#then later after THAT they began openly weeping. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dancingbirdie · 7 months

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Your writing is so good! How about a hurt/comfort where a little bit of time after Cazador's defeat, Tav/reader wakes up screaming Astarion's name bc they had a nightmare that Cazador had managed to take Astarion back. They wake up in terror and practically clings to Astarion

Thanks so much for this writing prompt, anon! I hope you enjoy.

PLEASE take note of the warning tags for this one. The nightmare is pretty violent stuff.

Love in the Time of Nightmares

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Astarion x gn!Tav

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: Descriptions of physical abuse and mental abuse, torture, blood/bruises/lacerations, fluff and angst.

Consciousness clawed its way through Tav’s body, scraping against their fractured ribs, digging into the bruises that bloomed across their arms and legs like some twisted watercolor masterpiece. Tav groaned as they came to, eyes straining to make sense of their surroundings.

Wherever they were, it was in near-total darkness. And it reeked of putrefaction. The air was saturated with fetid moisture. It felt like a rotting cloth had been placed over their mouth and nose. Where in the sweet hells were they?

As other senses slowly came online, Tav realized they were lying on their side, curled into a fetal position. A manacle ensnared one ankle, the cold metal biting into their skin. The floor on which they were lying was made of coarse stone. The grit of it snagged against their skin and clothes.

A whimper from somewhere nearby refocused their attention.

In front of them, Tav could barely make out the ghostly pale form of Astarion, half-naked, hunched over his knees on the damp floor. His hands were shackled to a bolt fastened into the stone. His wrists were cut and bleeding from an obvious attempt to slip through the cuffs. He was bruised and battered across his abdomen. And his back.

Oh, his back.

Tav released an anguished cry as their eyes beheld Astarion’s back. The infernal script had been cut into anew. The lacerations wept openly, forming rivulets down his spine.

“Astarion–” Tav croaked, attempting to draw his attention.

A voice from further ahead interrupted them.

“Did you honestly believe you could ever escape me, boy?” Cazador’s snakelike hiss reverberated throughout the cavernous dungeon.

At that voice, that hideous voice, Tav watched, helpless, as shivers wracked Astarion’s body. He began openly weeping, his head bowing over his shackled hands.

The bobbing light of a torch appeared through the gloom moments later, revealing the vile form of his former master. Cazador sauntered forward, closing in on Astarion. His gait was as casual as any nobleman enjoying a springtime promenade. Bile wrenched itself up through Tav’s throat, searing their esophagus along the way.

They watched as Cazador knelt before Astarion. He began petting his silver curls, tutting softly. It was a profane mimicry of comfort. Sobs only wracked Astarion’s body more violently.

The sight enraged Tav. Righteous anger surged through them. They smacked the floor, hard, with the edge of their fist, drawing Cazador’s attention.

“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF HIM,” Tav screamed, vocal cords straining. They lurched forward to grab at the horrible creature but were halted abruptly by the chain pulled taut against their ankle.

Cazador gave a mirthless laugh, rising to full height and acknowledging Tav for the first time.

“You foolish child,” he spat. “You dare presume to command me? Astarion is mine. Mine to punish. To destroy. To do with as I wish.”

“NO. We destroyed you. You don’t own him anymore!” Tav cried, wrenching at the manacle once more.

Cazador threw his head back with a barking laugh. In the corner of their eye, Tav noted how the sound caused Astarion to shrink further into himself. The sight eviscerated their heart. To see their lover beaten down so low.

“I will always own him,” Cazador insisted. “My newest spellwork will see to that.”

With a snap of his fingers, the chains shackling Astarion’s wrists released from the bolt on the floor and flew into Cazador’s waiting hand. He jerked them violently, causing Astarion to lurch forward with a cry, barely catching himself from landing face first on the stones. Another tug, and Astarion was half-crawling, half-dragging behind Cazador as the slavemaster made his way back through the darkness of the dungeon.

“NO! DON’T TAKE HIM! PLEASE!” Tav screamed, eyes tracking Astarion’s form as he disappeared into the gloom. They kicked against the shackle, ripping their skin to shreds.

“ASTARION! ASTARION–”

The next thing they knew, strong arms were banding around their waist. Firm. Solid.

Tav’s eyes fluttered open, taking in their surroundings with a feral sort of awareness. Their heart hammered in their chest. Their lungs heaved with the effort to take in more air.

“Shhh, darling. It’s all right. It’s all right,” Astarion’s low, melodic voice soothed in their ear. His chest was pressed against their back, spooning them. Tav felt his legs intertwine with theirs, drawing them even closer.

Tav clutched at his hands as their attention darted around the room. They were in their bedroom, in the bed they shared with Astarion. In their home in the Underdark.

There was the glow worm terrarium on their night stand. They had fashioned it as a sort of night light, even if it was always “night” here. It limned the room with a gentle bluish hue. And farther away, there was the dresser they both shared, hewn from driftwood Tav had collected above ground. Their collection of paintings - sunrises, mostly - hung scattered about the four walls. The woody smell of incense drifted to their nose, bringing a sense of comfort and familiarity.

They were home. Astarion was safe. He was here. They were safe. Astarion was safe.

But the mantra couldn’t stop the tears from spilling. The nightmare had felt so very real. It had attacked every one of their senses. They still felt like they could smell the rotten mugginess of the dungeon if they concentrated hard enough.

“I’m sorry,” Tav sobbed, turning their face into their pillow to muffle their crying. “I didn’t mean to– to–”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my love,” Astarion whispered, clutching them tighter around the waist. “You were dreaming. It was just a dream,” he murmured, over and over again, kissing their shoulders and neck in between the words.

“I thought you’d been taken again – that… that he had taken you,” they keened, eyes clenched shut.

“Never, darling. He’s dead. Long gone. And I’m right here. Right here with you,” Astarion affirmed. But Tav continued to cry. Heartbreaking sounds emanated from their muffled form.

“Here, turn over and face me,” he urged softly, unable to bear their anguish a moment longer.

Slowly, he moved Tav so that they were lying face to face in the bed, their noses nearly touching. Astarion lifted a hand to cradle their cheek. The other hand slipped over the dip of their waist. He began rubbing soothing circles against their back.

“See, darling? I’m right here,” he smiled gently, meeting their teary gaze.

Tav nodded mutely, eyes never leaving his. Slowly, they raised a hand to trace their fingers across his brow. Down the line of his nose. Over his cheekbones. Around his lips. Across his jaw. They watched as Astarion closed his eyes, soaking in their touch. He allowed them to continue their ministrations, doing what they needed to in order to feel assured.

“It was a dream,” Tav finally whispered after a few moments of tracing Astarion’s features. Their words sounded more like a question than a declaration.

“It was only a dream,” he swore seriously, moving his hand to cradle the back of their head. He planted a chaste kiss against their forehead.

Tav bowed their head into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent of bergamot and clove.

“I love you,” they whispered faintly against his neck, feeling utterly spent from the emotional response the nightmare had created.

“I love you,” Astarion returned. He continued to rub their back, tracing idle circles against their nightshirt.

“Can you tell me a story?” Tav asked, breaking the comforting silence of the room.

“About what, darling?” Astarion replied.

“Anything. Tell me about the last book you read. Or the plans we’re developing for that commune, to rehome all the spawn.”

“Very well,” he agreed, kissing their forehead again. He began describing, in elaborate detail, every room of the commune they were working to build for all of Cazador’s formerly imprisoned spawn. He provided Tav a verbal tour of all of his plans, his ideas for each of the common spaces, his intended partnership with the Myconid colony to cultivate a community garden. On and on he went, pouring out every iota of his ideas – even the ones that were still half-formed imaginations.

His eloquent cadence slowly led Tav back into drowsiness. He listened as their breathing became slower, more even. Finally, sure that they were well and truly asleep once more, he quieted. He took in the peacefulness of their bedroom. Observed his partner sleeping in his arms once more.

It had been three years since Baldur’s Gate. The nightmares still came frequently for both of them. Most of the time, it was he who woke in the middle of the night, needing comfort and assurances from Tav. Other times, like tonight, it was Tav. Astarion wasn’t sure either of their mental scars would ever truly disappear, no matter how long time marched on.

But the life they had carved out for themselves was a beautiful one. Full of life. Full of love. And full of belonging. Try as they might, that was something the nightmares would never, ever, take from them.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #dancingbirdiewrites #astarion x gn reader #tav x astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #baldur’s gate astarion #bg3 astarion fic #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x f!reader #astarion baldurs gate

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 8 months

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Title board created by the wonderful @mochie85!

Lesson Twenty

Loki languishes in the hospital, accepting your impending fate as he awaits news about your condition.

**MASTERLIST HERE** Pairing: Soft!Dom!Loki x F!Reader Content Warnings: smut, extensive mentions of death, euthanasia, and death-related philosophy, some dark content (though the characters won't be), exile, moodiness, smut, kinks of various flavors (look for specific chapter warnings), trauma and mental illness, reader is a captive, reader has a body count

It was all Loki could do to scoop your limp body into his arms, holding it fast to his chest as he rocked back and forth, nearly biting his lip clean off to hold back from openly weeping in front of Brunnhilde and The Flock.

Maria leapt into Jonah-Bjorn’s arms as he began to sob. The King snarled in anger.

“Shut UP! Neither of you deserves this,” she growled, taking her dagger and throwing it at the couple, landing in the wall just behind Jonah-Bjorn’s left side. “Get out and get an ambulance, damn you!”

The pair froze, looking as if every emotion conceivable was passing through their brains at one moment.

“It’s too late,” Loki muttered almost inaudibly, as if admitting it any louder would make it more devastating. He was breaking. “She isn’t stirring.”

“Look, you pair of ingrates: this woman just died for you! The least you could do is get help,” Brunnhilde demanded, her rage close to boiling over.

For the sake of self-preservation, Jonah-Bjorn helped Maria to her feet. “L…let’s just do as she says,” he stuttered. Maria quickly scooped the crying baby into her arms, and the pair evacuated the room to go seek authorities. “And while you’re at it, tell your Flock friends that it’s all over!” called the King after them.

She turned around after chasing them away to find that Loki hadn’t been able to hold back silent tears, only now concealed because he had buried his face in your neck to stifle the cries, and to get one last whiff of the scent of your hair.

“If I never agreed to teach her--”

“--she’d been dead eleven months ago,” mumbled the King, kneeling down beside Loki as he continued to cradle you in his lap. “She chose to do this. I would’ve preferred we fight, but--”

“--but hy did she have to do this? I never meant for this to happen,” Loki sighed, looking down at your face, brushing a tuft of hair away from your brow. He bent down to press his forehead to yours. “You stupid, beautiful, amazing woman…” he whispered before cutting himself off.

Something was different. Off. You weren’t turning cold or stiff.

Loki laid the back of his hand against your cheek. Still soft and warm, if not a little hot.

His lip trembled in nervous hope. “Brunnhilde…get a piece of glass,” he said quickly.

“What?” she asked.

“From anywhere! A small piece of glass!”

She scowled and grunted at being ordered, but the occasion didn;t call for petty squabbles, so she got up and left the room. A moment later, there was the sound of breaking glass, and a moment later, she returned, hanging Loki a shard of mirror.

He held it underneath your nose, and let out an “oh!” as he saw the faint puff of exhalation briefly paint the glass before rolling away.

“She’s alive! Brunnhilde, go make sure they bring help in a hurry!” Loki began breathing quickly as the King’s mouth fell open.

“She’s breathing?”

“Barely,” Loki replied. “We could still lose her! Please, go! Hurry!”

As the King bolted from the room again, Loki bent over and whispered into your ear. “Hold on, Y/N…”

Hours later, Loki sat at your bedside, where you were hooked up to tubes, monitors, and drips, unconscious but stable in the hospital. Your heart rate was disturbingly low, but it was beating, and it was getting the job done. You were still as stone.

Brunnhilde was leaning against the window, legs crossed and arms folded as usual, as the doctor explained to the best of his ability what had happened to you.

He was a youthful, blonde man with tortoiseshell glasses and buck teeth. “It’s as if all of the energy her body needs to function was sucked out of her, save for just enough to keep her brain working the bare minimum, to keep her heart beating the weakest it can while still pumping. She is unconscious because she doesn’t have the strength left to open her eyes.”

“Will she live?” asked Loki, gritting his teeth impatiently.

“Yes,” the doctor replied, looking more than a little intimidated by the god’s presence. “But it may take a very long time for her body to recuperate its strength, even with the feeding tube we’ve given her.”

Loki sniffed. “How long, exactly?”

“There’s no way to tell, sir,” the doctor continued. “It may be as long as a week before she has enough strength to open her eyes. Perhaps two before she can speak and sit up. However, I wouldn’t expect her to walk again without aid before Christmas.”

The King gave Loki a concerned glance, and the two of them knew that they shared the same worry: the test. You would need every ounce of your physical ability to pass, and here you were nearly dead, with your best hope being at the point where you’d be waking with a cane by the time S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived.

It appears, unless they relent, we’re both dead now, my love, Loki thought. There was no way you could even submit yourself to an exam. The game was lost. December 31st was all but certainly his and your execution date now.

He refused to leave your side, even as the King returned to New Asgard to celebrations and gratitude from the people that lasted days. He read to you, sang lullabies from his childhood on Asgard, and talked to you as if you could hear him, hoping it would spark something in you to awaken.

Four days later, you could hear him for the first time, though you were still trapped inside a paralyzed, unconscious body. The soothing baritone was endless and warming. For twelve hours after, you lay and listen as he further cared for you.

Then, just before dawn on the fifth day, your eyes fluttered open, and you made the faintest cooing sound. You sensed Loki was asleep, his head in his arms on the end of the bed, leaning over from the chair he otherwise occupied.

He instantly awakened, and let out a huge sigh of relief as he grabbed your hand, kissing your fingers, blinking frantically to hold back tears,.

“Y/N! Love, you’re back!”

Your lips could move, and your voice was a little faint yet, so Loki insisted you continue to silently reserve your limited energy, and he took time to explain to you what had transpired in the days since you’d confronted The Flock.

“They’ve given their vow, on risk of war, to leave New Asgard in peace, and to stay in Oslo,” he informed you. “They won’t ever speak your name, of course, but they have a silent gratitude for you.”

Weeks passed, December arrived, and your strength slowly returned. For a few days, Loki had to do essentially everything for you, from keeping you entertained, to relaying messages to Brunnhilde for you, to even the most basic things like feeding you and adjusting your pillows. He did it all with humility and love, something that made you feel both wonderful and sorrowful when it reminded you of what you both had to look forward to.

“I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but I don’t see how we can get ourselves out of this one,” he said, putting away the last of your supper one night during the first week of December. You were feeding yourself now, but sometimes Loki was insistent on at least partially aiding you with eating, as your grip was still weak. Your hands still shook when they tried to hold silverware.

“We can run away,” you mumbled. “Brunnhilde will cover us.”

Loki shook his head as he brushed an affectionate hand over your cheek, lighting kissing you. “They’d interrogate her, as well as Thor. They’d have him comb the universe for us. We could never come back to Midgard.”

“So we’re just supposed to bow our heads? I may not be strong, but I will try until the very end for you, Loki,” you promised. “I’m not ready to give up just yet.”

He smiled and took your hand. “You amaze me.”

You smiled. “Now, if you don't mind, I’m starting to lose my energy…:

“...of course, darling,” Loki replied, going to move your bed from an upright position to a supine one. “When did the doctor say you were going to be discharged?”

“If I can get onto my feet by next week, he said he will release me on the 17th.”

Loki twisted his lip and chickled. “That’s my birthday.”

“Well, you get me for a present I guess,” you said, half-jokingly, half-apologizing.

“I cannot think of anything better,” he said warmly. Once your bed was flat, he kissed you again before dimming the light. “Will it be a chapter from Jane Eyre, or a lullaby tonight, dearest?”

“Sing to me, please,” you asked softly.

He smiled. “As you wish.”

It took only moments for you to fall back into the darkness. Only this time, it was comforting and welcome.

Loki will always take care of his student…his love…

Somehow accepting what was likely going to be had given you and Loki an odd sense of peace. You chose to spend whatever time you had left with one another as close to each other as you could be, both emotionally and physically. Not only did you allow Loki to gently and slowly make love to you (although you could have done without his insisting you stop for breaks if it got to be too much), but you began to feel comforted by the fact that, if you were going to fail on a count of your weakness, you both would face the consequences together.

That wasn’t to say you, Loki, and Brunnhilde didn’t try to pull out every stop, every appeal necessary, to delay your test by a month. On the day you’d left the hospital, with two weeks left in your year in New Asgard, you could ambulate with a walker and a supporting Asgardian nearby. By the time the 31st rolled around, you would barely be able to stand on your own for more than a few moments.

Loki reached out to Thor and Fury, neither of them yielded a reprieve, although Thor tried to reason on your behalf with S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing. The 31st was going to be the day that you met your fate, no matter what.

To your surprise, however, Thor came around on Christmas Day, when a beautiful, silent snowstorm dusted the village in several inches of fluffy, pure white snow.

“Don’t let the others know, but with what may be coming and all…I had to, brother,” he said, his voice deep and rich with sentimentality. Loki accepted his heavy, strong embrace, but it still knocked the wind out of him, making you giggle from your wheelchair.

You spent the day with the brothers, as well as Brunnhilde and Katja, drinking spiked cocoa and hot mulled wine until your vision blurred, telling stories of days long past on Asgard, and toasting to the year. Despite your still weakened state, you were able to cook a modest Yule feast for the gathered (with help from Loki and Brunnhilde). The day was subtle, but cozy, and absolutely wonderful.

“If only we both could stay here,” you said to Loki. “We could do this every year. It would be like having a family to be close to, which seems to be something we both have lacked thus far in our lives.”

Loki looked at you, deciding not to reply with words, but instead with a tender kiss.

Sadly, Thor only stayed the day. “They will notice if I’m missing much longer,” he said sadly at dusk on Christmas night. “And they won’t allow me to come along for the final test.”

“If they happen to deem one or both of us unworthy, would they immediately pass sentence?” you asked apprehensively, causing Loki to throw his arm around your shoulder, drawing you close.

“I should hope not, but once Fury’s mind is made up, they may as well carry it out immediately,” he said quietly, solemnly.

Loki cleared his throat. “Thank you for the lovely parting thoughts, brother.”

Thor smiled, trying his best to comfort the two of you as he set out to return to New York, the storm passing and giving way to a crisp, clear night sky.

“The sun will shine on us again,” he answered, choosing those words to be his last to you as he boarded the quinjet and flew off into the night.

On the night of December 30th, you and Loki tried to delude yourselves into thinking either one of you would be able to sleep, only to come to your senses hours into the evening. You both chose to bundle up and trek through the snow up the hill one more time, spreading out on the snow and looking up at the thousands of stars dotting the sky above you, your hands never untangling for one another. Your breaths combined with one another and created a single cloud above your heads.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, love,” Loki began, “I will be your loyal guardian until the end.”

“And I yours,” you answered. “I can protect you now!”

Loki smirked. “I’m afraid you’re still a bit weak, my dear.”

It was true that you still got winded after going up a single set of steps, and your muscles ached after taking an hour each night to put supper together in the kitchen. The only reason Loki didn’t insist on taking it easy was your argument that it was very possible that this was your last fortnight alive, and you wanted to behave as normally as you could.

“I would die for you,” you said insistently.

“And I would lay my life down for you if you asked me to on a whim,” Loki replied.

You sighed and smacked your lips playfully. “My, my, have we come a long way from the dominant professor from last January!”

“Oh, but he hasn’t gone far, love,” Loki purred, rolling onto his side to throw an arm over you, pinning you under him. “In fact, a good dominant always puts his little pet first.”

You smiled and sighed as Loki slowly lowered himself on top of you, laying his head on your breast and settling his hips between your splitting legs. You let him lay there, letting your breaths sync their tempos, combing his long, loose hair with your fingers carelessly.

“If we do make it to January 1st,” you said, “What happens?”

Loki sighed and raised his head to meet your eye. “I will stay here with you, naturally.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, “Not naturally, Loki. We both know you want to explore the galaxy, and that after the first of the year, you will be able to.”

“But what good would that be without you beside me?”

“Better than me keeping you shackled here! You won’t have any obligation to me anymore. I will be okay. Hell, I even have a job lined up! “ you said cheerfully.

“I can’t leave you here,” Loki said. “Why are you pushing me away? My Norns, don’t I owe you my very life?””

“But I’m not pushing, perhaps I’m holding you back,” you suggested meekly, sitting up, forcing Loki to roll off of you and into the snow.

“You could never hold me back, or make me regret loving you, princess,” Loki whispered, kissing you deeply, pushing you back into the snow with his passionate lips.

“Mmmhmm, Loki,” you nudged him off of you again. “I have an idea, then.”

He smiled. “Yes?”

“I propose another year,” you said.

“I don’t follow?” Loki asked inquisitively.

You elaborated. “We’ve been in close proximity for an entire year. Let’s spend one year apart. You can journey about the universe. I can start working with Brunnhilde on building up her defense team. If, on this night next year, you still love me and want to stay here with me forever, come here to this hilltop before midnight. If you aren’t in my arms by the last stroke of twelve on December 31st, I will know you’ve found better things out there, and I will move on with my own life.”

Loki shrugged. “I still think it’s ridiculous that you would think--”

“--stop saying that. Please do this for me, and please do it with an open mind. There could be other worlds out there, other peoples who need you. Other lands to explore, parties to see…I want you to have every experience you’ve been denied your entire life. Don't half-ass it, okay? Promise me?”

Loki caressed your cheek and nodded. “I make this solemn vow, that if I survive tomorrow’s test, I will explore every delight and adventure this galaxy has to offer me over the next year, and should I decide to return to my love at the end of it, she will take me…all of me…as I am, forever and ever. And it will be here that we dwell, on New Asgard,” he promised. Your smile radiated relief in the moonlight, and you settled back onto the soft snow, Loki’s arm around you, where the two of you found yourselves drifting off, sleeping until nearly dawn the following morning.

At noon the following day, the quinjet arrived, followed by three other small aircraft. Brunnhilde instructed the villagers to stay in their homes. She only gave you a quick farewell, admitting she was never much good at “the whole sentimentality thing.”

Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Steve Rogers, and ten other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents disembarked and immediately took you and Loki into custody, bringing you into separate jets with them and flying off to an unknown testing location. As you got on board, you caught Loki’s eye one final time. You took the opportunity to say, “I love you.”

He smiled and nodded warmly. “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side, my heart.”

You were then escorted onto the separate planes. After two hours, they landed, and you were escorted inside and taken into a large, white room, where an agent told you to sit in your handcuffs and await orders.

An hour went by in total silence and loneliness, and you felt as if you couldn’t hold your brave face for much longer. Thankfully, Steve Rogers finally came for you.

“Look, Y/N, I’m supposed to be impartial, but if I’m going to be honest with you…this is unfair. I don’t personally think you’re a threat to anyone.”

You sighed. “Then save us,” you said quietly. “Look at me! I need you to stabilize my gait!”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do something for you. We’re out of time, anyway.”

As the timer officially hit ‘zero’ on your year’s reprieve, you were escorted down a sterile, while hallway, where he took you through several pairs of swinging doors, finally taking you up a set of metal stairs and holding a thick glass door open for you.

“The test will be taken inside,” Steve began to recite like a good soldier. “I’ve been instructed to inform you that while this room itself is not magic-proof, the outer walls and enforcements ARE resistant. Ten guards will always be surrounding the perimeter. Escape will be impossible. Once you are secured safely inside the pod, you will be given further instructions, and the test will commence.”

You gulped, your nerves suddenly hitting you like a swarm of killer bees. “What happens if I fail?”

Steve hesitated before looking down and saying quietly, “I would really advise you not to fail.”

That was all you needed to hear. You nodded courteously at Steve, avoiding every urge you had in that moment to wrap your hands around his neck, and held out your wrists. He removed the cuffs and saw you inside, closing the door behind you.

The bright white pod was a circular room, about twenty feet across (so a tight fit). Nothing was inside, save for Loki, who was kneeling on the floor, looking bewildered.

“Loki?” you asked, falling into his waiting arms. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be together for--”

“--alright, listen up, you two. It’s time for your final exam.”

It was Fury’s voice coming over a speaker. You and Loki stilled everything but your breaths.

“Here’s the game, and it’s a simple one: a death match. Any magic and weaponry you have on you is permitted, but you have six hours to make your choice.”

Your skin went cold. This didn’t sound good.

“What choice?” Loki asked, his voice cold and hard.

“Only one of you can get out of this tank alive, kids,” said Fury. “Sorry, but whoever wins will have better control of themselves, Makes sense, right?”

“THIS IS HORSE SHIT!” Loki barked, jumping to his feet so quickly you fell off of him. “THIS IS NOT THE TEST!”

“Sorry, Laufeyson, but it is. By midnight tonight, you must choose which one of you survives and which one dies, either by combat or diplomacy. I don't really give a hell how you do it.”

“And if we refuse?” you asked defiantly as Loki helped you to your feet.

“If you are both alive at the sound of the buzzer, then a gas will fill the chamber and destroy you both. I would HIGHLY advise you not to let this timer run out."

A red digital clock appeared as a projection on the wall, set to six hours exactly.

"Now, if there are no further questions, let the test begin.”

He hung up the speaker before any further protestation could be made, leaving you and Loki to your great and terrible decision as the clock began ticking.

One more chapter and an epilogue to go! Sorry this one was longer, I had to properly set up for the finale! Please reblog and comment if you like!

@kats72 @violethaze @cheekyscamp @javagirl328 @yelkmelk @mischief2sarawr @buttercupcookies-blog @lokidokieokie @fictive-sl0th @jaidenhawke @caothicshit @holdmytesseract @anukulee @joyful-enchantress @simplyholl @meowmeow-motherfucker @huntress-artemiss @lokisgoodgirl @loz-3 @mjsthrillernp @alexakeyloveloki @linaax @noideakitten @evelyn-rathmore @lovingchoices14 @itzcomplctd7 @praq123 @the-fantasy-loving-angel @alexakeyloveloki @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @admiralatthebowofnails @vanilla-daydreaming @technicallysassyfox @ozymdias @fall-myriad @sititran @lokisdeadcat @blog-the-lilly @satrkovaza @wolfcyanide

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zingaplanet · 2 years

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Rafael Nadal was a loyal companion to Roger Federer in the last day of his professional career. Although he shied away from the spotlight, his presence was constant, from playing alongside Federer in his last match to steadily supporting him for the rest of his retirement ceremony. Here are a few moments that the cameras missed:

Nadal comforted Federer silently from the back when the latter burst into tears after embracing his other teammates post-match.

During the ceremony, Nadal, who was highly emotional, stood at the back of his other teammates to grieve in private, avoiding the camera.

Post-match, Nadal moved his gear bag from the players' bench he shared with Federer to the team area, giving Federer the opportunity to enjoy his last moments courtside privately.

Federer afterwards went back to stand beside him, seeking comfort as both watched a tribute video to his career being played out.

After the highly emotional on-court interview, Federer, who's still struggling to control his tears, received another comforting embrace from Nadal.

Accompanying Federer on the bench, Nadal turned his face away when his partner began openly crying, equally moved to tears.

Federer held Nadal's hand in a gesture he later admitted as a silent thank you for accompanying him throughout the most difficult day of his career.

Nadal, once again choosing to stay behind his teammates, hid his face in his arms, weeping as he witnessed Federer embraced his family.

Nadal and Mirka Federer (Roger's wife) comforted each other and shared a supportive embrace.

At the end, Federer waited for Nadal, who was the last one in the stadium, to do his final walk off the court with him arm in arm.

Although Nadal later admitted he didn't want to cry or be on camera originally "because it was his (Federer's) moment", Federer only held it all in fond memories, saying he will never forget what Nadal did for him that day. Nadal, who was awaiting the birth of his child with his wife in the hospital, came out of his initial injury break, practiced intensively to prepare for their match, and flew out to London for one day just for Federer.

He was alongside Federer from his last practice, his last presser, his last preparation, to his last walk on and off court in a gentle silence, always there but never standing in his way.

For the pair who shared almost 20 years of life-defining rivalry, it was perhaps the only way of an end imaginable: a wordless comfort, an indescribable need to share the burden and lessen the unfathomable grief;

For it was one who left but two who buried a soul.

‐--‐--------------------

"Some people say that the best stories have no words. (...) It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues.

(For) this is not a love story but love is in it."

-Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

‐--‐--------------------

Video source: suziemay212 on youtube

#this is a recap final post to pay tribute to the beautiful goodbye we got to have with roger #tennis #fedal #roger federer #rafael nadal #laver cup #atp #tennis rpf #novak djokovic #andy murray #cameron norrie #casper ruud #matteo berrettini #bjorn borg #stefanos tsitsipas

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i-am-a-scholar-of-magic · 1 year

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Extras Profile: Steve

One of the grand positives of “The Owl House” is that it devotes exceptional care to what I call the Big Three story elements: setting, characters, and - even more in the second season - plot. One facet of the characters is the truly incredible variety and creativity of the character design, stretching even to the background extras that keep popping up. Several of the characters, mostly at Hexside, have even been given semi-official names by the crew.

A truly remarkable case of growing character relevance is Steve the scout.

Steve first appeared in “Sense and Sensitivity,” a normal, faceless coven scout accompanying Lilith. Voiced at the time by Alex Hirch, he was the first scout to speak on-screen and his earnest enthusiasm - even for Emperor Belos - was endearing to many fans. Not to mention the fact that he had a name and seemed to have an honest camaraderie with Lilith.

Steve would not appear for the rest of season one, remaining a quirky footnote of the cast for some time. He was finally mentioned by Kikimora in “Eclipse Lake” as she screamed at him and threatened him. He finally appeared in person again in “Elsewhere and Elsewhen” dressed in semi-casual clothing at Lilith’s new job party and now voiced by Matt Chapman. Naturally, this made him even more popular, giving him a sense of loyalty to his old boss.

It was a few episodes later in “Any Sport in a storm” where Steve, surprisingly, began to grow from a semi-recurring gag character to something more. Sent to collect Hunter’s new recruits, he continues his air of earnestness by brushing off Skara punching him in the face. As the Emerald Entrails are taken away, Steve talks briefly with Hunter about the horrors of scout training and Belos confiscating palismen, implying that he had one of his own in the past, and admits that he regrets his life choices. This small interaction pushes Hunter to rescue the team and in doing so salvage his first friendships.

But Steve’s most notable and memorable appearance would be in “O Titan, Where Art Thou.” Inexplicably on the Knee with his motorcycle, he talks with King - are we seeing a pattern here? - about his disillusionment with the Emperor’s Coven and offers to take him on a joyride across the Isles, which King accepts. After several heartfelt stops, they have dinner at a fastfood shack and chat some more, with Steve offering advice to King on some big changes in his life. In this moment, Steve does what few would have expected: he removes his mask to show a normal, handsome face. With the arrival of Lilith, he officially quits the coven and joins up with the rebel CATs.

Interestingly, Steve plays a small but critical role in the plan to stop the Day of Unity. As the only CAT without restriction on his use of magic, he is the only one able to enchant a cloaking stone to disguise Eda. He would not appear for the rest of the season, and has not appeared in the first or second specials of season three. *One last tidbit is a tweet directly from Dana Terrace, saying that Steve is Mattholomule’s older half-brother and that Matt looks up to Steve.

Now for observations and guesses.

Steve’s enthusiasm for the Emperor’s Coven in his first appearance seems jarring when he later claims to regret joining, which may show that his previous attitude was either an act to keep himself safe or a coping mechanism. He mentions to King that his dream growing up was to be a coven scout, “to be considered one of the best.” This might imply that he had a rough childhood - the fact that he’s Matt’s older brother and probably attended Glandus High, where the strong survive, only adds credence to this idea.

During his roadtrip with King, Steve shows some skill in origami, an honest desire to help others when he and King help a random small family fix their cart, and openly weeps at an elderly couple’s display of affection - which may imply he has a painful romantic history.

Finally, throughout his later appearances, Steve shows an open and philosophical attitude, offering observations and even advice on occasion that has allowed other characters to grow. Not too bad for a guy who started out as a gag, huh?

Steve is an example of something rarely done well in a story: When a one-off character is given a chance to slowly grow into something good. Not just great, but good. Here’s hoping he gets a little more time in the series finale!

Thanks for reading! More to come …!

#the owl house #character analysis #worldbuilding #urban fantasy

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mostshipshape · 2 years

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Response to Action Report 6 - "Stir the Sky"

Singing is not allowed on the deck of a Loegrian Navy man o’ war, for orders must be heard, both from the bellowing lungs of a lieutenant to the shrill piping of the bosun’s whistle. Yet, this does not mean that a warship is bereft of song, and in between the work and the ropes, in between the decks and the ladders and the hatches, over drink and food and conversation, a song or so slips out-

(To the tune of The Dark Eyed Sailor) Before I felt again the decks beneath my feet I must bid farewell to my lover in the harbour street This day I’ll sail far from fair Loegres’ shore “Oh my dearest lover Oh my dearest lover, it’s never you’ll see me more”

And do they not say that a song will stir the winds into motion? If every single person puts their all into singing and comes together as one, the saints will weep and the sky will wake and we will be sped along home; but this is merely a fable, and perhaps it has been tested on other ships, but there are too many who cannot sing, or will not sing.

He asked me why I always sail away “My sailor dear, why is it you do not stay” “Here I’ll not remain, though your heart does bleed For the love of my ship For the love of my ship is all that I shall need”.

But there are some who sing, and perhaps that is why our journey home is swift and somewhat peaceful.

Welcome, dear sailors and singers and shadows, to the final chapter of this voyage! I do hope that this experimental tale has brought you some entertainment, whether you sailed with us or watched from beyond. The previous week's Action Report may be found here, for your perusal.

The ship is bound for the city of Porttooth, where we began our tale some time ago- or should I say ships? For we bring with us a prize - though the question of how honourable the prize-taking was does remain, but that is a deliberation for later.

Let us see how the journey home fairs.

Image generated via the neural network AI software Midjourney, and then run through the neural network AI software Disco Diffusion, more information here

As this is the final report, I will say that partial successes will not be so treated so harshly, and failures will not sting so much - for even if these characters reappear, time will have healed both wounds and reputations, perhaps.

And I do not think I truly communicated whether passage between the two ships was possible, so some of these responses may assume that there was some passage; I believe in future stories, it will be made more clear when the choice to board separate ships is offered.

–

Jean-Heron the Gallian landsman is eager to help, but after having had a rather bad run of luck at times, he seems rather adamant about, ahem, “only using the skills he's good at”. He offers to try his hand at sewing up some of the unfortunates in the sick bay, or maybe cutting up some bandages, something that the harried surgeon Ms Ibbot does not refuse.

(Expertise: Tailoring of 6 = +3, 2d6+3 = 15, Exceptional Success)

His help is not unwelcomed- and I daresay that some of the Gallian prisoners here might even have appreciated his presence.

And while he is here, he speaks to a certain prisoner, and let me dispense with secrets for the time of shadows has passed-

The Marquis Isengrim, the exiled Gallian noble that was tricked into a scheme, is uncomfortable without their veil- perhaps it is a fashion quirk, or perhaps they have obfuscated their identity for long enough that to exist so openly is strange to them. But they are willing to speak to Jean-Heron, as they recover from their wounds, their words animated, and they speak of their hopes.

They say that perhaps if they had known the true purpose of this journey… they might have gone willingly to their death in this farcical prisoner exchange, if it would mean striking a blow against the Empire.

They speak to Jean-Heron as they would a friend, at least.

And afterwards, when the rum ration is passed around, Jean-Heron would like to start up a round of drinking- in celebration of the capture of the prize! This is welcomed by the other sailors, and perhaps a bit of the trepidation and worry has lifted now that something has occurred. I suppose we did start this voyage with a test of this Gallian’s Iron Stomach, so it does seem quite fitting to test it again-

(Guts of 6 = +3, Iron Stomach = +1, 2d6+3+1 = 12, Exceptional Success)

He succeeds mightily! It is, by all accounts, a wonderful time.

He is interested in speaking to the other Gallian aboard, the ship’s cook Jack, perhaps making a joke “about finding a rat to put under his hat to help Jack out in the kitchen, referencing the famous Gallian children's story, of course. The rats on this ship seem smart enough to know how to cook, and maybe they want a break from racing sometime.”

Speaking of which…

The cook, Jack Laplace, also finds himself in the sick bay. He has some skill with first aid, and so he offers this aid to the surgeon of the Pickle.

(First Aid of 5 = +2, 2d6+2 = 8, Normal Success)

He spends some time on the Tempête, ostensibly to ensure her galley is in working order and that her prize crew is fed, but his primary goal- perhaps in both the sick bay and the Tempête, is to see if there are any “true Republicans” among the Gallian prisoners. Perhaps, he thinks, they could be persuaded to defect, or perhaps they could serve the cause in other ways.

(Diplomacy of 2 = +1, Agitator = +1, 2d6+1+1 = 14, Exceptional Success)

Those who do not seem amenable to such firebrand causes show their colours early, and so Jack manages to sound out the Gallians without being overtly shut down by either the Loegrians or the Gallians. There is one who seems to have joined the navy in the thoughts of internal sabotage, but who found little opportunity to do so- or that is what they claim. There are a few who enlisted for the pay, for survival, to feed their families, and bearing mere embers of revolution in their hearts- almost quenched by the Empire, yes, but having seen the Marquis face death rather than to be taken again, and listening to Jack’s words, those sparks stir.

They will be taken as prisoners of war, but perhaps something will become of this.

And later, Jack sets about preparing “a truly glorious pudding” in celebration of the Pickle’s victory.

Attending to the funerals of the fallen is the chaplain James Tillbury. He keeps the sermons short and earnest, to the appreciation of those whose hearts hang heavy. The saints sing them to their rest, their bodies consigned to the deep, to be turned into corruption until that day the sea shall give up her dead…

Many of the sailors have seen so many of these funerals, but they remain solemn for the duration. Later, some could accuse them of acting as if nothing has happened- but is that not life here in this tempestuous fragile world? The work must carry on, the work is not yet done.

That is what one sailor says to Tillbury, almost defensively, in a confession taken in the sick bay.

(Courtesy of 5 = +2, 2d6+2 = 8, Normal Success)

Not so many seem soothed by his words for the injured and dying, but a few do seem grateful. The captain is not among them, barely even willing to speak of what pains their heart, and their heart is wounded indeed.

But the work goes on, and later, Tillbury suggests another night of playing music, as both entertainment and a way of saying goodbye to the sailors he has come to know and care for.

(Expertise: Music of 5, 2d6+2= 13, Exceptional Success)

There once was a youthful sailor man Who fell in love with a fair merman. The sailor man, his heart so brave Would meet his end in a watery grave.

The chorus is rousing and the tunes are lively! If not the lyrics, but perhaps these lyrics are fitting

Oh the heart of a sailor beats so true For countryfolk, for me and you! When led astray, that heart shall be A source of woe for you and me!

The verses of this particular song do go on to tell the story of the sailor being captivated by the beauty of the beguiling merman and forsaking his duty for the sake of their love. He has his comeuppance when it becomes clear that humans cannot live underwater, and he tragically drowns.

Perhaps this is the same night of drinking and revelry as mentioned before, and perhaps a glorious pudding was served.

In any case, the hearts of the crew are lightened and lively, and of note, I will say, is that there is no more talk of ill fortune, brought by any passenger or so.

Carpenter Minna Peggram has much on her mind as she thinks of whether her efforts have eased tensions, or whether she could have done more considering the two Marines. “Perhaps it is no one’s fault,” she thinks, “perhaps it is the captain’s, for they act in our interest first and foremost… one would hope.”

But wood is wood, and wood is dependable, and so she sets about to aid in fixing up the Tempête - and her help is quite welcomed, because the Gallian carpenter seems to have been one of their casualties.

(Expertise: Carpentry of 6 = +3, 2d6+3 = 15, Exceptional Success)

The Tempête is fixed up enough to sail evenly. She will be attended to with more care at port, but at least here she is given enough attention to not seem so battered, to at least seem as a worthy prize to sail back home.

But more importantly, Minna wonders-

“Perhaps I can find some trinkets and decor aboard the Tempête that would further elevate the rat course I promised Hanover. Fixing up the Tempête is the priority I have set myself, but, oh, I so would love to see our gun deck breathe a sigh of relief to return to joviality after this entire ordeal.”

(You know what, I will graciously let this happen, for this is the last post of this game - and any future games will be tweaked to ensure this does not, ah, occur again. Expertise: Carpentry of 6 = +3, Rat Check = +1, Gun Deck Reputation = +2 (for making the best possible rat course the gun deck will adore), 2d6+3+1+2 = 13, Exceptional Success)

From the Tempête, extravagant Gallian furniture is ~~looted~~ claimed as a spoil of war, perhaps as what they call booty. When it comes time to install the course upon the Pickle, after the ships have docked and such things can be transferred, why, at the sight of such an agile course, Rem Hanover starts to weep.

The future of rat racing is certainly bright in the world of the Pickle!

–

Back in the sick bay, Lieutenant David Price stands by the side of Midshipman George Crawford. The young, reckless, brave midshipman reminds him of his own siblings, and now the boy he helped with his sextant and navigation work lies injured.

Perhaps regret and the memories of what had passed runs through his mind-

“In the heat of the moment, Lieutenant Price is guided more by instinct than rational choice… When Price sees him fall he rushes to his aid without a second thought. With his own pistols in hand, Price takes aim at the Gallian who has taken aim at the midshipman, shouting a challenge.”

Let us see if the lieutenant managed to take that vengeance, shall we?

(Combat roll, close range pistol = 2d6+1, Combat Skilled = +1, 2d6+1+1 = 10, Exceptional Success)

The enemy combatant stumbles back, but already the lieutenant is at Crawford’s side.

That was before. Price did take a moment to recognise and greet the old gunnery instructor from HMS Superb, one of the prisoners from the Tempete, but when he can, when he is not on watch or such, he tries to make himself useful in the sickbay.

His concern is not so much for the captain, who has no shortage of worried visitors. He does feel a sense of personal responsibility for Crawford’s fate, after all.

(First Aid of 2 = +1, 2d6+1 = 7, Normal Success)

Despite not being so skilled with the medicinal arts, he manages to make himself useful. And when Crawford is lucid, the midshipman is glad to see a friendly face. He is not so confident as to laugh off the injury and incident that landed him here, but he tries.

Whether he will be well enough to continue his duties is to be seen, but he is likely to survive.

And in the moments between, Price pens a letter for his family to be dispatched when the ship returns to port.

And while many have been offering aid to the sickbay, our gunner, Bryn Morgan, is actually making use of these facilities for the intended purposes; that is, recovering from injury.

(Bryn Morgan is now merely Injured in Health as opposed to being Maimed)

After they emerge, perhaps merely scarred as opposed to being on death’s door, they have decided to take a moment to try and catch a certain busy First Lieutenant- or Acting Captain, to snatch a conversation that may be well looked down on by those who know their mutual histories.

Despite so many years apart, Bryn knows Lieutenant Davies well, and they seek a conversation under the guise of speaking about the guns of the ship, or perhaps under the bustle of the sickbay, in the Shadows.

(Shadows of 3 = +1, Personal Reputation with Davies = +4, 2d6+4+1 = 9, Normal Success)

There is not so much time to have a full conversation, not so much opportunity on a ship, but there is enough to speak of some things that sound like idle small talk on the surface, but to two who know each other and who have longed for each other, carry much more resonant meaning.

The two speak of memories of Cambria, allude to a few moments in those years spent apart- and oh, if only there was more time, or more opportunity to speak more openly, the two could reunite more fully, but this is all they can do. Certainly, there is no room to speak plainly of feelings or tenderness, but the conversation ends in what could be described as “an emotional hug that would say everything they wanted to”.

The two Marines, Ezra Lester and Joan Deacon, are punished by the lash. The maximum punishment is 12 lashes per crime, but Davies, after deliberation, cites disobedience of orders, wasting munitions, a lack of discipline, and settles on two dozen lashes each.

Kind, perhaps, for some might have been tempted to put them to death or to order a flogging around the fleet.

Captain Swanmay, though their wounds are severe, they remain alive. Some life comes back into their eyes as time goes by, though it will take more time to mend their heart. They do not speak to the captured Gallian captain, for there are no words left to say.

And as for their reputation, well, let us speak of what occurs after the Pickle returns to port;

The Marquis Isengrim is taken by soldiers who seem gentle and apologetic, accompanied by a naval officer who does not answer questions. The official word is that this was all a miscommunication, this dreadful plan to secretly exchange an exiled Gallian noble for very valuable prisoners of war.

Swanmay was a rogue captain acting on their own accord. Injured in battle, their career prospects are now quite ruined by this scandalous act. Enough in society have spoken positively about Swanmay that they are not completely brought low, but their likelihood of making Admiral is poor, to say the least. And their past dalliance with the Gallian captain seems to have come into the open, adding wood to the fire of the rumour mill.

The Pickle has docked, and so ends the first tale of Shipshape.

Thank you all so very much for coming with us! I cannot express my gratitude enough, for I have quite enjoyed the telling of this story, and this experiment of ours has proven to be quite educational!

To all of our sailors, thank you, oh, thank you for starring in this tale, for you are the sails of this game who have made our Pickle fly!

And to our readers, to our participants in our polls, thank you so for your support! The two shanties in this post were penned by poll participants, and indeed in another post I believe I shall share some of the amusing submissions that have been shared.

Any additional journals or art or work done by sailors or audience, perhaps to conclude their stories or to reflect on this tale, will continued be shared and publicised in this web log.

And do keep an eye on this space, for I will release a poll concerning both feedback on this game and possible future prospects.

But for now, I remain your most humble servant-

@cadmusfly

Subscribers:

@clove-pinks

@sailorpants

@stunsls

@rhaill

@linnadhiell

@contemporarypotato

@gniew777

#shipshape game #shipshape action report #shipshape update

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absolutepokemontrash · 3 years

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MC is Half Demon and Blah Blah Blah-

Time for the Group Retreat!

Part 1 Part 2 Lessons 1-5 Lessons 5-6 Lessons 10-12 Lessons 13-15 Part 3 Part 4

I’m quite hyped for this one, ladies, gents, and esteemed readers! For simplicity’s sake, since this is before M!MC and A!MC arrive, L!MC will go back to being referred to as just MC. Enjoy the Headcanons!

Since the previous Underground Tomb incident ended much less violently, Lucifer is now more worried than angry about MC’s rampant shennaniganery.

Like... his kid was poking holes in his totally foolproof “Your cow-uncle went to live on a farm in the human world” story. What if MC somehow got into the attic and got hurt?!

It didn’t help that they were still in this weird phase of their father/child relationship. On one hand, Lucifer obviously cares for his kid, and his kid likes him... but it’s also only been less than three months and we all know how emotionally constipated Lucifer is.

MC’s also getting REAL sus of all the secrets their dear old dad is keeping... doesn’t help that they STILL haven’t went up into the attic.

Anyhoo~ the announcement for the retreat was a barrel of laughs.

“I’m proposing, a group retreat!”

Everyone met Diavolo’s announcement with the exact same confused reaction. It’s like the entire assembly hall was doing the ‘Guy Blinking’ meme.

“A... group retreat?” Lucifer repeated slowly. “For what reason exactly, Lord Diavolo?”

The Crown Prince was giddy with excitement as he explained. “MC told me about their middle school overnight trip and it sounded like it would be quite fun!”

Simeon, Luke, MC, and Solomon were all seated next to each other in the ‘exchange student seats of less importance’. Luke leaned over and whispered a question to MC.

“Why are you so friendly with the crown prince?”

MC smirked and shrugged. “Lucifer had the Demon-Flu and couldn’t go meet with Lord Diavolo last week so I went for him. Lord Diavolo’s surprisingly bad at Connect Four but has really good luck in Snakes and Ladders.”

Luke’s jaw dropped in complete and utter shock and horror.

“We’re playing CandyLand and the Game of Life next time, want to come?” MC added.

“Play CandyLand... with him..?” Luke looked at Diavolo, who was still explaining his plan for the retreat, then looked back at MC. “I’ll only go to shield you from his corrupting influence.”

“Yeah... Corrupting...” MC had to hold back a laugh at the thought of Diavolo, who during MC’s visit lit up like a Christmas tree upon being called ‘Dia’ and believed that Mood Rings were the greatest human invention ever, being a corrupting influence.

“MC! Torture dungeon or no!?” MC was snapped out of their conversation by Mammon shouting at them from his seat.

“What?”

“Do ya think there’s a torture dungeon under the castle, or not?”

“I’m not sure,” MC turned to Diavolo. “Lord Diavolo, is there a torture dungeon under the Demon Lord’s Castle?”

There is in fact, no torture dungeon. Presumably...

Everyone packed up and headed out to the Demon Lord’s Castle!

The fabulous seven all broke several speed limits and traffic laws in order to be there early. Listen, they had to get there before Purgatory Hall, it was a matter of pride.

Besides, what’s the Royal guard going to do? Arrest six of the seven rulers of hell and a kid? Ha. No. Not when Diavolo controls their paychecks.

The rooming situation remained the same, Asmo, Simeon, and MC were roomed together, and MC got to watch Asmo get psychologically profiled by Simeon. It was truly a sight to behold.

MC was nice enough to assure Asmo that they really liked him and thought he was very sweet.

Asmo, not used to being complimented on his personality, almost started openly weeping.

So, the tour of the Demon Lord’s Castle began! Asmo got yelled at by his ex in the painting and the usual batch of idiots got sucked into the catacombs under the castle.

Lucifer wasn’t terribly sure how or if he should express his concern for MC being stuck in the labyrinth.

All these new fatherly feelings of worry are very very odd. He didn’t worry this much for Satan, mainly because Satan was usually the threat.

Even as a baby...

Lucifer found himself checking his DDD every few minutes to see if MC had texted or called from wherever the painting dragged them to, never mind that if they did text he’d hear the phone ding.

“Lucifer, don’t worry too much,” Diavolo patted Lucifer on the shoulder, a bright smile on his face. “Your brothers and MC will be perfectly fine! There’s nothing too dangerous in the catacombs that they wouldn’t be able to take care of.”

Resigning himself to the fact that MC was under the care of his last choices for babysitting, Lucifer put away his DDD. “I know they’ll be fine, but I’m not overly pleased with the situation.” He shot a glare at Helene in the portrait, who rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

“Lucifer worrying about someone, I’m truly, genuinely shocked.” Hearing Satan’s attempt at goading him, Lucifer, flawless demon that he is, resisted the urge to throw his DDD at his brother.

“Quiet, Satan.”

————

“WHY THE FUCK IS A SNAKE DOWN HERE?!”

“ITS HENRY 1.0!”

“YEAH THAT REALLY CLEARS STUFF UP, LEVI!”

MC and Levi continued their screaming match as the group ran for dear life from a giant snake.

Yeah... nothing the brothers couldn’t handle... sure, Lord Diavolo...

They made it out of the scary catacombs... don’t worry.

Lucifer did that parent-thing where he cleaned the catacomb dust off MC’s face with a napkin.

Yay! Parenting!

Failed pillow fight attempt #1 happened that evening. Because Mammon was obsessed with being the fun-uncle and saw his brothers encroaching on his place as favourite uncle.

MC doesn’t know how to break it to him that he’ll probably always be the favourite uncle and he doesn’t have to be such a dumbass to keep his spot.

Scavenger hunt went on as canon dictates.

Asmo had his diva tantrum and stormed off, but MC also wanted to win so they didn’t go after him.

Clearly expecting someone to go beg him to come back, Asmo was very annoyed when no one went after him.

“Um, helloooo? Anyone going to comfort me~?”

“Nope.”

“Well I don’t want your comfort anyway, SOLOMON.”

It was very close, L!MC insisted their loss came from sabotage. No evidence was found but just LOOK at Satan’s face.

Time for the Formal Dance~

If you’re wondering why Luke didn’t say anything when MC was suddenly poofed into their demon form, you’re assuming that Mammon wasn’t in on the “let’s prank the chihuahua” plan.

“Mammon..? Is MC behind you?”

“Nope! Why?”

MC was able to get to the other side of the ballroom with Luke none the wiser! Hell yeah, nothing like screwing with your friend!

So it’s canon that Lucifer is like, a solid 20/10, therefore MC is ADORABLE. What I’m saying is, some of the younger demons asked them to dance.

Asmo was also being MC’s hype man, which was very nice of him. Mammon also tried to give advice on how to be cool and suave. Beel was there for moral support.

“Alright kiddo, you need to be aloof and mysterious! People love aloof and mysterious, that’s why I’m so popular.”

“Don’t listen to him, MC. He flew into a wall as a kid and it killed all his brain cells. Just be proper but not snooty, sweet but not saccharine, friendly but not annoying,”

“Ask them if they want to share some of the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Okay, first, aloof and mysterious are the last words I would ever use to describe you, Mammon. Second, Asmo I have no clue what you’re asking me to do. Third... Beel that’s the best advice I’ve received in recent memory.”

None of that mattered anyway because MC got swarmed with dance offers.

“Well,” MC smirked and held out their hand at the demon that was bold enough to ask them to dance first. “I admire the confidence.”

The demon’s smile brightened, then dropped completely when their gaze drifted behind MC. “I uh... on second thought... I’m gonna...”

MC’s potential dance partners all quickly scattered to the snack table. The half demon growled and turned around to see their father acting like he didn’t just scare away MC’s groupies.

“Father! What was that for?!” MC huffed, Lucifer rolled his eyes and grabbed MC’s wrist and began to pull them away from the dance floor.

“You’re too young to dance.”

“That’s crazy! They looked like they were my age.” MC protested, their wings fluttering in annoyance.

“Even if they looked to be your age, MC, they’re hundreds of years older.” Lucifer said calmly.

“What about that equivalent age stuff you told me about? Like how Luke is hundreds of years old but by angel/human standards he’s technically younger than me?”

“That doesn’t matter right now.” Lucifer lightly pushed MC towards the hallway that led back to their room.

“But I want to dance with someone!” MC felt their wings involuntarily fluff up.

Lucifer turned and smiled at his dear little brat, crouching slightly to get to their level. “Not on my watch.”

MC’s face was literally this: >:0

Lucifer is out here being the dad in every comedy that involves someone bringing home their partner to meet their parents.

MC was banished to their room, they spent their time angrily reading the manga they had packed.

When Levi escaped the party slightly later MC grilled him for details of what went on after they left.

“Nothing too interesting... except... um...”

“Spit it out, Levi!”

“...lrddiavlondlucferdnced”

“I can’t understand you, stop mumbling.”

“Lord Diavolo and Lucifer danced together...”

“...”

“I MISSED THAT?!”

So yes, MC’s desire to get a picture of Lucifer sleeping stems from VENGEANCE!

How DARE their father send MC up to their room and make them miss their OTP dancing together!?

So they call up their troupe of idiots and get ready to go be menaces to society.

MC also invites along Asmo because he seemed like he could use the adventure.

And because MC couldn’t plan the prank without Asmo noticing so it was better to just implicate him as well...

“Grrr...”

MC brightened and clapped their hands. “I know that growl!”

“It’s not my stomach, I packed snacks.” MC couldn’t see this, considering the room was pitch black (it must’ve been some kind of magic because demons have excellent night vision), but Beel waved a bag of chips in the air and got to eating.

“No, I’m not talking about your stomach, Beel.” MC skipped towards the source of the growling despite Mammon and Levi’s pleas for them to stop.

Ah! There he was!

“Cerberus!” MC cooed, the three headed dog stopped growling and barked happily. “Whose a good boy? Is it you?”

Cerberus let lose a bark that would probably make anyone crap their pants, but MC giggled and kept petting him. “Yeah! You’re the good boy! You like cuddles! Yes you do! Yes you do!”

A flash of light from a camera caused MC to drop their baby talk voice and stare angrily in the direction where the light came from.

“Whoever took that picture better delete it or I’m going to feed you to the dog.”

Cerberus growled in agreement. What a good boy.

“Well, as nice as this is...” Asmo huffed. “We’ve clearly been duped because this is not Lucifer and Diavolo’s room.”

“Oh well!” MC chirped and continued to pet the three headed dog. “Look at the doggy!”

“MC, you’re crazy. Dontcha ever forget that.” Mammon whimpered as Cerberus growled at him.

So yeah, they couldn’t get out of the room, so they ended up opening up the other door and falling into the catacombs like a bunch of lemmings.

Asmo charmed Henry, and they got out of the labyrinth no problem.

Yay! No consequences! Oh no- hi Lucifer.

Lucifer gave them all the mother of all lectures. Satan showed up with the rest of the gang and brought popcorn.

Belphie wasn’t there, okay? Satan needed to be a little shit for him.

Ah yes, the pillow fight... Mammon’s crusade to be the best uncle culminated in a massive pillow fight that ended with MC, Lucifer, and Diavolo standing over everyone’s unconscious bodies.

So they uh... won the pillow fight.

MC couldn’t sleep. They legitimately couldn’t. As exhausting as the pillow fight victory had been, everyone was snoring, and MC was bleary eyed and awake at one in the morning.

They eventually sat up and looked around, Asmo was passed out in a very unflattering position, Solomon was chanting god knows what in his sleep, Levi was half hanging off Simeon’s bed, Simeon and Luke were sleeping like angels (hehehehe-), Beel was in the middle of eating his pillow in his sleep, Mammon appeared to be dreaming about winning the lottery, and Satan was... suspiciously absent.

He was there a minute ago... weird.

Deciding that this wasn’t worth it and they should just go sleep somewhere else, MC got out of bed and avoided stepping on anyone as they vacated the room.

The Demon Lord’s Castle at night could rival the House of Lamentation in terms of overall creepiness. MC had gotten used to the spirits and curses that littered their home, but they had only been to the Demon Lord’s Castle once before, so they were extra careful not to accidentally touch anything. Their stomach rumbled and they frowned.

Damn, they had the midnight munchies... they needed a snack.

MC made their way to the kitchen and on there way, noticed a peculiar room through a half open door. Taking a few steps back to peek into it, they noticed... doors. A lot of doors. And ivy covered steps. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to any of the placements, and the room was... weirdly chilly.

“You can come in if you’d like, MC.”

Barbatos’ voice nearly caused MC to hit a high note that they hadn’t been able to hit since their voice began to change. They straightened out their wrinkled pyjamas and stepped inside.

The butler himself was walking down one of the flights of stairs.

“Um...” Quickly remembering their manners, MC straightened their posture and cleared their throat. “Good evening Barbatos.”

Barbatos smiled and inclined his head in turn. “Good evening to you as well, MC.”

“How did you know it was me outside? You were up there a second ago.” MC asked.

“It’s a part of my powers. I can see possible futures, and I foresaw you passing by my room and getting curious.” Barbatos explained.

“Oh,” MC said, half nodding and continuing to look around. A the sound of a door closing out of MC’s vision made them squeak and look around for the source of the noise. “What was that?!”

“It’s nothing to be worried about.” Barbatos raised his hands in a placating gesture. “These doors in my room are gateways to different timelines and some are gateways into the past of this particular timeline. That was another version of me passing by.”

“Does this... happen often?” MC knitted their eyebrows.

Barbatos hesitated before answering. “Not really. It’s quite rare. Lord Diavolo has expressly forbidden me from using my full powers freely.”

“Ah... makes sense...”

“Now, I believe you came down for snacks?”

MC blinked in surprise. “How did you- oh... the time magic...”

“Yes, the time magic. Now, would you prefer yogurt and fruit, or apples and peanut butter?”

“Yogurt and fruit please!”

I’m sure MC’s knowledge of how Barbie’s room works will totally not come into play later. I’m sure.

Solomon and MC graced the brunch table with their cooking. I think you can guess how it would have turned out if Barbatos hadn’t intervened.

Rest In Peace to Beel’s tastebuds.

Anyway, the rest of the retreat was all fun and good.

MC may or may not have slipped up and called Diavolo ‘Dia’ in front of Lucifer. It would’ve sparked a lecture if Dia’s puppy-like excitement wasn’t so damn adorable.

Lucifer’s got a heart... somewhere... it’s probably all shrivelled up and tiny, but I’m sure it’s there.

Everyone went back home, brought closer together through... pillow fights and surviving Solomon’s cooking I guess..?

Anyway, MC got home, unpacked their stuff, watched Kakegurui with Levi and Mammon, let Asmo paint their nails, made and ate dinner with Beel, continued their piano lessons with Lucifer, and received a 100% fake smile from Satan.

It was a nice day with their new family, MC curled up in their bed and prepared to go to sleep.

“Help me!”

MC lurched upwards in their bed, whipping their head from side to side, trying to find the source of the voice. Their room was completely empty, the perks of being half demon extended to being able to see in the dark. No new smells either, they were alone in the room.

Auditory hallucinations were common before falling asleep after being sleep deprived, creepy, but not too unusual.

“MC!”

Okay- that one couldn’t be ignored. It was common knowledge that the House of Lamentation was definitely haunted in some capacity, but the ghosts never really bothered the demons living inside, MC was partly convinced that some of the ghosts didn’t even notice that the demons were there. So it couldn’t have been a ghost calling their name.

“MC! I need help!”

The voice reverberated through their head, like it was trying to hit every part of their skull to make sure it was at least felt if MC couldn’t hear it. MC massaged their scalp and got out of bed.

The House of Lamentation at night truly lived up to its haunted reputation. Cold, clammy, dark, even by demon standards. No spooky old house was going to scare MC though, they walked down the hall with their head held high.

They walked closer to walls and furniture, knowing that the floor was less likely to creak in those areas. How did they know that? Mammon had told them it worked like a charm. Well, it’d work better for him if he stopped tripping over the furniture and alerting Lucifer.

MC was much more nimble and careful, stepping slowly and lightly around the hallways until they reached the door to the attic. They reached out to clasp their hand around the doorknob, then froze. It smelled like…

Oh no.

MC leapt away from the door like it was rigged to explode if they touched it and practically dove for cover into an alcove. The all too-recent smell of Lucifer’s fancy cologne and the increasing sound of someone coming down the stairs made them clamp their hand over their mouth and crouch down.

What was their father doing up there?

He had said the attic was full of old junk and there was no reason to go up there, so why exactly did he-

The door slammed open and Lucifer stomped down the hallway back towards his room, MC presumed. They were about to let out a sigh of relief when the footsteps paused. MC felt their heart drop right into their gut when they heard the footsteps coming back in their direction.

What were they going to say to him when he found them? ‘Sorry! This isn’t where the bathrooms are!’ The last thing MC wanted was to add to their father’s ever growing list of stresses. MC was totally responsible and grown-up, their father didn’t need to worry.

MC clamped their eyes shut and tried to slow their heart rate. Demons were beings of darkness and shadow, they could blend in quite easily. They took a deep breath, cleared their head, and felt the shadows of the hallway shift and cover them like a blanket.

Lucifer’s footsteps stopped, MC heard a tired sigh, then the footsteps started up again, this time in the direction of his room.

They allowed themselves a sigh of relief before relieving themselves of their hiding space and opening the door leading to the attic staircase.

If the rest of the House of Lamentation was considered clammy, cold, and foreboding, the attic staircase was that multiplied by a factor of twelve. MC felt themselves shudder involuntarily when they stepped closer to the staircase. Every primal part of their brain was telling them to turn around and walk away, but one tiny part was holding them back. They placed their foot on the first step, waiting for any kind of resistance, nothing other than the feeling of passing through invisible cobwebs.

“MC?”

Upon hearing their name, MC craned their neck to try and get a look at what could be waiting for them at the top of the stairs.

“Are you coming, or not?”

The cascade of warning sirens that began to blare in MC’s head went ignored as they continued to scale the staircase.

When they reached the final step, they were met with a long hallway, with a single door on the right side of the wall.

“H-hello?” MC tried to instill some force into their voice, but it still ended up quavering a little.

“Down here.” Someone knocked on the wall next to the door, almost causing MC to jump.

Oh. Oh no. MC stood straight in front of the door, and when they saw who was looking back at them they nearly passed out.

“Belphegor..?”

Belphegor’s eyes flashed as he gave MC a once over. His eyes narrowed when his gaze snapped to MC’s. The analytical expression melted into a lazy grin.

“That’s me,” he said softly. “Nice to finally meet you, MC.”

243 notes · View notes

thetravelerwrites · 3 years

Text

Birch (Centaur)

Rating: Mature Relationship: Female Human/Male Centaur Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Centaur, Reader Insert Content Warnings: Communication Disorder, Social Communication Disorder, Anxiety, Autism, Autistic Reader, Semi-Verbal Autism, Semi-Verbal Reader, Overbearing Mother, Verbal Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Ableism Series: Shelter Forest Words: 4758

Commissioned by an anonymous party, Birch finally gets his own story! The reader, who has a communication disorder, meets and somehow befriends a beautiful centaur named Birch, who lives in the woods with his family and is known throughout the town as being a bit of a playboy and a flirt. When he realizes how poorly the reader is treated by her mother, he immediately tries to rescue her. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

You first saw him when you were thirteen year old. You and your mother came to Coleville to beg for work after your father had kicked you both out of the house for another woman. You and your mother worked in the laundry and kitchen of the town’s most popular tavern, washing bed sheets and tableware, so you hadn’t really had the chance to meet him when he came into town to trade. You were only ever able to watch him from a distance

He was massive, friendly, and beautiful. His horse body was the size and color of a buckskin Andalusian, with a pale tan body fur and black socks. His skin was suntanned from working in the fields of his home farm and he always wore a simply-made tunic. His hair was short and black, and his tail was long and black, but his eyes were a bright, clear blue. He smiled easily and seemed to get along with everyone. You fell in love with him as soon as you laid eyes on him.

Well, no, you knew even then that it wasn’t love, it was just fascination and infatuation, but you couldn’t help yourself. You were overjoyed every time you saw him. Not that he’d ever notice you. You were just a plain, poor, chubby laundress with red, chapped hands and a future of working in a tavern for the rest of your life. Why would he even glance at you?

You wouldn’t be able to speak to him, even if he did. You were terribly shy and timid. You’d always been that way and couldn’t help it. Talking to people, looking them in the eye, facing confrontation, it all made you terrified and shaky. You barely spoke to anyone who wasn’t your parents, although you really didn’t speak to them that much, either. You were sure the most used word in your vocabulary was sorry.

When you were younger, your parents had hoped you’d grow out of it, but you never did. Once you hit puberty and was still unable to speak, your mother began to despair of you, pushing you to talk and berating you when you couldn’t, which only made you withdraw more. You couldn’t blame her for being exasperated with you; you were just as frustrated with yourself as she was. She never said it, but you knew she blamed you for your father rejecting you both.

Even though Birch usually came alone, you were sure he must already be married or have a lover, though he was openly flirtatious. You knew he’d had a few girls in town on occasion, having overheard them bragging about their nights with him, though they all seemed to be one-night trysts or affairs that didn’t last long. Perhaps he wasn’t even interested in settling down with anyone and was the playboy type. He was gorgeous enough for it.

Once or twice, he came to town with his family members or to visit family members who had settled here, like his brother Cetzu, the lizardfolk man running the orphanage with his wife. They were all a strange lot: some were human, most were not. You only ever saw one other centaur, and he looked nothing like Birch; he was a younger, smaller piebald named Yew with black skin, white hair, and pale eyes. You’d heard rumors that there was a mixed family in the woods, living on a farm, and that they were all sorts, but it didn’t really seem real to you until you saw them all together.

He’d come to town one day to buy seeds and supplies and came into the tavern for a drink. For centaurs, alcohol was basically food to them, so they drank heavily and often. A lot of centaurs you’d known got pretty rowdy, but Birch was always mindful. He held his ale well and knew when to stop before getting fully inebriated, careful not to make an ass of himself. He was considerate. You liked that about him.

You were working in the kitchens at the time when he arrived, and he sat at one of the tables designed for four-legged folk. It was a long table with no chairs or benches, but flat cushions instead. He folded his legs under him and flagged the waitress, smiling his dazzling smile, and ordered ale and some roasted vegetables. You were neglecting your work, but even if it was just a few seconds, you wanted to commit his image to memory as often as you could.

“Oi!” The waitress, Cathy, hissed as she came toward the door of the kitchen to put in Birch’s order. “What are you doing?!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” You said, barely audibly.

“Go take him his ale,” She said. “We’re understaffed. If you’re going to be in the way, the least you can do is be useful.”

“I…!" You protested, but she pushed past you into the kitchen to yell at the cook. With you heart in your throat, you rushed to fill a clean tankard and skittered it over, setting it down on the table in front of him without looking at him.

“Ah, that was fast,” Birch said, his voice deep, rich, and wonderful to the ear. “You’re a lovely little thing. Are you new, sweet pea? I haven’t seen you in the tavern before.”

You looked down at the ground and didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to do, whether to stay and try to be friendly, or retreat back to the kitchen, so you were frozen there with indecision, looking at the floor.

“Hey now, don’t be shy, love. I don’t bite,” He said, you assumed in an attempt to be flirty, reaching for your hand. You snatched your hand away impulsively and ran back to the kitchen.

Your heart was racing and your mind reeling. Why did I do that? You thought, covering your face with your hands. He probably thinks I’m crazy or a complete shrew! I should never leave the back rooms again and just stick to washing dishes.

After a few moments, though, your mother pulled you away from washing by the arm.

“What did you do?” She asked angrily. “One of the customers is asking for you!”

You panicked. “I… I just… I brought him his drink…” You whispered in terror.

“Come on,” She gripped your arm and pulled you back out into the tavern common room, where Birch was still sitting. He looked at you with a frown. Oh god, he looks annoyed, you thought nervously.

“Miss,” He said, and you stared at your feet, unable to look up. “I think I may have frightened or upset you. I’m sorry, I sometimes forget that not everyone is receptive to my personality or sense of humor.”

You were completely unable to speak and kept your head down, your shoulders hunched.

“Say something!” Your mother hissed at you, and you could only shrink into yourself further. “I’m sorry, sir,” Your mother said in exasperation. “My daughter is as timid as a field mouse. She can’t speak to other people and she never looks people in the eye. She can barely even speak to me. She’s always been like this.”

“Oh,” He said, sounding concerned. “Is she unwell?”

“Probably,” Your mother replied in annoyance, and you pulled away even further. “Though the doctors can’t tell us what’s wrong with her. She usually stays in the kitchen and laundry away from the customers. I don’t know what possessed her to come out here and bother you.”

“C… Ca…” You stuttered, struggling to speak in your defense, looking back toward the kitchen, where Cathy was hovering by the door.

“Oh, did Cathy ask you to bring me my drink?” He asked kindly.

You nodded fervently.

“I understand. I’m sorry that she put you in an uncomfortable situation, and I apologize for making it worse.”

Your mother sighed wearily. “Sir, don’t apologize to her. It’s not your fault that she can’t function like a normal adult.”

That hurt. You were on the verge of tears and hugged your arms around yourself, desperately wanting to escape back to the kitchen.

“Even so,” He said, his voice cold, but softened when he addressed you. “I’m very sorry, miss.”

You nodded once and shuffled quickly back to the kitchen, unable to keep the tears from falling. Your mother rejoined you a few minutes later.

“You could have at least apologized to him,” He said, taking the plates as you washed them to rinse them off and put them in the rack. “Why do you have to embarrass me like that? How hard is it to say ‘thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry’?” She sighed sharply and wiped her hands. “Don’t you dare get us fired.” And she walked off, leaving you weeping into the dishwater.

Cathy heard the entire thing and came over sheepishly.

“Hey… I’m sorry I got you in trouble with your ma,” She said. “I forgot about the speaking thing. I was just in a rush and I didn’t think.”

You shook your head. Cathy was the one person who you might call a friend. She was a little brusque and had a short fuse, but she was one of the few who didn’t make fun of your stuttering and silence or look down their nose at you.

“Listen, Birch is a really nice guy. He plays around and has his fun with the girls, but he’s never hurt anyone on purpose. He wasn’t trying to make fun of you or make you feel bad.”

You nodded shortly. You knew that. He was being friendly; that’s just how he talked to people. But being humiliated in front of him was a torture unlike anything you’d felt before, and it hurt.

The next day, you were feeding the chickens in the coop outside of the tavern when you looked up and saw him exiting the tavern. He noticed you right away, and you turned immediately and tried to flee.

“Hey, wait!” He called. “Wait, please!”

You stood with your back to him but you stayed put. You heard him trotting up to you, his hoof-beats heavy.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to apologize again,” He said. “To just you this time. I don’t know what your mother’s problem is, but what she said… that was uncalled for. You didn’t deserve that.”

You turned to face him but you didn’t look up, focusing instead on his large hooves. You shook your head. No, he was wrong. You did deserve it.

“You can’t help how you are,” He said. “It’s not your fault. I have a little brother who has trouble talking to people, too. It’s the exact opposite of your problem; he says exactly what’s on his mind with no filter. He can’t control it and it embarrasses him sometimes. It’s not the same, I know, but I understand that it can be hard.”

He was so nice. You were able to lift your head a little, but you still couldn’t look him in the face.

“My name is Birch,” He said. “What’s yours?”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out, so you shut it again.

“Hmm,” He hummed. “Can you write?”

You shook your head.

“Um… sign language?”

You answered no again.

“I see,” He said, sighing. “I… I’ll be honest… I don’t want to leave you here with that mother of yours. I’m not sure what kind of relationship you have with her, but the way she talks to you…” He pawed the ground in annoyance. “It bothers me. Does she do that a lot? Make fun of you in front of other people?”

You shrugged, embarrassed.

He sidestepped in an anxious way and swished his tail. “I have to go back home later today,” He said. “Are… are you going to be okay?”

You nodded.

“Are you sure?”

Another nod.

“Well… alright,” He said. “Look, um… if you ever need to… you know… leave this place, talk to Cathy. She knows where my family’s farm is. She can help you get there. If you need to.”

You nodded again, and he turned to leave, but an unfamiliar impulse compelled you to rush forward and take hold of the hem of his tunic. He stopped and looked at you, though he could only see the top of your head.

“Th…” You gulped, your throat dry, your heart beating in your throat. “Tha… ank…you…” You managed to choke out. “H… Haz…zel…”

“You’re name is Hazel?” He asked, a smile in his voice.

You nodded emphatically.

You felt him put a hand on top of your head and and sort of rubbed his fingers against your scalp. It felt nice, even though you weren’t used to physical touch. Your mother wasn’t exactly the affectionate sort.

“You take care, okay?” He said, taking his hand back. “I’ll be back in a few days. I look forward to seeing you again.”

That evening, you were in the room you shared with your mother as she brushed her hair for bed when she mentioned nonchalantly, “I saw you with that centaur man today. What did he say to you?”

“...he… nothing…” You said vaguely.

“Then why did he touch you? And why were you touching him?” She asked, her voice flat.

“I…” You gulped. “I… don’t know…” You said truthfully.

“Oh, really? You don’t know? You don’t know why a man like him would touch you? You know his reputation in this town. He’s trying to take advantage of you because you're simple.”

“He was… just… being nice…” You said softly.

Your mother snorted. “Men aren’t nice without a reason. I thought you’d know that by now.” She threw down her hairbrush onto the night table and lay down in your shared bed. “You’re not going to have anything to do with him from now on, do you understand? It shouldn’t be difficult for you to manage that, should it?”

You didn’t say anything, just sat at the table and stared into the fire.

“It’s for your own good,” She said, facing away from you. “I know I’m strict with you, but… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You have no problem with me getting hurt when you’re the one doing it, you thought to yourself, but you couldn’t say it. You knew she was right, though. He was a flirt and a bit of a libertine, and you thought that perhaps he was only being nice to you because he saw you as low hanging fruit. It hurt to think of him that way, but it was the only thing that made sense.

He did return in a few days, an older woman riding on his back. She was lovely, even at her age, and was wearing trousers and a practical shirt, but no bodice or ladies coat. Her brown hair was caught back in a tight braid, a few strands of grey weaved in and out.

You saw them arrive from the window of your room as you were getting ready for the day. He was as handsome as always, and you watched him wistfully. As if he could sense you, he looked up and saw you at the window. He smiled at you and waved. Remembering what your mother said, you were unable to smile back and walked away from the window without acknowledging him. You hoped he wouldn’t be too angry at you.

Before you could start work in the laundry, Cathy called you out.

“Birch and his mother are here,” She said, keeping her voice down so that your mother wouldn’t hear. “They want to see you.”

“I cant…” You said in your normal whisper. “Mama will be angry…”

“Don’t worry about your ma right now,” Cathy said dismissively. “You don’t deserve the shit she gives you, you’re just too shy to tell her off. Just go see what they want. Maybe it’s a chance to get out from under her thumb.”

You had to admit, you did wish for that. You loved your mother, and she loved you in her own way, but you knew she resented you and it was just… exhausting, dealing with her reproachfulness and cutting words every day. You were just too scared to leave on your own.

You thought long and hard about it, looking around to see if your mother was anywhere near. When you didn’t see her, you looked up at Cathy, looking just past her behind her ear instead of at her face, and nodded. She took you by the hand and led you out to the dining area. Birch and his mother were sitting at the four-legged table, with his mother having dragged over a chair to sit with him comfortably.

“Oh, good, there you are,” Birch said. “When you didn’t react this morning, I was worried something had happened. Mama, this is the young woman I was telling you about.”

He told his mother about you? Why?

“I see, I see,” The older woman said. “My name is Ryel, I’m Birch’s mother. Your name is Hazel, right?”

You nodded, unable to look up.

“Goodness, you are rather shy, aren’t you, dear?” She said sympathetically. You chewed your lip, unable to respond. “My son tells me you’re illiterate, is that correct?”

You nodded.

“I imagine that makes communicating with other people very difficult,” She said.

You nodded again.

“So, how about this?” She said, leaning forward. “Why don’t you come to the farm with me for the summer? I’ll teach you how to read and write, and in exchange, you help me out around the farm. How does that sound?”

For the first time in your life, you were surprised into looking someone in the face. She was smiling warmly at you

“I’m getting older and I could use an assistant. My children all have their own work and families to look after and I’d feel as if I were taking advantage of them if I expected them to follow me around and help me all day.”

“Mama, you know we’d do it happily,” Birch said.

“I know that,” She said, hushing him. “Even still, I’d prefer to hire someone for the task, and if I can help them at the same time, why shouldn’t I?” She leaned forward. “What do you say, dear?”

This is exactly what you wanted. A job that was away from your mom. This was your chance. You opened your mouth, as if to answer, when you heard a sharp voice behind you.

“Hazel!” Your mother said, irate, and stalked out of the kitchen toward you, grabbing you by the arm. “Stop bothering these people! Get back to the laundry.”

Birch’s back leg kicked slightly in irritation, thumping the wood of the floor, but Ryel kept her composure.

“She’s not bothering us in the least, madam,” She said calmly. “I’ve actually come here to offer her a job.”

Your mother scoffed. “A job? Doing what?”

“As my assistant,” Ryel said. “I’m a jack of all trades type, you might say, and I’m willing to take her on in exchange for room and board, plus an education.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Your mother said, her grip rather strong on your arm. “My daughter is not capable of making her own decisions.”

“How old is your daughter?” Ryel asked.

“She’s nineteen,” Your mother replied. “But I’m afraid she’s a bit slow. Trying to teach her wouldn’t benefit either of you.”

You frowned, upset. That wasn’t true, you weren’t slow. In fact, you thought you learned rather quickly, you’d just hadn’t had the chance to learn very many new things.

“Be that as it may,” Ryel replied, her voice still even. “Your daughter is an adult and has the right to choose what she wants.”

“Nonsense,” Your mother said. “Besides, even if I allowed this, I don’t want her anywhere near him.” She jerked her chin toward Birch.

Birch bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I know what kind of man you are,” She hissed. “How many lovers you’ve had in just this town alone? How many broken hearts have you left in your wake? I know you have ulterior motives for wanting to take her from here, and I won’t stand for it. She’s simpleminded and vulnerable, and I won’t let you dishonor her and return her to me used and broken.”

“Stop talking like she can’t hear every vile thing you say about her!” Birch shouted, slamming his fist into the table, making you jump. “I would never do something so shameful! You don’t know anything about me! ”

“Son, calm down,” Ryel said, putting her hand on his. “My son is a grown man of twenty-eight and has desires, true, but I’ve been to this town quite often and I haven’t found any such string of broken hearts, as you call it. Many sighing and wistful girls who long for his company, sure, but not one of them has come to me with tears in her eyes claiming he lied or misled her. He’s open and forthright about his intentions, and I respect his decisions. You should do the same for your child.”

“Don’t talk to me about my child if you can’t even control your own,” Your mother said venomously. “Hazel, let’s go.”

She tried to lead you away, but you refused to move. There were hurt and anxious tears in your eyes and you couldn’t look at anyone, but you refused to let her pull you away.

“Hazel!” She gripped your arm and yanked you painfully, and you wrenched your arm from her grasp, shaking your head.

“It seems like she’s made her choice,” Ryel said. “The least you can do as her mother is respect her wishes.”

“Be quiet!” Your mother said. “Leave us alone!” She grabbed your hands and started to pull you back to the kitchen. Birch got to his feet.

“Let her go,” He said, his voice a low growl, knocking her hands away from you. He stood between you and your mother. You dared to reach out and place a hand on the fur of his back to steady yourself.

“What’s going on here?” The bartender, Brian, asked. He also owned the tavern and knew about your condition. He didn’t speak to you much, but he also didn’t tease you either. You could handle understanding silence a lot better than persistent expectation to interact. “Are you alright, Hazel?”

You were shaking and crying, so you could only shake your head.

“These people won’t leave us alone,” You mother said. “I’d like them to leave.”

“Now, Rita, these people are good customers and friends of mine. I’m going to need more of a reason than ‘they’re bothering me’ to kick them out.”

“We simply offered young Hazel here a job on the farm,” Ryel said patiently. “I’m afraid her mother is interfering with her decision.”

“Is that true, Hazel?” Brian asked. “Would you like to take up this job?”

Trembling, you nodded.

“Well, then, that settles it, doesn’t it?” Brian said. “These are good folks, Hazel, they’ll take care of you.”

“Like hell they will,” You mother retorted. “She can’t make decisions like this. She doesn't understand.”

Brian sighed. “Rita, your girl’s not stupid, and it’s high time you stopped treating her like she is.”

Your mother looked like she’d been slapped in the face. You looked up at Brian in shock. He smiled kindly at you.

“Why don’t you go up and pack your things while your mother and I have a little chat, eh, dear?” He said.

You attempted to smile at him, though you worried it looked a little like you had indigestion, and went to pack. You took a few minutes to sit on the bed and breathe, clutching your chest, feeling a panic attack poking at your brain. You couldn’t believe it. You were really leaving.

There was a knock on your door and Ryel poked her head in.

“Are you alright, dear? That was quite the fuss,” She said.

You dried your face and nodded, getting up to start putting clothes in a bag.

“I sent Birch outside. He was getting rather angry, and I didn’t want him smashing any of Brian’s furniture.”

You looked out the window. Birch was standing in the courtyard with his arms crossed, stamping the ground and stepping constantly, as if he couldn’t stand still. His brow was furrowed, his jaw was working, and his tail was swishing back and forth without stopping.

“He’s worried for you, dear,” She said, following your gaze. “One thing our entire family has in common is that we don’t like seeing people mistreated. You’re mother may have her reasons for acting as she does, and perhaps it is out of some misplaced notion of love, but there’s no doubt in my mind at all that she mistreats you. You can’t help the way you are, and no amount of her cruel words are going to fix that. In fact, I’m more than certain it makes it worse.”

You sighed sadly in agreement. As you stood there, Birch looked up at your window. He smiled, a little sadder than before, and waved up at you. This time, you raised a hand and waved back.

The door opened and your mother walked in, glaring at Ryel.

“I’d like to speak to my daughter alone, if you please,” She said, her voice low and hostile.

Ryel looked at you questioningly, and you nodded. “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” She said, and walked out, closing the door behind her.

Your mother just stared at you with her arms crossed, shaking her head slightly. You looked down and away.

“I guess I should just be glad you won’t be around to humiliate me anymore,” She said, and you shrunk in on yourself. “I don’t like this at all, but it seems I have no say in the matter. You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

You knew she was hurt and was lashing out. She wasn’t exactly sweet and caring on her best days, but she could really cut a person to the quick when she was upset.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” She asked you, and you could hear tears in her voice. “Nothing at all? You can’t muster the courage to apologize to me for that display downstairs? For leaving me without a thought to my feelings? I’ve spent the last seven years protecting you and providing for you after your useless father threw us out, and you do this to me? And you have nothing to say?”

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you walked up to her and put your arms around her waist and lay your head on her shoulder.

“I’ll miss you, Mama,” You said softly.

She started to sob and put her arms around your shoulders. It had been years since she’d last hugged you.

“You’d better start sending me letters as soon as you learn how to,” She said, her voice breaking. “If I don’t hear something from you in a few months, I’m going out there to drag you back, you understand me?”

“Yes, Mama,” You whispered, and took a step back. Picking up your bag, you opened the door and walked out. Ryel was waiting and smiled when she saw you.

“Ready?” She asked.

You nodded.

Back outside, Birch was waiting. He stopped shifting around anxiously when he saw you and his mother exit the tavern.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

“Everything’s just fine,” Ryel said. “We’re ready to go.”

“Would you like to ride on my back?” Birch asked, turning.

You shook your head fervently, mortified.

“Are you sure?” He said. “It’s a long walk back to the farm, over four hours. I can get us there in half the time.”

“She’s feeling shy,” Ryel said. “For centaurs, letting people ride on their back is a special privilege afforded to few. I’ll ride with you.” She grinned at him. “He always makes an exception for his mother.”

He grinned at her in return. “You just assume I do.” But he took out a quilted riding blanket that was rolled up and tied to the bottom of his pack and handed it to her, and she set it on his back. Climbing the steps to the tavern, she vaulted onto his back. She instructed you to do the same. Blushing furiously, with both Ryel and Birch’s help, you were able to scramble on in front of her.

“Let’s go,” He said, and he took off at a trot out of town.

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My Masterlist

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#Exophilia #Monster Boyfriend #Centaur #Autistic Character #Reader Insert #Semi-Verbal Reader

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sidespromptblog · 3 years

Text

A Close Friend: (2/2)

One

Warnings: Crying (Roman), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Talk of suicidal thoughts (Past Logan), and Roman calling Janus ‘Deciet’ instead of his actual name multiple times.

Summary: Roman goes to Logan in order to vent and ramble about everything that had happened about Thomas, Patton, and Janus. But in the process finds Logan dealing with his own bottled emotions, as well as an uncomfortable thought that Logan has been dealing with as of late that leaves Roman scared for Logan’s own safety. So he decided to help, in whatever way that he can.

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 3876

Logan woke groggily, with a feeling of warmth surrounding him as his head remained buried under a mound of blankets and his body surrounded by a wall of pillows blocking out the outside world from his cocoon of sleep. For a solid few minutes, he wanted to stay like that, tucked away so that he would never have to bother with anything outside of his little nest ever again. Although logically he knew that eventually, he’d have to. He had duties, and more than that… he had to face just what he had confessed to Roman the previous night.

Just the thought of it made his stomach squirm, as feelings of shame, embarrassment, and guilt writhed around inside of him.

Why had he said that? What on earth had possessed him to drop all of that on Roman right then and there. He was usually so reserved around the other side, and seeing him when the creative side had witnessed him so openly weeping…

It had made everything just spill out of him like a faucet that couldn’t be turned off. But then again…

The memory of being cradled so gently in the other side’s arms made a warmth erupt in his heart and face, the feeling of Roman’s hands gingerly carding through his hair in an effort to soothe his endless sobs made him feel safe.

Opening his eyes was a trial in itself, as they felt so crusty and dry from the endless crying he had done the previous night.

A pang of something slammed into his heart.

That’s right… Roman had caught him crying, Roman had heard him say what he’d said, and Roman had...

Cracking open his eyes Logan found himself staring point-blank at Roman’s chest. Somehow in the middle of the night, they had both wound up curling into each other. Roman’s arms securely wrapped around Logan, keeping him fixed to his chest where Logan’s cheek had remained smushed against him for the entire night. Roman’s expression was peaceful, letting Logan know that he hadn’t yet woken up despite the mid-afternoon light that was pouring through the windows, only halted by the curtains surrounding the bed. The soft little snores that left the creative side sounded like that of a little bear, tucked away from the winter and in the warmth of his own little cave.

All in all, it was… nice.

It was nice to be held like this, and to know that Roman clearly didn’t mind having him so close.

For a moment he fancied the idea of letting his eyes close again, of just sinking back into a lovely slumber that would undoubtedly bring him back to the peaceful dream that he had been having before he had woken up. It would be easy, just one movement, for his eyes to slide shut and not open until Roman chose to wake him up again. His fingers clenched into the fabric of Roman’s shirt, as he unconsciously nestled his face against the other side’s warm chest that was already making him sleepy once again. A yawn tugged at the edge of his lips, teasing him and offering him the very thing he had wanted the night before.

With Roman here, there was no doubt about whether or not he’d sleep well.

Fingers tangled themselves into Logan’s hair, smoothing down his hair. “Don’t go back to sleep just yet,” Logan’s eyes that had been attempting to drift shut, snapped open glancing up at the creative side. Sleep hung onto the other, with the remnants being cleared away as Roman lifted his hand up from Logan’s back to rub at his eyes. “We’ve got so much to do today, so we can’t sleep the whole day away. Right?”

Of course, Roman had mentioned something about doing something.

Honestly, it had just slipped his mind with all of the heightened emotions he had been feeling last night, and really… he had honestly just thought Roman was just saying that to get his mind off of what he had said. Roman had never wanted to spend time with him before after all, so the idea that he actually meant it…

It was rather surprising.

Roman’s fingers raked through Logan’s messy bedhead, attempting to pull the logical side out of whatever had made his eyes look so far away and foggy. The pleased look from the other that this action earned him made Roman want to smile and never stop. He’d made good progress with Logan last night, to the point where now Logan wasn’t even trying to hide the things that made him happy. A part of him would have been content enough to just lay here, with Logan’s head resting so comfortably on his chest, letting the other stew in the comfort of his room.

But he’d already made plans, and these were plans that he wasn’t going to cancel.

“Come on,” Roman grunted lifting himself off of the feathery softness of his own bed, only to find himself fighting a strange sense of disappointment when Logan finally lifted his head up, detaching their limbs from one another. “Let’s get dressed, wear something comfortable for you. I’m going to take you on a trip today.”

“Are you going to tell the others?” There was a bolt of dead silence between them, as Roman’s legs hung over the edge of his bed, his back turned to Logan. “About… what I said?”

A torrent of emotions riled Roman’s insides at the very loaded question that had come so early in the morning for both of them. It was… as much as he disliked it, a very valid question to have about what he’d heard and what he’d seen Logan going through. It wasn’t something that he could just ignore, and it wasn’t something that could just be swept under the rug. Feelings and emotions like that… they didn’t just go away after one good night's rest and one good day spent. It had to be worked on, and… Roman knew that there were going to be slipping days. Where Logan would inevitably fall back into that rabbit hole of dark thoughts, where he missed the feeling of being sad even if he was doing better.

“I don’t know.” He honestly said, and he didn’t. There wasn’t much that sides could do in order to help their own mental issues. “Do you want me to tell them?”

He could feel the other side of the bed shifting as Logan scrunched up where they had just been laying together. He could imagine what the logical side looked like. His legs pulled up to his chest, perhaps hugging a pillow, or maybe just sitting there looking away from Roman with thoughts and emotions that the creative side didn’t really understand yet.

“I don’t think I want them to know,” Logan finally spoke. “I know for certain that I don’t want Thomas to know, and I can’t promise I won’t have those thoughts and feelings again. I’m sure that they will come back, even if it's not now…”

Finally Roman turned to look at Logan, the look on his face speaking volumes as to what he was feeling without words even being needed. Reaching over, he grasped the top of Logan’s hand holding it tight enough to get the other’s attention on him and not the wrinkled blankets in his grasp.

“Logan, I never expected you to not feel those things.” Roman sternly but softly began. “I just don’t want you to deal with them alone. I don’t want you to promise to never try to feel them again, but… maybe to come to someone about them. Be it me, Patton, or Virgil. I don’t want you to have to deal with those kinds of thoughts alone, we…” Roman gave his hand one more squeeze. “We’re stronger together rather than alone, you taught me that remember?”

An absolutely heart-wrenching look of happiness appeared on Logan’s face at Roman’s reminder, he had taught Roman that. That the chimera was best fought with friends, after recuperating and taking time to rest one's wounds rather than continuously trying to go it alone again and again. How had he forgotten his own lesson so easily?

It hadn’t been that long ago either.

“I promise, whoever you decide to go to for help… I’ll be there alongside you should they give you any shit for it.” At that moment Roman felt a little bit of Remus’ wildness, as he grinned sharply back at Logan, a promise of violence somewhere in those words of his that his brother would most definitely be proud of. Had he heard it? But that was to be discussed for a later date, and later arguments should the others decide to not help Logan at all. “Now get dressed dork, I’ve got a lot planned.”

The purely puzzled but equally curious look on Logan’s face ignited a fierce determination and excitement inside of him.

A determination to make this the best day possible for this logical side.

“Why are we out in the real world?” Logan asked almost as soon as they rose up just far from Thomas’ actual house, this wasn’t the mindspace… So Roman wasn’t just going to summon things in the imagination to please Logan and call it a day? “I’m afraid… I don’t quite understand.” He softly admitted, nervously tugging at the strings of the hoodie he had decided to wear. “What if Thomas or one of the others needs us for something?”

Roman didn’t answer, his face gaining a somewhat cloudy look that told Logan easily enough that this wasn’t necessarily a good topic.

Instead, he seized Logan’s hand in his own, holding it tight. “Fuck ‘em.” Roman declared, a rather reckless grin playing on his lips. “They can deal until we come back, and really… this is a day for us to enjoy, so let’s enjoy it. No mindspace, no Thomas, and no… problems. Just a fun day out, with lots of real places to go and enjoy for once.” No having Thomas around to tell them what they could or couldn’t do so that they didn’t raise a ruckus, that was the best part in Roman’s opinion.

But even so, Logan couldn’t help but to nod his head slowly.

Yes… fun.

Fun.

How long had it been since he’d had fun with one of the other sides, no… how long had it been since he’d done something fun with Roman that didn’t involve the imagination in some capacity? Or even Patton just strong-arming Roman into making sure that Logan got to come along for the ride, even if he didn’t necessarily enjoy it half of the time.

Roman wanted him here this time, and Roman was smiling at him promising to do things that he’d enjoy as well.

A tentative smile curled on the logical side’s face, “That sounds rather enjoyable,” He gave Roman’s hand an affirming squeeze. “Lead the way then… Princey.”

Roman couldn’t help but to let out a good-natured snort at the sound of his old nickname, it had been so long since he’d heard it after all. But more than that… it felt almost empowering to know that Logan had placed his trust in him, to know that he had Logan’s full support with everything that they were going to do today.

Without so much as another word, he led Logan away and towards the fun that they were both destined to have today; not even looking back once to wonder about the other sides and the human that they were leaving behind for their adventures.

It was a day for them after all, nobody else.

Leading Logan through all of the events he’d planned for him, it honestly kind of shocked Roman as to how much he hadn’t known that he’d been kind of neglecting Logan as a friend. The uncertain responses that he got from Logan, which eventually bridged into full unbridled excitement that had been hiding away for far too long only served as a way to prove Roman’s thoughts correct. Logan had barely let go of his hand in the entire time that they’d started their day trip, not that Roman minded exactly, he’d held him firm as he talked and rambled about the things and places that Roman brought him to.

So much interesting history, history that Roman would have otherwise brushed off on account of it being too “boring” or too… Logan-ish for him.

It certainly didn’t help the guilt that continuously seemed to boil in his stomach ever since seeing Logan’s breakdown from the previous night.

If anything, it only served as a way to make him feel just the slightest bit worse for not listening in the first place.

It was only when settling down with lunch that Logan finally released Roman’s hand and in turn stopped what he was talking about.

Almost immediately Roman looked over at him, after having spread out the picnic blanket and all of their food, he had almost expected Logan to go off about something like the origins of picnics and how they were created, or something like that. But instead, Logan merely just laid on his back staring up at the sky as the clouds lazily inched across casting vague shadows onto the earth where they were laying.

“Roman.” Logan softly began, the tone of his voice marginally different than before. Almost immediately Roman’s attention was focused on him, the food surrounding them nothing more than an afterthought. “Why did you come to my room last night?” Glancing over to him, Logan held an almost sad smile on his face. “It can’t have been for anything good right? Up until last night, I’m sure that you hated me and my face.”

Ah…

The conversation that Roman really didn’t want to have, and the conversation that Logan intuitively knew to ask about.

A sigh broke through his silence as the creative side rubbed at his face, “Well,” He almost stubbornly began, “First things first, I have not and will never hate you.” Roman started off, pointing his finger in Logan’s direction that sour feeling of guilt bubbling anew. “I don’t think I ever understood you, or how you thought maybe… but never hate. Never.” Knowing what he did now… he could never hate Logan, it was something that he should have realized a long time ago. But in the very least… it was a good thing he was realizing it now and not later when it was too late. “And Second…” Roman grimaced, the memories of Deceit’s… or rather Janus’ reveal tasting like poison on his tongue.

Logan sat up abruptly at the emotions that flew over Roman’s face like a hurricane ripping through the gulf, his stretched-out legs easily tucking under him as he seemed to give Roman his full attention. His eyes hidden as they were behind his glasses, remained firmly fixed to the creative side's face.

“What happened?”

There really was no hiding it, was there?

Roman wanted to snort at the irony of it all, try as he may to hide something. Be that Remus, his own emotions, or just how he was trying and failing to deal with his own shortcomings… everything always came out in one way or another. It was better to just get it all out now, rather than to let someone else tell it without taking his side of the story into context first.

Hopefully, Logan wouldn’t judge him too harshly for it…

“Roman?”

The side in question almost smiled, it seemed like it was Logan’s turn to be the one confronting the creative side about his own emotions, as well as the consequences of them. But then again… That’s what friends were for right? He’d said so just last night, when he had tucked Logan away from all of his bad thoughts, and given him the best dream he could possibly think of.

Logan was his friend, so of course, he’d want to help and hear out Roman’s grievances about what had happened.

“I…” Roman sighed to himself yet again as he ran his hands over his face, “Messed up.” He lamely explained, grimacing at the terrible explanation that even a toddler could do better than him. “Deceit told us his name… like Virgil did, and I uh… I made fun of it. I didn’t hold back, not like I did with Virgil. After everything that had happened with the wedding, the trial, and… the aftermath I was just so angry for everyone trying to pull me every which way. I was angry at myself for…” Roman stopped, he hadn’t realized when he’d started it, but he’d started to rant. His hands making exaggerated motions as he told Logan about what he’d said about Deceit’s name, and just how far he’d gone when it seemed like Deceit was going to be accepted with no issue. He hadn’t even realized he was ranting until he’d needed to take a breath. “Sorry…”

Instead of just waving him off, however, or even starting to eat like they’d planned on doing Logan merely cocked his head to the side a curiously befuddled expression on his face.

“Sorry for what?” The logical side asked, “I asked what was wrong and you’re explaining it to me. You don’t have to apologize to me for talking, I’m here to listen.”

It was said so simply, but the Roman had the feeling that the words themselves were something that Logan would've wanted to hear months ago when he was airing his own thoughts towards anyone. And as such, it made them so very important to the logical side… it made them true.

Roman knew that for certain, and yet… it didn’t stop the flood of gratitude that filled his heart.

Swallowing thickly he nodded, and carried on his voice carrying out well until the sun started to dip behind the trees. By then his chest felt lighter, and his mind clearer as Logan sat there not once daring to look away from Roman as he talked about everything. From his complicated feelings about Patton and Janus, to how he felt about having to switch it up so often with the both of them that it was just leaving him exhausted to the point where he just wanted to agree to get it all over with and save himself the emotional rollercoaster of dealing with the two other sides. Because at least then, he wouldn’t be criticized so harshly, and at least then he would know what was correct and what was wrong in the eyes of Patton.

Logan understood that notion perfectly well.

“Sometimes I just don’t know what to do, and I’m angry at myself for it. I want to just decide about something and have that be the end of it, I don’t want to have to come back a week or even a month later and have a whole discussion about what I did being morally wrong, “technically morally wrong but kind of right”, I just want that to be it!” Roman’s chest heaved, and by the end of his rant, he felt the frustrated tears he’d been holding back since that day finally flow down his cheeks as warbling croaking sob cracked in his chest like a broken instrument determined to never play again. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t want to be wrong...” He sniffled, bringing his hands up to his eyes desperate to wipe away his tears.

However, almost as soon as he moved to shield his tears from sight, he found himself crushed into a hug. His head pressed solidly against Logan’s collarbone, as the logical side mimicked the motion that Roman himself had done just the other night as he ran his fingers through the creative side’s hair. If anything, the genuine comfort that the other side was attempting to give only made Roman shake harder as he clutched Logan tightly.

It felt so nice to finally be on the receiving end of comfort after so long of just giving it.

“I think…” Logan gently whispered, not daring to make his voice louder. “What I’ve learned is that you can try and try to choose the answer that will always please somebody else. But… it won’t work, if they don’t even know what they want then they will always find some fault with it, and that’s not your fault.” Feeling Roman stilling in his arms Logan didn’t dare to stop. “The best you can do in that situation is to make yourself happy, not for their approval… but your own. If they like it, then that’s perfectly fine. If not…” Logan gave an awkward shrug that the creative side only clung to harder. “Then they can make their own choices, and see just how difficult it is to do. Pleasing everyone all the time is impossible and if you try you’re still going to end up stepping on someone’s toes, I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Plucking up the napkins that they had prepared for the lunch, Logan hastily moved to wipe away Roman’s tears, trying to be gentle the entire time he did.

He’d thought before that Roman was practically his opposite in the past, but seeing the other side breakdown from all the expectations that had been placed on him without the creative side even knowing… Logan felt a strange kind of understanding with him. The same kind that he’d gained when he’d had all the expectations placed on him to make Thomas succeed in school and in college. The kind that had made him want to stop existing in the first place, when Thomas had just up and decided to switch majors and pursue YouTube as a full-time job instead of being a scientist.

He knew what Roman was feeling all too well, so with this kind of emotion, he could at least help instead of being a hindrance to everyone around him.

Roman sniffled once again, taking the napkin from Logan so that he could blow his nose, “Logan,” He flopped back onto the blanket, looking up at the stars that were just barely beginning to show in the night sky. “We should do this more often.” He said, glancing over to the logical side who shot him a concerned and very much confused look.

“Cry about our repressed feelings?”

For the first time in a while, a real laugh erupted out of Roman at the sound of Logan’s genuine confusion and uneasiness about his offer.

“No,” The creative side moved his hand over to the other’s, clenching it softly in his. “Going out like this, just the two of us. Maybe once a week or once a month. Just enjoy each other's company, and talk about whatever we want to talk about. Even if we get on each others’ nerves sometimes…” Roman smiled ruefully. “I like talking with you, and I like listening to you too.”

A look of understanding dawned on Logan’s face, and with it, the logical side finally laid down beside Roman.

Their were hands still clutching one anothers’.

“I’d like that Roman,” Logan smiled up at the starry sky that finally became visible to them both. “I’d like that a lot.”

#roman sanders #ts roman #ts roman sanders #logan sanders #ts logan #ts logan sanders #logan angst #roman angst #ts sanders sides #ts sides #ts sanders sides fanfic #ts sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fanfic #qpr logince

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twink-appreciation-posts · 4 years

Text

3 Hours & 37 Minutes - Spencer Reid x Reader

Request by @slutforthegubes

spencer won't pay attention ti you, so you put on his favorite lingerie set and walk into his office. you sit in the chair and start playing with yourself with your vibrator(bonus points if its one of the ones youre not supposed to have). he warns you to stop but when you dont he bends you over his knee and makes you count while he spanks you. then he fucks you bent over his desk. (this is v dirty oops 😳)

daddy spencer daddy spencer daddy spencer daddy spencer dadd- you get the idea.

3 hours & 37 minutes. That’s how long Spencer had been locked in his office ignoring you. Of course the “ignoring you” part wasn’t his intention, but it was a byproduct of him working so diligently. You had made a few attempts to pull him away from his work to no avail, and you were getting pretty sick of it. Fine. He wanted to ignore you? You’d just create a situation where it would be impossible for him to not pay attention.

You raked through your closet, finding a lacy set of lingerie that you had been saving to surprise him with eventually. Well, you figured, using it today would certainly be a surprise. It was black, sheer, and exposing. The perfect combination of things to catch someone’s eye. You changed and wondered if walking into his office wearing only this would be enough to get his attention. It would, you were sure, but it would be too nice.

“Spence!” You yelled out from the bedroom, giving him a final chance to save himself before you hatched your plan. No response. He was still too lost in thought to hear you. Oh well.

You walked back into the closet, reaching for a box that held another surprise. Spencer had a whole.. thing… against you having certain objects. Specifically, he had told you that you weren’t allowed to have a vibrator. You remembered he had instilled the rule after you had been especially bratty and he had made you edge for an hour without letting you finish. You, being the instigator that you were, proceeded to finish yourself off with a vibrator you kept in your bedside table, and he all but lost it. You vaguely remembered saying something along the lines of ‘why do we need men if these exist?’. Overall, he had a bad experience with you and your vibrator, so he did away with it… or so he thought. You, of course, hadn’t used your secret toy since you had bought it, but you were sure that if there was any time to use it, it was now. You grabbed it, clutching it in one hand and made your way to his office. You didn’t knock and he didn’t look up as you walked in. He always got so hyper focused on what he was doing and now it would lead to his downfall.

You pulled up an extra chair, lounging back, and called his name. His head snapped up and he turned around to face you, the document he was holding slipping out of his hand as he observed the sight before him. “What do you think you’re doing?” He questioned.

“What you’re apparently too busy to do.” You replied, switching on the vibrator. His eyes darted towards the toy and you could already see the anger forming on his face.

You spread your legs, putting on a show, and began to run the toy up and down the fabric of the panties, letting out a dramatic moan.

“You stupid fucking whore,” Spencer breathed out, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Is this really how you wanna get my attention?”

You started off slowly, your empty hand dragging down your right side to grip your breast, pinching your nipple over the practically see-through fabric of your bra, your hips involuntarily bucking at the sensation. You watched as Spencer’s face grew stern, eyes hiding a fire behind them, and the way his cock grew hard beneath his pants. He was leaning forward now, and you locked eyes with him as you pulled your panties to the side, the vibrator pressing against your clit. Your hips bucked up straight away and you let out a shaky breath at how sensitive you were. You locked eyes with him as you dragged the vibrator down from your clit to your hole and pushed it inside yourself with a loud groan of pleasure.

“If you’re going to put on a show,” he said lowly. “Then make it a good one. Spread yourself open for me, slut. Let daddy see everything.”

You scoffed. Did he think you were doing this for him? No. You had met your goal, gotten his attention, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of listening.

“So now you want to look at me, huh?” You questioned breathily, still pumping the toy in and out of yourself. “Well I’m sorry, Spencer, but I’m a bit busy.” You were pushing all of his buttons. Speaking in such a bratty tone, speaking his name with such venom. You had to admit you were scared you may be digging your grave. His eyes flicked up to meet yours and you bit your lip, pleading with your eyes and trying to catch your breath.

You wondered, for a moment, why he wasn’t stopping you. Why he hadn’t immediately taken away the toy, but as your legs shook and you got closer to your climax you realized. He was watching, waiting for the moment that would be most inconvenient to stop you. And you were right. As you struggled to contain your moans you watched him stand up, walking over to you and snatching your hand. He was quick. Aggressive. In one swift motion he had grabbed your hand and pulled it away from your body, ripping the vibrator away as well. You could feel it in his bruising tight grip that he wasn’t playing around.

“What did you think was going to happen when you came in here dressed like this? What did you think I would do when you started touching yourself? Did you think you would convince me to be nicer to you? To give you attention?” He seethed, using his other hand to grab the vibrator from you, switching it off and tossing it onto the floor.

“Because all it did was remind me of how you never seem to learn your lesson. I don’t know why I even waste my time with such an insolent little slut. You just can’t help yourself. Always doing things you’re not supposed to, never listening to a word daddy says, but who’s attention are you always vying for?”

You looked up at him, opting to stay silent.

“Not so bold now, are we?” He questioned. He backed away from you, sitting back down on his chair, and tapping his hand on his knees. “That’s fine. You don’t have to apologize yet, you just need to come show daddy how sorry you are.” Your eyes widened as you realized what he wanted. Oh. You hopped out of your chair, cautiously walking over to him, and as soon as you were within grabbing distance his hand snaked around your waist, pulling you towards him and bending you over his knee. “How many do we think you deserve for this little show, hm?” He questioned, a hand rubbing over your ass gently, soothing before the inevitable pain. “Maybe 20?”

You shook your head violently. “N-No. Please no. Too many.” You breathed out.

“Well if I let you decide your own punishment it wouldn’t be much of a punishment, now would it?” He chuckled. “Fifteen, then. And you’re going to count and thank me after each and every one, isn’t that right?”

You gulped, body tensing. “Y-Yes, daddy.”

You felt the warmth of his hand leave your body and you closed your eyes, bracing yourself, until you felt the hard blow of his hand landing back onto your ass.

He paused. Waiting. “One. T-Thank you, daddy.” You said softly.

“Good girl.” He retracted his hand again, landing another blow, and the process continued. At around number six you had tears welling in your eyes. You were so focused on the pain you forgot to speak up, whimpering instead. “If you don’t count then we’ll have to start over.” Spencer warned, and you became panicked, quickly spitting out the number and your thanks. By the time your punishment was over you were openly weeping, your nerves burning from the repeated abuse. “Are you sorry?” Spencer asked you as he sat you up.

You sniffled, nodding. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever do anything like it again.”

“Good, baby.” He was sweeter now, a shift in mood from a few seconds earlier. “You look so pretty with your ass all bruised up for me.” He wiped a tear from your eyes and you smiled weakly. “But daddy isn’t done with you quite yet.” He stood up, hoisting you with him, and pushed the chair out of the way. “Tell me what you you want, slut.” He was kissing your neck, hands groping at any of the bare skin they could find.

“I-I want you to fuck me,” you moaned out, leaning into his touch. “Please. I-I’m sorry for being bad but I promise I’ll be good for you now.”

“Yeah? You think you deserve to be fucked? After everything you’ve done?” He asked, tugging your panties down your thighs.

“I wanna show you that I can be a good girl…” you explained. “Want you to use me to make yourself feel good.”

That seemed convincing enough because a few seconds later and your face was being pressed into his desk, files scattering around as he bent you over. You cried out gently as he pushed into you. He let out a groan of satisfaction, giving you minimal time to adjust before he began to thrust at a fast and steady pace. It stung, the feeling of his hips snapping onto the sensitive and bruised skin of your ass overtaking your senses, and you mewled in pain. He didn’t care, though, a hand moving to push your face further down into the wood of the desk. The hand was tangled in your hair, tugging gently at the roots, and you felt the desk shake with the pressure of each thrust.

You were whimpering, more tears threatening to spill, but beneath the pain you could feel your orgasm building. You barely had time to announce it before it flooded over you, your body clenching around Spencer. A few moments later you were being pulled up by your scalp as Spencer sunk his teeth into your neck as he came, the warm substance filling you up and dripping down your thighs.

You were exhausted, almost flopping back down onto the desk as he loosened his grip on your hair and pulled out of you. “You know I was on the last document of the night when you came in,” Spencer told you, his voice hoarse. “If you had just waited two more minutes I wouldn’t have had to do any of this.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. Of course. Luck was never on your side. “Oh well, not being able to sit comfortably for a few weeks isn’t too bad, plus you’re sexy when you’re angry.”

He raised his brows at you. “Watch yourself, we can make those few weeks a few months.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” You shook your head. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #dom!spencer #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #spencer reid x you #dom!spencer reid #i didnt proof read this im so fucking sorry

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fettsvette · 3 years

Text

Never Worn White (Part Two)

Cloud City, Bespin. Boba Fett is on the hunt for a casual fuck before he cashes in on Han Solo’s bounty. You’re a naïve virgin, saving yourself for an adolescent fantasy… and it just so happens that he’s in town. Upon encountering the object of your infatuation though, you didn’t expect he’d be so willing to help you out.

Pairing: Boba Fett x Reader Words: 6.8k Rating: Explicit Warnings: Loss of virginity and unprotected sex

Can be found on Archive of Our Own here.

Mando’a terminology

vaar’ika - little runt

nehutyc’ika - feisty one

cyar’tomade - fans

“Your boyfriend’s at the Atrium.”

The words were like a lightning strike through the very fiber of your being, your whole body vibrating, no matter how teasingly and sarcastically they were meant. Your head jerked up so fast from the holopad screen you’d been gazing at that you felt as if you had just given yourself whiplash, and your blood pressure instantly skyrocketed, leaving you feeling light-headed and dizzy. Your roommate grinned lecherously at you, their eyes glinting mischievously. They were one of the few people to know about your feelings for Boba Fett, and it was obvious now that they were torturing you, feeding you false information and getting your hopes up just to watch you fluster and squirm like a giddy schoolgirl. Of course, they didn’t know the extent of your infatuation, and what you were planning if you ever happened to cross paths with the infamous bounty hunter during his unprecedented stay in Cloud City. You didn’t intend to allow them to find out, either.

“...What are you talking about? Stop it...” You replied faintly, gazing up at them dumbly from your perch on the couch, uncrossing your legs and attempting to knead the life back into the prickling muscles. Your gaze drifted to your hands as you did so, trying futilely to get them to stop shaking just so your flatmate didn’t have something else to rib you over, and then skirted over to the wide window looking out over the city. Neat rows of transports crisscrossing in every direction lined the nighttime sky, carrying Cloud City’s citizens and tourists alike to where they needed to go. You couldn’t help but direct your vision towards the vicinity of the entertainment district, its bright lights plainly visible from your apartment. The Paradise Atrium was only a short distance away from your apartment on Figg Avenue, even closer than the landing bay where the Slave I was still docked. There was no way. It was too good to be true, simply meant to be. He was coming closer and closer to you.

“I’m not kidding. Boba Fett’s at the Paradise Atrium, right now . I had to stop there on my way home to drop off a couple containers of glitterstim my boss owed the slimeball that owns that place, y’know? I walked in and he was literally right there in the cantina, just sitting at one of the booths in the corner… the ones they always reserve for the really top-tier VIPs.” They explained seriously, and you envisioned the layout of the lounge in your mind, an establishment you had visited quite often. Your thoughts brought you to the very rear of the adjacent and aptly-named Paradise Cantina... into the recesses of a shadowy booth, where sat an imposing figure in a battle-worn suit of Mandalorian armor, reclined against the plush backing of the stall, legs spread almost obscenely wide. His codpiece was mysteriously absent, and you could see everything . He beckoned you closer with the twitch of a gloved finger ...and you shook yourself from your reverie, acutely aware that a cold sweat had started collecting on the back of your neck. You fought the urge to slap yourself across the face, the imagined mercenary still calling to you from your subconscious.

“Okay, okay… crik. Are you absolutely sure it was him?” You pleaded desperately, and your roommate openly rolled their eyes in your direction, shaking their head incredulously. You needed to be sure . You’d heard of the Fett imposter Jodo Kast, and even though the presence of the Slave I on-world was an immediate indication that the visitor was the real deal himself, there was still a niggling disbelief in your mind. This just could not be happening right now.

“Of course I’m sure! Kriff, how many Mandos do you think are just walking around Cloud City? Beefy-looking buckethead wearing green scrap metal, more weapons on him than stars in the sky. Poor kid they had serving him was terrified, the guy was shaking so bad he almost dropped a whole tray of brinebrew on the graysuits that were in the booth with him. And - okay, are we just going to ignore the fact that I called Boba kriffing Fett your boyfriend and you didn’t even blink? Honestly, I really can’t believe you sometimes…”

You didn’t even wait for them to finish. The fact that there were apparently high-ranking Imperial officers meeting with this mystery man was all the information you needed for any seed of doubt in your mind to be crushed. The holopad fell from your hands to land screen-down on the floor, entirely forgotten. Leaping up from the couch and power-walking towards your bedroom on tremulous legs, you flung the door closed behind you and hurriedly began rooting through your closet, looking for something halfway presentable to change into. You stripped yourself of your sweatpants and ripped t-shirt, having instantly settled on a glittering shimmersilk dress that you’d impulsively bought as a present to yourself after your last pay raise. You paused as you pulled the thin material over your head, debating whether or not to put on a bra before you dressed any further. With a curt sigh at yourself, you continued to slip your arms through the straps, smoothing the bunched fabric over the swell of your breasts. There was no point in bothering with one of those itchy, lacy garments you owned, that only you had ever laid eyes on - if all went according to plan tonight, your bra would just be coming off sooner rather than later anyway. You bent to slip your bare feet into a pair of plain black flats - you’d considered heels for a brief moment, but decided against them on the off-chance you had to make a quick getaway - when you were interrupted by the bedroom door colliding with the wall as it was unceremoniously flung open.

“...And just where the frozz do you think you’re going wearing that ?” A disbelieving voice intoned harshly from the doorway, and you looked up to see your roommate blocking the light flooding in from the living area, a panic-stricken expression written across their features. You paused, your arms hanging limply at your sides, staring determinedly back at your roommate, whose face was beginning to reflect a dawning sense of horror and understanding.

“ Out. ” You answered in a bland monotone, snatching your handbag off the bed and peeking inside of it, making sure that the keycard to your apartment door, as well as your credit chip and a healthy pouch of physical Imperial credit coins, were tucked away safely inside. Your roommate strode forward, grabbing your forearm and squeezing tightly, causing you to wince as they forced you to look them in the eye.

“Out where ?”

You didn’t reply, your plans already dangerously close to unraveling. Your roommate’s grip tightened to the point of pain, and you were stunned to see that their eyes had filled with tears of fright. You knew you should feel guilty for putting them through this sort of duress, for worrying them to the point of weeping over your safety, but the only thing you found yourself feeling was a sort of grim pleasure. The fact that someone you had grown so close to in your years of living in Cloud City, a creature you considered to be one of your closest friends, could be frightened to this level by the thought of you becoming somehow entangled with the notorious Boba Fett, did nothing but give you a sick sense of satisfaction deep in your gut. It heightened the swirling arousal that was already building deep in the pit of your belly, fantastical images of what this night’s adventure could possibly bring already brewing in your mind. Your roommate finally loosened their vice grip on your arm and shook their head unbelievingly, backing away from you as if you were tainted.

“Oh, stars … I know what you’re thinking. Please don’t do this. This isn’t some game of Droids and Guards, you fool, he’s dangerous .” They begged, seeming nearer and nearer to tears with every word.

“Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing. I’m not going to get myself into a situation I can’t handle, I just… I just want to see him.” You adjusted the strap of your handbag on your shoulder and heard the childish, lovestruck pleading in your voice. You hated yourself for it, for letting yourself get this much in a tizzy over a mere man - but this truly wasn’t just a man, was it? You could very possibly wind up in bed with none other than Boba Fett by the end of the night, if the galaxy was kind to you. He was going to be the first to ever claim you - as you pushed past your roommate and headed for the door, you were certain of it. This was your darkest, deepest fantasy come true, something you had been pining for and secretly dreaming about since you were old enough to even fathom the concept of sex, of virginity. Boba Fett was the only man you’d ever thought about giving yourself to for years now, and this was quite possibly your only chance. There was no turning back now.

“Didn’t you hear me say that he was surrounded by Imps?! High-ranking Imps ! He kills people for money! He’s here working for the Emperor, I know it, and that big brute Vader’s still lurking around -” You held up one hand to silence them, and to your surprise, they immediately stopped, wild-eyed and staring at you imploriously, hands raised above their head. You had never seen your friend this keyed up, this stricken by concern for your wellbeing. It felt strange to say, but other than mynocks in your stomach from thinking about how the rest of the night could go, you didn’t understand just what this panic was all about. You weren’t stupid enough to interrupt important Imperial business, and it wasn’t like Lord Vader himself was going to be sitting at the bar, nursing a drink - right?

“Just… don’t wait up for me tonight. Okay?” You quietly begged your friend, your voice sweetly soft and as neutral as you could manage. A long moment passed between the two of you, no words spoken, just gazing into each other’s eyes. Several beats passed in silence, only the traffic outside interrupting the heavy tension that filled the room. Your roommate was the first to break, their shoulders sinking, defeated. You felt a new burst of energy and smug satisfaction, but couldn’t help but feel somewhat remorseful at your reaction towards their obvious distress. The feeling passed quickly, however, when your roommate bowed their head, the ghost of a smile on their lips as they clucked their tongue and shook their head at you.

“Dank farrik… you’re a real pain in my ass, you know that? ...But okay. You win.” They sighed. You kept your expression even, although you were screaming with joy on the inside, and were about to reach out to embrace them, when they took a step back and pointed in your face. You felt yourself going slightly cross-eyed, following their finger down the bridge of your nose, and had to stifle an ill-timed giggle. “But if you’re not back by sunrise, I’m contacting the Wing Guard and reporting you missing, and I’m going to tell them who you were trying to meet up with. I’ll get Baron Calrissian and the Alliance involved. Don’t think I won’t.” They continued, and your heart skipped a beat. You certainly weren’t expecting that turn of events, but weren’t exactly surprised either. With how sympathetic your roommate was to the Rebel Alliance, especially concerning the events of the past week and the installation of what the locals were beginning to call the ‘Iron Blockade,’ it made sense that they would threaten you with action involving the Rebellion, even if it was just out of concern for your safe return. It wasn’t that you didn’t support the Rebels yourself - their crushing blow to the Empire in the form of the destruction of the Death Star had reinvigorated your hope in their cause, especially after the horrific obliteration of Alderaan - but the purely selfish, immature side of you wondered what would happen to Boba Fett if the Rebellion were to come out the victors of this current Galactic Civil War. He was one of Vader’s most loyal hunters, and you had a feeling that the Rebels wouldn’t smile kindly upon his transgressions against them. Especially since one of their most famous generals, Han Solo, currently had a bounty on his head large enough to buy an entire spice mine, and it had been speculated on the HoloNet that Fett was one of the many mercenaries attempting to cash in on this coveted prize.

You walked past your roommate without another word, slipping past them in the doorway of your bedroom, and padded easily across the living area carpet, knowing now that they’d had put their last word in and would no longer attempt to stop you. Settling your hand upon the doorknob leading into the hall, you were about to let yourself out into the night when you heard the Aruzan softly call your name, and you turned. They stood in the center of the room, smiling sadly, arms folded across their chest, a look of intense worry upon their face as they watched you exit, hoping they would find you back home in the morning. Their last words to you rang in your ears as you made your way across the night sky in the space taxi that would deposit you right on the steps of the Atrium.

“Good luck.”

You stepped into the main lounge of the Paradise Atrium and instantly felt incredibly out of place, and exorbitantly underdressed despite the expensive shimmersilk you had draped yourself in for this special occasion.

The room was filled with regal-looking creatures from all over the galaxy - a large group of Twi’leks sat on a couch in the far corner, smoking from a hookah and emitting large columns of purple and green smoke through their nostrils in between bouts of gay laughter, and a company of important-looking Nothoiin congregated around the elaborate carbonite sculpture placed in the center of the room. You’d attended gatherings at the Atrium many times before, but you’d never been in the presence of so many upper-class individuals. You wouldn’t be surprised if just one of these creatures was currently carrying more credits in their pockets than you would ever see in your entire lifetime. Not to mention, there were several armored stormtroopers, their white plastoid suits gleaming in the artificial light, holding sentinel near the staff entrance at the rear of the room, a sight you’d never seen here before. Something was definitely going down in Cloud City, and you had walked right into it. That realization alone made you want to sink into the floor, and what made it even worse was the fact that there was no sign of Boba Fett.

You had crept into the Atrium as discreetly as you could, almost on tiptoe, and in hindsight you weren’t exactly sure what you had been expecting. Had you thought that you’d walk in and Fett himself would have been standing there, awaiting your entrance like a prince from ancient myth, on call for his princess’s arrival at the ball? Heart hammering wildly, leaning against the wall for support, you had scanned the room twice, then thrice over, looking for a flash of green, a swirl of cape, any indication that he was present, only to come up empty. He simply wasn’t here; at least he wasn’t anymore, if he ever had been in the first place. As much as you loved your roommate, and despite their almost violent reaction they’d had to the knowledge that you were - at the very least - trying to meet Boba Fett, it wouldn’t terribly surprise you if they had been pulling your leg all along. You’d trudge back into your shared apartment, dejected, and your roommate would be there, grinning smugly, lecturing that the moral of this story was to never seek company with strange men.

Gazing around the room once more and seeing no sign of Fett, or at the very least, the Imperial graysuits that he’d apparently been here meeting with, you found yourself almost embarrassingly heartbroken. You’d banked so much on tonight, only for it to wind up being a missed chance, if not a complete fake-out. You refused to give your roommate the satisfaction of heading straight back home, though, so you figured now was as good a time as any to drink your sorrows away at the bar. The Paradise Cantina was adjacent to the Atrium and contained a half-moon bar as well as several comfortable private booths, and you sidled onto one of the stools at the center of the console, directly in front of the bartender, a distinguished-looking Bothan who eyed you dubiously.

“Anything I can get for you, kid?” He asked gruffly, polishing a glass and looking you up and down, feeling you out. Although you had lounged with friends at the Atrium, even attended a few workplace parties there, you’d never really been a patron of the bar, and you felt the clientele ogling you suspiciously. It obviously wasn’t an ordinary occurrence, to see a scantily clad young woman sitting alone at a high-class bar, and the various eyes on you made your skin crawl, although you did your best to ignore the unwanted attention.

“Just a Jedi Mind Trick, please. Make it a double” You replied softly, keeping your eyes down, tracing your fingernail against the wood grain of the bar. You heard the Bothan snort, probably amused at your choice of such a strong drink right off the bat, doubting you could hold your liquor. The way you saw it, though, you’d rather spend the rest of the evening getting shit-faced here than simply slinking off home alone, to wallow in bed self-despairingly.

The bartender had just set the triangular container full of bright blue liquid on the counter in front of you when a door you hadn’t noticed on the far side of the room slid open, and a figure stepped out. A hush immediately fell over the room, which had previously been filled with glasses clinking, quiet conversation and laughter, and a holographic jizz band being broadcast. You didn’t bother to look over at first, too absorbed in your own self-pity to care, picking up the glass and knocking the entire drink back in one gulp, leaving the edges of your mind slightly blurred.

That’s when you heard the spurs.

Kshnk. Kshnk. Kshnk.

At first you assumed it was solely a figment of your imagination, an effect of the alcohol being absorbed into your system, until you realized that the room had gone silent, that even the hologram of the band had ceased playing. You looked up at the bartender, but he was staring over the top of your head, paused in the act of refilling another guest’s stein. The jangling sound filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, not even the sound of your own breathing, and a chill went down your spine. You were clenching your empty cup so tight that you were surprised it didn’t shatter in your hand. Gingerly, you turned around to acknowledge the cantina’s newest arrival, your stomach rolling with anticipation, your blood singing in your veins, your heart pounding like a gigantic drum sitting in your chest cavity. You looked up.

And there he was.

Boba Fett.

He was shorter than you expected.

You felt a near-hysterical giggle rise in your throat as the realization crossed your mind, that this was your very first thought upon seeing the man you’d envisioned fucking you time and time again - in person, finally. The laughter died in your throat as he turned to cross the room, only several meters away from you, and you got your first real look at him.

Stars, he was beautiful .

Boba Fett walked slowly, methodically, with more purpose than you had ever seen another creature move, even though it seemed his only motive at the moment was to find a place to sit down. The dented helmet that concealed his features didn’t break its steady gaze straight ahead even once as Fett crossed the room, even though every eye in the cantina was locked to him. There was no way the man didn’t know that he was currently the center of attention, the reason for the palatable silence in the air, and it was quite obvious that he didn’t care one parsec. The green armor he wore was littered with scrapes and scars and dents, but still shone in the low light of the bar, as if it had only just been waxed, and you shivered at the thought of getting to press your bare chest against the battle-flecked breastplate. A ragged cape was tossed over one shoulder, and your eyes were drawn to the string of inexplicable numbers glowing out from an interface on the right-hand side of his armor, and to the strange symbol mirroring its position, a stalk of grain framed by a bright red drop of blood and what looked to be lettering in a language you didn’t recognize, directly above his heart. There were several long braids of multi-colored and variously textured hair thrown over the opposite side of his shoulder plate, the sight of which sent another delicious chill up your spine. You knew you should be repulsed by the sight of those trophies of war alone, but it served as a confirmation of something you already knew - this man was dangerous . There was debate on the HoloNet as to the origin of those braids - some who’d been following Fett’s career, as you did, were adamant that they were made of the scalps of Wookiees he’d killed; yet others claimed they were the braids of Jedi Padawans he’d hunted down at the request of Lord Vader himself. Your eyes flitted downwards to below his waist, heat flushing through your system. The greenish codpiece was just as battered as the rest of the armor - even more so, upon a closer look. Judging by the craggy yet shallow indentation located almost in the dead-center of it, some unfortunate soul had made a last ditch effort to save themselves by taking a shot at what they must have thought was the most vulnerable area on Fett’s body. They had obviously been wrong, and you were grateful for it.

Almost seeming to move in slow motion, the bounty hunter passed directly by the bar, and you could have sworn you could sense his body heat even from several meters away, could smell blaster smoke and blood on him. As repulsive as those scents should have been, reminiscent of battlefields and death and suffering, you felt almost soothed by the thought of being able to press your face to the rough cloth that held the Mandalorian armor together, breathe in those aromas as deeply as you wished, a smell that was so distinctly him . You focused your gaze on Boba Fett once more just in time to see him settle himself at a raised table in the corner, reclining back casually. He seemed to finally notice that all other movement and conversation in the cantina had ceased upon his arrival, and his helmet swiveled first to the left, then to the right, making direct eye contact with several goggling patrons, who uneasily turned away under his gaze. Fett’s visor then turned in your direction and your heart walloped frantically in your chest - ‘ has he noticed me?’ - but it became obvious quite quickly that he was looking past you, straight at the Bothan behind the bar, who regarded Fett for a long moment before offering him a grudging nod. Almost as if this were some sort of cue, the holographic band started up again with a lively rendition of ‘Sugaan Essena,’ and the muttered discussions, tinkling of glasses, and laughter resumed. The clients of the Paradise Atrium and Cantina seemed eager to forget that the deadliest bounty hunter in the known galaxy was seated in their midst. Fett, however, had cast his gaze to the city outside, watching the rows of traffic track across the nighttime sky, gloved hands resting firmly on his knees, deep in thought.

You watched out of the corner of your eye as three young Zabrak women wearing matching skin-tight baffleweave bodysuits made a beeline for Fett’s table as soon as the atmosphere had settled down, obviously over-eager for their chance to flirt with danger. You sniggered when the armored figure sent them away with a wave of his hand before they even had a chance to close in on him, watched them turn tail with their heads down almost as quickly as they had first come. You tried to ignore the coiling pit of unease in your belly as you considered moving forward with your plan, despite the fact that it seemed for all intents and purposes that Fett did not want to be bothered. You continued to watch the man as his attention was drawn back to the outside world. ‘ Oh, hell. You only live once, right? What’s the worst that could happen, he tells you to kark off?’

“Hey… would you send a drink over to that table in the corner? Whatever he usually orders when he comes here.” You waved the bartender over, pointing a thumb over your shoulder at Boba Fett, jerking your chin in his direction as well for emphasis. You were trying to play it cool, sending a drink to the table of one of the most bloodthirsty men in the galaxy, but you were sure that the bartender could see your hand shaking as you made the request. The tall Bothan looked at you as if you had asked him for a diamond-encrusted barrel of Coruscanti bitters, straight from the Emperor’s private reserve.

“...You sure about that, kid? You do know who that is, right? Boba Fett’s one tough customer. You’d be better off not messing around with that barve.” He leaned down towards you, warning you off as if you were a child, trying to play with the older kids who would only include you in their games if it meant beating you within an inch of your life. You nodded, looking back with what you hoped was a steely determination.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

The Bothan looked at you for a moment with great pity, as if he were gazing upon a creature that had just consigned itself to its doom. Heaving a sigh that quivered the fur lining his muzzle, the bartender turned and started preparing another drink.

You couldn’t even look as the liquor was brought across the room by one of the ornate serving droids that wandered the cantina. You kept your head low, jiggling one leg on the stool beneath you, digging your fingernails into the glossy wood that encompassed the top of the bar. The minutes seemed to tick by excruciatingly, and you were overcome by the notion that maybe you should leave, get up and bolt when you still could, escape before Fett was aware of what fool had sent him the drink, go home to bed and forget any of this had ever happened. But too late - just as you were beginning to shift in your seat, to lean in the direction of the doorway and gather up the momentum to run, the bartender cleared his throat, causing your head to pop up at the sudden noise. The Bothan looked you in the eyes and did nothing but give you a subtle bob of his head, watching a point across the room. You followed his eyes, and stopped dead in your tracks.

Boba Fett was staring at you.

Openly leering at you was a better term for it, his entire body turned in your direction, lazily slumped in his seat, his legs spread comfortably wide. Kriff, this was just like your daydream. As soon as he was sure that he had your attention, and as if he had read your mind, one hand rose from its spot resting against the ample meat of his thigh, and two deft fingers hidden under an off-white glove of bantha leather beckoned you closer with a quick curling motion. It was an action that whispered, ‘ Come hither, my dear. Let’s play.’

Your stomach lurched and your vision suddenly filled with black spots, and you bit down hard on your lower lip, the quick pain bringing you back from the brink of passing out. Your eyes refocused, the dark points fading away, and there he still sat, his position unchanged. He was waiting for you to come over. You looked back at the bartender for guidance - by now you were sure he had seen this song and dance played out here many times before - and the Bothan gave you a roll of his deep-set dark eyes, and a noncommittal shrug. He’d already written you off as another casualty, the sad result of human naïveté in the face of the galaxy’s bloodthirstiness.

You rose from your stool on legs that felt as if they were made of bacta, your feet seeming to glide across the floor of the Atrium, bringing you ever closer to Boba Fett. The cantina patrons seemed to part like a sea for you, and you didn’t give a womp rat’s ass if they were staring, whispering about you. Your eyes and thoughts belonged only to the helmeted man who had beckoned you closer, and whose parted legs you were standing almost directly between when your long walk ended. You were so close that you could see yourself reflected in his blackened visor, dumbfounded. You were visibly trembling, and you could feel Fett’s body heat rolling off him, soaking into your own legs as you stood before him. It took you a moment to comprehend that he was waiting for you to speak, for you to make the first move.

“...You’re here for Han Solo, aren’t you? Everyone knows you two have a rivalry and that you’ve been after him for ages now, and he’s here, and you’re here, and that can’t be a coincidence, right? It’s like -” The words rushed from your mouth in an excited torrent, and you were fully aware that you were babbling at him, but you couldn’t stop yourself if you tried. Every nerve-ending in your body felt sparked with the fire of a planet’s core, you were absolutely thrumming, and you didn’t care whether you sounded like an idiot in front of this man who you’d lusted after for ages, just as long as you were talking to him, that you had his attention. Mercifully, Fett’s palm came up, the same move he had used on the Zabraks earlier in the night. You stopped mid-sentence, your mouth still hanging upon, your eyes wide.

“I’m here on business. What exactly that pertains to is none of your concern.” The reply was smooth and unhurried, and he didn’t even look at you. Boba Fett seemed much more concerned with what was going on outside the Atrium’s walls, his line of sight falling past you, towards the lights of the Administrator's Palace. Where Han Solo probably was, if the rumors of him being Leia Organa’s consort were true. So you were right. Even if he wouldn’t admit it in words, it was almost like the bounty hunter was showing you. At least, that’s how you chose to take it.

“...Oh. Okay. ...Fair enough, I guess.” You cautiously replied, unsure of how to proceed when he offered no further conversation, and cringed inwardly. Stars , you were truly awful at small talk, especially with handsome men. No wonder you’d never gotten laid. Fett’s helmet snapped towards you like a sharp cut with a blade, his restraint with your dallying almost nonexistent, and you felt yourself flush hotly as you realized you’d just been staring blankly at him the entire time, drinking him up just as greedily as any Hutt would look upon a dancer. There was no way he couldn’t tell your intentions, and your confidence and excitability wavered.

“So what exactly is it that you want from me, girl? I don’t have the time nor the patience to be followed around and gifted tokens at bars by starry-eyed brats. Say what you will, or I’ll have you removed from my sight. Now .”

There was ice in his voice, and you found yourself slightly afraid for the first time. The idea of Boba Fett growing angry with you was not something you wanted to experience. You had to say your piece now, or risk losing what you wanted forever. You balled your fists so hard that you were sure your nails were cutting through the skin of your palms, but you stood your ground. You weren’t going to let Fett intimidate you away from what you wanted of him, not now. You were too close.

So you told him, blunt and straight to the point.

“I’ve never been fucked. I want you to be my first.”

Fett’s form stiffened in his seat, the gloved hand that had been nonchalantly resting on his thigh almost imperceptibly gripping the hard muscle beneath. You didn’t notice, nor were you able to sense the fact that he was holding his breath.

Despite the extraordinary self-control Boba Fett had cultivated over every aspect of his functions during his decades of bounty hunting, he felt his cock twitch involuntarily within the confines of his flight pants. He’d encountered plenty of cyar’tomade across the galaxy over the years, desperate creatures of all types looking to spend a night in his company just for the later bragging rights, others looking to fulfill some sort of bizarre erotic fantasy - he’d taken up plenty of those offers, and turned down even more. Boba Fett was a man who enjoyed sex, and he made no secret of the fact that he had been scoping the lounge for a prospective bedpartner after the meeting with Lieutenant Sheckil and his graysuits. That wretched smuggler Solo had a date with a carbonite chamber tomorrow evening after he and Vader’s planned ambush at the Administrator’s Palace in the morning, and Fett fully intended to vent some excess energy tonight before finally collecting on the barve’s hefty bounty. It was back to Jabba’s afterwards, and more bounties to collect on, and even less downtime. Fett enjoyed his life of solitude, practically thrived on it, but still… he was only human, and he had his needs.

What he hadn’t expected was being cornered and propositioned by a willing and eager virgin. And such a pretty thing, too. This was a first, and he had to admit he was already getting hard at the thought of teaching this naïf how to please a man, to be the one to take her like nobody had before, to show her just who exactly she was dealing with.

“ Well … aren’t you a bold one.” He finally exhaled, still avoiding any semblance of eye contact with you, his focus seeming to be on stirring the cubes around his drink. You swallowed thickly, watching Fett’s index finger push the straw back and forth. He hadn’t touched the drink at all, but you didn’t care. You wanted that finger in your mouth, down your throat, glove and all, but shook yourself from the daydream when it occurred to you that Fett was watching, waiting for a response.

“I’ve found that fortune favors the bold.” You pushed yourself into the chair opposite him, trying to conceal how badly your legs were wobbling. You had waded chest-deep into completely unknown territory, and you felt as if you were going to faint at any moment if you didn’t take a seat. To emphasize your point, you reached out and grasped the drink you had sent to his table just minutes ago, tipping your head back and draining half of it in one swig. Your head swimming from the sudden rush of hard liquor, you settled the container back on the polished wood and steadied your gaze on the bounty hunter. Fett cocked his helmet at you, an amused snort emanating from underneath, a static edge to it thanks to the vocoder that helped conceal his voice. He laid his forearms on the table, leaning his upper body forward towards you, the posture of a gossiping schoolboy, mocking and insolent.

“And what makes you think I’d want to be the one to break you in, vaar’ika ?”

He almost purred the question, sickly sweet. There was no outright malice there, no, but he was teasing you; you could hear the laughter in his voice. You could tell he thought you were nothing but a stupid little girl who didn’t know what she was getting herself into, and it shamed you into silence. You felt your throat tightening, your eyes starting to burn, and you begged yourself, ‘ Don’t you dare start crying and prove him right. You know what you came here for. Don’t you dare. ’ But it was much easier said than done, and your attempt to coax yourself out of this panic only seemed to deepen it. You came this close to fulfilling your fantasy, you could have practically reached out and touched it, but it all had to fall to pieces because you were really nothing but a blubbering baby. You weren’t worthy of being with Boba Fett, and it had been a pipedream to think so even for a moment.

“I… I-I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking , coming here. I’ve made an ass of myself and I’ve completely wasted your time, I’m so sorry -”

Your eyes brimming with embarrassed tears, hot and heavy on your lashes and threatening to spill over at any moment, you ducked your head and pushed the chair out as quickly as you could, moving to brush past the still-seated bounty hunter and make a break for it out into the cool night air. With a harsh gasp, you felt yourself suddenly being jerked back by the elbow, almost stumbling with the force of the pull. Boba Fett’s gauntleted hand was gripping your arm in an iron hold, the black void of his visor locked onto your face. There was no way to tell, of course, and you couldn’t say how you knew, but you could have sworn he was smiling at you.

“ I didn’t say no , little one . Tell me again what you want of me.” Fett intoned evenly, but not unkindly, releasing his hold on you. To your shock, he ran his hand down your arm as he let you go, and it almost felt - of all things - reassuring . Arousal pooled to your core so quickly at Fett’s surprisingly soft touch and tone that it took you a few extra moments to even register what he had said.

‘He didn’t say no. It wasn’t possible. Does he actually want to? ...And he called me ‘little one.’

You could have died then and there, on the plush carpeted floor of the Paradise Atrium, but your words found you, every ounce of courage in your frame flooding through your veins at once.

“Take me back to your ship. Let me give myself to you. I want to be yours tonight… only yours. Please .” You laid a trembling hand on his wrist, still expecting to be violently brushed away, told to back off and go home if you knew what was good for you, threatened with disintegration or a blaster shot to the chest or something . But the harsh gesture or violent threat never came. The scarred green helmet tilted downwards to regard your fingers clutching at the armor, and after a quiet beat, Boba Fett’s gaze returned yours. Although you couldn’t see the eyes hidden behind that dark, T-shaped visor, you could feel them burrowing into your very soul, sweeping over you greedily, like a prize to be taken. Shivers rippled up your arms and your stomach rolled, but you weren’t afraid. Not anymore. Silently, you withdrew your fingers, letting your hands fall limply to your sides, and Fett nodded, seemingly satisfied with your plea.

“As you wish, nehutyc’ika. Come, then.” With that, Boba Fett stood in one swift motion, and held one palm out for you to take, open and inviting.

You felt as if you’d been kicked in the chest. You were instantly sober, any trace of alcohol from the night’s earlier wallowing fully flushed from your system by the influx of adrenaline currently screaming through your body. Your skin felt like it was on fire, and for a brief moment you wondered if he was playing with you, if this were some sort of sick joke, but you knew in the deepest recess of your heart that it wasn’t. He was serious. He’d made a career out of not backing down on deals. Boba Fett was a man of his word.

So you took his hand and let yourself be spirited away into the night by a figure from your best daydreams, and from other creatures’ worst nightmares.

#boba fett #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x reader

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avengerscompound · 3 years

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The Tower: Family - 27

The Tower: Family An Avengers Fanfic

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Pairing: Avengers x OFC, Bruce Banner x Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton x Wanda Maximoff x Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanoff x Tony Stark x Thor x Sam Wilson x OFC (Elly Cooper)

Word Count: 1740

Warnings: Pregnancy, mentions of past child abuse, little angsty

Synopsis: With new powers, Thor now living on Earth full time, a wedding to plan, and Natasha and Wanda expecting, a lot is changing for Elly and her large and rather unconventional family. When Elise’s parents try to reestablish connections, Elly questions what being a family actually means.

Chapter 27: The Blank Check

While the babies stayed in the medbay in intensive care I decided it was about time that my mother met Tony and Steve, and if that went well, Riley and Pietro too. It had been over six months since that meeting with her and dad, and with the babies all coming now, it wouldn’t be long until I would have the babies around me all the time and the decision of whether I let her meet my children or not would be a decision about whether I kept working to have a mother/daughter relationship with her at all. It was time to shit or get off the pot.

I invited mom to come up and have morning tea with me. Steve and Tony would be there too and if that went well FRIDAY could tell one of the others to bring Riley and Pietro down.

I spent that night with Wanda and the babies and after we had breakfast and she fed them I headed up to prepare. Everyone else had agreed to give us space and had gone to either visit Wanda and the twins or went down to the garden to play with the dogs and Riley and Pietro. I had the cooks prepare a spread of small cakes and finger sandwiches along with tea and coffee. When FRIDAY announced that she was coming up in the elevator I got up quickly.

“You both wait here,” I said to Tony and Steve.

Tony looked more nervous than I felt. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous. I’d spent so much time with my mom lately, it wasn’t like being reunited with a stranger. I guess I just felt like this was it. Yes, I could cut her out if things turned toxic later, but if I introduced her to Riley and Pietro today, they’d go from having no grandparents to having one and I wouldn’t want to be the one that took that away from them.

“El,” Steve said gently. “Everything is going to be fine.”

I nodded and went to the elevator. It opened up just as I got to it and mom stepped out. She looked even more nervous than I felt. She had a couple of large gift bags in her hands and she looked around the entryway in awe. It was her first time in the penthouse, so I wasn’t exactly surprised she was impressed by it. “Elise, honey,” she said, kissing my cheek. “I heard that Wanda had her babies, so I bought some presents. And some for Riley and Pietro too.”

“That’s really nice, mom,” I said, leading her inside. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I just…” She didn’t finish her sentence but I knew what she was going to say. She really wanted to meet them.

I led her past the stairs and around the corner to the dining table where Tony and Steve were standing. Tony fidgeted on his feet as Steve stood with his hands behind his back. “Mom, this is Tony and Steve,” I said. “Steve, Tony, this is my mom, Jennifer.”

“Yes, of course,” mom said, as Steve stepped forward to shake her hand. “I know you both.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jennifer,” Steve said, shaking her hand.

“Please, it’s Jenny,” mom said.

“Jenny,” he said with a nod. “Take a seat.”

Mom sat down and Steve and I sat near her. Tony sat a little further away on the other side of me.

“Have I met everyone now?” Mom asked.

“Yeah, these are the last two,” I said. “To be brutally honest with you mom, I held back with them because I figured if you were lying to me, these were the two you were using me to get to.”

She frowned and nodded. The information obviously hurt but she seemed to understand. “I get it. I’m glad you’re trusting me more.”

“While we’re all being brutally honest,” Tony said. “Not all of us wanted you to get involved in her life.”

She nodded again. “I know. And I might deserve that,” she said. “But I am grateful that I was given a chance. And I know you were involved with setting me up in the city and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for that.”

“So if I was to offer you a million dollars to leave us alone?” Tony asked.

Mom looked at him like she’d been hit by a truck. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish as she tried to grasp the full gravity of what he’d just said.

“I’m completely serious,” Tony said, pulling out his checkbook. “A million not enough? Five? Will five do it? How about ten?" He started to scribble out on his checkbook. "I’ll tell you what Mrs. Cooper, I’ll sign this and write your name right here, and you can fill in exactly the amount you think your daughter is worth. Because that’s what you wanted right? For her to marry rich and you and your husband could get your big fat dowry right? Well, she did just like you wanted. She got the richest. If my money isn’t good enough, maybe we can dip into the Asgardian pot.”

Mom looked at me in shock. “Is this what you want, Elise?”

I could feel myself tearing up and I wasn’t sure exactly what factor of what was happening right now was affecting me the most. Tony’s aggressive overprotectiveness or the fact I was a little worried that my mom would take it. Over the past few months, the thread that joined me to her had gotten thicker and brighter. The thought of her ruining all that by picking up the check hurt.

“Of course not,” I said.

“If it’s hurting you, I can leave you alone,” mom said. “I’ve hurt you enough. I don’t want the money. I want you to be okay.”

I started crying and Tony took the blank check and tore it into pieces. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

“Did you have to be so dramatic?” Steve scolded as he pulled me close and rubbed my back.

“Sorry, honey. I just wanted you to be sure,” he said.

I shook my head and my mom moved closer and took my hand. I looked into her eyes and she looked back at me seriously. “Elise, I am sorry for standing by so passively while your father hurt you the way he did. For raising you to believe you’d ever done anything to deserve it and that all you could expect in life was more of the same. I’m sorry it took me so long to accept your sexuality. If I could go back and change things I would. But I’m so proud of you. I’m proud of everything you’ve done. I might not understand it all, but you have a beautiful family that makes you happy and that is the least you deserve.”

I was weeping openly by the time she was done and launched myself into her arms. She held me close. The way I held Riley or Pietro when they were upset. The way moms are supposed to hold their daughters. The way I’d wish she’d hold me back when my father would hurt me. I didn’t feel resentful though. I felt grateful that after all this, I’d finally become the priority. I felt grateful that I had a chance to have my mom be my mom.

“FRIDAY?” I said, keeping my head buried in my mom’s neck. “Can you…?”

“Of course, Doctor Cooper,” she replied.

“Alright. How about we eat?” Steve said, rubbing my back. “Elise had very specific ideas about what morning tea was.”

“Right,” mom said, rubbing my back and letting me gently pull away from her embrace. “Of course. So tell me about the new babies.”

“They are precious,” Steve said. “The tiniest little things. Our other two were more premature, but they were bigger, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t think so, Steve,” I giggled. “You’re just used to the bruiser that Riley has become.”

“Well whatever the case, they are so small they can each fit in the palm of Thor’s hand,” Steve said.

The elevator dinged and a moment later Clint appeared around the corner holding both Riley and Pietro’s hands. Mom turned in her chair and gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Is this… are they?”

“Mom,” I said, getting up and waving Clint over. “This is Pietro and Riley.”

She got down on one knee in front of them. “Hello, little ones, look at you,” she said, touching their faces. “Oh my goodness, you have your mother’s eyes.”

Riley looked up at Clint. “Who’s dis?”

“That’s your grandma,” Clint said, as mom started laughing.

“We don’t dot a gwandma,” Pietro said, eyeing his grandmother suspiciously.

“I’ve been away. I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m back now. I have presents.”

“Pwesents?” Pietro asked.

“Is dat cake?” Riley added, pointing at the table.

Mom laughed as Clint helped her back up. “You come open your presents and have some cake. I really want to hear all about you both.”

They ran over to the table excitedly and climbed up on the chairs. Mom picked up the present bags by her chair and looked at me, tears pricking her eyes. “Thank you, Elise,” she said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “If you would like we can go see Rose and Sarah on your way out.”

“I would love that,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned back to the kids and gave them the gift bags. "I wasn’t sure what your favorite things were. So I hope you like what I got you. You’ll have to show me the kinds of things you like best though.”

The kids began opening their presents and mom got them each a cupcake and some milk and gave it to them. I let FRIDAY know the others could come up if they wanted. Steve wrapped his arm around me as I watched my mom fussing over the kids. “Is this how you hoped it might be?” He whispered.

I nodded and turned, cuddling into him. “Better,” I said.

“Well, sweetheart,” he replied. “You deserve it. I hope you know that.”

I nodded, and for once, the trauma of my past didn’t raise its head to tell me otherwise. This time, I completely believed that I did.

// NEXT

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claybefree · 3 years

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Seeing as it's the twentieth anniversary, I guess I should post this again

September Third, Two Thousand and Nine

For years whenever anyone asked me when my son Henry was born I’d start to say September instead of August 25, 2001. Sunday he had his eighth birthday party at his mother’s house, and I stayed here. Most of his mother’s friends don’t care for me much. The feeling is mutual. Tonight coming home from work I started stitching what I’m about to write together in my mind and suddenly got very afraid. I thought for a moment that I was about to go get drunk, which might very likely be death for somebody like me. I was sure I was going to change direction of the truck, that I’d drive the same route I always did back then, that I would stand by the register and stare at the bottle in my hand without really knowing I where I was. I think it has to do with the weather finally changing and perhaps that Henry’s mom and I are no longer together. I sat on the porch of my little house and called a friend and told him all this. He listened and after a while I felt better, which is exactly how these things should go. When we decided we were done he told me I should go in and write all this down.

I worked on through that whole day. Most everybody else on the job had stopped and listened to each of the radios on the different floors or cried. The asshole Turks I was framing a bathroom for wouldn’t let me quit. They had tile to run. I found it made me feel better to keep going anyway. The laborers cussed me when I asked them to move so that I could use the table saw, a natural gathering spot on any job. They seemed to think I was calloused or hard-hearted and it was because I was from Tennessee. It just now occurred to me that maybe they were right.

That afternoon, when it was determined safe to walk across the bridges, most of the job, the other carpenters and trades-people, wandered home to Brooklyn or Queens. Me and the two left to close everything up had it different as we lived in Jersey. Anthony, the boss, was big and red-haired, red faced and lived in Hoboken. Duane was in charge of demolition and waste, was a little shorter and darker, and lived in Secaucus or maybe somewhere west of that I think. They squared off on each other frequently. It always reminded me of two walruses going at it on a beach.

Whenever we went out to the bar afterwards Anthony would have a Bud tall boy in each hand at all times, the waitress would come up with four for him whenever we sat down. On the job we liked to yell at each other, I once told him I was doing him a favor by giving him such an easy target, and he never missed an occasion to oblige me. Duane was a single dad, dark haired with deep sunken yet kind eyes that always seemed to have bags under them. One of the black laborers told him once he was the most Uncle Fester looking motherfucker he had ever seen. I tended to agree.

We locked the job up at four I think, humped it across the park through the smoke to the A-train. There was smoke forming a mist around the trees of central park that day. There were no flower children loitering at Yoko’s “Imagine” monument to barge through. Our thinking was to get downtown to the Path train. We had no idea that two of the stations had been destroyed. It didn’t matter, we were underground fifteen minutes before Anthony vetoed the idea. People were running wild through the stations, on the trains, everything was panic and Oh Fuck and Anthony had no intention of being underground. He had a funny look on his face that I couldn’t figure out. It wouldn't occur to me until later that the big man was very afraid.

In the years since I have always wondered why people have reacted so strongly from that day. Later we would go to war because of a something that happened one day in New York City and this has always seemed really strange to me. I guess what I mean is that I was there and never wanted to kill anybody because of it. Most of the time I just thought it was very strange and sad and mostly just very interesting. I only remember ever crying about it twice. The first time was a few months afterward, I had quit Anthony to stay home with Henry. Part of our routine was to watch Sesame Street. One day in the winter there was a skit where Elmo got very scared because of some smoke and noise that was never identified. I suppose in this case it was a nameless fear. A New York City fireman came on screen and hugged him, told him it was okay to be scared, Elmo, and that everything would be alright. I remember little red furry Elmo hugged the fireman tight. I held Henry in my lap and cried into his fine blonde hair.

It was the fireman that did it. I still get upset when I think about the firemen. I have had a lot of trouble with cops in different times in my life, but I never had a problem with any fireman I ever encountered, drunk or otherwise. They seem to me to be a different animal entirely.

Anthony, Duane and me ran into two firemen on the deck of the cruise boat that carried us across to Weehawken. They came in and collapsed on the painted metal floor, shedding boots and letting their helmets roll away. Some people applauded weakly, others asked questions, they just stared at us and said nothing. It didn’t occur to me until much later they were probably the only ones from their station who lived. Other men that for years they worked with, ate and fought with, got drunk with were dead. There was a bar I frequented in Jersey City a few blocks from our house where a couple of weeks later I saw three firemen in dress uniforms. One was between his partner on a stool and the third who was older and may have been a captain. The captain was clearly upset, swaggering and poking the other two in the chest. Everybody else was trying hard not to pay attention to what seemed about to develop into a fight. I think later I saw the old man leaning against the bar and weeping openly, he must have been sixty at least.

I got drunk in this bar Sept. 10th while my wife and kid slept back home. She’d start nursing and pass out with him and I’d head out to roam. The thing I liked about this place was the Sinatra on the jukebox, so that night I loaded it up and sat at the bar listening. I think it was the first time I’d ever heard “Summer Wind.” The tattooed brunette tending bar must have thought it was cute because she serenaded me, singing along with a couple of the songs. There was another man with a mustache further down the line who was putting the blast on her and didn’t seem to like me much so I got the fuck out early. By “early” I mean I didn’t close the place.

I won’t tell you what we saw on the boat ride across the Hudson, you’ve seen it already. We unloaded at Weehawken and everyone, thousands of high end refugees really, started walking south towards Hoboken where we had been told there were buses waiting to take us home. I noticed that even wearing boots, the three of us walked faster than the others. We were construction workers living and working around Manhattan and we were very good at walking. I remember being comforted by walking with them. Hundreds of buses lined the streets of Hoboken and the three of us walked the length of that town. Anthony broke off about halfway to head home. A couple of weeks later I showed up having laid out drunk for two days and told him I had come for my tools. He looked at me and didn’t say a word. He mailed me my check. I haven’t seen the man since.

Duane and me trudged the rest of Hoboken together. I heard that not soon after I left he was let go to cut costs and that not long after that he got into a bad time with a prostitute on rt. 1 & 9. The smoke in Hoboken was thicker than in the city and the fumes from streets filled with idling buses finally got my hangover to officially kick in. I told Duane about how I’d had “Summer Wind” playing as background music in my head all day. He laughed and began singing the song, each line perfectly. We got through the crowd easily, after hours of walking together we had finally hit a stride together. We were marching, really. There was the giant blue sky of the day broken intermittently by smoke and there was the roar of diesel noise and Hoboken and Duane singing Summer Wind to me; some punk kid from Tennessee who had no business being there.

The only other incident I remember having to cry because of some assholes who decided to fly planes into tall buildings was coming across the Manhattan bridge one night after carrying my sister-in-law home to Park Slope. She would come over most nights to hang out with the baby, and around eleven or so and in various states of sobriety I’d be asked to drive her back home. I never hated the terrorists for invoking a War of Terror, I hated them for causing enough terror that it fucked the roads up. Shit got closed for what seemed no fucking reason whatsoever. One day coming back from the pediatrician’s office, Henry got stuck howling in his car seat for four hours because the Holland Tunnel was handling too much traffic and we were too afraid to take him out of it because of the cops everywhere. My sister-in-law and I spent a lot of time in the Saturn together on the nights I drove her home. I can’t remember what we talked about, probably everything. I haven't spoken to my sister-in-law since I moved out last summer.

This particular night the Brooklyn Bridge was only operating east-bound into Brooklyn so after I dropped her off I was diverted back across the Manhattan Bridge in order to get back into the city and eventually home. The Manhattan Bridge back then was still under renovation and I guess has always been the ugly, cross-eyed cousin of the Brooklyn Bridge. I got stuck on it, moving slower than shit, and staring at trash and old faded plywood encasing the little bit of wrought iron and Neo-Classical elements that were left up by the arch. Off to the left t seemed as though the entirety of Downtown was illuminated from the work lights that were set up down by Ground Zero. Downtown glowed with lights that were set up to look for people that weren’t there anymore. The DJ on WFMU that night was playing a super slowed down cover of the B-52’s Song for a Future Generation. If you’ve heard it, you’ve probably laughed, it’s a ridiculously chirpy pop song. I’ve always loved it. The lyrics go a little like this:

Wanna be the ruler of the galaxy

Wanna be the king of the universe

Let`s meet and have a baby now

In between each stanza, the different members give spoken-word tidbits of information about themselves. For example Ricky, the original guitarist, was a Pisces and “loved computers and hot tamales.“ Ricky also died from AIDS back in 1985 when people still had no idea what the disease was.

The version I heard that night had slowed the tempo to that of a blues song. The dip-shit ironic hipster that sang it reflected this. Stuck on the bridge it felt as though I was listening to a lament. What reduced me to tears, smoking Winstons in my little Saturn station wagon, was the feeling that whatever was left of innocence had recently been or was about to be brutally murdered by pig-face, ignorant men. Wanna be the first lady of infinity. Wanna be the nicest guy on earth. Let's meet and have a baby now.

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bananaofswifts · 3 years

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have this idea,” Taylor Swift says near the end of Miss Americana, director Lana Wilson’s documentary about the singer’s life and career. Moments later, casually holding her iPhone and reclining on a sofa in her studio, Swift performs the chorus for what will become “Only the Young,” sounding as if she’s reciting an old favorite rather than something new. “This particular song, and the process of creating it, was a perfect example of how visceral writing a song can be,” Swift tells Vanity Fair via email. With songwriting, she continues, “you try to transport yourself back to a time you felt intense emotion and write from that place. Every once in a blue moon, you end up in the studio at the exact moment you’re feeling that raw emotion.”

That kind of passion is present throughout Miss Americana. Rather than opt for mere hagiography to further buttress the Swift myth, Wilson focused on the singer during a transitional phase, as she wrapped up her Reputation tour and began creating her 2019 album, Lover. The film lets Swift openly discuss sensitive subjects she’s often avoided in interviews: her struggle with an eating disorder; her legal battle with a DJ who groped her during a meet-and-greet; her complicated feelings about fame, gender, and politics.

Through it all, Wilson captures Swift in not just confessional interviews, but in the recording studio as well. “It was the hardest thing to get access to—which is saying something, I think, because there’s obviously so many emotional and raw moments in the film,” the director says. “Filming her writing songs in the studio took the longest—to get the trust to film that—because the studio and writing songs is Taylor’s happy place.”

“Only the Young” was written in 2018, shortly after Swift had broken her long silence about politics. She had endorsed Democratic candidate Phil Bredesen in the Tennessee Senate race against Republican congresswoman Marsha Blackburn. But though Swift was credited with inspiring a surge in voter registration, Blackburn emerged as the winner. Miss Americana captures Swift’s devastation vividly. Upon hearing the news, she expresses her disgust with Blackburn by describing her as “Trump in a wig.”

“Almost the entire process of creating that song, I was fighting back tears because I was so sad about the results of the midterm elections in my state and the losses faced by superb Democratic candidates in states like Georgia and Texas,” she writes, presumably referring to Stacey Abrams’s gubernatorial defeat in Georgia and Beto O’Rourke’s loss in the Texas Senate race. “I didn’t want the defeat and hopelessness I felt for our country’s future to get the best of me. I didn’t want to weep. I wanted to have hope. Writing ‘Only the Young’ helped me push through that moment in my life and gave me the hope to keep fighting for what I believe is right.”

The act of songwriting has long had an undeniable cinematic appeal. From Lady Gaga singing “Shallow” in a Super A parking lot in A Star Is Born to Terrence Howard recording “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp” in Hustle & Flow to Eminem poring over sheets of paper as he comes up with “Lose Yourself” in 8 Mile, there’s something irresistible about watching performers create. The difference, however, is that those films—all winners of the best original song Oscar—are narrative features, with screenplays designed to enhance the songwriting process. Miss Americana is a work of nonfiction.

“It’s the kind of thing you always hope for when you’re making a film, but it’s never guaranteed that that kind of magic will happen in front of you, in front of the camera,” Wilson says of recording the creation of “Only the Young.” “I remember leaving the room at the end of that night and feeling like, This is why I do what I do.”

Swift wrote the song to motivate young people, but Wilson sees power in the songwriting process itself: “The best feedback I’ve got has been from young kids starting to make art for the first time and not being afraid of it because they’ve seen an example of it in front of their eyes.”

Nine turbulent months after Swift released “Only the Young,” she gave gratis license for it to be used in a voter-turnout video from California congressman Eric Swalwell. The video blended a year’s worth of headlines, including the global pandemic and mass protests for social justice, with her song and words from a speech by Kamala Harris. “As a country musician, I was always told it’s better to stay out of [politics],” Swift writes, adding, “The Trump presidency forced me to lean in and educate myself. I found myself talking about government and the presidency and policy with my boyfriend [actor Joe Alwyn], who supported me in speaking out. I started talking to my family and friends about politics and learning as much as I could about where I stand. I’m proud to have moved past fear and self-doubt, and to endorse and support leadership that moves us beyond this divisive, heartbreaking moment in time.”

#taylor swift #entreview

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ayamari-no-goshi · 3 years

Text

A Leap in the Dark | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary: AU. Daniel "Danny" Fenton tried to distance himself from anything that could possibly tie him to magic. However, his world begins to unravel when the powerful Vlad Masters brings charges of witchcraft against him.

Warnings: rated T for violence, descriptions of death

Warnings: Witch trail interrogation and execution by hanging

Parings: none

Notes: Cross-posted to AO3 and ff.net

This entire fic was inspired by a conversation I had on Tumblr

A Leap in the Dark

The old cart creaked and rocked as it slowly moved towards its destination. With the exception of the occasional instruction to the donkeys from the wagoner, the only sounds from its passengers were whispered prayers and weeping.

Daniel (Danny to friends) Fenton closed his eyes as he waited for the inevitable. No amount of crying or pleading would save him now, and he’d come to terms with it. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Several days prior, town guards stormed his home and pulled him into the streets. He demanded an explanation only to be punched in mouth and knocked to the ground. Some of the guards grabbed him and forced him into a kneeling position as another took out a scroll.

“On behalf of his majesty, we the guards of Amity Park arrest Daniel Fenton, son of Jack Fenton, on suspicion of practicing black magic and soliciting with the devil.”

He tried to argue with them. The charges were insane. Sure, his parents liked to experiment with alchemy which often seemed like magic, but he’d done his best to keep his nose to the ground once he moved out of their home. What did he do to get someone so upset with him that they falsely accused him?

His words fell short as someone hit him in the neck.

The next thing he knew, water fell on him, jolting him awake. Glancing around, he found himself in a cell. Trying to stand, he found shackles binding his arms and legs. In front of him, a guard with an empty bucket sneered.

Soon after, he found himself brought before the hallmote. A representative of the town stood before those gathered and explained what the accusations against him were. The other villagers yelled and hissed. The representative waited until they calmed to provide the evidence which involved reports of him meeting with a dark someone in the middle of the night at the outskirts of town.

Danny jolted as he realized someone saw him meeting up with Samantha. She and her family were fairly new to the area and affluent. Her parents didn’t approve of him, and there was an issue of different religious backgrounds.

When he had a chance to speak, Danny explained just that. “I just wanted to spend time with my dear friend without worrying about the judgement of others,” he pleaded to them.

The crowd’s anger softened some. Another rose and asked if any further evidence could be provided. Hope welled within Danny. If no further false evidence existed against him, he might be able to walk away from this relatively unharmed.

The crowd shifted as they waited for someone to speak. When no one did, Danny sighed in relief. He’d be able to go home and live his life. He might have to let Samantha know they would need to move their meeting times to make it safer for both of them, but if that was the only thing he needed to do, he could live with that.

The sound of walking broke the silence. Everyone turned to see Vladimir Masters, another recent addition to the town slowly walk into the room. Danny didn’t know what to make of the man. He had more influence due to his merchant money then the local lord which caused some tensions between them. However, he’d managed to charm most of the villagers and the church with his donations and public improvements. He also seemed to have an unhealthy interest in his parents, particularly his mother.

“Ladies and gentlemen of this fair town, I bring you one final piece of evidence,” he announced as he opened his cloak to produce a large leather-bound book. He waited for the whispers to stop before he continued. “When rumors first started, I could scarcely believe the son of my two dear friends could possibly be involved in such things. So, I decided to follow him to one of his supposed meetings with the Dark One.”

Again, he paused for effect. “I watched as young Daniel meet with a strange man who appeared on a dark mist. Afraid for my life, I didn’t dare approach and instead hide behind a nearby tree. While I couldn’t hear their words, I did see the stranger hand the boy a book before disappearing back into the mist. The boy glanced through it before heading further outside of town.”

“Concerned, I followed at a safe distance. He eventually came to the hang man’s tree that grows at the crossroads and buried it before heading back to town. I waited until I believed he would no longer be able to detect my presence and dug up the book. Lo and behold, I found a tome written in a language I could not read. Images of death and sacrifice littered its pages. Horrified, I returned to town with it in my possession to report it to both the guards and the Church.”

“Are you so enraged that you can’t have my mother that you need to frame me?” Danny spat at the man. “Everyone knows the crossroads are dangerous at night. I have no desire to risk encountering the vengeful and dark spirits that make such a place a home. Besides, don’t we all know the Dark One is more likely to appear at the crossroads? Why would I go there after supposedly meeting with Him?”

Masters just gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “How is a simple man like me supposed to understand the logic of such evil? Besides, you have not denied ownership of this book.”

The rest of the crowd erupted. Even through the symphony of voices, he could tell many of them cursed and condemned him. His heart sang as the shouts grew louder. Everyone knew the if the crowd believed your guilt, your fate was sealed. He would be handed over to the Church. If he was lucky, their interrogation techniques would kill him before he would be hanged.

After the official ruling was given, officials from the church entered and took him. The last thing he saw before being knocked unconscious was Masters’ smug expression.

He came to in another cell. Sore and aching, he took stock of himself. Well, as best as he could due to the chains. He didn’t seem to be injured which the exception of a few bruises. The pain appeared to be from resting in the uncomfortable position. Shifting, he tried to find a position slightly more comfortable and warmer while he waited for his fate.

An unclear amount of time later, a couple guards came to retrieve him. They removed him from the chains in the cell and placed more compact shackles on his wrists. Once they were certain he wouldn’t be able to fight back, they led him to a different chamber.

He figured he’d see the vicar and maybe a deacon. Instead, Vlad Masters and some men dressed entirely in black greeted him. “I don’t… I don’t understand…” he stammered.

Masters clapped his hands. “My dear boy, I don’t expect you to, but I should explain, seeing as you are my most recent guest.” He closed the distanced between them after a few strides and began circling him as if he was a predator. “I’m one of those tasked with seeking out who have made unsavory deals with the Dark One.”

An icy chill raised through Danny’s chest. “Are you telling me you’re one of those moon touched under that Hopkins guy?” While Amity Park wasn’t part of any of the large cities, the stories of the sudden upsurge in witch hunts had reached them. Hopkins was the most prolific of the hunters.

“We have crossed paths on occasion,” Masters responded as he continued to circle. “However, we disagree on some methods and share little more than a profession. While Hopkins believes those he prosecutes are truly evil, I do things a little differently.” He closed the gap between them so he could whisper, “You see, I believe people need to fear evil, and to do so, I need to remind them of its existence, whether it exists in that location or not.” For a moment, Danny could have sworn the man’s features warped into something inhuman and evil.

Danny swore as the man moved away. “You… you monster! How many innocent lives have you destroyed?”

Masters just chuckled. “Not enough. My friends, could you please silence the boy? We need to begin our interrogation.”

The men in black quickly gagged him before ripping off his clothes. They gasped and muttered darkly when they spotted the large birthmark on his chest. When they found no other mark of interest, they poke and prodded the mark. They started lightly before beginning to scratch and jab. Eventually, they brought out a small knife and drew his blood.

“He bleeds,” the one muttered. “Surely this is no brand.”

“Perhaps it is an illusion, or his brand is one of those normally unseen,” another replied.

The first one nodded. “If that is case, then we must locate it.” He then made a series of cuts on Danny’s arm. “No evidence here. Please try his back.”

They continued this investigation for some time. Slices were made up and down his arms, his chest and back, legs, and even his face. All of them bled. All of them hurt. Displeased they could find no sorcery mark, they ordered the guards to take him back to the cell.

The cool stone of the dark cell gave him some relief from the stinging cuts. If any one of them refused to heal cleanly, it could mean the death of him. One of his uncles died from a cut that refused to heal, and it was not one he would like to repeat.

After that, the attempts to get some form of acknowledgement or confession from him worsened. The beat him with their firsts and with whips. They burned him with hot iron. They even tried to throw him in the nearby river, but someone interrupted that one. While it wasn’t much, he silently thanked the unknown stranger for the act of kindness.

While he never confessed to any of the false accusations, he did openly curse Masters. That apparently was enough for him and his cronies. The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the Hallmote again with Masters announcing his confirmed guilt. As a result, he was sentenced to hang.

Danny spent the next few days in the prison’s cell. In a different cell across the hall, a few more condemned prisoners also awaited their fates. He heard they would meet their ends on the same day he would. One of the others tried talking to him, but he decided not to respond. Whatever the man did to deserve his fate, he didn’t need a chance to make it worse by speaking with someone accused of magic.

When the day finally came, the guards came to retrieve them. After their hands were bound behind them, they were led to the wagon to be transported to the location of the gallows.

While some of the other men prayed and wept, he just stared at the sigh. He’d made peace with his awful fate. As much as he wanted to blame the Lord, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He learned at a young age that while the Lord could work miracles, He couldn’t always interfere with the evil acts of men. At least he knew he’d be welcomed in Paradise.

Once the wagon reached its destination, Danny allowed himself to glance at the crowd. Many of them were celebrating the day. He almost forgot how an execution could excite the townsfolk. Some were even taking bets on how long he and the others would last.

They were marched into a line underneath the scaffold. After the nooses were placed, the executioners gave the other men the chance to say their final words first. Then came Danny’s turn.

He glanced around in hopes someone might be brave enough to save him. No one stepped forward. Instead, most of the faces visible to him appeared to laugh and jeer. Except one, he spotted Sam who appeared to be weeping.

“I hope that you who falsely condemned me are haunted by your choices,” he stated while trying to keep his voice as even as possible. I know what awaits me on the other side, but can you say the same?” The crowd shouted obscenities at him as his words came to a close, but he didn’t care, not anymore.

With him being the last to speak, the executioner and his assistants began the process of covering his head with the characteristic hood and kicking the supports out from under their feet. Even though he was prepared for death, he didn’t want to die. His weight forced the rope to press harder against his neck, making it harder and harder to breathe. He struggled to free his hands in hopes he might be able to save himself, but with each passing moment, he seemed to be drain of more and more of his strength.

His last conscious memory was to hope Sam wouldn’t be targeted for her show of tears.

... … …

Consciousness came back to him slowly. Feeling groggy and stiff, he slowly sat up. As dirt fell away from his body, he realized night had already fallen. Why had he fallen asleep outside? Had he been stargazing again? After the first time, he decided to use his roof for that purpose as it was safer than sleeping outside the village.

“Danny?”

He jolted at the soft voice. Turning, he found Sam kneeling a couple feet away with her friend and servant, Tucker, standing behind her with a lantern that had an unusual intensity. Both of them watched him carefully. If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed they were apprehensive of him.

“Thanks for waking me up,” he told them cheerfully as he stood and brushed some of the dirt off him. His voice didn’t convey his feelings though as it sounded gravely even to him. He must have slept much longer than he originally figured.

Frowning as he realized his feet were buried in the dirt, he glanced behind him to find what appeared to be a shallow grave. Disturbed soil with an arm of an unnatural bluish color sticking out of it could be found only a few feet away. He’d been buried.

“Danny?” Sam called out again as she slowly stood and approached him. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up?”

As he thought about the odd question, flashes of his interrogation and the gallows came to the forefront of his mind. Scared at the implications, he rubbed his throat. The skin felt rough as if it had been injured and pain blossomed at his touch. He had been hanged. Falling to his knees, he thanked the Lord for a chance at a second chance at life.

Standing again once he finished, he glanced at his friend. “I’m glad you came when you did. I don’t know what I’d do if I woke up alone out here. Let’s get you home before something bad happens. Only one of us needs to be accused of practicing magic.” He gestured to the lantern. “You didn’t need to break out the good candles just for me. Actually, they might be too bright if we want to sneak back into town.”

Tucker glanced at Sam, who bit her lip. “Danny, they just seem bright to you. The candle in there is the dimmest I could find. We could barely see where we were going while getting here.”

She wouldn’t look directly at him. Instead, she kept her gaze lowered which was unusual for her. That by itself clued him in something was wrong.

“Sam, look at me. What’s going on? You’re not telling me something.”

“My lady, err… I mean Sam,” Tucker floundered as she turned to stare at him. Even though her parents bought him to be her personal servant, Sam refused to have him call her by an honorific. She wanted him to consider her his friend first and foremost. “Should I bring out that mirror?”

“That might be best,” she agreed as he hesitantly handed her the lantern while he dug through the sack attached to his belt. When he finished, he brought out a black stone and traded the lantern back for it.

“I thought that was supposed to be a mirror,” Danny joked as Sam took a moment to polish it.

“It is… It’s just a special type of mirror. Difficult to come across.” She held it up to him. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

Not sure what to expect, Danny stepped forward until he could see his reflection in the stone. However, whatever person it reflected, it certainly wasn’t him. The stone showed a creature with hair of moonlight and eyes of an unearthly green. Its skin reflected as the bluish pallor of death. Dark bruises were visible around the neck.

Cursing, he stumbled away. Grabbing at his hair, he found stuffs of whitish silver. The skin of his hands matched the color of the creature’s skin. “What happened? What did you do to me?”

“I was trying to summon your soul.”

“I get accused and executed for witchcraft, and you turn around and preform it?” Danny gave a hollow laugh. “Was my death not enough of a warning? And what did you plan to do once you summoned me?”

“I wanted to take down Masters, okay?” she snapped at him. Her gaze fell when they locked eyes. “Not all magic is evil. I just wanted to see if there was anything you could provided to help me make sure he didn’t take any more victims before your soul became beyond reach, but something went wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I did something wrong.”

“Don’t say that,” Tucker scolded as he placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “The crossroads hold strange powers as its one of those places where mortal and immortal can meet.”

Danny gulped at the implication. He forgot criminals tended to be buried at the crossroads. And even though he wasn’t as superstitious as some, he knew such places could be very dangerous. “So… what did the combination of this good magic and the crossroads do to me?”

“That’s something I don’t really know. It seems to have reanimated you, but you are clearly not as you were.” She fell to her knees as tears began to roll down her cheeks. The Sam Manson crying! Sam never cried.

Hesitantly, he crouched down in front of her and used his fingers to lift her chin. Her skin felt so warm to the touch. “While I can’t say I’m comfortable with what happened, I can say it’s not your fault. You had no idea this would be the outcome. You’re also right about Masters… There’s something wrong with him. During the interrogation, I could have sworn I saw the shadow of evil on him.”

Instead of responding, she lurched forward to embrace him. Not sure what else to do, he rubbed her back in a soothing manner.

“Sam, you’re going to get dirty. Neither of us will want to risk the wrath of your parents.” Tucker spoke softly as he tried to gently pull her off of Danny.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she buried her head deeper into Danny’s chest. Not sure what to make of it, Danny shared a look with Tucker. Eventually, she stated, “I can hear your heart beating. Danny, I can hear your heart! You’re alive.” She looked up and gave him the biggest and purest smile he’d even seen.

“But how? How is that possible? I couldn’t have survived the gallows, and my appearance is of some specter… What the?” As he spoke, a blinding light washed over him. As his eyes adjusted, everything seemed much darker. If it wasn’t for the faint light of the lantern and the visible sliver of the moon, he doubted he would have been able to see anything. Wait, he’d been able to see just fine moments ago.

“Tucker, the lantern!”

Seconds later, the lantern appeared within inches of his face. “Whoa! Watch it! Those metal ones hurt when they hit you.”

“Danny,” Sam’s smile somehow grew wider, “you look like you again! “

“Is that why I suddenly can’t see?” When she rolled her eyes, he quickly added, “I mean, that’s wonderful!”

“I doubt it’s that simple,” Tucker noted as he watched the two of them stand. “You touched death, and that always leaves a lasting mark.”

Sam brushed the dirt off her skirt before she began to walk. “That’s true, but for now, we should return to town. We can figure out what happened to Danny as we work on destroying Masters. He can stay at my place for now. It’s big enough we should be able to hide you for a few days.”

Danny acknowledged that would work for now. Even though he didn’t want to put either Sam or Tucker at risk, it would be easier to discuss the future once they rested.

Perhaps he could even stagger back into town in a day or two just to see how the townsfolk would react. Maybe they would consider his return to life as the will of God. Or, if he could take the form of that creature again, perhaps they’d consider him a vengeful wraith. The latter made him smile. Oh, Masters didn’t know what type of revenge he unleashed.

End of story notes. There are a lot:

Firstly, if anyone would like to expand upon this idea, please feel free. I have no desire to extend this. The plot bunny, now that it’s fulfilled its goal, has run off.

Now for the historical notes.

The hallmote is a court held in a Justice’s hall. In medieval England, this is the lord’s manorial court. For the lord, this primarily functioned for fees and land ownership. However, when it came to issues regarding laws, the villagers acted as prosecutor, legal authority, witnesses, and judge. The lord of the area rarely had anything to do with legal issues.

I know that when it comes to magic, usually that fell under the church’s domain, but I wanted to mention a trial first before he was handed over to them as the accusations against Danny were fabricated.

Moon touched is being used as a euphemism for being crazy.

Vicar is a term primarily used in the Anglican church for parson/minister.

Also, witch hunts and trails did still happen in the 1600s in England – they peaked again in the 1640s and the 1650s due to the English Civil War and the rise of the Puritans.

I did review the interrogation techniques of this time period. While they existed beforehand, the specific ones I mentioned were championed by a man named Matthew Hopkins, who flourished as a witch hunger during the English Civil War. He and his colleagues are believed to be responsible for 20% of the total people persecuted for witchcraft in England between the 15th and 18th centuries. His book is also considered a contributing factor in how the trials in Salem, Mass. played out.

The accused often had their bodies searched for marks which were said to be proof of their pact with the Devil. This was often a birth mark, mole, or other skin manifestation. The area was believed to be unable to bleed or feel sensation.

Hanging. The gallows with trapdoors (drops) weren’t invented until the 1760s. So, Danny is experienced it the old-fashioned way where they put the noose on and cover the head with a hood. Depending on the gallows, the condemned might stand on stools or be on the wagon at first. Then those were removed. Unlike modern hangings which were designed to break the neck upon the sharp drop, the original version had people die by suffocation. Most loose consciousness within 5-10 minutes and death occurs soon after. The title actually is a saying believed to have derived from being hung.

There are some instances where people simply lost consciousness and revived at a later time after they were cut down. Some considered that a pardon from God. Others thought the person made a deal with evil.

Executed criminals were traditionally buried at crossroads. Normally, they couldn’t be buried in a church graveyard, and there were concerns the dead could come back to haunt the town. Being buried at a crossroads helped confuse angry spirits.

Crossroads were considered liminal places where one could meet all manner of supernatural creatures. Some traditions state it’s the best place to contact the dead or conduct spells.

Sam is still Jewish (although secretly since this is the 1640s) in this fic. There are old Jewish spells, which fall under a specific type of mysticism, that call allow one to call forth the dead to ask a question. This is what she was trying to do.

#danny phantom #danny phantom au #dp #dp au #one shot #my writing #fanfic #danny phantom fanfiction #dark au #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #vlad masters #folklore #supernatural #paranormal #historical elements

38 notes · View notes

chews-erotically · 4 years

Photo

*Waxing Gibbous

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

* Warnings: None really, maybe more angst/ comfort

* Summary: You arrive on Central and begin your recoveries.

* Word Count: ~1500

*Part ONE* *Part TWO* *Part THREE* *Part FOUR* *Part FIVE* *Part SIX* *Part SEVEN*

PART EIGHT

If you had fled the Green moon even ten minutes later, Ezra would have died. That was the grim information relayed to you by the sling-back medic after he’d been rushed to a med cot, given high-flow oxygen and sedated. He was critically ill. You’d been told immediately upon arrival and quick assessment that once you reached the Pug you were going to be transferred directly to a teaching hospital on Central.You were faring a bit better, but not by much. Your shoulder had been cleaned and bandaged. As you were conscious, you were given supplemental oxygen through a nasal cannula.

The medic had attempted to press for some detail concerning how you’d both ended up in such states. Exhausted and struck numb, you’d simply shrugged and moved to rearrange the intravenous line of lactated ringer’s solution going into the catheter inserted into the top of your forearm. The machine had started beeping, and the sound was like a hammer to your skull.

Once you reached the Pug things moved quickly indeed. Transport was coordinated in the Pug med bay and a nurse approached you, stating that she would be taking you into an exam room to obtain an updated set of vitals and enter your information into their data system. You had refused.

“I’m not leaving him.”

Clearing his throat, the nurse tried to explain the protocol he had to follow. You held up your hand to still his speech.

“Save it. You won’t change my mind. I’m not leaving him.”

***

Once on the transport you’d been able to keep your eyes open for perhaps twenty minutes. You’d passed out sitting on the hard metal bench with your head slumped forward onto Ezra’s cot, your hand clasping his.

***

Central was cacophonic. After the eerie quiet of the Green the sounds, chatter, colors and thrumming life surrounding you was beating into your brain like a staccato mace. Your head throbbed. You flinched away from the shoulders brushing past you. You were close to panic, overwhelmed by the sensory overload. You took deep, measured breaths. You stayed as close to Ezra’s cot as possible. You had to resist the urge to climb into it with him and throw a blanket over your head.

They were going to have to take Ezra away from you. You knew this logically. He was fragile. Needed intubation, needed close surveillance. He was most likely septic at this point and it was uncertain if the damage he’d suffered to his lung tissue would be permanent. You knew he might still die. You knew this, and you wept openly, pitifully.

“WAIT!” you’d croaked out, shakily grasping the shoulder of the ICU nurse who had begun rushing him down the hallway for STAT bloodwork.

She’d turned to you with sympathy shading her features.

You gazed at her name badge through waterfalls.

“....Mollen. That’s your name?”

A pause. “Yes,” she’d replied softly. You knew you needed to trust her.

“His feet get cold at night. Only at night, otherwise he says they’re like furnaces. He can’t sleep well if his feet aren’t covered. Please cover his feet. Please,” you’d choked.

She had given you a small, sad smile. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mollen.”

You had stood pathetically twisting your hands together with tears coursing unabashed until Ezra turned a corner and disappeared from you.

***

“Prognosis is precarious,” One of the physicians had pulled you into a private room to go over findings with you. You had since been seen and treated; miraculously you had not needed surgery, though you would most likely have permanent nerve damage to your thumb and two fingers on your left hand. You’d been told that you’d most likely be in the hospital for a week or two; you needed IV antibiotics and respiratory therapy in addition to wound care.

You’d requested a private room as close to the ICU as possible, passing a piece of aurelac to the Intake Administrator. He’d accepted with wide eyes, and you’d gotten your room.

The doctor was solemn as she looked over the rims of her glasses at you.

“Your partner has diffuse opacities in the lower lobes of his lungs. The left is partially collapsed. We’ve intubated him, as you know, to allow his lungs time to rest and strengthen. He is septic, and he’s being treated with an experimental cocktail of three different antibiotics, dexamethasone for inflammation, and vasopressors to maintain his blood pressure.

“Fortunately, his body is strong and his kidney function is improving. He has remained without a fever for the past eight hours, so that is reassuring. If he continues to show improvement I am fairly confident that we can begin planning for extubation within the next two to three days. If he can tolerate extubation and begin breathing on his own, we can start weaning his oxygen and begin to wake him up.”

Though you knew what you were walking into, you steeled yourself.

You entered his room and stood a moment to process the sheer enormity of the amount

of medical equipment keeping Ezra alive. You took in the tubes and wires, the bags of

fluid infusing through catheters, the softly beeping sensors. When you were not in your

room or engaged in your own treatments, you were here. You pulled up the chair that

Mollen had placed especially for you, and you began your silent vigil once again.

Ezra looked so small in that bed, so fragile. He was dwarfed by the machinations

surrounding him. He was pale, wan. As you always did, you grasped his hand and

squeezed, ran your thumb over his knuckles the way he’d once done with you.

you talked to him softly, describing the room, going over what had happened since you

had escaped the Green. You talked about your own treatments and progress. You

described Central, how busy and bustling everything was, how many people flooded the

streets each day. Theatres you’d seen across from your window, coffee shops and

bars you wanted to explore with him. Your favorite activity was reading to him. You had

spent a great deal discussing all manner of art, and Ezra loved to talk about books both

well-loved and those he longed to read but had been unable to find. As you found

yourself in the incomprehensible position of having more credits than you could ever

imagine possessing, you had books delivered to your room.

Ezra was extubated the day you received your last dose of antibiotics. You were due to

be discharged in three days. His organ function had improved at a rate that had exceeded

the expectations of his medical team. His encyclopedic list of medications had shortened reassuringly. He was strong enough to tolerate the extubation and was transitioned to a nasal cannula. You rejoiced in this, though your anxiety spiked as the physicians began the arduous task of bringing him out of sedation. It did not happen all at once as many thought, but gradually and in increments. It happened in sighs and twitches, thrashes and groans. You wondered if he dreamed. You hoped that he could hear you repeat your devotions.

You had secured a lease downtown, finding a loft a block from the hospital. It was spacious, covered in windows that stretched, floor to ceiling, and opened onto a balcony that afforded you a breathless view of Central. You had never had something so nice in your life.

You had been discharged for two days, you had started to plan how to turn your new space into a safe space for both you and Ezra, when you were alerted by the hospital that Ezra had awakened. He was asking for you.

You doubt if your feet touched the ground as you rushed to the hospital, stopping only to catch your breath.

You entered his room panting, vibrating.

Ezra was sitting upright, the first time you’d seen him not supine in weeks. He was pale, he sported dark and sunken circles under his eyes. His hair was wildly curling, his blond streak sticking straight out. He was sipping gingerly on a cup of water with a shaking hand.

Your Ezra. Beautiful Ezra.

“.....Ez?”

He looked upon you as if you were an apparition. He went to move shakily to his feet, and you were there before he could stand. Enveloping him in your arms, kissing his face, feeling him and inhaling whatever you could of him, of his vibrant life.

Alive.

You realized you were both weeping, you chuckled as you took turns wiping the wetness from one another’s face. When he spoke, his voice was rough, you knew it would take time for Ezra to regain his mellifluous cadence.

“Beautiful star, our souls cannot escape one another, universe try as it might to tear us asunder.”

“I missed you, Ezra. Sweet love, I’m never letting you out of my sight ever again. Ever.”

“I wish you luck trying to part from me at this point, Dove.”

You knew you’d done something right, standing against him.

You knew you were home.

#chews-erotically writes #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra #ezra fics

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