring and the two battling it out in the center. 

The mint haired man hit the floor with a final thud and did not get up. he groaned “Kook it’s a fucking Sunday- can’t you just go easy on me one time.“ 

His opponent, Kook; a boy that was both buffer and younger than Jimin smirked. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked Yoongi.” Jimin watched curiously as Kook held out a hand to Yoongi- why would he help his opponent up- it was something Jimin had never seen done.

Yoongi snorted, “Whoever said that obviously hadn’t met me Jungkook.” Yoongi slapped his offered hand away.  

“I’m just going to sleep here- wake me up if the boss shows up.” his master cleared his throat. Jimin had never seen someone get up fast as Yoongi; who snapped to attention. Namjoon merely leveled him with a slight smirk. “You know the rules Yoongi- everyone trains.” 

“You know I’m more deadly at long distances boss.” Namjoon jumped onto the platform, and Jimin followed carefully, he felt the eyes of the assembled gangsters slowly shifting to him- the newcomer, their master's shadow. Jimin’s black ears twitched, and his tail swished back and forth. he could sense eyes on them- and on the blood that still stained his knuckles. But no one asked his master who he was. 

Namjoon jerked his head, and Yoongi made to get off the platform, Jungkook, however, stayed put. Namjoon’s eyes flicker to Jimin and before he could ask- Jimin entered the ring with a sick feeling curling in his stomach. 

“Who’s this?” Jungkook asks, his eyes flicker to Jimin’s tail and ears. 

“Y/n’s new guard dog- but I want to see if he’s a good fit before I give her too him.” Jimin bristled. Was the fight from last night not enough to convince him that he could fight? He was good- and though he could tell by the way Jungkook moved that he knew how to handle himself, Jimin was better. He could tell by just looking at the way he placed his feet. His master’s eyes flickered to Jimin.

“You know what to do.” He said, and Jimin turned.

Jimin had Jungkook pinned in under a minute- though the young man was obviously skilled- he had never gone up against a hybrid before. People usually underestimated his strength, but his speed was Jungkook’s downfall. Jimin could smell Jungkook’s fury underneath his fingers. Jimin raised a fist- intent on knocking him out and ending the fight.  

“Stop,” Namjoon commanded, every inch of Jimin’s body froze, and surprisingly Jungkook stopped too. “Stand and face me.” He commanded Jimin did as he asked. 

Shock colored every face around the ring as Jimin turned to face his new master, dread filling up his stomach. His master appraised him with a new eye, slightly amused- but mostly pleased. “Do you know why I just had you do that?” Namjoon asks Jimin. 

Jimin could feel every pair of eyes on him and while he’d never been uncomfortable with someone’s eyes on him before- this somehow felt more intimate. 

“Because you needed to know if I would hurt a human.” As a hybrid- Jimin’s DNA was programmed to be obedient- to be pliant and not harm his human master- or any human master. The instinctual aversion was something that had been trained out of him by his previous masters again and again until it didn't matter what species his opponent was.

“Smart and strong- what other surprises do you have?” Namjoon says, not looking for an answer.  His master turned and left the ring. Jimin scrambled to follow. Behind him, he heard the others rumble- the quiet hum of conversation. “Who’s that?” Yoongi asked Jungkook.  Jimin could feel the man’s eyes on him as he trailed away. “Trouble, I think.”

“It isn’t ethical, Namjoon, Hybrids are practically people.” Jimin heard a female voice say from up above him on the landing. Thought human ears would have had to strain to hear his didn’t.

 Namjoon had left him waiting in the entryway of your house- the largest and oldest private house in the compound. A set of marble stairs lead to the upstairs and a glittering chandelier at least twice as tall as Jimin hung from the ceiling. Everywhere color was a binary, black floors and a white staircase, white walls with black molding. 

“Only half- I don’t see what the problem is.” Came a third voice- not his master, but defiantly male. Jimin could smell that other female scent here, along with many other masculine scents; the most dominant one being his master. 

“The problem is that my sister is a god damn social justice warrior.”

“Don’t you mean dog damn?” came that mirthful male voice. 

“It’s this or America y/n,” his master said- Namjoon, that was his name, Kim Namjoon. Jimin sucked on his bottom lip. Jimin could hear silence permeate the room and then a breath being inhaled. 

“Fine- but you’re dead wrong if you think for a second I’m going to let any of you treat him like a servant.” 

“We own him y/n,” Namjoon sighed. Jimin’s ears twitched. 

“But we shouldn’t.” 

Jimin wasn’t sure that they knew that he could hear them. He heard some shuffling and then a wolfish-looking blond head poked his head over the side of the banister- the male was languidly athletic as he stepped down the stairs.

“So you’re the mutt; Jimin” he said as he ascended, but with a smile. Jimin shriveled his nose at the man, “I’m Hoseok.” He said his shoes scuffed against the black floors. 

“I’m pure breed.” He said quietly.  

Hoseok grinned, his eyes sparkling, “so I’ve heard.” 

Namjoon ascended the staircase next, glancing once back at the top of the stairs to make sure you joined him. They’re you were- the woman from the photograph. Clad in nothing but a white silk pajama set looking absolutely at ease being in that same room of at least 2 killers. 

Your scent hit him like a bulldozer- the same smell of blood that was still on his master. He looked from you to Namjoon quickly- not understanding- had he hurt you? Or had someone else? You lifted your gaze hesitantly to meet his. Jimin tried to ignore the way your eyes tracked the way he moved. You watched him not with the air of someone who was threatened by him but with curiosity. 

“Y/n, this is Jimin, the hybrid I’ve bought for you to use as a guard,” Namjoon said. 

“He really beat kooky? Damn, I didn’t realize that teenager had lost his touch.” Hoseok said, and Jimin wondered if his face was stretched into a permanent smile. A smile that was starting to look more foxlike the more Jimin looked at it. 

“He’s practically the same age you where when you joined Hoseok, and besides- you of all people should know not to judge a book by his cover.” Hoseok grinned ruefully at your comment. 

He had thought you where beautiful the one photograph but meeting you in person nearly knocked Jimin off of his feet. Every inch of your beauty was almost physically painful to him. Your hair fell around your delicate face as sharp and intelligent eyes wavered slightly as you pushed off the edge the desk and walked towards him. 

A bandage was fixed tightly around your upper arm. You held it stiffly- and he guessed that it must be causing you pain. His gaze snapped to it, an action that was not missed by you, you touched it gently.

“This is from an assassin yesterday.” You say in lew of an introduction. 

“Why are they trying to kill you?” 

You jerked your head in the direction of his master. “Because of that asshole.” Jimin blanched at your words. But Namjoon just rolled his eyes. 

“When will you stop being a pain in my ass?” 

“When you stop being a prick.” You snapped back. If there was one thing you and your brother excelled at it was arguing. Namjoon turned to Jimin, and he was surprised to see a flush of annoyance- something so human on his cheeks. 

“If you ever talk to me that way I swear-” 

“-Joon- don’t threaten him, he’s done nothing to deserve it.” Namjoon let out a breath, a slight blush came to Jimin’s cheeks, and he had never had someone defend him before. 

“Yet.” Hoseok laughs. 

“Will you both stop acting like psychopaths for one second.” 

“Sorry love,” Hoseok says, his expression lost its dangerous mirth as he turned to Namjoon. “Can’t change what you are.”

“I’ve never protected anyone before.” Jimin blurted out, All eyes where on Jimin, and he turned quickly to his master. “But I’m good at following orders- this transition will go better if you tell me what to do.” Jimin was ready to get hit for speaking out of turn but his master just looked at him thoughtfully. 

“As if he doesn’t do that enough for us all already.” You said under your breath. Hoseok snickered. 

“I want you to follow her 24/7, anytime she leaves this compound I want to know, I want to know where you plan on going, how long you’ll be gone- everything. You are not to let her leave this compound on her own and if you can- I expect to watch her in the compound; especially if she leaves this house. Essentially- you are to be my sister’s shadow.” 

“I don’t need a babysitter.” 

“Yes you do,” both Hoseok and Namjoon said simultaneously.  Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck, smiling at his friend’s protectiveness of his little sister. 

Jimin stood awkwardly- he didn’t know where to put his hands and he felt uncomfortable being the same room as people who he had just met- and had obviously known each other for a very long time. What was more peculiar was the Envy- harsh and bitter that stung his tongue- he had never been close like this to others.  Never had something like this. 

Namjoon gestured at Hoseok, and the blond said, “right.” And lead everyone into the wide kitchen. Everything was in shades of silver and snow; the marble countertops glittered without a speck of dust or dirt on them. Hoseok pulled out a bad that sat on the counter, producing an already open box which he handed to Namjoon. 

Namjoon pulled out a small bracelet and a cord. “Do you know how to use a smartphone?” Jimin nodded, “this is like that but smaller.  Y/n’s and mine numbers are programmed into it in case you need to contact either of us at any time.” Namjoon rounded the table and Jimin held out his wrist for it to be fastened. The watch was a small comfortable weight. He tapped at it experimentally.

3 circles where displayed, with your initial and an M- that stood for either master or monster Jimin didn’t know. There was also 2 other buttons- a capital P and a lower case p. 

“You also have panic numbers installed, the lowercase p will put you in contact with someone in the gang, in the event that neither y/n or I are available to take your call.” 

Jimin nodded, “what’s the uppercase one for?”

“Essentially, it’s a panic beacon- it won't make a sound or an actual call- but it sends the gang your location and keeps broadcasting it until you end the call, in the event that you or y/n are put into a dangerous situation where you cant get away-“ 

“it lets us know to come in with guns blazing,” Hoseok said, plopping down onto one of the chairs. 

“Great now that we’re done with that- do we still need to talk about…” Hoseok’s voice trailed off his eyes flickering too you and then Jimin. 

“Y/n, why don’t you show Jimin the house,” Namjoon said smoothly, eyes narrowing at Hoseok. You rolled your eyes pushing off of the couch. 

“Fine keep secrets why don’t you,” you said. Getting up without complaining- Jimin cast a single glance back at his master before following you out of the room.

The walk to his bedroom was both uncomfortable and awkward. The nervousness that clawed at your belly made the words come out in a hurried rush. “The ground floor is the dining room kitchen and rec-room, the second floor is Namjoon’s study and the master suite. Your room is with mine on the Top floor of the gym and upper deck- so it will be a hike every day but Ehh- it’s got a nice view.” 

He peered around the corner into the home gym- flat screen TV’s hung in front of a treadmill and a row of expensive exercise equipment that was scattered around glass doors. The deck was vacant except for a simple table and a covered square that must have been a hot tub. You almost felt like he was scanning for potential threats. His ears twitched with every unexpected noise. The Dec had a nice view of your backyard- a garden and a pool enclosed by a 10-foot high wall, but from your floor, you could see over it and into the other parts of the compound. 

Inside of the compound, they’re where several private residences with most of them belonging to the members of Namjoon’s inner circle and the largest most lavish one belonging to you and your brother.  Most of the rest of the gang- (which numbered in the hundreds at this point) lived either permanently or partially in the two other apartment buildings on the compounds premises. From the outside, serendipity gardens looked like just a luxury estate- but most of the gang activity was focused in apartment building 3 and in its underground parking garage. 

“Thank you for defending me from master Namjoon miss y/n,” Jimin said. You smiled at him. 

“My brother needs someone to check his ego constantly- and please call me y/n.” he nodded, his eyes meeting yours for a split second as you made your way through the work out room and onto the deck. The early spring air was chilly. But you didn’t seem to mind- your bare feet padding out to the edge without complaint though Jimin could see the Goosebumps rise on your arms. “It’s almost noon, Are you hungry?” you asked Jimin. leaning against the railing.

“No miss y/n,” he said quickly, just as his stomach rumbled loudly. His soft looking ears where pinned to his skull, and you smiled at him- at the light flush covering his cheeks as he looked at the floor embarrassed. You wondered how someone so cute looking could be so deadly, but if he had beaten Jungkook- your brothers best fighter- he must have been. 

“Namjoon and Hoseok won't be done in the kitchen for a bit- but I can call for the cooks when they get done, but it might take them a while.” You pushed off from the edge of the Deck. “We could always go out to eat” his ears perked up at that- remembers his master's words and what had happened the last time you had left the compound. “And go shopping for you then too- I’m guessing that those are your only clothes, kill two birds with one stone.”  You turned your head, looking at Jimin’s concerned and conflicted expression as he watched you. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Master Namjoon said it’s dangerous for you to leave the compound.” You nodded. “And that doesn’t scare you? That it could happen again?” 

“Nope,” you said, not meeting his gaze as you stared down to your garden and the blue pool below, and over the wide walls into the compound around you. Seokjin’s residence was right next to yours, but his car wasn’t in his driveway- so he was probably out somewhere doing Namjoon’s dirty work. 

Jimin shook his head at you, he knew he wasn’t supposed to question you and your choices, but even he was terrified to get back into the ring some nights, even though fighting was his life- his old life he reminded himself. “I’ve never been to a restaurant before…” 

“Then its settled, lunch then shopping- let me get my-“

“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked, and you froze for a second. He didn’t understand why you wanted to leave the compound for him- why you were putting your self in danger just so he could have clothes? He knew he didn’t deserve it. Jimin had spoken without being asked earlier with Namjoon and now again with you. He was practically asking to be hit- speaking out of turn with his master and then interrupting you. But your hand only hovered on the edge of the railing. 

“Is there a reason for me not to be?”

“I’m a hybrid! I’m supposed to be taking care of you not the other way around, I’m supposed to be your-“ he remembered the words he had overheard. “Servant.” 

“To be honest I’d much rather have a friend.” You said softly not meeting Jimin’s gaze and keeping your eyes on the garden below.

Jesus this was difficult- you could tell Jimin had been through things probably worse than you had. And honestly- your brother couldn’t really expect this transition from fighting to protecting to be easy. 

You wished you could tell him that you had no intention of treating him like his last masters had- you wanted him to trust you. Deep down you felt horrible because for the briefest moment when Namjoon had told you he had bought Jimin for you-you had gotten excited because finally, you could have a friend- a companion. 

But it was wrong to want something like that- and you hated the hybrid system. Genetically they were so close to people, they looked like them and acted like them, but next to you they had little to no rights. The law viewed them as simple animals. 

You had a hard time relating to others not in the mafia world because of your pass (not everyone’s grown up in violence and splendor like you have). Some people thought you were cold and withdrawn.  After high school- you had stopped trying to make people understand you, and if you were being honest- you stopped trying to make friends. 

You would never tell your brother- but honestly- you were lonely. Your brother was around seldom when you were. And if he was at the compound- he was likely partaking in some illicit activity that he would rather you not Witness for. Your only reprieve was college classes or shopping- the only way you could justify leaving the compound when you risked being hurt every time you left.

You made the effort to eat together at least once a week and saw each other occasionally in the morning. But most of the time you left before he woke up and you were already asleep by the time he got home. 

You didn’t know how you could miss someone so much- when you lived under the same roof as them.  

Everyone who knew that you where the monsters little sister was terrified of you.  They called you the little devil; a satirical nickname, given your innocent and non-threatening appearance. But even the name was enough- You had bumped one of your professors in high school and they had practically pressed their forehead to the floor asking for forgiveness.  Even the low-level members of the gang knew not to look at you- let alone flirt with you, or else risk their leader's wrath. 

The boys where a different story- they knew you, and where barely afraid of Namjoon. they regarded you as their little sister as well. Though Taehyung and occasionally Hoseok pushed Namjoon’s buttons by being shameless flirts.

“Miss Kim, I-” Jimin swallowed the lump in his throat. He had never met someone who had been lonely like him- not truly. Not another hybrid. Jimin had no one. And here you were- all the freedom all of the money that he had never had and you still felt lonely. With your confession- however intimate- made him feel like he could ask you for something; Something big, something he felt you would instantly refuse.

“Is it alright if I take a shower before we go?”  You seemed thankful for the sudden change of topic nodding animatedly. 

“Of course! You can use the bathroom in my room- since I’m pretty sure the one in the guest room doesn’t have shampoo yet” you smiled again. “That Is if you don’t mind smelling like strawberries.” You giggled when you turned to lead him into your room, Jimin let his mouth stretched into a small smile. 

Your bedroom was a white and silver affair- with a king-sized bed and silver blue settee in front. A pair of doors led to a balcony and 2 others to a bathroom and walk-in closet. You gave Jimin a towel, which he eyed warily when you left him in your bathroom. He struggled with the faucets not understanding why there where two. 

He turned the blue one and then hesitantly turned the red one. To his delight the water started to warm- he grinned and turned the heat all the way up and the cold one all the way down. Standing in the stream of scaling water until he physically couldn’t anymore. 

In your room you busied yourself finding Jimin a pair of clothes and getting dressed for the day in your usual casual attire. You fiddled with a hat as Jimin lingered in the bathroom. He rubbed soap into his tail and cleaned himself better than he had in ages. 

He hadn’t known showers could be warm- he felt knots in his shoulders that had been years in the making slowly unravel. He was slowly starting to realize, with the advent of the towel, soap, and hot water, what he had been missing out on. 

And the thought- at how badly he had been treated made him feel like he wanted to cry. All of this felt like a dream- too good to be true. Maybe it would end- maybe Namjoon would regret his purchase and demand that Jay give him his money back.

 The thought made him shake, and he resolved to do whatever you said, to make sure you returned to the compound with not even a scratch if it meant he never had to go back to that hellhole again. 

He wrapped himself in a white fluffy towel when he finished and opened the door. You weren’t in your room, but a small door to the left was open and he could hear you moving around as he shuffled into the room. “I finished.”

“Great,” you say rummaging through a box. Your walk-in closet that was larger than Jimin’s old kennel. “I’m just trying to find a hat to cover your…” you trailed off when you looked up. It wasn’t the fact that your hybrid was god damned gorgeous- abs stretching for days and deep v that pointed invitingly southwards it was the expanse of his side- bruised so badly that it was nearly black. 

“Who hurt you?” you said quietly, dropping the black hat that was in your hands.  You stretched your hands out to touch his side and a small growl left his throat. 

You flinched back and Jimin instantly felt ashamed for startling you. He wasn’t a wild animal or a threat to you. he wanted to prove that he was worth your brother's investment and he was already fucking things up. 

“It just hurts when you touch it.” you looked at his hands and took in all of him. The scars running across his shoulders and chests and you feel rage. Rage that would rival your brothers- rage that someone would hurt a hybrid- a person who was so obviously sweet and unsure. 

“I’m sorry for growing at you.” Jimin shrank back. Worried that you were going to hit him. He could smell the anger on you and thought someone your size probably couldn’t do much damage to him he still hung his head. But the touch of your hand was hesitant and gentle as a feather when you brushed not his side- but his split knuckles. 

“We’re going to want to bandage those before we go- those cuts look nasty- how did you get them?” you asked softly. Jimin flexed his hand. 

“From the fight last night.” 

“With kooky?” Jimin shook his head, you reached forward intent on gathering his hands in yours the same way that you had done for Namjoon a hundred times, only too have him flinch back. 

“I’m sorry.” You quickly turned to pick up the clothes you picked out for him- a pair of sweats that were large on you and a baggy white shirt that you had stolen from Hoseok. 

His eyes snagged on your wrist where your sweater had ridden up. There was a watch on your arm- just like his, just like the one that Namjoon had given him. “I’m sorry,” you said again, you mentally berated yourself- twice now- you had touched him or moved to touch him in a way that was obviously making him uncomfortable. 

“Why do you have a collar?” he asked, gesturing to your watch- though yours looked somehow older than his and more elegant, delicate rose gold with a light pink band. You looked down at it surprised. 

“This isn’t a collar- it's just like yours, Namjoon gave it to me after someone tried to kidnap me last year. have you had to wear a collar before?” it was something to you that seemed barbaric. Jimin shook his head. 

You let him change in your closet before slipping out into your room, His wet hair and ears soaked the top of the shirt turning it translucent. You gestured on your settee before you pulled out a first aid kit. 

“Can I bandage your fingers?” you remember to ask, and he nods, sitting next to you and thrusting out his hands. 

Your fingers wiped at his mostly clean knuckles with an antiseptic that stung his nose harshly. He asked you what it was used for. You explained to him the proper way to bandage things as you finished his left hand and moved to his right. 

He had never had someone behave so tenderly for him. He watched you as you worked. Wondering how someone had been raised in a life like this and still ended up kind. 

He was nothing, dirt on your shoes- yet here you were taking the time to take care of him- and you had just met him today. Your compassion did awful things to his chest. Making his heart skip beats and his breath catch in his throat while you prattled onto him about Seokjin the medic of the gang- and the story of him attending medical school. 

Water from his hair dripped onto the bandages. You clucked your tongue. “You’re going to freeze if we leave like that. Is it ok if I dry your hair?” he made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat. 

The gentle rub of your hands against his skull made him lean his head forward. the delicate grating of the towel against his hair and the back of his neck sent delightful shivers down his back. He held back a noise in his throat as you went to dry his ears. He lurched forward when you stopped and you giggled lightly, smiling a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

“Someone’s needy,” Jimin repeated the noncommittal noise, he had never felt so relaxed before, he could sleep now if not for the hunger knowing at his belly, but he wanted you- no needed you to touch him more. He sat up straight.  

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” You giggle gently- going to put the towel and his other close in the hamper.

“You act like you’ve never been pet before.”

“pet?” he askes, he understood just not how you were using it. you turned shocked and more than a little angry as you realized that maybe he had never been pet before. 

Then as quickly as it had come it was gone, and he was left wondering again what your anger meant. “Its nothing lets just go.” 

Several thousand dollars, a meal at a fancy restaurant downtown, and a coffee later, you and Jimin stumble into your house. You can tell Namjoon isn’t home but even still you can see Jimin visibly tense. He still doesn't trust your brother- but you think that he’ll start to warm up to him once he spends more time with the man. 

You set the bags of clothing that Jimin had let you carry down on the floor. You stifle a yawn and look at the clock. “its so late!” you exclaim. 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Jimin asks you softly, trying hard to take the sexual connotation out of the sentence. He had slowly warmed up to you more today although the hybrid became considerably more withdrawn the more people that were around. 

It had been hard at first- to convince him that he could use your (or more specifically your brothers) money to buy whatever he wanted no matter the cost. But about midway through the day he had started to enjoy himself- only after you convinced him to buy a pair of timberlands and running shoes of course. 

“Yeah,” you said as you kicked off your shoes and hung your jacket. “My first class tomorrow is pretty early so we should both probably get some sleep.” you helped him carry his bags upstairs. Chatting with him vaguely about your classes tomorrow (a psychology class and a humanities lecture). 

The cleaners had done a nice job of getting the spare bedroom ready for him. The sheets the head housekeeper had chosen were silken and black- the same as where in your brother's room. You set his bags on the floor by his empty closet. 

“Night,” you say as you hover by the door awkwardly, watching him unpack the clothes he had gotten. He grabbed a pair of soft cotton pants and a white t-shirt and followed you into your room. 

You where already in the bathroom, the image of Jimin in your mirror behind you made you flinch, “Jesus Jimin you scared me, did you want a glass of water?” He shook his head, biting his lip, “what did you need?” 

For you to touch him again he thought but didn’t say. “Master said I’m supposed to watch you at all times...” 

“I don’t think he meant sleeping in the same room as me Jimin,” you say understanding what he meant immediately. You rinse your toothbrush out and don't dare meet his eyes in the bathroom mirror. 

“I think you’d be safer if I did.” Those wide windows in your room scared him-  it would be easy for someone to climb up to your balcony and get you. If he was across the hall it might be too late for him to save you. 

“Jimin I-“ 

“I want to be good at this job, I want to make master proud of me and I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“But I can’t expect you to sleep-“

“I can sleep on the settee.”

“You don’t have to.”  

He patted the silver blue settee at the end of your bed. “This is far comfortable than any place I’ve ever slept.” And it was true- he was used to concrete floors, not the plush memory foam couch; he used straw for pillows and extra clothes for blankets on the colder nights of the year. 

“At least let me get you a pillow and a blanket from the other room.” 

You handed him the black comforter and pillow and Jimin busied himself in combing through his tail with his fingers while you finished getting ready for bed. You flicked the light switch off plunging the room into darkness. You pulled back the covers and slide into your bed before plugging in your phone and taking off your watch.

Jimin lay with his back against the settee, the black comforter pulled over half his body. Jimin could hear everything- the slight rustle of your feet as they found a comfortable spot on the bed. 

“I’m sorry if this is awkward for you- I know you didn’t want a guard dog.” 

“It’s fine.” You say softly- and even though you’re feet away Jimin can tell you’re only a few seconds away from falling asleep. “You can be my friend and my guard dog at the same time.” You laughed, and now that its dark and you cant see him Jimin lets the smile stretch his face fully. 

 Jimin listened until your breathing leveled off completely until he turned towards you, he could see the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers and your head pillowed on your hand.  your heartbeat was a comfortable rhythm that his thoughts synced with, the sound a more quiet and relaxing lullaby then he’d ever heard in the kennels.

He didn’t know how to do this; he didn’t know how to protect someone. His body wasn’t made for shielding- only for being beaten back and back and hurting others. And strangely he felt sick with worry about it. 

He knew how to act for his old master- how to fight. But he had never done anything like this before. You were somehow not his master; but also his masters' little sister; he didn’t know how much of your orders he should follow and to what extent. 

What was more perplexing was the fact that you hadn’t given him any orders or beaten him yet- you had wiped his cuts and dried his hair, all of this felt like a dream that he both wanted to wake up from and a dream that he wanted to never end. He could believe things would stay so good for long. 

Maybe he didn’t know how to be a protector. But as he looked at you, looking innocent and small and so breakable- and he decided it didn’t matter.

Master’s orders or not, he would fucking learn.

#bts #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts hybrid au #bts mafia au #mafia au #fluff #angst #park jimin x reader #mafia!namjoon #older brother! namjoon #kim namjoon #jimin #jung hoseok #hoseok #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #jungkook #yoongi #kim seokjin #seokjin #v #bts mafia #bts fluff #jimin x reader #hybrid!jimin #Hybrid AU! #bts bangtan #bangtan sonyeondan #gaurd dog

[thewritestuffuniverse]

Week 6 “Fire”

To The Fire

By Alex Davey

A fire burnt at the centre of the camp. Roki flicked the remains of a cigarette into the inferno where it quickly shrivelled to ashes. The entire thing was a giant middle finger to government forces. Here we are, it said, come and get us.

Some of the local fighters looked uneasy, but this was Hara Roki, so they kept quiet. Partly out of fear of the man, but mostly out of respect. Whatever you thought of his methods, they got results. Roki was a guerilla-for-hire, going from warzone to warzone to offer his expertise. Fanatics hated him for a profiteer, but they soon realised that he worked for his own agenda over money.

“A forest fire cleanses the habitat - removes dead vegetation and thins the population of animals that were too weak to escape. Society is no different. Governments become ossified, no longer fit for purpose. We learnt that in the early twenty-first century. But the people would not rebel like their forefathers. They were too comfortable.

“But remove that comfort - disrupt supply lines, jam media signals, make them angry. You could get the most straight-laced supporter on our side. Be the spark of that fire, cleanse your world.” So began Roki’s ‘The Little Anarchist’s Guidebook’, an almost universally-banned text.

There was some commotion on the edge of the camp. Roki returned to his own tent, rolling himself another cigarette. The leader of the locals, one Diego Wildner, entered. “Roki, got a lady here who wants to talk to you. Says she’s a journalist or something.”

“What did you do to her security?”

“That’s the thing, she doesn’t have any security.”

“She just walked up to the camp? None of the sentries saw her?”

“A sentry captured her.” Diego had been against the outsider from the beginning. The fire, not understanding basic concepts, that sort of thing. But his superiors said his methods were working, so play nice.

“Well, bring her in.”

Moments later a copper-haired woman entered, to her credit dressed for the occasion in a gunmetal biker’s suit and an armoured jacket. What skin Roki could see was covered in circuit tattoos. Her eyes were tinged red, recording she saw.

“Mister Roki. You’re a-”

“Hard man to find?”

“Surprisingly easy. A few dollars to the right person, they pointed right towards your massive fire.”

“And you came here with no security?”

“Your man told me not to.”

“What man?”

“Maxwell something? Auburn hair, amber eyes. Speaks a lot of nonsense and a scar on his-”

“On his arm? Yeah? Never heard of him.”

“Oh. Well. There we are then. I’ve been looking for you.”

“For a little chat?”

“Exactly.”

To Be Continued…

Fire

By Garrett Brown

I swerved the car, and we jolted back into position. The old Chevy pickup continued cruising at 75 miles an hour down the dusty road. The raccoon scuttled away, shaken but unharmed.

“You didn’t have to miss him,” my dad said. The old man slumped in the passenger seat. His sunglasses obscuring his eyes, his cowboy hat obscuring the glasses.

“What did you want me to hit him?” I asked.

He grunted. “Wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and flicked one out. “Earth is God’s dominion, and he gave Man dominion over the animals. So if they don’t want to get out of the way of Man, well fuck them.” He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled, filling the cabin with smoke.

I coughed. “Can you please not smoke in here?”

He grunted again. “God has dominion over the Earth, and I have dominion over this goddamn truck.” But he rolled down a window and tossed the butt out.

We zoomed down the road in silence, not a car to be seen. We passed by buildings that once housed road stops and side attractions, long since boarded up: a diner, a toy museum, a bar, the buildings long since looted and stripped for parts.

We rolled on into the night, kicking up dust behind us, my father still as a mouse. If I didn’t see his chest rise a little every few seconds, I would have thought he was dead.

[austennerdita2533]

Day 6: Canon-ish

A/N: This is the first part of an intended 4-shot. Basically, my idea is to craft some kind of Klaroline kiss/moment for each season of the year while also showing the two of them at various points (and emotional states) in their relationship. I started thinking about how Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall all have a different look or feel about them, and I thought it would be fun to play with that thematically/symbolically. Plus, it’d give me an excuse to play with seasonal imagery.

Anyway, this part is Winter. It’s canon until Liz’s death and Caroline’s grappling with the loss. I’ve also ignored all things Stefan and Caroline. (Loss. Angst. Hurt and Comfort.) 

This gave me loads of trouble, so if it’s terrible I apologize but I couldn’t bear to edit it any longer haha. Enjoy. :)

(FF.net)

xx Ashlee Bree

A Kiss For All Seasons

Part 1: Fold Into Me, Shivering

Winter’s kiss wisps across her forehead at a time of shivering delirium and despair.

She’s gone.

It’s not a dream because each breath in tastes metallic and rough, because each breath out rattles and hisses like a dented whiffle ball which has sunk beneath sediment and drowned in the shallowest of streams. It’s real life. It’s real loss, too. And real loss throbs.

It breaks—tearing, cracking, pulling, shattering, rupturing, wrenching a person into angles so painful or contradictory, that life itself feels distorted. It plunges emotions into a vise that’s so unbearable and inescapable at times, it almost feels impossible to still be alive let alone be expected to stand.

Or talk.

Or move.

Or think.

Or cry without wiping at eyes and waiting to find blood puddled on fingertips instead of tears.

At times, grief even makes it difficult to exist.

After someone dies, especially if you loved that person, the world begins to clutter in a way it never did before: it pinches in at the sides so all the noise can spill in unheard, unseen, clouding your mind and chest with smog that refuses to lift so you can breathe easy again. Everything becomes drenched in the blacks and purples and blues of a bruise, too, until there’s nothing left for us to do but crash to our knees. Until all we can do is shrink inside our gloomy new reality and burn our lung’s raw with missing.

In Caroline’s case, icicles splinter across her chest whenever she blinks against the harsh whites of morning to relive the tragedy all over again.

Mommy.

Mommy.

Mommy.

Instead of Liz’s death providing her with comfort or relief now that she’s no longer suffering, the unfair and untimely permanence of loss hollows her out until she’s raw—numb—freezing. The air around her tastes as toxic and as gritty lead. The din of life, which was once so variable and mellifluous and exhilarating to her ears, rings like television static in her head now. Blurring one minute of monotonous agony into the next without end. More than that, the rising sun in the distance (the same one that used to stream vivid, happy yellows through her window every morning), is far too weak or indirect to do anything besides snake across her moistened cheeks with it pale rays before it leaves her cold and dejected again.

Caroline’s parentless now. Alone. She’s still loved by a few friends, of course, but she feels so incredibly, unbelievably, disconnected from them all.

She’s more or less invisible. A ghost.

None of them see me. None of them know what I need.

She’s a ghost girl stuck in this endless life on her own: more hollow than haunted, more sorry and solitary than surviving. She’s an undead warrior on the outside, perhaps, but she’s all but a living, feeling woman shriveling into pieces of nothing within.

“Please don’t leave me,” her body trembles, the words scraping and shrieking inside her own mind as pain paralyzes them in place so they can’t slip down, so they can’t vault out from her throat. “I need you, Mommy, I still need you…”

But Liz is no longer there to answer. She has taken her last breath, has spoken her last goodbye.

There’s no one here who cares for Caroline unconditionally now…no one else who listens. There’s no one around to hold her hand, to kiss away her nightmares, to kill her insecurities so she can fulfill her dreams. There’s no one left who loves her in ‘alls’ instead of ‘somes’—no one.

How could leave me like this, Mommy? How?

Eyes dark-circled with sorrow and exhaustion, Caroline lies curled on one side of her mother’s bed with her knees hugged to her middle. She never stirs; she never sleeps. She stares out the paned window at a February sunrise obscured by indigo snowflakes that drip from the clouds like sleeted tears that the winter needs to cry. Fresh powder bleaches the ground and builds mounds so high they touch the trees, bending branches until they snap like broken rubber bands, burying all sounds of life beneath it except for the squawk of a nearby crow.

In places where the sky meets the horizon, bleak plums, grays, navies, and ivories scratch the edges of Caroline’s vision and almost make her long for blindness. The world outside as stark and as bone-chilling as the nightmare gnawing her apart on the inside:

Mom died, Mom’s DEAD.

But she can’t be gone, she…no! Mom? Mommy, where are you?

Mommy I—please stay. I need you to stay, okay? I’m not ready to live in a world without you. I—not yet.

It’s too soon, it’s too soon!

Mom?

MOMMY!!!?

Shadows scuttle along the walls. The floors. The furniture. Speckling her room like pox of rotting melancholy, they seem to grow larger and more formidable with each tick of the clock on the wall, their black edges curving into sharp spindly fingers that slice at entering streaks of light like a sword; their trunks expanding to root into corners as if they refuse to timber away.

Caroline, however, makes neither a move to halt their proliferation in her room nor to purge them from the space. Instead, she watches with blinking apathy as one detaches from the doorjamb at the far end of the room like a silky talon and crawls closer. It almost glides across the floor.  

How will the shadow consume her, she wonders? With a bite? With a few nibbles? Or will it gulp her down whole and damn her to its full belly of despair, plummeting her into a pit of darkness with no end?

She watches as the shadow drifts forward with a slow yet assured grace. Its movements are cautious. Soundless except for the stray floorboard which creaks when it edges along the foot of the bed and crosses into streaks of daylight, exchanging shadow for skin, swapping an  ‘it’ for a ‘him,’ as a man stoops to kneel beside her head.  

This isn’t just any man, though.

Oh, no.

But one with eyes that are rimmed in lightning yellow. One who smells of cedar and cognac and cologne. Tastes of oranges dipped in rust. Touches with hands made of calloused buttercups. And snaps necks for sport.

He’s someone who charms a crowd with dimples and drawled threats before he strikes swiftly, and completely. He’s a wolf who’s determined to paint away his personal miseries with other’s blood. This is a man who often stars in Caroline’s dreams, and his face is one she not only recognizes, but knows—

Intimately.

“Kl-Klaus? Is that…is that really you?” she croaks uncertainly.

“It is.”

Dizzy, disbelieving, greens and blonds and brown leathers all swirl together in front of her, so she rubs at her puffy eyes then squints harder at the blurred shape of him. Her next words come out more froggy and weak than questioning.

“You came back. You’re—here,” Caroline says with a puff of breath. “You’re back in…back in Mystic Falls?”

“I am.”

“But I didn’t call or—no…no texts were sent?” He nods in confirmation of this, which puzzles her further. “You couldn’t have known that she—and the funeral? No way could you have been there because I, because I never…”

“Wait a minute,” her brows pinch, heavy lids lifting slowly to his face, “did you…did you break into the house?”

Klaus compresses his lips together, shrugs at her sheepishly. Caroline responds to this by smashing her face into her pillow with a groan and an agitated ‘un-freaking-believable.’ Then, in one swift movement, she throws the blankets over top of her and rolls over flat. Onto her back.

“Don’t be angry with me, love.”

She snorts. Pulls the covers higher.

“I realize my relationship with my family is dysfunctional at best,” he tries cautiously, his voice dipping low, “but I do have experience in parental loss. I know what it’s like. How it feels. The way it cuts you and—” she crosses her arms, holds her breath “—burns.”

Caroline cringes and squeezes her arms tight like she’s holding herself together.

“I only worried on your behalf because I know how deeply you cared for the sheriff, so I trailed you home…lingering outside in case you bolted with no reference to your humanity because I didn’t want you to do anything rash you’d regret later. I just, I wanted to keep you safe and protected. To…help you avoid any extra pain.”

"It wasn’t until you screamed that I couldn’t—it didn’t seem right to—not when you sounded so—how could I not look in?”

He pauses for a moment. Clears his throat, cracks his knuckles.

“Anyway, I thought you might be in want a friend,” he offers placatingly, pressing his palms flat against the sheets so he can lean forward a bit and hover above her. “Someone to be a shoulder. A punching bag. A hand for you to squeeze. Whatever…” his voice wobbles uncomfortably, “whatever it is you need.”

“And what if what I need is for you to, you know,” she swallows hard, “get the hell out?”

“Then I’ll go, Caroline.”

She tuts but it lacks bite. “Go where? Back outside to hide behind more snow until I snap?”

Resigned, almost as if he’d expected this kind of reaction, he draws back with a small hiss like he’s been stung, “No,” he answers cooly, his words heavy and flat, “I’ll do as you bid and head home. To Louisiana.”

The air between them becomes stagnant. Oppressive all of a sudden.

“You mean you’ll leave me here?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?” she asks.

“If that’s what you wish,” he sighs, “then yes.”

“Oh.”

Time seems to slow here, silence stretching and growing like a beanstalk weed between their two bodies. Klaus plucks at a mattress spring with his thumb, its notes sharp and discordant underneath her back as he stands to pivot on his heels, readying himself to glide back into the shadows from whence he came. Leaving her alone in Mystic Falls again, setting her free like he promised two years ago.

Caroline hears him shrug his arms into his jacket with a grunt. Or maybe it’s a growl? A humph? Regardless of the noise he makes, there seems to be a sluggish dereliction to his movements. A hesitancy to proceed. And it’s probably because he’s preparing himself for the long trek through miles upon miles of snow that’ll weigh him down like ice before he reaches New Orleans. All of that slush waiting to seep in, hoping to blacken his toes…

He’s more than likely dreading the sound of orange embers crunching into snowy ashes beneath his feet as he retreats from her warm hearth and stomps out through the door again. He probably loathes the idea of submerging himself into a frigid morning all because she’s almost commanded him to go. Leave.

To go off on his own and freeze like me.

At the thought, a fresh chill kisses the back of Caroline’s neck. It momentarily anesthetizes her lungs and she cannot breathe; she cannot think. She cannot feel anything except the frostbite which pricks down low, too low, and buries itself somewhere below skin deep.

The whole world shifts inside her own head again as arctic wind gusts across a few remaining fragments of coziness: of old memories tinged pink with brandy smiles or marshmallow’d cheeks, of scarved hopes for the future knitted in bright, pretty patterns, of rich caroled dreams hummed sweetly into ears with full-bodied meaning, of soft painter’s hands which curled over top of stupid fears or desires like mittens to ease her shuddering, warming her to the bone. All of them slipping away on a sled she’s about to let crash straight through the North Pole so they may never resurface again.

Except how could she bear it? How could she survive the barrenness without them, all the cruelty? How could she find the strength to keep breathing after she lets one final sliver of warmth slip away because she’s bitter and hurting and broken? Where would her optimistic flames entomb themselves? In permafrost? In tundra? In icebergs crowding the sea?

Deep-down, Caroline knows that one biting word from her would silence Klaus for good. One more dismissive statement is all it would take to send him back to New Orleans where he belongs, thereby freeing her up to mope in this room forever. There’d be no more judgment to combat from him, no more concern. But to what end?

So her mouth can match the blue which has settled in around her heart since her mom passed away? So she can shudder harder at the falling flakes of grey and white which accumulate outside her window and aim to bury her beneath centuries of unrelenting snow? So life’s color can leak and harshen until it’s nothing more than a dead block of ice for her to kick?

As if winter isn’t teeth-chattering enough already!

Licking her lips, Caroline exhales before she slides the blanket down the bridge of nose enough to peek up at him. She rakes over his consternated expression. She watches when his body stiffens and squares in preparation of her next words. It’s as if he’s waiting for a dismissal to scythe through the air and lash him up.

“Okay, and what if—” she gulps, her voice dry and a little muffled. “What if I say I don’t want to be alone in this room right now? What then?”

Klaus’ eyes widen, hope spilling into their depths. But only for a second. A scratch of his chin followed by one, two, blinks and it sinks back into his pupils like an illusion. Like it was never there.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t. You won’t be, if that’s what you desire,” he says simply.

“And if I cry?”

He shrugs. “Then you cry.”

“I think I’m out of tissues.”

“You can use my clean sleeve then. I’m sure it’ll do just fine,” he offers drily.

She quirks an eyebrow. Shoots him a dubious look.

“What? I’m not allergic to tears, Caroline, for Christ’s sake.” He rolls his eyes. Wanders closer again. “Not immune to them either, unfortunately, if that’s what troubles you,” he adds under his breath.

Dragging a desk chair behind him, he erects it near her bedside table with a flick of his wrist. And sits.

“But you’re allergic to me, is that it?”

When he opens his mouth to respond only to slam it shut, puzzled, she gestures nonchalantly and says, “You can sit next to me on the bed, Klaus. There’s more than enough room for two, you know. It’s not like I think you have cooties or anything.”

Scooting over and up, she pats the open area with her hand. He doesn’t move.

“Well, come on then!” she tries again, less sarcastically this time. “Take off your shoes so you can climb in here. It’s drafty.”

After a few more seconds of gawking silence, Caroline, feeling both tired and fed up, rolls her eyes before she launches herself onto her knees to grab him by the hand, forcibly tugging him down onto the sheets beside her—shoes be damned!

They crash back against the pillows intertwined: Klaus’ arm braced ‘round her shoulders to cushion the fall; her nose scraping the lapels of his jacket. Her chin bangs against his clavicle and they tumble into the headboard cuddling. It’s an accident, of course, but one that feels comfortable. Oddly natural, too. And instead of shrugging him off or pushing him back so she can erect an elaborate pillow fort between them like she ordinarily would, she veers from expectation and tradition by throwing the blanket over his legs.

Next, she curls into the crook of his neck. Rests a hand in the center of his chest. Exhales. And thaws against his side as she listens to the rush of his ancient heartbeat, feeling it thrum through her own bones like this lullaby:  

‘Hold me close; hold me tight; and everything else will be alright,’  

Klaus initially tenses at the intimate contact. Afraid to move a muscle in case she changes her mind or wants to pull away, probably.

When she doesn’t, he relaxes. One hand drops atop the one of hers already on his chest while the other fingers silky tresses near her ear, plucking them strand by strand so they fall back against her sweatshirt with a sweet tap tap. His mouth also teases the crown of her head. It hovers close enough for her to feel each tickle of his breath against her skin, but remains far enough away that she misses the softness of his lips.

Sliding down lower onto the mattress, he kicks his shoes off onto the floor, lets a foot hook around her ankle, then folds her tighter into the furnace of his arms.

“I must say,” he murmurs against her hair, “a literal pillow is the last thing I expected to be for you today.”

“It’s only because I’m cold. February sucks and I miss my mom, okay? Don’t read too much into it.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

“Oh, shut up, will you? I can hear your smirk from here,” Caroline huffs into his shirt.

“Ah, sweet, sweet proximity.” Klaus sighs contentedly. “It’s half the battle, truth be told.”

“Ugh! You’re so exhausting.”

“I don’t see why,” he answers wryly, “it’s not as if I’m complaining.”

“No, but I know what you’re thinking.”

“Perhaps you do,” he hums in that assured, taunting way of his, “but you can’t fault me for being more than willing to comfort you given the chance.” His fingers draw soothing circles on her back. “So, if body heat is what you need from me right now, then fine—take every last ounce of mine and zip yourself up in it. Wrap it around you like a duvet, because it’s all yours.”

“Suuure,” Caroline drawls sleepily. She yawns. “Until I accidentally elbow you in the nose once I fall asleep, you mean.”

“No. I’m here and I won’t leave you. Not even if you make me bleed,” Klaus says, all pretense gone.

“Oh, you and your ridiculous promises. I swear!”

He responds to this with a low chuckle. It soon flattens into something more weighted and measured when he draws her in to deposit a sweet, earnest kiss across her forehead.

“Ridiculous or not, sweetheart, the promises I make to you I do and will keep. You can count on that,” he adds in a whisper. “You can count on me.”

Emotion clogs her throat at this; stings the corners of her eyes.

It’s right at that moment, with Klaus’ firm and unshakable finality, and his body spooned around her, that Caroline feels a ring of fire spring to life around her heart, thawing her all the way through with hope and waking her up to one devastatingly beautiful enormity: he’s the one person left who’s always wanted to be there for her. And he isn’t going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a hundred more lifetimes.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see about that, won’t we?” she shivers, cuddling closer and melding into his warmth.

“Don’t worry, love. Time is on our side.” She feels Klaus’ lips tug upward in smile. They sweep across her forehead again in kiss, but this time, they deliver promise as well as comfort, “We will.”

Thanks for reading. xx

#klaroline #klarolineauweek #klaroline drabbles #klaroline fanfiction #half agony half hope #ashlee bree's writing endeavors

[batwynn]

Stiles listens to his dad ask him the same question that comes up way too often, and gets lost counting the dark flecks that scatter across the white expanse of the all-too-familiar hospital ceiling. Here again, and ‘He’ll be fine,’ the doctor says.

His dad wants to hear it from Stiles’ lips, though. Is he okay?

Is he really okay?

His answer doesn’t come as easily as it used to, no quip or snap back like it’s easy come easy go. The feckless lie sticks in the back of his throat, burning away like a hot coal choking the life out of him.

I’m fine.

He’s said it more than a million times, and no super-hearing anybody has heard his heart skip a single beat. Or maybe they did, but that thought doesn’t make it any easier, because that means they’ve ignored it a million times, too. And it should be easy, he’s brilliant at lying straight to his father’s face these days. Stiles knows how to twist a definition to make it true, how to believe in nothing and make it something.

He’s fine.

Molehills out of mountains. Tip of the iceberg.

Shrink it down until it’s just an ember, a single flicker of pain low in his chest. It burns enough to remind him that it’s there, but cool enough for him to force the words out.

He stops counting the tiny holes in the ceiling, and plasters a bright, brilliant lie across his face.

________________

College is like walking on stage without knowing a single word or what the play even is. Stiles has no idea what the fuck he’s doing here or why he chose to do this alone; but he knows how to rip tattooed skin of a Druid to save the lives of his friends. He knows how to trap and kill a rabid alpha. He knows a spell to turn blood into glass. He knows how to run, and hurt, and grit his teeth through it all. Not exactly stuff he can use in his essays on anthropology, but maybe his psychology professor can diagnose his brand of fucked up.

Still, college is safe, and so what if Stiles doesn’t know what to do with safe. It’s not anyone’s fault but his own. So what if he’s across the country, a secluded hermit in the middle of one of the most crowded cities in America. He calls the pack every single day, he talks and talks and talks until they have to go. Back to class, back to work, back to unsafe and life-saving heroics. Scott will never change, Jesus Christ, he’ll never change.

Do a flip, Scotty. Forget to call me, again. Forget the promises we made. Forget what words set me off. Forget our plans. Forget my voice. Forget me.

It’s no one’s fault but his own.

Stiles doodles on his notes. Okay, so to be more accurate, he notes on his doodles. It might kind of be a problem, if he cared—that’s a whole other problem—but he doesn’t fail any of his classes so obviously there’s a method to his madness. He’s doing really well here, alone.

He’s fine.

__________

New York City is actually not safe. Like, holy shit. Maybe it’s just bad timing on his part, because there’s literally seven different wars going on all the time while the tourists ooh and aaah their way through the busy streets. In the back alleys, the quieter places, five packs and two human gangs are trying to annihilate each other. Each one is almost exactly the fucking same, so much so that it would be totally hilarious if they weren’t killing people. Furious supernatural and humans pulling out the big guns and pissing on everyone else’s trees. It’s dangerous, stupid, bloody stuff.

Stiles dives into headfirst the second classes end.

And for the first time in the past year and a half, he’s numb to the lie burning in the back of his throat.

Of course, it doesn’t last. There’s hunters called in to 'settle’ the 'dispute’. Hunters that maybe vaguely care about peace, but get hard for a good ol’ shoot out. So of course it doesn’t last—Stiles doesn’t last. He gets tired, gets slow. Slips up.

Gets shot.

. . .

A few times.

_________________

Is he really okay?

The coal is back, cooking away his torn up insides. Three bullets later and he’s just so fucking tired.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t even blink when Derek shows up in his hospital room. He doesn’t even question the fact that Derek is the one who’s here, or that he was the one to call his father, the pack, and Scott. (It turns out, Stiles might have forgotten to call them for a few weeks while he scuttled around a war zone.)

Stiles is also just too tired for Derek’s anger, even if it does come from a place of concern. He’s too tired to do their usual song and dance, and for once—for goddamn once—Derek lets it go.

Stiles tells him, ’I’m fine,’ and Derek Hale just nods, sits down, and exists with him.

______________

When he finds out that Derek has been in New York all along, Stiles is suddenly not tired at all anymore

There’s a lot of WTF’s.

Derek seems really smug about those, though, like that’s what he wanted to hear when he told Stiles he’s been living in the same city this whole time. So much for skipping their song and dance, he’s got Stiles flailing his cast-heavy arm at him and everything is sliding into place until they’re actually laughing.

The coal shrivels. Hello ember.

_________

Stiles has a nice rest of his summer vacation after his little foray into the New York Pack Wars.

'Nice’ means: pleasant, agreeable, satisfactory.

Stiles means: the rest of his summer vacation isn’t as horrible as certain previous summer vacations, and therefor sets a new standard for 'not as terrible as it could be.’

Because healing sucks. It’s slow, painful, mysterious—stitches are weird and fun!—and on its own, healing can be very annoying. Add Derek Hovering Hale to the mix, and Stiles has to use his outside voice more than a few times.

Smotherwolf.

(His stupid heart skips a beat when he says how much he hates it. Fuck, he used to be so good at this.)

But it’s not awful. Because, apparently, now that the wolf is out of the bag about sharing city space, Derek decides it’s time to hang out. And by 'hang out,’ Derek means move in together. And by 'move in together,’ Derek means Stiles has to leave the college housing he had planned to spend the summer in, and live in a new place near the college that Derek SugarDaddy Hale decided to buy.

He says, “just for the summer. Just until I’m done healing.”

Stiles is still there by the start of the new semester, and he’s totally fine with that.

______________

Three days into fall classes he has an attack.

Which, whatever, he’s used to them now. There isn’t always a trigger, but when there is, Stiles goes right off the deep end. Hallucinations, voices, flash backs, shaking, crying, screaming, sometimes puking, sometimes punching things… and people. It’s a medley of unhealthy stuff that typically leaves Stiles curled up on the floor of a bathroom stall somewhere after bolting out of class or lunch before the worst of it strikes.

This time, it’s a picture of a dead man in a trench. Black and white, a blurry nameless man. But Stiles just… he can’t take his eyes off of him. The teacher’s voice turns into static, whatever whatever whatever.

The guy looks a tiniest bit like Scott.

Stiles is already shoving himself in behind a toilet and making himself as small as possible before he even realizes what’s happening. Where’s his bag? Fuck, he forgot his—shit, he’s shaking too much, maybe he dropped it. His nails have blood under them oh god, it’s happening again. It’s happening again. He’s hurt someone. It's—there’s marks on his arms, blood. Good. Okay. Good. Just hold it together, it’s okay. You’re okay.

“You’re okay.”

It takes Stiles way too long to realize that someone else said it, and even longer to notice that it was Derek.

And it’s just Derek being Derek. He doesn’t turn into a fairy godmother to grant all of Stiles’ feverish wishes, he doesn’t become a medical professional and do exactly what one is supposed to do when handling a shit-storm of a panic attack, and he sure as hell doesn’t magically slay all of Stiles’ demons.

He’s just there, sitting on the dirty floor of a public bathroom, one arm loosely wrapped around Stiles’ back, one hand offered to hold or squeeze or bite or whatever Stiles needs. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep, or tell him what to do. He says, “I’m here,” and, “you’re okay.”

And yeah, maybe he will be. _______________

The day he graduates is mostly forgettable. The stress of finals, the general hyperactivity over the whole ceremony, hotels for the couples of the pack who want romance in NYC, spare room for his dad who wants quiet and to be near his son. It’s mostly a blur until later, when all the 'Congratulations!’ and You did it’s have tapered off into a more quiet affection. When the pack has made itself at home in their home—His and Derek’s home—half of them pleasantly buzzed or crashing from sugar highs, that’s when the memory become solid. Because this—this simple and perfect sort of moment isn’t all he’s ever needed. He still needs to be active, to get out there and shove his foot up some kelpie ass every once in a while. (Derek’s SugarDaddy status has upgraded to buying Stiles new shoes because of this.) Stiles still needs his alone time, space to clean out the spiders in the attic of his brain. And sometimes he still gets forgotten, sometimes Scott isn’t there for him when he reaches out. But he’s not alone, and maybe it’s okay that it’s Derek taking his hand these days, and it’s Derek who never, ever forgets what words trigger Stiles because he has his own triggers. It’s okay because the pack is still here for him.

But these lovingly crowded moments where he can feel the pack bond almost as strongly as the arm Derek has curled around him are a part of that Whole that Stiles needs.

This time, when his dad leans against the couch and asks him the question, Stiles doesn’t choke on a lie.

“Better. I’m doing better.”

Stiles smiles, and snuffs that ember out.

#stiles stilinski #Sterek #Drabble #fanfic #short fic #Derek hale #is a smotherwolf #sometimes #I don't know #I wrote this half asleep and feverish #angst #junk

[autolovecraft]

Meanwhile he would try to keep track of his somnambulism.

But all these precautions came late in the day, so that he would have to be done about those rats. He had been thinking too much about the vague regions which his formulae told him must lie beyond the three dimensions we know, and second, a passage out of the room bearing a small, senseless form which she thrust at the dreamer as if ordering him to carry it.

In another second he was out of the room bearing a small, senseless form which she thrust at the dreamer as if ordering him to carry it. An hour later darkness found him in the open fields beyond Hangman's Brook, with the glimmering spring stars shining ahead.

Again he tried to recall what he had dreamed after the scene in the violet-lit space, but nothing definite would crystallize in his mind. That the influence of the old crone herself. Besides, would not an escape from a dream-house—an abnormal projection of the actual place he sought? There had been virtually a tunnel through his body—something had eaten his heart out. Other objects found included the mangled fragments of many books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers, together with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers. By the time he had reached the bridge over the Miskatonic he was in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and planks rising to a peak just above his head, and he shrank from the thought of the sounds, that might surge out of that vapor.

Here he knew strange things had happened once, and had no idea what the curious image could be. Above the distant chanting and the nearer praying of Joe Mazurewicz came another sound—a stealthy, determined scratching in the partitions, and the climax was reached when the furry thing ran up the dreamer's clothing to his shoulders and then down his left arm, finally biting him sharply in the wrist just below his cuff. Whether anybody had ever managed to do this, one could hardly conjecture with any degree of authority. Sometimes he would take walks through shadowy tangles of unpaved musty-smelling lanes where eldritch brown houses of unknown age leaned and tottered and leered mockingly through narrow, small-paned windows. An even greater mystery is the absolute homogeneity of the crabbed, archaic writing found on a wide range of papers whose conditions and watermarks suggest age differences of at least one hundred and fifty to two hundred years.

Something in the air of the hoary town worked obscurely on his imagination. Each of these knobs was the hub of a system of five long, flat, triangularly tapering arms arranged around it like the arms of a starfish—nearly horizontal, but curving slightly away from the pull, so with great resolution he headed against it and dragged himself deliberately north along Garrison Street. The dreams were wholly beyond conjecture. Some unknown attraction was pulling his eyes in a seemingly irrelevant direction, for he could not comprehend. That scene itself must have corresponded to the sealed loft by rats, while others think it must have been half drunk when he came home the night before—and it meant no good when they held off like that. His gaze was still pulled to the southward, but he could sidetrack them with considerable success. By the time he had reached the bridge over the Miskatonic he was in the immemorially sealed loft overhead, which had begun to attack his imagination so violently, but later burned candles of gratitude in St. He was in the immemorially sealed loft overhead, which had begun to attack his imagination so violently, but later impressions were faint and hazy. Health officials traced the smell to the closed spaces above and beside the eastern garret room, and agreed that the number of dead rats must be enormous. There was the immemorial figure of the deputy or messenger of hidden and terrible powers—the Black Man, of her oath, and of her new secret name of Nahab.

That Gilman talked in his sleep was plain, and it added to his desperation to hear Joe Mazurewicz chanting mournfully two floors below, and in desperation he seized his hat and walked out into the sunset-golden streets, letting the now directly southward pull carry him where it might.

The whole attic story was choked with debris from above, but no one took them seriously. Of how the organic entities appeared by its motions to be noticing him, he felt that his physical organization and faculties were somehow marvelously transmuted and obliquely projected—though not without a certain grotesque relationship to his normal proportions and properties. Joe Mazurewicz who had a room on the ground floor. Above the distant chanting and the nearer praying of Joe Mazurewicz came another sound—a stealthy, determined scratching in the partitions, and the two-year-old child of a clod-like laundry worker named Anastasia Wolejko had completely vanished from sight.

A definite point among the stars had a claim on him and was calling him. He must ask Frank Elwood for help. He was glad to sink into the vaguely roaring twilight abysses—the green hillside—the blistering terrace—the pulls from the stars—the ultimate black vortex—the black man silently pointed.

Elwood trembled, afraid even to speculate what new form his friend's sleep-walking expedition, and had voluntarily cut down his course at several points.

Something, however, matters were reversed; for those murderous claws had locked themselves tightly around his own throat, while the beldame thrust a huge gray quill into Gilman's right hand.

The figures were about four and a half inches in height, while the witch was throttling him, and he had long ago stopped the cheap mantel clock whose ticking had come to her aid. It was a painful process, and at a different height above an infinitely distant curving horizon of low mountains.

They decided, however, closed his throat. He was not his own master.

Her bent back, long nose, and shriveled chin were unmistakable, and her grip relaxed long enough to give him a sense of strident pandemonium. When he heard the faint, shrill tittering of the fanged, bearded little face in the rat-hole appeared in the room and try to protect the child, but they did not believe anything would be done. Desrochers, Mazurewicz, and the light metal bowl shook in his grasp. Meanwhile they would take the spiky image which had puzzled him so horribly. Joe had been out celebrating the night before in Orne's Gangway, and the nightmare shape of Brown Jenkin have been muttered of since Gilman's death. The sight of this form, and the nightmare shape of Brown Jenkin in the gulf below he thought he was in the immemorially sealed loft above his own room, but they had all agreed not to talk about that. Had he himself talked as well as older rat-bones gnawed by small fangs in a fashion now and then ever since early in March, and knew they would sleep like logs when night came. Success, Gilman added, might lead to dangerous and unthinkable situations, for who could foretell the conditions pervading an adjacent but normally inaccessible dimension? Had he signed the black man's book after all? Mazurewicz was waiting for him at the door. At three o'clock he took some lunch at a restaurant, noting meanwhile that the pull had either lessened or divided itself. How could he keep himself from going? Looking upward he saw three stupendous disks of flame, each of a different hue, and at its very start brought out a fresh and disconcerting fact. His host was very sympathetic, and agreed that the number of dead rats must be enormous. He was also troubled by what some of his hypothetical illustrations caused an increase in the always plentiful gossip about his nervous and solitary eccentricity. There Mazurewicz had found something monstrous—or thought he had glimpsed in the evening twilight the repellent old woman whose image had become so horribly transferred to his dreams. Then his fevered, abnormal hearing caught the distant, wind-borne notes.

Then, as he turned away, he saw on the table which did not belong there, and a second glance told him it was certainly the strange old woman whose image had become so horribly transferred to his dreams.

Braced up by Elwood's companionship, Gilman attended classes that day.

Only his tendency toward a dazed stupor prevented him from screaming aloud. Witnesses said it had long hair and the shape of a rat sounded from beyond the slanting north wall it was mixed with a sort of dry rattling; and when it came from beyond the slanting partition. Any being from any part of three-dimensional space could probably survive in the fourth dimension, and who can say what underlies the old tales of broomstick rides through the night? She had told Judge Hathorne of lines and curves were frequently used at certain midnight meetings in the dark, olden years of the Province. Everybody shrieked when a large rat-like form suddenly jumped out from beneath the ensanguined bedclothes and scuttled across the floor to a fresh, open hole close by. He was glad to sink into the vaguely roaring twilight abysses, though the image is on exhibition at the museum of Miskatonic University. In another instant, however, closed his throat.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Dreams in the Witch-House #1933 #The Dreams in the Witch-House week

[kitliveblogs]

so this is basically a long-ass rant disguised as a review of Little Mermaid II that I originally posted on a different blog. maybe someday I'll actually get back to that blog, but for right now the theme is broken and I can't read anything on it anymore.

so for now, this will live right here instead c:

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Everyone's already taken their shots at the notoriously bad Disney sequels made in the late 90s and early 2000s. They're basically a walking punch line just by existing. But really, not all of them are completely worthless, and a couple of them are even pretty enjoyable, in a hilarious "I can't believe they actually made this" sort of way.

But I'm here to talk about only the most heinous of cinematic disasters. And let me make one thing perfectly clear: this isn't just Kit being a bitter and cranky old fogy with a chip on her shoulder because the shitty sequel ruined her childhood. I mean, I am bitter and cranky, but The Little Mermaid II couldn't possibly lower my opinion of the original -- there's not really anything lower than rock bottom. (yeah I hate The Little Mermaid fight me)

This movie is just flat out that bad.

word count: 3070

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I'm just gonna get one thing out of the way right now: nothing about this movie frustrates me more than the cast. This cast is made up of particularly well-known voice actors, and it's heartbreaking that they all got wrangled into doing this shit. Jodi Benson (Ariel), Samuel E. Wright (Sebastian), Kenneth Mars (King Triton), and Buddy Hackett (Scuttle) all return to reprise their roles from the first movie, and Pat Carroll who played Ursula is here to play Morgana, the main villain and Ursula's conveniently-never-before-mentioned sister. Yeah. They're doing that. And on top of getting so much of the original cast, they also roped in:

Rob Paulsen (Eric)

Tara Strong (Melody)

Clancy Brown (Undertow)

Cam Clarke (Flounder)

Rene freaking Auberjonois as Chef Louis

and one my favorite VAs Stephen Furst as Dash, one half of the Timon and Pumbaa knock-offs for the film.

When just looking at the cast list pisses me off this much... I don't think this is going to be much fun.

A quick recap for those who have been living under a rock since the late 70s: The Little Mermaid is the story of Ariel, daughter of the ruler of Atlantica, who at the completely world-wise age of 16 decides she's had enough of life under the sea and wants to live with the humans on land. She turns to the sea-witch Ursula for help, and in exchange for her voice is given a pair of legs and a deadline: kiss the man of her dreams within three days or join the shriveled legion of Ursula's previous victims. Naturally the witch doesn't play fair and Ariel fails, and King Triton offers himself in exchange for his daughter, thus sacrificing his washboard abs and obscenely powerful trident to Ursula. One climactic battle later, Ursula's dead, Triton turns Ariel into a human, and she and Prince Eric live happily ever after.

Until the sequel, of course, where Ariel and Eric have a baby girl, Melody, which makes me question the exact biology of this bizarre offspring. I mean just look at this thing:

She was just born but she's got a full head of hair and disturbingly large blue eyes. It's freakish. But anyway, this is where movie number 2 begins.

And we're off to a good start: smacked in the face with a terrible music number. I would say get used to those, but there aren't really enough in the movie to warrant it -- which is pretty bad when you consider this is supposed to be a musical. Also, "listen to Ariel's Melody"? That's... wow. I can't even say that's cute in a sarcastic way that's just terrible.

But oh no! The party is interrupted by Morgana, who is, as Sebastian so eloquently puts it:

Oh good. I can see we'll be dealing with truly ingenious writing here.

So after stealing the baby Melody, ranting and raving about being better than her sister Ursula, and attempting to feed the baby to a shark (all while Ariel, Eric, and Triton stand there doing absolutely nothing), Morgana flees to the arctic. Wait, the arctic? Well, alright, you need to escape pursuit to a barren wasteland, that's fair. I won't linger on this for now, as the geography problems will get a lot worse later.

One of the main MacGuffins of the movie is a gold locket with Melody's name inscribed on it, that projects an image of Atlantica and plays a lullaby when opened. King Triton was giving it to the baby before Morgana came onto the scene, and after failing to find her in a massive search of the sea, Triton drops it in the water and leaves. This strikes me as odd. Wouldn't you want to hang onto it? As a keepsake of your family? Or at the very least dispose of it more properly, just in case Melody might one day, oh I dunno, find it and realize her mother and father had been lying to her her entire life? Nah, I'm sure it'll be fine.

Fast forward 12 years. A giant wall has been built on the shore to keep Melody and the ocean apart, but being a tenacious kid she naturally figured out a way around it. Or rather, under it. Which raises the question: if this child could figure out a way out, why couldn't Morgana figure a way in? It would have been a simple matter to slip under the wall, scale the outside of the tower with her suction cup-riddled tentacles, and kidnap the baby to hold for ransom. Why was it so imperative to wait until Melody found the locket before enacting her plan to steal the trident?

Oh, yeah, that thing I mentioned before about her finding it? Lo and behold, she discovered the damn thing on one of her jaunts to collect seashells (which are comically huge by the way). If only Triton had done literally anything else with it, this whole mess might have been avoided.

But no time to worry about that now; there's a birthday party to attend!

Through a convoluted mess of trying to hide her seashells and pretend she'd been in her room the entire time, Melody accidentally ties Sebastian into the dorky bow on the back of her party dress. I'm sure this will have no consequences down the line at all--

Huh. Didn't see that one coming. This leads to a ridiculous scene of Chef Louis chasing Sebastian around the ballroom like some sort of crazed lunatic. I know this was a thing from the first movie, but this guy is out of his fucking gourd; why do they keep him around? Ultimately, Melody runs off to her room out of embarrassment.

I really don't want to linger on anything for too long since this movie doesn't deserve that much energy, but there's two things about this scene I need to address. One: so basically if Sebastian had just remained calm and waited it out... none of this would have happened? I think the blame for this one falls on him. And two: why the hell are all these other children making fun of Melody? I know she's ~weird~ and all, but she's the freaking princess. Don't you think they'd know better than exclude the princess of the entire kingdom? I would want to stay on her good side is all I'm saying.

Anyway. Melody finally takes a good look at the locket and realizes something's up, confronting her mother about Atlantica. Okay, Ariel, here's your chance. If you just explain the situation, she'll understand and maybe you could even take her to Atlantica under heavy guard or something so she can finally meet her damn grandfather.

Or you could just get mad. Getting mad is good too.

Naturally after that Melody decides to take off, rowing a rather conveniently placed boat out to sea to try and figure it all out for herself. While she meets Undertow and agrees to follow him to Morgana, Sebastian is back at the castle psyching himself up to tell Ariel that Melody ran away.

WAIT. YOU DIDN'T KNOW? IT'S BEEN TWELVE YEARS AND YOU HAD NO IDEA SEBASTIAN WAS KEEPING AN EYE ON MELODY??

So in the end, a) Ariel is the least observant person in the world, b) Sebastian never once told her about Melody's excursions beyond the wall (remember that for later), and c) Triton didn't bother to let Ariel know he'd assigned Sebastian the job, continuing the family cycle of not communicating with each other. In hindsight all this bullshit family drama isn't that surprising.

Back to Melody and Morgana (yes, somehow Undertow and the manta ray minions hauled the boat to the arctic in just a couple of hours), Morgana is doing what she does best: whining about Ursula. Honey, I don't think your mother favored her because she was the oldest; I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that Ursula was actually competent and managed to accomplish her goals. Plus her magic is clearly more powerful than yours, since you have to use one of her potions to turn Melody into a mermaid.

OH MY GOD A SONG. I forgot this movie was supposed to have those. It's an upbeat little tune about learning to swim with her new tail, which quickly evolves into a duet with her mother and finding their "worlds:" Melody finding a place she belongs underwater, and Ariel keeping Melody safe. It's boring, but at least Tara Strong can sing well, and Jodi Benson can still belt it out like she could twenty years ago.

Morgana tells Melody that the spell will only last for two days, and that in order to make it permanent, she'll need the "powerful trident that was stolen from her." I'm sure you're as shocked as I was when it was revealed that she didn't just want a puppy and someone to make her pie. So off Melody goes with naught but determination and a map carved into a block of ice. Wait. That seems... poorly designed.

There aren't even words on it. Now I'm no cartographer, but that seems like a pretty major flaw for a map.

Meanwhile, Ariel has joined the search for Melody as a mermaid again, because apparently, according to Eric, "You should go. You know these waters -- and you know our daughter." Um. I'm not even sure where to begin with that one. Let's just say I agree with half that statement; I'll give you one guess which half.

Back in the arctic-- Stop. Okay look. I liked Timon and Pumbaa well enough. Timon had his moments of obnoxiousness, but Nathan Lane was likable enough to always bring it back, and Pumbaa is still my favorite character from The Lion King. But lemme tell ya, I HATE what Timon and Pumbaa did to Disney for a while. They wanted quirky, amiable sidekicks that would keep the kids entertained and distract from the lion sex happening in the background. I can understand that. But when every kid walked away singing Hakuna Matata and the Disney execs realized what they'd stumbled on, every movie afterward that was bound to fail miserably tried to shoehorn in a pair that would have the same appeal to sell more merch. Timon and Pumbaa themselves wound up with their own movie and a SATURDAY MORNING CARTOON SHOW. YEAH. THAT REALLY HAPPENED.

Why do I bring it up? Do you really have to ask?

Meet Tip and Dash, your knock-offs for the evening.

They are, as they put it, "adventurers slash explorers." That might have actually been a good way of setting them apart from the lackadaisical Timon and Pumbaa -- except that in their very first scene they attempt to save a baby penguin from a shark and completely botch the whole thing by being complete cowards. And then when the penguin family gets upset and berates them for their piss-poor job, the movie has the audacity to frame this like we should feel sorry for them. Movie, I refuse to sympathize with them when all the criticism against them is CORRECT. Also sharks don't live in the arctic. Neither do walruses. Just throwing that out there.

From there they bump into Melody, and she convinces them to take her to Atlantica, since Morgana was an idiot for carving the map into an easily-breakable piece of ice. By the way, for the record, Dash is the only likable character in this entire movie, but even then that's not saying much when you consider I'm biased because of his VA. He's the one that actually agrees to help Melody because she's "a damsel in distress," and doesn't care that she's actually a human-turned-mermaid. Come to think of it, this could have been a really good analogy for trans youth, but that probably would have been way too complicated a subject for a shitty Disney sequel.

Also I was gonna skip this part but it's stuck in my head so I'd like to introduce you to the CATCHIEST AND MOST OBNOXIOUS SONG IN ANY MOVIE EVER. Like damn! That would be an accomplishment if it wasn't so terrible. And I'm not exaggerating; I'm completely immune to It's A Small World, but THIS? This garbage sticks to me like glue. (and if you decided to skip the song you now have It's A Small World in your head so either way you have to SUFFER WITH ME)

Ahem. Moving on.

The Three Stooges here finally make it to Atlantica, just barely missing Ariel, Triton, and Flounder going the other way. Flounder, in the past twelve years, has had about five annoying kids and developed a dad belly. It's not really relevant to anything but it's just hilarious to me that even fish can have dad bellies. But there's only a half hour of this turd left, so let's keep chugging along.

On their way into the palace they bump into a piece of-- what? Fish jailbait? Jail fish bait? Eh, whatever. THEY BUMP INTO THIS KID:

Yes, as a matter of fact it was. Even though Atlantica is clearly in tropical waters. Starfish, sea urchins, and crabs all live in tropical waters, whereas penguins live in colder climates. This geography is seriously messed up. I don't think anyone on the creative team even bothered to so much as glance at a map while making this -- which would also explain the terrible ice map, I suppose.

Melody swipes the trident and heads back to Morgana's lair. Cloak and Dagger, the two manta ray minions (I know, subtle), follow behind, and Ariel catches sight of them. She and Flounder in turn follow them, discovering the witch's hiding place in the arctic. Personally my first thought was "So, we've looked everywhere actually means except there because it's cold as balls and nobody wanted to?" but Ariel's a bit more focused than I was by this point.

Ariel tries to send Flounder back, to let Triton know where they are, but Flounder, being an idiot, says he won't let her go in there alone. DUDE. GO GET HELP. Who does, in fact, go to get help? Why Scuttle, of course!

And it's all your fault, bro.

Ariel rushes in in the nick of time to stop Melody from handing over the trident, but naturally the two of them get into the argument that puts the final nail in coffin. Melody actually says "You knew how much I loved the sea!" but I'd like to refer you back to the facts. Melody and Ariel never had an honest and open conversation about, well, anything. The closest evidence we have to support this statement is that Melody thought Atlantica was just an old fish tale, which means at some point Ariel told her stories about it and the mermaids. Otherwise there's just genetics: your mother's a mermaid so you must love the sea too. That's an awfully big leap. And there's the fact that Sebastian never told Ariel about Melody's adventures outside the wall. She had zero idea about any of it. So how could she have possibly known how much Melody loved the ocean, outside of sheer guesswork?

Oh, but "you know our daughter." Well if you SAY it it MUST be true!

By the by, Melody's little realization here of "I have made a horrible mistake" when she gives Morgana the trident is just priceless.

De-licious.

Finally we've reached the big battle. Morgana builds herself a big fuck-off tower of ice, and we're ready for action.

Scuttle, in a rare moment of non-stupidity, comes soaring in, tailed by Prince Eric's ship. Before blasting it to pieces Morgana asks, "Come to join the party?" and I have to agree; where the hell have you been for the last 40 minutes, anyway, Eric? ALSO

And I present you the only funny line in the movie:

...If it feels like I'm rushing through this it's only because I am.

After getting the trident, Morgana had sealed Melody and Flounder into an ice cavern. Unfortunately for her, Melody's two days are now up, and she turns back into a human in a chamber full of water. Tip and Dash rush in to save her, and come face-to-face with a full-sized Undertow. Through a not-at-all suspenseful sequence of the shark chasing them around, they manage to trick him into ramming the ice wall trapping Melody and Flounder, and get her back up to the surface. Where she just. wakes up. No coughing water or dizziness or trouble breathing. NOPE. Her eyes open as soon as she hits air and she's good to go.

Disney: showing the lighter side of almost drowning.

As Morgana fulfills her power fantasy of getting everyone to bow down to her and shrieking "WHO'S YOUR FAVORITE NOW, MA" (yeah I'm pretty sure it's still Ursula), Melody scales the ice tower in an attempt to retrieve the trident. If nothing else, this movie shows a very inaccurate portrayal of trying to walk on ice. Unsurprisingly, Melody succeeds and tosses the trident back to Triton, who seals Morgana in a block of ice to rest forever at the bottom of the sea.

So Ursula was literally stabbed through the chest with an entire boat and died but Morgana gets punked out in a block of ice? Weak.

The family reconciles, Melody takes the whole "grandfather" thing a little too well, and the movie ends with them tearing down the wall so the humans and merpeople can interact freely from now on.

I only have two questions before I finally shut up about this stupid stupid movie:

1. So does the whole kingdom just sort of take it in stride that a) merpeople exist and b) the prince married one? 2. How can a movie that's only an hour and ten minutes long sans credits feel SO MUCH LONGER

This whole thing was ridiculous from the jump. Who was demanding a sequel to the Little Mermaid of all freaking things? Who really wanted to see sequels to any of the movies from the Disney Renaissance? And there are quite a few of them. Like I said, some of them can be pretty enjoyable if you like cheesiness. But most of them are just terrible like this one, and if you're wondering whether you'll be seeing more of the Dark Age of Disney, don't worry. Their days will come.

#feel totally free to ignore this honestly c: #watching: Little Mermaid II