#⋇ IN A CITY WHERE REALITY HAS LONG BEEN FORGOTTEN: OBEY ME! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darkmulti · 4 years ago

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Firstly, just wanna say that I LOVE UR WORK I FAN READ IT FOR HOURS ON END! U HAVE AMAZING TALENT. Also I was wondering if it was ok, to ask for a Yandere BTS royalty headcon of them impregnating you (Even by force if you tell them you don’t want to have a child)

This is not edited so I apologize for any mistakes.

Thank u bb🥰

Edit: WTF I DONT KNOW WHY THE NAMJOON ONE GOT DELETED😭 I’m gonna kill tumblr.

⚠️: NON CON! Yandere!BTS, slapping

Seokjin always used a condom. You didn’t want to spend the rest of your life with him, you simply had each other for your sexual needs. Jin on the other hand was falling for you. He tried to make it obvious but you were still oblivious. It was another night with him. He was in between your legs, doing the dirty. He wasn’t wearing a condom on purpose. You were too needy to even realize. It felt so good because he was repeatedly hitting your gspot. You didn’t realize until hot fluid filled you up. You gasp and immediately take him out of you. “Jin! You’re suppose to wear a condom! I-I’m probably pregnant. No! My moms gonna kill me!” Before you could freak out even more, Jin hugged you and calmed you down. “Your mother won’t freak out when she finds out that the baby’s father is the king.”

Yoongi always gets what he wants. His parents arranged a marriage with some random chick. After hearing about the news, you were a little heartbroken but also relieved. Yoongi has been angrier than usual. He’s been taking that anger out on you for some reason. Yelling at you, aggressive sex, being extra possessive. The man you once loved whole heartedly has turned into a scary monster. Yoongi on the other hand was even more frustrated. He wanted to marry you not some random chick. The only way he could escape out of this marriage is if he gets you pregnant. He didn’t waste anymore time. He ran to your house and explained the situation. You look at him in disbelief. “Yoongi, I want you to be happy with your wife. It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. Your wife will also make you very happy and give you children. You’ll fall in love again.” He looked at you with a bizarre expression on his face. “Are you hearing yourself? You’re just gonna give up on us just like that? Did I ever mean anything to you?” You sigh, “of course you did. But I can’t interfere with your marriage. Your parents hold a lot of power. They can kill my family. I can’t let that happen.” Yoongi was pissed off. You didn’t seem to be sad. Was he just a toy for you? Yoongi didn’t care if you didn’t want to be with him. To save himself from this marriage, he forcefully took you. You tried to crawl away but he pulled you back and slapped your ass. “I’m getting married to you! You’re gonna have my children and we’ll be a happy family.”

Hoseok never forced anything on you. That’s not how his mom raised him. Yes, the husband has power over his wife but after learning what his mother had been through, he hated other men. Hoseok was a gentlemen. The husband every girl wanted. You were his lucky wife. He never brought up having a family, but you didn’t mind. You accidentally made Hoseok jealous by talking to one of his friends. After the event, you both arrived at your shared room and he was all up on you. He wasn’t screaming or anything. He was being possessive. “Have you forgotten who you belong to? Mmh? Let me remind you.” Usually, Hoseok is a soft dom. But tonight he became a hard dom. He had you screaming and crying his name out of pleasure. He kept reminding you that he was going to “pound his babies into your swollen pussy.”

Jimin: You didn’t want kids. They were annoying. You never told Jimin though. You knew that he adored children and you being his wife would have to give him some eventually. But you couldn’t face reality. You were afraid that you wouldn’t have a connection with your kid. You had a rough childhood which is why you did not want kids. You’re traumatized. Jimin was out, seeing how the city was doing. Since he will become king soon, he wants to learn how to improve everyone’s life style. While he was out, a rumour started going around. Apparently you cheated on him with another man. Jimin had noticed that you became distant from him but he still trusted you. But now there are people saying that you’re cheating on him. It all made sense to him now. He rushed back home and didn’t hold back. He yelled at you then slapped you without letting you explain yourself. He ripped your dress off you covered your mouth before taking you. “You fucking slut, I’ll show you who you belong to!” Every time he came in you, you cried harder. “P-please Jimin, I don’t want kids.” He held onto your jaw and looked you right in the eyes. “Too bad.”

Taehyung has been very vocal about wanting kids. You - his arranged wife - weren’t ready for kids. Especially not his kids. Taehyung wasn’t a gentlemen. Well, in front of his mother and family, he was. But behind the scenes he was aggressive with you. He wanted a typical, wife worships husband marriage. You were getting ready for bed when he walked in. He helped you take your necklace off and fixed your hair. His arms wrap around your waist and he placed his chin on your shoulder. “Don’t you think we should start a family?” You quietly whisper a “no” and avoid eye contact with him. “Why not? They’re gonna think that you have an infertility issue. My mother will flip and I’ll have to marry another girl who can get pregnant.” You turn around and face him. “Then marry another girl! I’d rather die than have your baby.” Taehyung slapped you. He picked you up and threw you on the bed. “Why can’t you just obey me for once?! I want a child. You’re gonna give me a child.” You did struggle under him. You kicked, cried, begged, screamed but nothing worked. You didn’t get out of his grip in time. He was already cumming in you. He didn’t stop until he felt confident that you were pregnant. The following week you experienced morning sickness and your period being late, confirming that you were pregnant.

Jungkook: He kidnapped you and kept you locked up in the basement of his palace. He was an arrogant prince and you had every right to call him out. You made him look like a fool and he was angered by it. The following night he kidnapped you and showed you who’s in control. Jungkook could destroy your life in a blink of an eye so you had to obey him for the sake of your parents. After being his doll for god knows how long, he brought you upstairs to his bedroom and had unprotected sex with you. You were too scared and weak to defend yourself. But you did warn him that you might get pregnant. He had the most aggressive sex with you to the point where you couldn’t do it anymore. You cried into the pillow and begged him to stop. His cum was overflowing in you. “Please, I’m gonna get p-pregnant.” Little did you know, that’s exactly what he wanted.

#non con #mail: 📭#yandere bts #bts reaction #bts smut #bts yandere reaction

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hasspartacusdoneanythingwrong · 3 years ago

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The Century War of Wyverns: Prologue

God, it's been a while since we actually did longer writing on this blog, huh? Yeah, we're finally back, going through the old singularities. Don't expect much different in this part, since it's before we even get to France, but we hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

We'll have to set right what once went wrong, but first, things have to go pretty freaking wrong for it to count as a singularity. How wrong, you may ask? Let's find out!

Also, CWs: Religious Themes, Blood, Death

(The next part is here)

Footsteps rang down the corridor, the clatter of metal on stone. A grim young woman, dressed in chains and blackened armor, strode towards the central chamber of the castle. A spear was thrown casually over her shoulder. The screams had long since died down, but the metallic stench of blood still permeated the building. A fitting place for the beginning of the end, she supposed.

She entered the ritual room and was greeted by a scrawny man cloaked in dark robes. She sneered at him as he gave a report on the ritual. The sycophant was infuriating, but useful.

For now though, the ritual was ready: she had more important things to worry about. The man led her to the appropriate spot in the twisted mass of sigils and equations marked upon the floor. He then moved to his own position and began chanting. The woman invoked the incantation, as practiced.

“Heed my words. My will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny. If you heed the Grail’s call, and obey my will and reason, then answer me.”

A bright white light seeped out of the golden chalice in the center of the magic circle, tracing the lines drawn on the ground. As the light grew more intense, a wind picked up, pushing everything in the room away from its center. Everything but the cup and the woman.

“I hereby swear. That I shall defeat all evil in the world. But let thine eyes be clouded with the fog of turmoil and chaos. Thou art trapped in a cage of madness, and I the summoner who holds thy chains.”

The light suddenly shifted to crimson red, and the wind picked up speed. The woman had to shout the final lines of incantation to be heard over the gale.

“Seventh heaven clad in the great words of power! Come forth from the circle of binding, Guardian of the Scales!”

The tangle of light coalesced into seven points, fading into seven human figures. She addressed each of them in turn.

“Berserk Saber,” A young woman dressed in a pastel suit with a flowing white cape. She brandished a fencing rapier, giving it a few experimental swings.

“Berserk Archer,” Another woman, dressed in green. Her ears and tail twitched with discomfort as she glared at the rest of the assembly. Her longbow scraped the paneling of the floor beneath her feet.

“Berserk Lancer,” A pale man dressed in rich furs. He let a silver spear rest upon the ground as he looked around him, unimpressed.

“Berserk Rider,” A purple haired woman dressed in a veil and chainmail. She fidgeted with her staff as the black armored woman turned to her, struggling with herself.

“Berserk Caster,” A slight man in a black suit. He would be rather handsome, if not for the mask covering half his face.

“Berserk Assassin,” An older woman, wearing a mask and a fine red dress. She was surrounded by chains and spiked metal. She could barely contain herself at the sight of Saber, Archer, and Rider.

“And True Berserker.” A white-haired man in executioner’s garb. He polished his sword at a feverish pace.

“Thank you for coming, my fellow servants. I am your master. You know why you were summoned, yes?”

She looked around at the assembly.

“Destruction and slaughter, those are your orders. If a city is reveling in spring, destroy it. If a town is celebrating the new year, devastate it. No matter how evil or cruel, God will forgive your every transgression. Should He mete out punishment, that is fine in its own way. For this is no more than a means of proving God’s existence and His love.”

“Now, Gilles, bring him here.”

The man in black robes -Gilles- bowed. “Of course, my saint!” He ran out of the room. He returned shortly with another old man in tow, this one wearing extravagant white and red robes.

Gilles giggled as he pulled the man forward. “What do you wish done with this one, my saint? If I may be so bold, I do have a few suggestions.”

The woman in black sighed. “Please, Gilles, you’re ruining the moment.” With the source of her aggravation silenced, she took a split second to compose herself.

“Bishop Pierre Cauchon!” The woman in black armor greeted the new arrival. “It’s only been three days, but I can promise you not a second went by where I did not think of you! How has France been in my absence?”

The man simply stood there, wide-eyed and slicked in a sheen of sweat. He gave a few stutters, but coherence simply refused to leave his mouth.

Undeterred, the woman in black continued to taunt him. “Ah non, your excellency! This simply won’t do! Are you telling me you have already forgotten the face of Jeanne d’Arc?”

The bishop’s voice finally found him, and he screamed, “No, that’s impossible, she’s dead! This- This can’t be happening! It has to be a dream….”

Jeanne’s face fell. “Gilles, please make sure our guest doesn’t leave reality entirely, would you?”

Gilles brought his hand up to the bishop’s face. His sleeve fell away, revealing a twisted piece of metal wrapped around his wrist. He brushed it against the bishop’s face, leaving scratches that quickly began to bleed. The old man certainly didn’t calm down, but the feeling of his own blood dripping into his hands forced him to face the reality of the situation.

Jeanne smiled as the bishop’s situation sank into his expression. “Now that you are back with us, your excellency, it is time for your test. Here you stand at the gates of hell,” she gestured to the servants encircling them, “surrounded by demons, no less! Fortunately for you, I am nothing if not a devout follower of His word, so I offer you this one chance: pray to Him. For if He is to stay our hand, if He has judged this France worthy of existence, He must do so now.”

The bishop immediately fell to his knees, letting out wracking sobs. “P-please…”

“Hmm?” Jeanne d’Arc eyed him expectantly.

“Please, spare me!” He cried as he crawled towards Jeanne, snot-nosed and openly weeping. “Please! I’ll do whatever it is you wish; I beg of you! Please!”

Jeanne d’Arc kicked him away. He landed heavily a few feet back, still sobbing. “So, you pray to Jeanne d’Arc before you pray to God? Unfortunately for you, I am not a merciful god, nor do I accept indulgences. You beg for the aid of a heathen, and that makes you a heathen as well.”

A sickening smile crawled its way across Jeanne’s lips. “And you know very well the punishment for such a crime, don’t you?”

Somehow, the bishop’s face grew even paler as he scrambled to escape the room. Before he could even get to his feet, Jeanne d’Arc slammed the butt of her spear against the ground. Immediately, dozens of identical spears burst from the ground around the bishop, all set to skewer him. At the same time, a gout of fire rose from the ground, enveloping him completely. He was less than ash before a single spear pierced him.

Jeanne scowled. “That was disappointing. You all know your orders, it is time to spread this despair to the rest of France.”

“My saint-“ Gilles stepped in, “What shall I do with the other members of the clergy?”

“Let them go, Gilles.”

Gilles balked. “You can’t be serious!” he spluttered. “They are the ones who sent you to die! What about their punishment!” He whined like an impetuous child.

Jeanne gave a mirthless grin. “Oh, I never said anything about letting them live. I simply want to see how well our new servants hunt.”

Gilles immediately lit up. “Haha! Of course, my saint! I shall see to it at once!” He cackled as he ran out of the room, eager to fulfill her orders.

Jeanne addressed her servants once again. “Go on, make a show of it. And save room for the main course.”

Screams of all kinds filled the castle as its grounds turned into a slaughterhouse once again. The mad servants easily cornered the terrified clergy, and-

Then we woke up.

#fgo #fate grand order #singularity 1 #fanfic

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ma-sulevin · 4 years ago

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Pairing: Cullen Rutherford / Original Female Character Rating: E Chapter: One of Eleven Word Count: 3,691

Summary:

Life in Kirkwall is more stressful than Cullen ever could have pictured when he first stepped foot in the Gallows. He's wound tight and on edge, and he's making life miserable for the Templars under his command.

Their solution? Buying him a night at the Blooming Rose with Avita, the only woman they think can remove the stick from their Knight-Captain's ass.

An emotional slow burn where Cullen learns some things about himself, with fem-dom spice in every chapter.

Read on AO3 for full tag list.

---

Cullen can’t remember the last time he was this nervous. Was it the day he reported to Kinloch? Was it the day he landed in Kirkwall’s harbor and stared up at the statues as he tried not to lose the water he’d barely been managing to keep down? Was it when the Qunari stormed the city?

Well. He wipes his hands on his tunic as subtly as possible and decides this is probably less terrifying than being faced with an oncoming Qunari hoard, but only just.

The inside of the Blooming Rose is as decadent and horrifying as it always has been, not that Cullen’s spent much time inside its walls, and he’s immediately assaulted by the cloying clouds of perfume and drunken laughter of patrons. A woman approaches him as soon as she spots him, and he struggles to keep his gaze away from the dangerously low cut of her dress, but he’s only marginally successful if the smirk on her painted lips is any indication.

Maker, he wishes he kept his armor on instead of opting for his less-noticeable plainclothes.

“Hello there, sweet thing,” she says, blinking long eyelashes at him. “Would you like some wine? Some ale?” She rests her hand on his chest and something flashes in her expression that he can’t quite identify. “Anything you want, you can have.”

He clears his throat and shifts away from her, just moving his weight to rest on his back foot. “I am actually here to meet someone.”

“Oh?” She doesn’t move her hand. “Maybe I can help you find her.”

He licks his lips and scans the room as though he would be able to identify the woman on sight when in reality he’s never seen her before in his life. Instead of speaking, he reaches into his pocket and produces the receipt the other Templars had gleefully presented him with, laughing at his expense, saying a visit to her would loosen him up, possibly even remove the staff from where they were absolutely certain one had been stuck.

The woman takes the receipt and opens it from the quarters he’d folded it into, reads it quickly, then folds it back up and offers him another smile, no less bright than the one she’d greeted him with in the first place.

“Come with me, please, messere.”

He opens his mouth to object, but she doesn’t give him the chance, turning away from him and pushing her way through the crowded room with her head held high and the full skirts of her dress sweeping out behind her.

He doesn’t really have a choice but to follow.

She leads him up the wide stairs, then up a set of smaller ones, before finally stopping in front of a door. She opens it for him and gestures for him to go first, so he does, and then he turns back around to her because the room is empty save for the furniture he can barely bring himself to look at.

“Your girl will be with you shortly,” she says, and then she shuts the door with a resounding thud.

It’s solid, thick.

It will probably block out sounds, for good or ill.

He turns back to the room, hands still sweaty, and wipes his palms off on his trousers this time. There’s a very large bed on the wall facing the door, mostly out of its view, with too many pillows and fabrics that look soft, curtains draping from the frame — to completely block it from the door, he supposes.

A few unsteady steps deeper into the room expose the rest of it to his gaze: a vanity, with a mirror and low stool, a wardrobe, a small trunk, a plush chair placed just so in one corner, a little footstool in front of it and a table by its side.

He takes another step toward the chair, then thinks better of it.

His only intention in coming to this place is to cancel his reservation, to tell her that she needn’t wait on him, needn’t waste her time when she could be finding an, ah, more appreciative client to spend her evening with.

A door opens behind what he thought to be a decorative folding screen in the corner, and he doesn’t have time to do anything but take a deep breath before a woman appears, holding a tray with drinks. There’s already a smile on her face, but it grows a bit when she sees him, and he feels a flush of embarrassment at it.

She is beautiful, the sort of woman he would expect to see in the Hightown markets, save for the low cut of her dress, and the sheer material that makes him want to… She’s tall and slender, with blonde hair curled just so and bright eyes that seem to grow brighter when he doesn’t speak or move or acknowledge her presence beyond the fact that he seems to have forgotten how to breathe at all.

“Would you like some wine, messere?” She puts the tray on the table as she speaks, and he cannot prevent his gaze from following the lean line of her back down to the swell of her hips. “It is Antivan, my absolute favorite vintage.”

She pours two glasses and stands back up to her full height, and he still hasn’t spoken a word.

He does not want to drink wine with her — truthfully he doesn’t particularly enjoy the taste of wine — but he finds his tongue too thick to speak, and the problem only increases as she closes the space between them to offer him one of the glasses.

This close, he can see the bright, sky blue of her eyes and the lines around them. She’s older than she seems, he thinks, possibly older than he is, but he finds himself tapping his glass against hers and drinking the wine before he remembers he didn’t want any at all.

It’s nice enough, he supposes, certainly better than anything he would find at the Gallows, and it won’t hurt to have something to soothe his nerves, so he finishes it in one long draught and catches her beaming up at him.

“Thirsty?”

She takes the glass and goes to refill it, but he shakes his head at her. She stills, tilting her head to the side to look up at him from under her eyelashes, and he feels a new embarrassment building within him.

He finds her beautiful.

“You, ah, that is, I…” He trails off, thoroughly distracted by both the way she’s smiling patiently up at him and by the heat he feels on his cheeks. He’s blushing, he knows it, Maker take him. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“I should not have come.”

She’s still smiling at him, but it’s a little softer, and it does nothing to quell the overwhelming knowledge that he’s made a mistake by coming here at all. He should have simply stayed at the Gallows, perhaps gone to the Wounded Coast instead, worked until he was falling asleep on his feet, avoided all of this entirely.

“Messere, I promise, we are very discrete here.” Her glass is still mostly full, the barest imprint from the gloss on her lips on the rim, but she turns and places both on the table. Again, he finds his gaze drawn downwards as though he has no self-control, and he balls his hands into fists. “You needn’t worry about anyone finding out about your visit, lest you tell them yourself.”

“No,” he tries again, not sure how to make her understand the guilt swirling through him without telling her more than he’s ever told another. “There’s no one who would, who would be angry at me for, ah, but…”

He gives up once more, hopeless, and holds his hands out in a motion that’s half shrug, half plea for help. She’s studying him with too much clarity, too much understanding, and she simply takes his hands in both of hers. And pulls him forward.

He stumbles into motion, and he’s afraid he’s going to fall on her, but she steps back with all the grace he does not possess and simply leads him to the chair and bids him to sit.

He does, unable to disobey, still desperate to make her understand he should not be here.

She stands before him, his head now even with her breasts, and he looks down at his lap until she puts her fingers on his chin and redirects his gaze up to her face.

“We provide a service here, messere, and I am very, very good at what I do, but rarely do I have the opportunity to see a man so handsome.” Now he’s blushing for a new reason, though he’s certain she must say this to anyone who is uncomfortable in her room. “Unless I am sorely mistaken, you have already paid Madam Lucine downstairs, yes?”

He shakes his head, but with her standing in the space between his knees and her nails pressing against his chin, he can't move away. Instead, he admits, “No, ah, some of the knight-captains…”

He trails off, humiliation blooming bright at the admission. He couldn't even come to the Rose on his own, choose his own whore and pay for his own time with her, and that’s why he's in this position.

Instead of the condemnation he expected on her face, her smile blooms into something sharper, something that turns the hot bloom of humiliation into something sharper too.

“Well, we wouldn't want your friends to waste their hard-earned coin, would we?” She tilts her head to the side as she stares down at him, and the heat inside him begins to move down, move deeper, and he still wants to go back to his rooms but now it's to be alone, to take a few minutes to work himself hard and spend into his own hand. She doesn't give him the option to move, standing strong and tall and too close. “Will you let me help you?”

No.

“Yes.”

She swipes her thumb across his mouth, catching a bit on his lower lip, and he can’t help but gasp at the intimacy of it, lips parting under her touch. She grins at that and pushes him a bit at the shoulder, encouraging him to lean back in the chair to rest against the too-stiff back.

He obeys her, leaning where she directs him, and blushes fiercely as she kneels between his thighs with a fluid motion, not taking her eyes away from his at all. Her smile never wavers, eyes bright in the room’s flickering lamplight, and he grips the arms of the chair too tight as she runs her fingers up and down his thighs, teasing him once more.

“Have you ever had someone pleasure you with their mouth, messere?”

He shakes his head, then makes what must be his hundredth mistake of the evening by simply saying, “Cullen.”

Her hands don’t stop their slow movement up and down his thighs, though they inch higher with each stroke, though he’s growing quite hard in his trousers and she’s sure to notice. “Cullen,” she repeats, dragging out the sound, and there’s a traitorous twitch between his thighs at the sound of his name on her lips. “You can call me Avita. Are you ready?”

She starts to pluck at his trouser ties, and he lets her, fingernails starting to dig into the wood of the chair as he sits silent and just watches.

She arches one eyebrow as she frees him from his pants, pulling his hardness out into the still air of her room, and he almost misses the expression through the blinding wave of pleasure that washes over him at the first touch of her fingers on his skin.

“Look at me, Cullen.” He does, though it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, a struggle to keep his hands on the arms of the chair because he’s afraid of what will happen if he touches her like he so desperately wants to. She’s still smiling, her eyes are still bright, and he knows it’s her job but it’s almost like she’s enjoying having her hand wrapped around his length, enjoying the slow way she’s stroking him. “Relax. Watch me. Tell me what you like — I want this to feel good.”

He nods at her, but he doesn’t relax, he can’t. He does keep his eyes on her, watches as her gaze drops to his length and watches as she licks her lips.

He watches as she leans forward and licks the tip of him, watches as she slides his foreskin back and licks around the head, watches as she glances up through her lashes and sucks him into her mouth, just a bit, just enough for the pressure to be tight and hot and the best thing that has happened to him since Amell — no.

He cuts off the thought, refuses it, squeezes his eyes closed to focus his mind on the way her hand slowly pumps him, the way her tongue never stops moving, the way she sucks on him like he’s something delicious for her, a treat instead of a chore.

He wants to thrust into the wet heat of her mouth, wants to find more pleasure in it, wants to rush toward his end like he does when he’s in the comfort of his own room and not sitting rigid in a chair in a brothel, but he doesn’t move, holds himself still and lets her do what she wants with him.

And what she wants to do seems to be taking him to the back of her throat, because suddenly the entire length of him seems to be inside her mouth, wet and hot, and she swallows, and his eyes fly open to see her eyes squeezed closed and her lips stretched around him, and he digs his heels into the carpet and he pushes as though he can get away from her.

She releases him as the chair moves under her, but she grabs the arms and yanks it back down with a frown.

Her chin is a bit wet, and he stares at it so hard he barely notices what she says.

“—wrong?”

“Ah…” His gaze snaps back up to her eyes, humiliation growing inside him once more, expecting judgment, disapproval, the knowledge that something is wrong with him because he can’t just sit here and take it, but… he sees nothing but concern, her eyebrows drawn together, her eyes a little cloudy.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no, Maker, ah…” He clears his throat, shifts in his seat, tries to relax, but he’s absolutely throbbing for her touch between his legs, and her saliva is cooling in the open air, and he doesn’t know what to say so he just — “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” She lifts her brow at him, confusion plain as the nose on her face “You haven’t even touched me.”

“Er—”

She glances at his fingers, still digging into the arms, and then she draws her lower lip into her mouth for a moment before she speaks again, her voice coming out a little lower, a little rougher, some accent that doesn’t belong to Kirkwall slipping into her consonants. “You don’t want to take from me, do you, Cullen?” He can’t speak, not when she’s gotten so close to the heart of it, so he just shakes his head. “You want to be good… kind to me?” This time, he nods.

She returns one hand to his length, stroking him back to full hardness.

He groans, deep in his chest, then flushes hot at the noise even though she smiles.

“I have an idea that may help you relax, if you’re amenable,” she offers, still stroking him, and he can only keep his eyes on her because she asked him to, didn’t she, before he forgot and closed them, and when he doesn’t find the words to answer, she says, “If you would be more comfortable unable to take from me, I have something that can… mmm, keep your hands still? Perhaps… restrained?”

His hands tied? His lips part on a sharp inhale that has nothing to do with the motion of her hands on him and his length twitches again, more than willing to let her know how it feels about things when his words consistently fail him.

He nods, finally. And she gives him one firm stroke that has him grunting again before she stands up.

He sits just where he is, doesn’t move, doesn’t even touch himself, and just watches as she walks — no, as she slinks across the room and bends at the waist to open the trunk he’d spotted right away. He can’t see its contents, but he can guess at what it contains when she stands back upright with a length of red silk between her hands.

She looks over her shoulder at him, eyes glinting, and then slinks back as she runs the silk between her fingers. He watches her, watches the way her skirts swirl around her like they weigh nothing, watches the way the smooth skin of her bare leg is exposed to him when she moves just right before it disappears again under the fabric.

Once she’s close enough, she puts her fingers back on him, just on his arm, running them up to his shoulder as she circles around to stand behind him. He nearly jumps when she leans down and speaks directly into his ear, asking him to put his hands back behind him the best he can. Her lips brush against his skin, and he finds himself wishing for the feel of her teeth even as he obeys.

She ties his wrists together around the chair, looping the silk around them so that he can barely feel it until she stands straight and he tests the bonds.

He can barely move his hands, much less his arms, and the knowledge that she can now take from him when he can’t take from her…

He shivers with his whole body, his length twitching openly, a drop of spend appearing at the tip before it begins to drip down just in time for Avita to drop to her knees once more and lick him clean.

She watches him as she does, and he stares into her eyes because she seems to want him to, muscles in his arms twitching as he lets himself relax into a struggle against the bonds holding him in check.

There’s a way to trust in himself here, in the way he knows he won’t be able to hurt her, not without breaking the chair, which he isn’t strong enough to do. He can relax into it, knowing he won’t be able to grab her and make her do what he wants…

And he won’t have to, because she’s doing what he wants anyway, leaning down to pull his length fully into her mouth again, just the way she had before, just the way he had imagined a woman doing when he was alone in his rooms at night, armed with just his hand and a bottle of oil.

There’s nothing in this from the demons at the tower, nothing in this that doesn’t feel good or right, not with his hands safe behind him and her hands cupping his sac like she was born to it, not with her tongue laving him over and over and…

Pleasure sparks up his spine, makes his eyes close even though he wants to memorize the way her lips look wrapped around him, the way her forehead is furrowed in concentration, the way his skin is glistening with her saliva as she bobs her head and works him so perfectly.

It’s too much.

It’s too much, and Maker, he never wants it to end.

His shoulders flex as he wants to push her away again, and the silk she used to bind him digs into his skin, and he loses himself with a hoarse shout and spills down her throat without warning, without even asking if that’s what she wanted him to do.

Sparks dance behind his eyelids as he curls in on himself, pulsing on her tongue, hands still straining against his binding, grunting as it just won’t stop and her tongue keeps working him past the point of comfort.

“Oh, Maker,” he says, he moans, finally coming back to himself, almost coherent even, breath coming back to him in long, deep gasps.

She’s still kneeling between his legs, looking absolutely smug when he finally opens his eyes, her hands resting on his knees as she waits for him to calm down.

“Everything you’ve been dreaming of, Cullen?”

He finds himself nodding, telling most of the truth, and then the rest of it spills from his lips in a rush: “More than.”

She laughs, absolutely delighted, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say it’s a genuine sound.

She stands with a dancer’s grace and moves behind him to unite the silk, pausing long enough to rub at his shoulders as he stretches them out, encouraging feeling to come back into the joints.

He doesn’t know what to say into the silence that stretches between them, sated and sleepy, but he knows he can’t stay. He knows he has to leave, go back to the Gallows, he just…

“Thank you.”

He cringes as he says it. It’s too raw, too honest, and the embarrassment is back and it’s too soon since he finished for it to turn into anything resembling lust.

Avita doesn’t laugh though, doesn’t do much more than smile as she comes around to his front. She puts her fingers under his chin again and tips his face up so he’ll look at her as he tucks himself away and fixes the ties.

Her face is soft, her curls barely mussed from… from what she did.

“Come back and see me, Cullen. Yeah?”

He blinks once, certain that’s a mistake.

Aloud, he says, “Yes, Avita.”

Her smile grows. “Good.”

#cullen rutherford #dragon age #kinktober 2020 #spite smut #my writing #my bullshit? I'm back on it #oc: avita bea

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circumstellars · 4 years ago

Note

Hello there! Can I have a ficlet with dialogue prompt, 'What's making him scream like that?' for Five and Diego, or any siblings you like ;)

[Ok so this turned out slightly longer than intended, but I was able to blend it together with another idea I had for a follow up to this ficlet.

The context is that this is canon compliant in that it happens somewhere near the end of S1EP4, when passed out drunk Five is recovering in Diego’s bed.

Basically Five has an PTSD episode, or a night terror if that’s easier, and the line you prompted I rearranged and altered a bit to fit the scene, so I hope that’s okay?

In this addition to the canon, when they were little Ben begins to have trouble controlling the otherworldly monster he uses, and Five has made a promise he won’t let things get out of hand. Fast forward to S1, where Luther and Diego are taking care of him, but before Al comes to deliver Eudora’s message, and it is sandwiched between two Five apocalypse flashbacks.

So so so many thanks to @michlle, or @/kkie on TUA Adult Fan Discord server. She’s an amazing beta that helped me in a pinch! So the only reason my grammar is so much better than usual is entirely thanks to her.

Very angsty. Blood, just a snippet a violence. Brotherly pain all around, emotional suffering. Enjoy! I hope you like it.]

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⟨p⟩=md⟨x⟩/dt=mddt∫∞−∞x|ψ|2dx=m∫∞−∞x∂|ψ|2∂tdx. 'It's a simple fucking equation, what is wrong?' His shaky fingers struggled with the chalk, accidentally snapping off one end against the concrete wall. Five swore, making a face at the broken piece of chalk like it spoke ill of his mother.

Oh god. Mom. His face crumpled. 'The expectation values of displacement and momentum... obey time evolution equations analogous with,' a wet cough interrupted his deflated musing. He spun around and rested against the concrete he had been writing on moments before, before turning an eye to Dolores. '... the mechanics of Schrödinger’s equation.' Dolores gave him a weary look. Five avoided her gaze. She didn't know. It's not like she had been forced to pick up quantum physics at age ten, and really, he had to forgive her for that. The sun was powerful today, as it had been at least seventeen of the twenty-six days he'd been stuck in the apocalyptic ruins of his former city. It should have only been the end of April, if that newspaper clipping he held close was in fact the last thing to have been printed, but it felt hotter than middle July easily. The aggressive winds of mid-afternoon whipped all sorts of debris into his frail body and any exposed skin, and Five simply couldn't risk any injuries that could deplete his energy. He was on the cusp of fixing this, he could feel it in his exhausted bones.

He swallowed down the start of a painful sob, careful to steel over his expression. 'I know you said something about the farthest right term Dolores, but I'm not neglecting it,' Five chided, breathing into the dirty scarf around his face.

He turned around and scooped up the chalk he had rejected moments ago. 'The spatial extent of the particle wavefunction isn't smaller than the variation length-scale of the potential. You're clever, and pretty, but not that clever.'

Five snorted at his own banter, smiling into the trails of chalk spilling from his hand as it ran across the rubble. 'Now, listen carefully this time...' --- Diego unceremoniously dropped Dolores on a nearby chair. The fuck is this for? He gave the mannequin an odd look. A few steps away Luther lowered their brother carefully into Diego's roomy, luxurious twin cot, rolling the sleepy, drunken Five so that he was resting comfortably on his side.

Diego sidled next to Luther, joining him in looking over their tiny brother. Small, frozen in time for them both in memory and now, awkwardly, in reality too. The baby fat still very much clung to his still rounded features and made him look impossibly younger in a way that brought nostalgia roaring up the esophagus like heartburn. He was supposedly twice their age now? Diego scrunched his nose; to think this child, for all intents and purposes, laid here so serenely- so sweetly, dare he say it, looked like a boy who'd just tired himself out at school that day. Yet he knew, the moment Five sobered up, the illusion would crumble swiftly and without mercy. 'Funny, if I didn't know he was such a prick, I'd say he looks almost adorable in his sleep.'

Luther snorted. 'Well, don't worry. He'll sober up eventually... and be back to his normal, unpleasant self.'

That's not good enough. 'Yeah - I can't wait that long.' Diego spun on his heel, intending to grab provisions. Five had about ten minutes of rest before Diego would be ready to forcibly pull him into consciousness with soda crackers and ginger-ale. 'I need to find out what connections he has to these lunatics before someone else dies.'

Luther didn't respond right away, eyes flickering to Five and back. He looked pensive, uncomfortable. Diego still hadn’t gotten used to the subtle changes in Luther's personality; it was disquieting the way he looks so much bigger than he used to, and yet now he seems so much smaller to Diego than he ever physically was. The big man had an air of constant uncertainty around him.

'That stuff he was saying before...' Luther began after a moment, 'what do you think he meant by that?' Diego glanced over his shoulder at Five's sleeping figure, curled up tightly in foetal position. His expression darkened in his sleep, and Diego frowned. 'I don't know...' The words came slowly, his focus narrowing in on his littlest brother. He turned quickly again, box of soda crackers forgotten on his dingy counter.

Five began to fuss, still unconscious, but his body began to shake some, and his entire expression was pinched in discomfort. Luther was watching Diego, puzzled, and followed his eyes back to Five on the cot behind him.

Then came the screaming.

Both Luther and Diego jumped back in alarm as the most harrowing, stomach-churning scream came from Five. He was folded into himself, clutching at his own biceps so hard his knuckles were bone-white. The screams that were coming from him sounded so raw Diego was sure he was damaging his vocal cords in some way.

Luther came down from his initial shock quicker than Diego and was at the cot in an instant. Diego held his breath, jaw fighting to unhinge. He was always quick in his reflexes, but something held Diego down and glued his feet to the floor. His body was alarmingly stiff with inaction.

Luther was gripping at Five, holding him as he jerked back and forth, scream after scream tearing through his rattled body. Over and over Luther tried to talk over Five, wake him up, continuously asking him what is wrong and 'what is happening Five? Can't you hear me?'

'W-ww-why is h-h-h-he screaming like t-that?'

Diego’s broken voice was swallowed up in the cacophony of Five's agonising wailing and Luther's panicked mantra of Five, Five, Please Five, Five!

Five's painful screams were tearing bloody wounds into Diego’s eardrums, and the sound of his little brother in such convincingly raw misery pulled terrifying tremors up from deep within his belly.

Go.

What happened?

Iego.

Five?

'-Iego. Diego! Diego!' Luther's voice hit him like an anvil. 'Hey?'

Why is he screaming like that?

All at once life moved forward with a start. Air sucked its way back into Diego's lungs and his attention snapped to his brothers. Five was no longer on the bed, but crumpled over on their large brother's lap, clutching not his own arms anymore but instead had all ten, trembling fingers gripped into Luther's jacket for absolute, dear life. Luther had a pained expression etched into his normally hard visage, and his arms came up to hold Five in place as gently as Diego had ever seen his giant brother move. It only dawned on him then, that Five wasn't screaming anymore.

Diego moved quietly, setting himself on the bed next to his brothers as silently as he could, almost as if he were afraid to spook an already terrified deer pinned between a rocky ledge and an oncoming truck.

Mindlessly Diego laid his gloved hand to his little brother's head, cupping the back of it gingerly. Something heavy threatened to pull his heart into his guts, and the struggle disguised itself in the shadows of his expression.

For a while everything was deadly quiet. The pipes in the old building gurgled apropos nothing, the boxing business outside long closed for the evening with only Al's occasional footsteps any sure sign life still existed outside this hole he called home.

Diego couldn't hear much else, aside from the ragged breaths shaking Five's small chest. His eyes were still closed, creased with concern, delicate fans of black eyelashes twitching as his brain worked through whatever dark secrets Five hadn’t dared to yet share with any of his siblings.

'Five...' but Diego’s voice aborted the words in his throat, and he met Luther's eyes. He found no answers.

What did you see, Five?

--- Day 42.

A rat scampered past Five’s feet and jumped into a pile of debris outside the remains of a nearby fast-food joint. He shaded his eyes with his left hand and looked over the large expanse of the now lifeless tundra he used to call home. The details of everything in the distance dissolved into the intensely hot horizon.

‘Today is as good a day as any,’ he said, exhaling loudly. Dolores agreed from where she was perched in her wagon. I’m ready.

Five ripped off his weighty, layered scarf and tossed it to the ground. Today is the day. He was going to get back to his family.

He took another deep breath and ran over some calculations a final time in his head, his eyebrows pinching together with determination. Focus.

First, just a hum. Then, a moment later a spark. Five growled and redoubled his efforts, tightening his fists as hard as they would go, until the jagged half-moons of his nails cut right into the flesh of his palms.

‘Come on!’ And then it appeared. Small, at first, but definitely, absolutely, positively the start of the vortex, undeniable as it began flickering into existence. It was immediately apparent Five couldn’t do this for a second longer than he had to; every muscle in his body was desperately working to help him rip a hole right into the material of the space-time continuum, and pain blossomed in every limb, one after another.

‘COME ON!’ The air around the wormhole became unstable, trying to escape the vacuum and whipping everything around Five into a frenzy. Dolores tipped over in her wagon, and Five nearly lost his grip on the material of time. He willed himself into ignoring her momentarily, letting out a howl as he pulled open the vortex as far as it would go. Five inhaled shakily, and let go.

I did it. There it was. He was finally going home. Five’s knees nearly buckled underneath him as he was hit with a heady wave of excitement and relief. Luther. Vanya. Ben! Diego-- all of them. He was going to see them all again, today. Now. Tears spilt from his eyes, but he didn’t take any notice. There were flickers of life beyond the vortex, and then faces, and bodies, and Allison and Klaus, unmistakable as they filtered in and out of focus like the signal was dying on an old television set. Five was animated in an instant and turned to grab Dolores. They had to go. Now. He scooped up her feather-light body. ‘Leave it, Dolores! We don’t have time!’ He’d find her a new sweater once they were home. Hell, he’d buy her a whole rack of her own sweaters, anything Dolores wants, if only they got home right now.

And then the screaming came.

Five whipped around.

Again. First one voice, then two. Many more joined them, and Five ran toward the wormhole.

‘BEN!’

Ben? Five braced himself against the pull of the vortex, the air thin and difficult to pull into his lungs. It whipped around him with a force he’d never felt before, and his hat and goggles were snatched from his head and thrown well into the distance. The shrieking was getting louder, closer, and the images from the other side pieced together the closer Five inched into its grip. The voices were blood-curdling, and his whole body went cold with terror.

‘Diego, don’t!’

‘Ben! Klaus, get out of the way!’

‘BEEEEEEEEEEEENNN!’

‘BEN! WHATS HAPPENING!?’

‘BEN!’

No.

No, no.

He was going back, it was going to be okay. Five was going back, it was going to be okay.

It all happened within the span of three seconds.

The fuzzy images of his siblings running, screaming, blood soaked into their clothes, painted across their young faces – dripping from their feet as they scrambled away.

Ben.

Ben’s body dangling nearly fifteen feet off the ground, monstrous appendages thrashing wildly and destroying the surroundings with savage flings.

Two grotesque limbs held his bloodied and mangled brother skywards, uninhibited by his terrified screams.

No.

No. no. no. no.

No. no. no. no. no. nonononono-

‘Someone stop him!’

‘Klaus you can’t! KLAUS-‘

It felt like his skin was being flayed from his muscle. Five thought he might have been screaming too but couldn’t hear anything. All he knew for sure was the feeling of his molecules being pulled apart.

Everything was silent. Like the deadness of space itself, for a fraction of a second, a microscopic fragment of time - absolutely nothing existed. Crunch.

The blood that hit his face hurt. And then someone pressed play.

Everything moved again and it knocked the wind out of his lungs. Five was violently thrown from the throes of the wormhole, sucked back into his own point in time and tossed several feet backwards into strewn debris.

‘NO!’

The vortex he’d spent forty-two days working on was gone, just like that. Absorbed into the material of space, the deep wound he’d used every ounce of energy to create was now healed over in a matter of seconds, lost to some other dimension and out of his grasp. Ben. He’d promised him. He had promised his brother he would be there, that he would figure it out.

That Ben wouldn’t die. But Five let him. He watched the brutal final seconds of his brother’s life, his body torn into pieces by the beast he tried so hard to contain. Five wasn’t there.

He didn’t make it. He had told Ben he wouldn’t let him die, but he did, and Five just watched it happen, unable to do absolutely fucking shit. The sun was merciless. It baked Ben’s blood on every part that had briefly touched the other side. It settled into the cracks of the tattered skin on his right hand, pulled at the skin under his eyes and on his cheeks – crusted where it had dripped into his mouth and over his tongue. When the trance that numbed Five finally broke, it was nightfall.

He still sat on his haunches, a few fingers on his left hand barely curled around Dolores’ shirt. And when it did, and his throat finally moved to swallow, his limbs twitching with overwhelming pain, and his chest trembling violently, the only thing Five could feel was the fiery strain of the unending wailing that tore ceaselessly from his lungs.

#tua #the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #request fill #ficlets #five hargreeves #diego hargreeves #ben hargreeves #luther hargreeves #attempted canon-compliant angst featuring a bunch of the emotionally stunted man-children #my nonsense #mywriting #myworks #myficlets

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colemacgrathtkz · 4 years ago

Text

Where two shadows meet

Disclaimer: No gush. No mush. Just angst.

Previously. Next

----------------------‐----------------------

[The next day after being sent away, human realm]

The morning after being cast out, Luz woke up to the an empty room. She had hoped the events of last night were just some nightmare. Feeling the dried tears on her face told her the truth. She must've cried herself to sleep. She'd been waiting for the smallest chance of the portal reopening. Any opportunity, no matter how small, she refused to miss.

None came and hints of dawn were peeking through the windows.

She picked herself up and headed for her old house. The empress cloak still wrapped around her. She wondered, how would she explain this to her mother?

When she approached the street, a flyer caught her eye.

A missing persons poster with her picture on it. Plenty of them were scattered throughout the neighborhood.

She ran towards the side of her house and peered in.

Her mother, weary and worn out, sat at the table with a phone at hand. Were her eyes red from crying or staying up all night?

Luz was about signal her mother to her presence.

Not yet.

She caught her reflection in the window. Her pupils were glowing red. Stumbling back, she couldn't face her mother like this.

Sprinting away, not caring about what direction.

Hours later, Luz would return when she knew her mother was gone. She snuck in to take whatever cash she could and pack up a new bag.

Camilla Noceda: "Who's there?!"

Scratch that, Camilla hadn't gone to work yet. Luz grabbed what she had and bolted out of the house. From that day on, she had to make her supplies last.

[Six weeks later]

Luz had been wandering the country. She had tried shelters. But she had made her stays brief. People had tried to figure out, where was she from?

The worst part came from her "condition". Lately, she kept waking up in different parts of the city. Clumps of money or random items could be found alongside her. Usually with a note that said, "Take this with you". They were written in her handwriting. She refused to obey the beast inside her. However, her stubbornness meant she refused any resource that came from the empress. One in particular, the empress cloak that kept appearing in her bag.

Her travels left her funds dry and uneasy about the future.

One night, she didn't have any strength left. Her nightmare was moving to its next phase.

She found herself in her old room. A shackle made of light lead out the door. She stepped out into the hallway. The chain trailed to the right. But it became pitch black futher down. A second chain came from the abyss into a door across the hall.

She wanted to know where this would lead.

Stepping through, she dreaded that this was Belos' old throne room.

Stop...fighting

The empress stepped out from the other side of the room. Dressed in her cloak, the metal mouth mask was new. She twirled her finger and closed the door behind Luz.

Let...me.

Her majesty gestured to her mask. The voice was so muffled, it might has well have been a whisper. Luz didn't really notice it until now.

Luz: "I don't really know what..."

Empress Luz: "Check...it."

The empress pulled on her end of the chain and zipped to Noceda's side. Luz fell over, leaving the empress towering over her.

She didn't know she could make such a scary glare.

Empress Luz (pointing to pockets): "Check!"

Luz didn't waste a second and found a key.

Empress Luz: "You... willingly... give."

She handed her the key, as she stood up.

The empress removed her metal mask, relieved.

Empress Luz: " That's better. We have something to discuss."

Noceda just wanted to leave this nightmare.

Empress Luz: "This nightmare is very real. You leave... when we settle this now!

That's right, I can feel what you're thinking."

Luz Noceda: "What do you want? This is just a dream, right?"

Empress Luz: " You've no doubt noticed, I've been taking control while you sleep. Regrettably, our body has become deprived of rest. We're malnourished and becoming worse. You have to listen to me now!"

Luz: "If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me!"

Empress: "And our mother with us?"

Dread silenced both of them for a moment.

Luz: "What did you do?

Empress: " I've been a spectator, until not long ago. Neither of us have seen our..."

Luz: "My mama! Mine!"

Empress: "Our mami. I haven't seen her since you ran. I haven't done anything to her. That's what you've got to understand. I care about our mama, like you."

Luz: " You're a curse from Belos."

Empress: "Wrong! I'm not you, but at the same time, I am. From the moment Eda took you on, you were a witch with a dark side. When you killed Belos, you released his unnatural power. I wasn't made by it. It just gave me a voice. I'm a genuine Luz Noceda! I'm a part of you, just like you're a part of me."

The empress sat down on the throne, resting her head in her hand. She revealed a key under her cloak.

Empress: "I can give you the key out of this room. But these shackles on our legs are different story. These are the chains Amity gave us. Which is why, you're going to do what I say."

Luz scowled at this doppelganger. But she began to recall everything that happened since that night.

Luz: "What are you talking about?"

Empress: "Our fates are tied. But you're the only obstacle in our way. You've been frustrated and angry since we were cast out. I've been gaining control because of this. You were able to hold me back, at first. But your control is ticking away. Ironic, isn't it? We're both at our weakest, regardless."

Luz: "Let me out!"

The empress held up her restraint.

Empress: "To do what? Walk until we collapse? Hardly sleep anywhere? Fending off the streets? We're exhausted and knocking on death's door! If we continue on like this, our mother will suffer, too."

Luz: "You're lying."

Empress: " You haven't forgotten our last moments with Amity, right? She knew that would be the last time she'd see us. Mama didn't know that moment on the curb was hers. If they even find our body, can you imagine her face when they do? Haunted by the guilt for the rest of her life? Never knowing anything other than sending her daughter away? That's the fate that you're headed for. But I'm offering a different course."

Luz: "Stop beating around the bush and tell me!"

Empress: "While you've been asleep, I've tried to learn all about magic on this side. This chain could be an unexpected key to getting everything. I want everything you do. I want to give our mama an easy life. I want Amity at our side."

Luz: "Revenge on Lilith?"

Luz felt a familiar rage rising. But she didn't know why. She hadn't thought of Lilith until just then. That's when she understood her connection to the empress.

Empress: "Maybe I was hasty about that? But I know you haven't forgiven her for what she's done. I am you, after all. She got her sister back while we've got nothing. She's cursed her own sister and used us as a human shield. She gets to be with Eda. Meanwhile, you beat Belos and can't even go back to mami."

Luz: "It's because of you. All of this is your fault!"

Empress: "Us. Tell me something, does mama love you or me?"

Luz: "Me! I'm her daughter. You're just something I picked up on the Isles."

Empress: "So, she never met me? Yet, she sent you away to be someone else. It's not my fault you can't be with her. My existence isn't the reason you can't face her, is it? It's because you're too much, even for her.

But what about Amity?"

Luz: "You made me watch you terrorize everyone. You didn't leave her a choice."

Empress: " I gave her everything. She had our trust and love. But when she cast us out, she knew it was you. She was talking to you."

Summoning illusions, that night was replayed in front of them.

Empress: "When she was holding the staff, she knew it was you. Like you said, if she wanted to keep you, she could've. But once again, you were too much for her to handle.

That's two loved ones that cast us...sorry, you away. Should I even mention the others? Eda, King, Willow, and Gus? They loved you, too, didn't they? But that wasn't enough, was it? You might hate me, but they fear you, too. They didn't stand up for you, either. Their love didn't save you. Those were your final moments with them. Your love for them wasn't enough to keep you together. "

Noceda was silent, letting those words sink in.

Empress: "Right now, I've got a plan. As I've explained, refusing to work alongside me won't help anything."

She tossed the key over to Luz.

Empress: "Right now, you've got two choices. You can keep fighting me and lead us both to our deaths? Or you can stop trying to hold me back and work towards getting it all back?"

Luz walked slowly towards the door.

Empress: "If you want to waste what's left of your energy on the former, I can promise you this. Our last moments won't be yours."

Luz: " You'd like it if I disappeared, wouldn't you? Just like me?"

Empress: "Our body can't go on like this much longer. By the time you disappeared, I wouldn't have much longer. Even if I made it back, they wouldn't trust me. I wouldn't even get the chance to atone. Despite what you think, we need to work together to make this work!"

The two stared at each other. The existence of magic, witches, and demons didn't make this any less weird.

Luz: "You said, we can have it all. How do I know you don't mean, just you?"

Empress: " We were living out our fantasies on the Boiling Isles. Mama thought they were holding us back from reality. But magic is a reality. You're holding me back because you think I'm a monster of tyranny. How are you so sure you're not wrong? Like mom? Luz Noceda is the most powerful witch in the Boiling Isles. That's the reality she never saw. But we can show her that. Together, we can make her proud. With me, we can have everything. With you, we might be able to share it?"

Luz fidgeted with the key in her hands.

Empress: "If you unlock that door, you're agreeing to embrace my plan. There's no other way to put it. But neither of us have much other choice, anyways. It'd be a new level of dense for you to refuse just because."

Luz inserted the key into the hole. She wanted to know something before turning it.

Luz: "How would being back on the Isles help mama?"

Empress: "Remember Belos last words? This world has much to offer. So much power. It is our job as humans to fulfill our destiny. It's our turn to fulfill ours. I figured out what he meant. I even improved on his day of unity. We'd have more than we could ever want. Prosperity that'd never run out, no matter how much we shared. We can and will give our family and friends what they deserve. Happiness. A life where our mom would never cry again. Amity wouldn't ever hide who she really is. No one would ever have to cry again. But that life only comes if their fearless Luz steps up. Belos' fate sealed ours. But it wasn't so we'd have nothing. Our fate is to claim everything, together."

Luz: "You're laying that on pretty thick, aren't cha?"

Empress: "I know, every day since we've been back, you've felt powerless. This is a cruel fate to live through. But, if you think about it, this is still your time to shine. Just like in those PG fantasies of yours, Luzura! At your lowest, will you rise back up? Like any chosen one worth their salt? I suppose, the only one who would know you didn't; would be me."

Luz Noceda, the former good witch in training, finally turned the key.

The empress finally cracked a smile.

Empress: "That's the right decision."

Luz woke up in an alleyway with a hot dog lying next to her.

The empress Luz appeared as a hallucination. She gestured towards a dumpster nearby. Inside, Luz found a baseball.

Empress Luz: "I've been storing that close for a while now. Until we get our strength back, we should keep it on us, at all times."

Luz picked up the hot dog, wrapped in aluminum, and began digging in.

Feeling large wads of cash in her pockets, she made her way towards the streets.

Luz: "What now?"

Empress: "Take a look inside the store next to you. I think you'll find our heading."

She peered through the window of a book store. Right there, a shelf filled with the newest release.

From the author of the "Good witch, Auzura".

Empress: "Build up your strength and work on not being recognized. If something becomes too hard for you, I'll step in. Remember, we can fix this together!"

Luz pressed her forehead against the cold glass. That phrase was a poignant reminder of how far away she was from who she used to be.

The empress placed one ghostly hand on Luz's shoulder.

Empress: "It's okay. If anyone could do this, it's us. It's always Luz Noceda."

She returned to the alley to pick up her things. While she finished her breakfast, the empress fixated on the shackle on her ankle.

She knew what buttons to press. Physically, Luz Noceda was being brought to pieces. Emotionally, she was demoralized by the cruel twist of fate. She had become so numb, the empress knew all she had to do was wait. Wait until her spirit was an easy blow out.

Now, in every sense of the word, Luz Noceda was broken!

Author's note: I wanted to show how these two might have "compromised" on working together. I once asked the creator of the "Broken!Luz AU" about the empress as a character. I've tried to stay as close to the creator's vision for her, as I could. But that brings me to this point. My additions to the AU are non canon. Take them with a grain of salt.

#Broken! Luz AU #angst #the owl house #owl house #toh #luz noceda #story I pieced together

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izaswritings · 4 years ago

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all that’s left in the world | chapter five

Title: all that’s left in the world—

Synopsis: —is me.

Neku’s been shot and Shibuya is threatening to go the same way as Shinjuku, but just because the first Game is over doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how to play.

Or: Neku deals with a nightmare city and his most annoying (and mathematical) partner yet; Shiki and Joshua commit an escalating number of illegal moves, Beat and Eri hunt down a stray Reaper, and Rhyme watches and waits for the counter-attack. Shibuya refuses to go down easy.

Fandom: The World Ends With You | TWEWY

Warnings: references to past canonical character death, self-esteem issues, vague descriptions of an apocalyptic event (Shinjuku at the moment of Inversion, etc), and Joshua, again. Please let me know if there’s anything I missed.

AO3 Link is here!

Previous chapters are here!

part five: joshua

Joshua opens his eyes to a wasteland.

Beside him Shiki Misaki has fallen to her knees in the dust and dirt, hacking up half a lung; Joshua politely gives her a moment to collect herself like the very considerate and understanding person he is, and steps forward, scanning their surroundings with a frown. Empty streets filled with white dust that clings to his hand like snow; the air smells of nothing, devoid even of the stench of smoke. A low fog has settled over the city, so gray and dense it could be mistaken for a storm, the buildings vacant shells and the roads worn smooth and featureless. It’s more than a ghost town—it’s a city hollowed, its heart destroyed, and Joshua frowns momentarily, picking up his phone, fiddling with the settings.

For the first time, no call goes through. “Interesting,” Joshua decides, and tugs at one lock of hair, twining the strand around his finger.

“W-what is?” Shiki asks, and Joshua tilts his head and snaps his phone closed. Her breath catches. Ah, she’s noticed the city. “Where are we?”

“Shinjuku, I believe,” Joshua says, and even though he’d guessed as much the sight makes him frown, disgruntled. Joshua’s always liked a good Game, but this one promises to try his patience. “Well. What’s left of it, anyway.”

Her eyes scan the wasteland, expression faltering. “That’s impossible,” she says, though she seems half-convinced already. Quick to adapt, isn’t she? Maybe this partnership 2.0 won’t be so boring after all. “That’s... how could this be Shinjuku?”

“Inversion,” Joshua sighs, and when Shiki’s brow furrows at the term he giggles and waves his hand. “A UG phrase. The RG and UG have merged here. The planes have gotten all tangled together—too many frequencies at once.” And, actually, liable to give Joshua a headache. He misses Shibuya’s song already. Ironic, considering his plans for it just last month. “Noise manifest in the RG, reality gets unstable...”

She’s pale. “And this is where Neku is?”

“Mm-hmm.” Joshua shrugs. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?”

“Yeah...” Joshua blinks at her, but Shiki has already stepped away, looking up and down the empty street. “I don’t understand. Where are all the people? And the stores...” She peers into a shop window and blinks fast. “Huh?”

“Oh?” Joshua steps up beside her, peering through the window, and then leans back, hands in his pockets and eyebrows raised. “My, my. That’s certainly something.”

The shop is empty. Not just devoid of people, but of anything—the mannequins stripped featureless and bare, even the fake features wiped away. The hangers hold nothing. The stands are empty. Even the picture frames on the wall, the art and decor put up just for flavor, have become hollow, the frames undecorated, the pictures turned to white noise.

Joshua lifts his hand, curious, and presses it against the glass. Against the blank slate of the store, he and Shiki and the colors they wear seem almost like a spotlight. Shinjuku is grey and cold around them, featureless and repetitive. Scrubbed clean of any life at all.

Joshua takes his hand back, frowning outright now. “Hm.”

“That’s so creepy,” Shiki says, drawing back a step. She shivers. “It’s like... anything that would have stood out, or anything that would have meant something...”

“A clean slate,” Joshua agrees, and rests his chin in his hand, thoughtful.

Shiki looks away, apparently unable to keep looking into the empty shop for long. “Is this... normal?” she asks, squinting up at the sky, like if she tries hard enough she’ll be able to see the sun. “For, uh... Inversions?”

Joshua giggles. “I have no idea.” It’d be a delightful mystery, if the situation weren’t so dire. He sobers. “This is the first time I’ve seen it myself. Though, I will admit...” He casts a glance at the sky, too. His eyes narrow. For a moment, there in the clouds... hm. “This doesn’t quite match up with the stories I’ve heard.”

“Creepy,” Shiki repeats.

“Quite.”

She rubs at her arms. “...Let’s go look for Neku.”

Ah, yes. Neku.

Joshua looks back at the shop, no longer smiling. His reflection in the display glass is pale and dim, faintly opaque. As if he isn’t quite there at all. He rubs at his arm, and wonders what Shiki would say if he told her Composers weren’t meant to stay outside of Their city.

Well, what’s done is done—he’s agreed to this, after all, and her reaction probably won’t be all that entertaining. Shiki Misaki, Joshua thinks, is too accepting. Adaptable to an annoying degree. At least Neku had a few moments of wanting to strangle someone before he compromised.

How funny, he thinks. The memory almost makes him want to smile, except he doesn’t feel like laughing at all.

In the dusty glass of the shop window, his own expression looks strange to him. Joshua turns away. He shakes his head and tugs at one bang, then drops his hand and sighs. “Yes,” he says, light. “Works for me. Lead the way, dear.”

She frowns at him, and he smiles back at her uncertain side-eye. And as Shiki picks her way across the city, and Joshua trails after her, he curls his hands to a careful fist, feeling the quiet tremor in his fingers with every step away from Shibuya, and cheerfully pretends that it hasn’t started after all.

It doesn’t take long for the first problem to rear its head. Ten minutes into the Game, Joshua and Shiki encounter their first Noise—and unlike how Noise are supposed to act, this one attacks on sight.

Joshua would suspect Taboo Noise, but no: normal Noise, just ten times more bloodthirsty. Shinjuku is getting more bothersome by the minute.

It takes a moment for them to work together—Joshua is back to summoning beams of light from his cellphone; Shiki apparently likes using her stuffed animal to rip the opposing side to shreds—but in the end, they sync up rather well, if Joshua is any judge. The Noise are nothing but static by the end. Joshua is half-way pleased. He’s missed this.

Shiki doesn’t look nearly so happy, however. At the end of their most recent battle, she kneels in the dust with the cat toy in her lap, staring down at it almost despondently. Joshua weighs his options, sighs, and goes to stand over her shoulder.

“Is this going to be a problem?”

“Maybe.” She opens her hands, glumly; Joshua looks down and tilts his head. “I forgot. Mr. Mew has a ripped seam. He’s fine for me to carry him, but...”

On second look... Joshua can see it. He presses his lips. “I hope you don’t expect me to do all the work,” he warns, coolly. “I hate working up a sweat, and this endeavor was your idea, Shiki.”

If she’s bothered by the over-familiar use of her first name, it barely even seems to register. Then again, she did offer. “Maybe I could stitch him up?” she wonders. “But I don’t have the right thread... I was going to buy some tomorrow...”

Joshua frowns at her, but Shiki isn’t even looking at him, mumbling under her breath. After a moment, he sighs—and reaches out, picking away one of the pins she’s clipped to her cardigan. He turns it in his hands, thoughtful. “Do you have any idea how you control him?”

She glances at him, startled, then looks uncertain. “Eh...”

He giggles, and flashes the pin at her. “Groove Pawn,” he tells her. “It’s a form of psychokinesis. You didn’t know?”

“Really?” She glances at the stuffed toy in her hands. “It always felt more like Mr. Mew was just doing his own thing.”

Interesting. “Maybe so, but without you to provide guidance, it wouldn’t be nearly as effective. It could be that your familiarity with the medium creates a stronger control of it... less direct commands, and more obeying of the implied commands—what you know you need?” Joshua tugs at his hair. “Hmm. You made him, yes?”

“Mr. Mew?” She hugs the stuffed animal to her chest. “Yes. Why?”

Joshua’s getting an idea. He smiles. “And your clothes?”

“I made those too, but why...?” She trails off, eyes widening. “You think—?”

“Worth a shot, isn’t it?”

She studies her sleeves, frowning slightly, considering. “I don’t know...”

“Try it,” Joshua cajoles. “Your pins will work here. The one nice thing about the merge between planes is that the Noise frequency isn’t needed to activate the pins. Lucky you.” Which is perhaps the only advantage they have in all this. But, regardless.

Shiki looks uncertain, but one last glance at Mr. Mew and her jaw firms. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” She rises to her feet, hand outstretched, and takes a breath. “Here goes!”

Silence. Nothing happens.

Joshua spins a strand of hair between his fingers. “...Have you considered—”

Thread cuts through the air like a whistling blade. Shiki screams.

Joshua, for his part, blinks over at what used to be a wall, and whistles through his teeth. “Wow,” he says, honestly impressed. “That’s going to be incredibly useful. Nice to see that you can pull your own weight after all, hm?”

Shiki doesn’t appear to be listening, but then, that’s little surprise. Her cardigan has been unraveled up to her elbow; the loose thread of the sleeve has reached long past its actual length and cut apart the air, slipping through stone like a hot knife through ice.

It’s like a net, Joshua thinks, and circles her, intrigued. It really is something. If she concentrates the threads, and focuses the force onto one impact point, she could cut right through the core of a larger Noise. Even the net of thread could cut apart quite a few of the smaller Noise, too... my, he thinks. Could she catch one? Fascinating.

His musing gets cut off by the loud, creaking groan of breaking stone. Shiki’s eyes go wide. Joshua looks up, startled, and steps back just in time to avoid a bit of rubble falling on his foot, as the building Shiki hit creaks, tilts, sways, and then ultimately tips back and falls apart into a burst of dust and debris.

Silence. Joshua stares. The building just behind the first, now walled off with ruin, also creaks, and then caves inward with a crash.

“Oh my god,” Shiki says, eyes wide and horrified behind her glasses. “Is that okay!?”

“…It’s fine,” Joshua says. A beat. He considers the rubble. “Well, maybe.”

There’s another pause, almost thoughtful. A wall on a third building goes loose and spills out onto the road. In the distance there is the sound of falling rocks. A small pebble rolls from the pile, taps Shiki’s shoe, and then falls sadly on its side.

Shiki covers her face.

“Useful, anyhow,” Joshua decides.

“Maybe this was a bad idea…” Shiki sighs, rubbing at her face. Then she lifts up her head— and at last seems to get a full look at her unraveled cardigan, because she blanches, and holds out her arms in horror. “Oh, no, my sleeve! I spent days on this!”

“I’m sure you can put it back.”

“Oh, you think?” She takes a breath, focusing again, and Joshua watches with interest as the thread pries loose from the rubble pile, pooling together and re-weaving back into the cardigan. Shiki peeks one eye open. “Did it work?” Pause. “It worked!”

Joshua claps for her. “Well done.”

She beams, then seems to remember who she’s smiling at and visibly falters. Joshua giggles at her. What a face!

“Um, thanks.”

“No problem at all.”

She tucks the stuffed cat in her arms, hugging it close as if in comfort, staring down at the ground. She bites her lip, then shakes her head and exhales hard. “I… never mind. I guess we should keep moving.”

He gestures. She looks at him for a very long moment, then nods and takes the lead, walking down into a small back-alley street.

Joshua follows leisurely behind her, one hand in his pocket and the other fiddling with his phone. He tries to place another call, but isn’t surprised when it fails once again. Well, he’s glad to still have the camera, at least, though he’ll have to be careful of its use. If he could find Shinjuku’s Room of Reckoning… though unfortunately, he has no idea where the Composer of Shinjuku might be located.

Hm.

He fiddles with it some more, as they walk, and the rest of the day passes by in routine—travel, fight the Noise that converge on them, move on. Joshua gets more in-tune with this new partner, and finds to some delight that their attacks mix well. Shiki is focused, direct, and methodical, as expected of her talent as a seamstress; she attacks her enemies one hit at a time until it falls, and then moves on to the next. Matched with Joshua’s habit of just blasting a general area and catching as many Noise as possible in the light, it covers a lot of ground. He flattens the ones he can without frying his phone—and she, in turn, picks off the stragglers.

After one such battle, Joshua touches to the ground and turns to smile at her, far more genuinely than before. He can say this for Shiki Misaki— in addition to being a living wrench in the works of Joshua’s plan, she’s also just a genuinely talented Player.

“This might just work,” he tells her, cheery, and toes a line in the soft dusting of ash lining Shinjuku’s streets. “I’ll admit, I had my doubts.”

She glances back at him, looking more confused than offended. “Then... why did you agree?”

“Hm.” Joshua tilts his head. “Why indeed?”

Silence, for a moment. Shiki’s expression flattens a little. “Okay. So you’re not going to tell me.”

It’s a little cruel, maybe, but this girl’s already thrown the first stone, back in the Shibuya River; really, this should be expected. “What makes you think you deserve the answer?”

His word choice is deliberate, and Shiki, of all people, sensitive enough to catch the subtext—her steps stutter, and she tugs the stuffed cat closer. “I... I didn’t mean it like that.” She eyes him again. Her fingers tighten. “You’re rude.”

He shrugs. “It’s an honest question. Really, Shiki, you haven’t changed much at all, have you?�� He eyes her. “Wanting recognition is all well and good, but don’t go expecting it from me.”

She falters, steps stuttering in the dust. Joshua keeps walking, humming lightly. She doesn’t follow. He turns around. “We don’t have much time to waste,” he chides. “If you could, Shiki...?”

“How did you know that?” Her voice is tight. “How did you—”

“Composer,” he reminds her. “It’s my Game. I put in the entry fee requirement in the first place, you know.” Not for the reasons she probably thinks, but then, Joshua’s never claimed to teach kind lessons. “And you were Neku—my proxy’s—partner. Of course I kept an eye out.”

“Of course,” she echoes, a little hollowly. “So—so you know...”

That she is jealous? That she wants to be more than herself? That Shiki Misaki wants to be popular, and important, and at the center of it all? That she wants so much for herself she came to seethe at others who she thought stood above her?

Joshua knows a lot of things people wish he didn’t know.

“I do, yes.” He considers her, and sighs a little. She’s stepped on his toes, so to speak, but Joshua can relent where need be. “If it’s any consolation, you have changed.” Neku’s choice hadn’t been the only factor influencing Joshua’s unintended change of heart regarding Shibuya, though Joshua is never going to admit that out loud. “If this Game had an entry fee, yours would no longer be yourself.”

Green is a good color for Shiki Misaki. She’s still envious, even now. But it doesn’t fester in her anymore. She has come to learn her own strengths, started to realize her own Imagination— the value of herself. And Joshua will never, ever say it aloud, but he can admire that, a little. If all the world is secret gardens, then hers is finally growing again, no longer crushed beneath her own heel.

Shiki looks down like she can’t decide whether to be happy or offended about his words. Joshua shrugs and turns away. “It would probably be that ‘friend’ of yours,” he continues knowingly, and grins, a little wry. “Or maybe Neku?” The idea of Coco’s plot getting upended by something as a simple as an entry fee makes him snicker. “What a plot twist that would be, hm?”

“W-what?” And then her head snaps up, eyes wide behind the lens. “Wait, oh my gosh—entry fees— I completely forgot—” She stops, and visibly rewinds the conversation in her head. “There isn’t one?”

“Thankfully.” People really aren’t meant to play the Game more than once; Joshua shudders to think how much of Shibuya would have vanished if Neku’s fee had been taken again. “It’s more than the RG and UG merge. Whatever Game we’re playing...”

Shiki looks stunned. “There’s no Reapers.”

“Did you just notice? Well, anyway. That’s right. No Reapers, no walls, no mission mail...” Joshua frowns a little. “I’m... a little uncertain if anyone’s in charge of this Game at all.”

“What about that Reaper girl? Coco?”

“Let me reword. No one official, at any rate.” He leaves it at that, but deep down, Joshua can’t deny he’s getting uneasy. There is too much off—too much lack. A Composer encroaching on another’s territory is a heinous crime, and bringing an illegal Player with him? Even with his powers limited by sheer virtue of being outside Shibuya, that should have warranted some interaction, if nothing else. But no— instead they have been walking undisturbed, the city silent as a grave.

The Music gone.

It’s as if there is no Composer at all, Joshua thinks, but then—how is that possible? If the Composer were killed, both power and title would transfer to the killer; if the Composer were captured... well, the city still wouldn’t be like this. The power would live on and the Music continue. But this... what has happened to Shinjuku...

For once, Joshua can honestly admit he has no idea what’s going on. It’s kind of annoying.

“Either way,” Joshua says, with finality. “It’s not for you to know.” He smiles at her. “May we get moving again?”

And just like that, her hackles are back up. Sigh. “I’m just trying to be nice!” she snaps back, fierce. “Though I’m not sure you deserve it.” Her voice lowers. “You’re as bad as Neku was. We’re partners.”

“That’s a bit rude,” Joshua says, amused.

“Still. We made a pact. You could at least act like it. We have to work together!”

Joshua stares at her, a little disgruntled; Shiki crosses her arms and tilts up her chin and glares right back. For a moment Joshua considers pushing the issue, or perhaps ignoring her and continuing on anyway... and then, just as quickly, his annoyance fades, dull and tired. Joshua looks away first.

Shiki Misaki, Neku’s first partner in the game. Neku has learned a lot from her. And Joshua, though he is still only just able to admit this to himself, has learned from Neku in turn.

Joshua sighs heavily, the sound as loud as he can make it, and lifts a hand to his hair, tugging at the strands. “Oh, fine,” he says, only a little sullen, because he has learned something from his time playing his own Game and to pretend otherwise is probably beneath him, or something. “If you really want to know, I’m beginning to suspect this Game doesn’t have a Composer at all.”

Shiki looks a little stunned. Possibly she never expected him to admit anything; Joshua tries not to feel too offended about that. After all, if this were a month ago, she’d be right. (If this were a month ago, he wouldn’t have accepted her deal in the first place— but that’s not important either.) “Oh,” she says. “...Oh. Someone—someone killed Shinjuku’s Composer?”

Joshua clicks his tongue. “Not quite,” he says. “Killing the Composer wouldn’t cause an Inversion. Neither,” he adds when Shiki opens her mouth, “would kidnapping, or anything else of the like. This city has no Music. It’s silent. It is…” And this Joshua doesn’t like to admit, because the very idea is enough to make his skin crawl, but it’s the truth: “It’s as if it has no Imagination at all.”

“Um,” Shiki says. “Which is... bad?”

“You remember that storefront?” he asks her. “Yes, it’s bad. Imagination is what the entire UG runs on.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“Exactly.” He huffs, irritated. “Unfortunately, whatever happened, I’m rather in the dark. This event has very thoroughly erased any clues left behind.”

Shiki frowns, looking thoughtful. “Is there a place for Shinjuku like there was for Shibuya? A river?”

“Of sorts. I don’t know where it is, though.” Unfortunately. Joshua likes mysteries, actually, but it’s a bit more fun when there’s actual clues to follow.

“I remember the Noise around the river were pretty strong. The station underpass in general, too. Like they were just drawn there…” Shiki holds the stuffed cat in both hands, looking down at it. It’s almost as if she expects the cat to talk back to her; Joshua stifles a grin. “I wonder if we could ride on them.”

Joshua blinks. Backtracks. “On. The Noise?”

She looks a little red, but shrugs. “I mean, could we?”

He almost laughs, but then he makes the mistake of thinking about it. With the thread… and, well, Joshua understands the Noise better than anyone else, so…

There’s a long pause. Joshua looks over to the Noise, far off down the street. He thinks about it some more. And it is with great regret when he says, at last: “Mm. Better not.”

Mr. H would never let him live it down. Also, less importantly, “While stronger Noise tend to gather around the Composer’s place, it’s not exactly a homing beacon. It won’t lead us to the Composer.”

Disappointing, though.

Shiki hums, but seems to accept that, tapping her finger to her chin. “Then maybe...” She trails off, brow furrowing. “If not the Composer, we could find where it all centered? Like the Inversion? It had to start somewhere, right...?”

She sounds uncertain, but Joshua straightens up. He’s not entirely sure the issue of Shinjuku’s Composer and the Inversion are so directly linked, but if one mystery can’t be solved, it stands to reason they should move on to the next. “It must have.” He tilts his head, then grins. “Ah-ha. I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

Joshua is already on his phone, flipping through the settings. When she approaches, he generously doesn’t shoo her off. “Here,” he says, and tilts the screen to her. The idea has emboldened him; his foot taps lightly on the ground. Finally, a place to start. He has no doubt they’ll run into Neku on the way there, if he gets this right. Neku usually finds himself in the center of a disaster. “A while back I had a few... adjustments made to my phone. I never did remove them. This camera can take pictures of the past.” He waves the phone at her, grinning outright now. “Pick a direction, dear.”

Behind her glasses, Shiki’s eyes are wide. She claps her hands in front of her face. “Oh! So if the Inversion started somewhere, we can see what direction it came from?”

Her excitement is rather charming. Neku never got nearly as involved in the everyday mysteries as Joshua did; this response feels pretty gratifying, honestly. “Exactly! I’m impressed.”

She giggles, a little. “This is so exciting. I feel like I’m in a detective movie.” She spins on her heel, stuffed cat swinging from one hand, finger tapping her chin. She points down a random street, a once-main road turned hollow. “How about there?”

“As good a place to start as any, I suppose.” Joshua snaps the photo—he already knows the time they need, thankfully. Shiki leans over his shoulder; Joshua eyes her briefly, then sighs and lets it go. He opens the photo.

Oh, how fun. White light, the buildings crumbling, terrified people beginning to fade out... but it is vague, source-less, and impossible to tell the direction from which it’s coming from.

Shiki blinks at it, though, her eyes flicking from photo to the ruins and back again. “Oh, I know that building! Isetan department store… I went with Eri once.” She frowns a little. “Hmm. So we’re near the station?”

“Valuable info, but not quite what we were looking for… Well, two more photos left.” Joshua tilts the camera. “Choose wisely.”

“Uh... well, if we’re near the station, um, maybe the government building? Oh, where was it…” Shiki squints down a street. “There?”

Joshua snaps the photo, then sighs. Shiki frowns too. He’ll give her this much: she’d been right about the direction; he can see the tip of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building and even some of Park Tower, but beyond the vague reddish light and screaming people, nothing indicates the epicenter of the event. Tsk.

“Last one,” Shiki checks, and at Joshua’s nod, worries at her lip. “Hm...”

Joshua considers it. His finger taps against the case. After a moment, his eyes flicker up. He’s never known Shinjuku too well, even when he was alive; he’d stayed in Shibuya most of his life, and then the entirety of his afterlife. “Have you been to Shinjuku before?”

“Well... once or twice. Not as often as Shibuya. Uh, mainly around the station. Why?”

He frowns at the screen, not really seeing it. “Can you guess where the center of the city might be?”

“That’s...” She trails off. Her brow furrows. “Um. Maybe? One second.” She takes a deep breath. “Er... where’s Shibuya from here?”

This, Joshua could answer in his sleep. He is so aware of the city it nearly dizzies him; he smiles to hide the sudden tremor in his arms. Ah, it really does set in quick, doesn’t it?

“To our right,” Joshua says lightly, and cheerfully ignores the headache spiking behind his eyes.

“Okay.” She bites her lip. “Then... from there, to... and then turn left... by Golden Gai, maybe…?” She trails her eyes across the ruined landscape and finally settles for a direction slightly north-east from them. “There? I think. It’s hard to tell, with the buildings all... you know.”

“That’s good enough,” Joshua decides. He lines up the image. Then he pauses. For a moment he frowns. And then, not entirely sure why, he lifts the camera, taking in not just the street and the buildings but also the sky, high above.

He takes the shot.

His fingers tighten. His smile widens, but there’s no joy in it at all. “Bingo.”

“Yes!” She looks at the photo. Her eyes go wide. “...What?”

The photo is exactly what they need, but neither is it a welcome sight. The distant high-rise of the buildings is turning to dust and ash. People are cowering in the streets, covering their heads. A pale white light, tinged faintly bloody with red, shines out through all the streets with a piercing glow.

And high above, settled in the sky like a brand, the Reaper’s skull bears down on the city, blood red and burning bright.

“Interesting,” Joshua murmurs, and thumbs the phone off. “I believe we just got our first clue.”

Shiki bites her lip, then seems to shake herself. “We know where to start looking, now. So that’s good.” She brightens, a little. “And Neku’s sure to be there! He gets in too much trouble not to find it himself.” She’s smiling outright now, and pumps a fist to the air, triumphant, turning to Joshua with delight. “We did it!”

He giggles at her enthusiasm, and her smile falters, falling awkward and flat. Her eyes catch on his face and she seems to remember who she’s talking to for the first time. Her smile fades. Her fist lowers.

Joshua considers her, shrugs, and turns away to mess with his phone. His hands are still annoyingly shaky from earlier. He doesn’t speak. Shiki doesn’t say anything either. The silence stretches.

When it’s clear she’s not going to break, Joshua sighs again and closes his phone, looking down at the case briefly before tucking it back into his pocket. “You really don’t like me, do you?” Joshua muses, and tucks his hands in his pockets. “What stories Neku must have told you, I wonder.”

“He told me enough.” Her voice is quiet again. “But you already knew about that.”

He hums, not really answering. Another silence. This time, Shiki looks away.

“I can’t forgive you,” she announces, apropos of nothing, eyes on her stuffed animal. She hugs it close. “Which sounds silly, doesn’t it? Considering you never did anything to me. But even if Neku does forgive you, one day, I don’t think I ever will.” Joshua keeps his eyes on the skyline, and half an eye on her; he sees her fingers tighten. “I don’t know why you did it, and even if I did, I don’t think I really care.”

Something hardens in her voice. Joshua waits, patiently, for her to finish. “Your point?” he prompts.

Her jaw clenches, and for the first time she seems truly angry with him. “You hurt Neku. You hurt him— a lot. I remember that much. He was crying. I’d never seen him cry before. You did that.” I’m aware, Joshua thinks. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, now. “And you hurt him after it was over, too.”

Joshua frowns, briefly, the barest flicker of an expression, and Shiki looks up and smiles at the sight, an expression that is half-hearted and small and not very happy at all. “Yeah. I figured you didn’t know about that one. Neku doesn’t either, I don’t think. But he— he wanted to see you again, you know? No matter my feelings on it, that’s still true. Maybe he just wanted to hit you, or yell at you—um, maybe he just wanted answers?” She shrugs. “Maybe all three. But he did want to see you again. Whenever we meet up, he’s always getting distracted, looking for someone else. And I’m not stupid. I can guess.”

He has stayed silent thus far out of some amused hope of getting this out of her system; now Joshua is regretting that. There is something ashy on his tongue, settled cold in his throat. He takes a thin breath and exhales it slowly, like a test.

“You never came,” Shiki says, simply, a little harder. She’s looking at him, Joshua can tell, but he keeps his gaze turned away, fixed on the sky. “Maybe you meant that as a kindness? I don’t know. That doesn’t really matter either. Because it hurt him either way.”

Another pause. Joshua closes his eyes, opens them, and then finally looks back at her. She glares at him—not angry anymore, not really, just stubborn, stiff and holding her ground. He considers her.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Shiki says, at last, reluctantly. Joshua raises an eyebrow at her. She huffs. “Which kind of makes it worse, maybe. But I don’t. Neku doesn’t either, otherwise he wouldn’t be trying so hard.” Her chin lifts, determined. “You probably aren’t sorry for what happened. You’ll probably never say it; it’s not really my business. But Neku’s trying. I don’t know why, but he is—and you know, if nothing else, you could stand to try too.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything. She’s caught him off-guard with this—of all things, this is not what he was expecting her to say. And maybe that is Joshua’s fault. Hasn’t he learned this lesson already? Isn’t that why Shibuya’s still standing? They lost the Game, all of them, Neku and Shiki and the Bito siblings; they lost the game, but they had changed his mind. They had surprised him. They had changed him in turn too, even if Joshua still doesn’t quite know how to admit it.

“Just a thought,” Shiki says, hotly, and this time she’s the one to turn away. “I don’t know if you even… N-never mind. This was stupid, I told myself I wouldn’t— let’s just go.”

How silly. All of his little asides, and yet this is what riles her up. It probably shouldn’t surprise him. She’s broken into a Reaper’s Game just for the chance to help; likely Joshua should have seen this coming. It’s still annoying, though. Why has he agreed to this again?

But he doesn’t move. He feels weary, and strangely drained, and he pinches at the bridge of his nose with a quiet exhale. Hah. He could say he’s still not sure why, but then, that would be lying, wouldn’t it? And while Joshua is rather good at lying to himself, he prefers not to make a habit of it.

He thinks, once, he would have been angry at this. He’s not sure what to make of the fact he’s not. He’s not sure what to say at all, actually—and isn’t that funny? That doesn’t happen often either.

Mostly he just feels tired.

Joshua watches Shiki walk away, and lingers there, at the edge of the sidewalk. His gaze draws back, turning away toward Shibuya; he looks past the ruined buildings to the streets that are His and His alone. He taps his fingers against his thigh. Trying, he thinks.

But there is no time. And so Joshua pulls his gaze away, and leaves Shibuya and his thoughts behind him.

#twewy #the world ends with you #joshua kiryu #yoshiya kiryu #shiki misaki #neku sakuraba #joshneku #twewy fic #iza fanfic #fic: all that's left in the world

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lunarscaled · 1 year ago

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"Standing on a precipice isn't new---but you demons sometimes get me seeing blue."

@xamassed ( Mammon ) | one-liner.

#xamassed #⋇ IN A CITY WHERE REALITY HAS LONG BEEN FORGOTTEN: OBEY ME!#they got paired up for chemistry and lyric is doing all the work

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xxx-cat-xxx · 5 years ago

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Vacation

This is my very fluffy @marveltrumpshate fic for @twentyghosts, whose wonderful stories made me fall in love with Science Bros. I hope you like it.

Many thanks to @whumphoarder and @sallyidss for beta reading!

___________

“This is ridiculous,” Tony moans, letting himself sink down on his backside to slide down a steep passage of the hill, his injured foot carefully stretched out in front of him. “For the record, this is the last time you get to plan our vacation.”

“You know, this is easily my fifth hiking trip in the Himalayas and the first time someone managed to get injured by tripping over their own feet on a perfectly straight road,” counters Bruce.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in...” Tony mutters, then winces when his ankle bounces on a stone and pain shoots up his leg.

“Hey.” Bruce’s expression sobers. “You sure you don’t want me to call for medevac?”

“I am not calling for medevac because I sprained my ankle on a vacation,” Tony retorts, already picturing the field day Barton would have upon hearing about it. Then seeing as Bruce is about to protest, adds, “And no, Bruce, it’s not broken. I think by now I should know what a broken bone feels like.” He uses a nearby branch to lever himself back upright and grits his teeth when he puts weight on his right foot. “Besides, we’re almost back—I think I can see the village down there.”

That was a bit optimistic. By the time they reach the village where they stayed the previous night, it’s already late evening and the sun has long since set. Tony is glad for his arc technology-powered flashlight that makes it possible for them to find a path in the dark forest covering the mountains.

They slowly make their way back through the village road—Tony’s arm slung around Bruce’s shoulders and his lips pressed tightly together, politely declining any offers of help from the few villagers that are still awake—before finally reaching their rental car.

Tony leans heavily against the driver’s side, glad to take the weight off his foot for a bit. He’s exhausted and feeling kind of shaky, which, he realises after hearing a loud growl from his stomach, might be because the last thing he ate was breakfast at the homestay that morning. It was only supposed to be a short hike up the mountain; they’d planned to leave for the city before dark after eating in the village, but then Tony’s foot had thwarted their plans.

Tony fumbles for the car keys in his pocket, then opens the door and lets himself fall inside with a groan. “Okay, let’s go,” he announces. “I hope the restaurants will still be open by the time we arrive—I’m fucking starving.” Then he realises that Bruce hasn’t made a move to get into the vehicle.

“Brucie?” In the rearview mirror, he sees his partner take their suitcase out of the trunk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bruce says in the tone of someone talking to a very stubborn child.

“I’m driving us back.”

Bruce scoffs. “No, not with that foot of yours, you’re not. How are you gonna work the pedals?”

“Fine,” Tony says in the most provocative tone he can muster, “then you drive us back.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “You know I don’t drive on these mountain roads, Tony. Especially not at night.”

Tony shrugs. “It’s your choice, darling.”

“This is not a choice at all!” Bruce says in frustration. “Don’t be ridiculous. Neither of us can drive tonight. You can barely walk.”

“You’re the one being ridiculous,” Tony declares. “If you’re not driving, then I am. This is nothing compared to what I’ve worked through on missions.”

“But this is not a mission.” Bruce bends down to the window, a softer expression on his face now. “Come on, Tony, there’s no need for you to prove anything to anyone. Let’s just spend another night at the homestay. We’ll ice your ankle and see how it’s looking tomorrow morning. I’d feel terrible making you drive for three hours while being in pain like this.”

Tony’s pride tells him (in Howard’s voice, of course) to just suck it up and drive anyway. But then his eyes meet Bruce’s warm ones and he feels his resistance melt. “Fine, whatever,” he agrees. “But I hope we can get a decent dinner there...”

When they reach the homestay, the lights are already out, and Tony’s hope for dinner extinguishes with them.

“Didn’t you want to go back to the city?” their host’s grown-up daughter, Radhika, asks them when she opens the door. She is dressed in a colourful long nightshirt and a warm shawl, her usually braided black hair falling over her shoulder.

“Yeah, we had a small…incident,” Bruce replies. He gestures to Tony’s foot, which is held awkwardly out in front of him.

“Oh, I see,” Radhika replies with a frown, then turns to shout over her shoulder, “Mata!”

Moments later, her mother—an elderly woman wearing the same combination of clothes—appears in the doorway and ushers them inside. She, Bruce, and Radhika start a conversation in Hindi, with Bruce evidently explaining their situation.

“She says her older daughter is a doctor in the hospital down in the city—it’s about four or five hours from here if we take a bus that leaves at six in the morning,” Bruce translates to Tony. “We can stay here overnight, but the room we had yesterday is already taken by other guests. They are offering us their spare room.”

“Fantastic...” Tony grumbles, grimacing both at the prospect of having to get up before sunrise and the word “spare room”, but it’s not like they have many other options. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Bruce nods and turns back to their hosts. Tony can’t understand the words, but he definitely makes out some English numbers in between.

“Bruce, are you seriously haggling right now?” he interrupts. “Maybe you’ve forgotten in the last few hours, but I am an actual billionaire.”

“Sorry, sorry, force of habit…” Bruce mutters, rubbing a hand over his brow. A few sentences later they seemed to have agreed on a price and Radhika takes the suitcase from Bruce’s hand to bring it to the spare room.

“Are you hungry?” the elder woman asks in heavily-accented English.

“Starving,” Tony agrees immediately.

“Tony!” Bruce scolds. “They’ve already had their dinner—they were about to go to sleep.”

He says something in Hindi to their host and another discussion ensues, which Bruce apparently loses.

“Great, now she’s staying up later to cook for us.” Bruce sighs, visibly uncomfortable.

Tony knows that Bruce doesn’t like anyone working for him, but Tony’s stomach is so empty that, combined with the pain in his foot, he feels almost nauseous. He’s sure that Bruce must be hungry as well. “We’ll give them a big tip, okay?”

Bruce bites his lip and nods.

Twenty minutes later, Tony is sitting on a plastic chair next to the freshly-lit fire in the middle of the family’s courtyard, His foot is resting on a pillow on a small stool with an ice pack (made from actual ice, thanks to the Himalayas) wrapped around the ankle. Now that the hiking boot has come off, it’s visibly swollen and pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and although Tony hasn’t admitted it to Bruce, he thinks that maybe he’ll have to correct his earlier statement about being sure that it’s not broken. According to Bruce, nothing can be done except for keeping it still and iced until they can get an x-ray done at the hospital tomorrow.

“Isn’t Indian food supposed to be spicy?” Tony mutters under his breath, slashing his spoon around in something that looks suspiciously like algae soup, except that it can’t be algae, because, well, Himalayas. “And tasty?”

Bruce frowns and gestures for him to keep his voice down. “I told you before, different regions have different dishes. India’s more of a continent than a country—things here are different than in Delhi or Mumbai. There is actually no such thing as Indian food, you know.”

“Still, I could have done with spicy now…” Tony grumbles. “This tastes like the stuff Steve makes when he gets nostalgic about the 40s.”

Bruce gestures him to be quiet and this time Tony obeys. He eats a bit more, and, despite the rather bland taste, feels his bad mood receding more the fuller his stomach gets. After dinner, Radhika brings them chai—for which Bruce thanks her profusely—and then settles down next to them, followed soon by her mother.

India, in Tony’s head, has always been a synonym for poverty, which is a bit weird because compared to Tony, almost everyone on the planet is poor. But as Bruce has been slowly showing him since their arrival, there is no one such thing as poverty—its appearance varies from city to village. Poverty can mean anything from not being able to afford a place to stay or sturdy shoes to wear, to living in a large farmhouse but going hungry because the crops were ruined by the last thunderstorm, to having a comfortable life but still being unable to afford a life-saving surgery due to lack of health insurance (which, as Bruce added, is not actually very different from the US).

Tony has seen his fair share of India’s high society—which, to be frank, is not much different from US high society (except for prettier, more colourful clothing and better food). He’s always imagined the rest of the country outside of luxurious hotels and glamourous wedding celebrations to be a mixture of the slums he’s seen from his car window while driving through the city and international aid commercials with dirty children begging for someone to feed them.

While all these realities certainly exist somewhere in India, he hasn’t really ever thought of everyone living in between both of the extremes—people like Radhika and her family, who don’t seem to fit into any of the stereotypes shown on CNN. He knows that one of the reasons Bruce took him on this low-budget holiday was to show him some of those realities, and Tony has to admit that he now has a much better idea about why Bruce sometimes misses the country so much—chai definitely being one of them, he thinks while watching his partner blow into the steam curling up from his cup.

They are sitting quietly, sipping their tea. Tony notices a black cat watching them from the shadow of the other side of the patio. He stretches out his hand and idly wiggles his fingers to make it come closer, but the cat just keeps on sitting, its gaze now slightly judgemental.

“Oh, she doesn’t like to cuddle,” Radhika comments. “But she knows everything that’s going on in the village, I tell you. She’s a spy.”

“Natasha,” Tony states, turning towards Bruce, who snickers into his chai. “We found Natasha’s Indian counterpart.”

“I wonder how the cat’s interrogation techniques compare,” muses Bruce.

“Let’s not find out,” replies Tony. “I’ve already got one injured joint, thank you.”

Radhika giggles at that.

“What’s so funny?” Tony asks, slightly irritated.

“It’s just…” she hesitates, visibly trying to contain a grin. “You are Iron Man. I mean, you defeated aliens and supervillains and all that…and then you sprain your ankle during a hiking trip.”

“Very funny,” Tony huffs. The corners of Bruce’s lips twitch.

“So if we take the bus in the morning, what about the car?” he changes the topic, suddenly realising the flaw in their plan. He gestures at his foot, then at Bruce. “You won’t let me drive, you won’t drive on your own—how are we supposed to get it back to the rental company?”

Radhika looks at her mother and says something. The woman shrugs and then gives one of those sideways head shakes Tony has seen Bruce do when he’s getting interrupted deep in his thoughts and forgets he’s not in Kolkata anymore—it means yes, he’s learned. “I can drive the car,” Radhika offers.

Tony looks at her critically. “No offence, but I was kinda planning to get back to New York in one piece.”

“Most people born in the village know the mountain roads by heart,” she says, “My sister visits us once a month and drives all the way with her tata, and sometimes I drive her back when I go to the city. I’ll drive the route regularly once I start my engineering college next year. With your fancy car it will be even easier.”

“Then we wouldn’t have to get up at five…” Bruce thinks aloud with a side glance at Tony.

“Well, that’s a compelling argument,” Tony agrees with a sigh. “Fine, kid, just try not to kill us.” He gets an angry look from Bruce for this.

Radhika smiles. Her mother collects the now empty cups and disappears towards the kitchen, shaking her head at Bruce’s offer to help her.

Radhika disappears for a few minutes and returns with a deck of cards. “Do you know Court Piece?”

They spend the next hour playing cards with Radhika, her mother, and eventually her father, who joins after being woken up by their laughter. Her mother turns out to be a cunning player, and together with Tony, their team wins the majority of rounds. Eventually, the family turns in, leaving Bruce, Tony, and Natasha-The-Cat at the smoldering campfire.

“The sky is so clear in the mountains,” Bruce states, leaning back in his plastic chair and gazing upwards. “You can see the Milky Way.”

Tony nods, looking straight ahead. Ever since the Battle of New York, stargazing isn’t really on the list of his favourite activities anymore—but then, seeing Bruce’s fascination, he takes a deep breath and holds onto his partner’s jacket a bit to ground himself before turning his head upwards. The Milky Way is clearly visible, and he has to admit, breathtakingly beautiful.

They stay out for a while longer until the fire dies down and the mountain cold starts to seep through their layers of high-quality hiking clothes and into their bones. The toes of Tony’s bad foot have gone from painful to numb and they decide to turn in before they start to fall off. Bruce helps Tony to their spare room, Tony teasingly kissing his neck and earlobe while leaning on him.

Radhika had told them that she put an electric heater in their room, but when they enter, they find it colder than outside, the heater dead on the ground. Bruce’s attempt to switch it on doesn’t yield any results.

“We can’t wake them up again,” Bruce says with a look at Tony, visibly steeling himself for an argument. “It’s the middle of the night and they already stayed up so long to cook for us.”

“What are you saying, Bruce? You’re travelling with your own personal on-call mechanic.” Tony grunts, already lowering himself down to the ground. “Let me take care of this baby.”

The device, however, proves to be as stubborn as the engineer trying to fix it. Fifteen minutes later, Tony is literally shaking and by now it’s not just his toes he can’t feel anymore, but also his fingers.

“I would need a soldering iron for this,” he complains. “The fuse is blown and it’s impossible to reconnect the wires without it.”

“Shh...” Bruce lays a warm palm over his lips and hugs Tony from behind. His body heat is wonderful—Tony feels himself melting into his partner. “Come to bed,” Bruce admonishes.

“Well, that’s a sentence I love to hear,” Tony replies with a lascivious grin. Stretching his arm behind himself and letting his fingers run down Bruce’s neck, Tony finds himself suddenly not having any issue leaving the device alone.

However, having sex turns out to be harder than it reasonably should.

The blanket is warm, but it seems to be filled with living geese instead of feathers since it weighs approximately 20 pounds. After wiggling his head free to stop the threatening feeling of suffocation, Tony manages to actually enjoy Bruce’s teasing and reciprocate appropriately. They have worked their way out of their shirts and Bruce is in the process of removing their pants when he jostles Tony’s foot and the engineer can’t suppress a yelp of pain.

“I’m sorry!” Bruce exclaims, “I’m so sorry, Tony, are you okay?”

“Yes,” Tony grunts, angry at himself for letting it slip. “Just, get on with it.”

Bruce frees himself from his half-lying position on Tony and almost topples down from the bed. Tony pulls him back in, biting his lip when his injured foot acts up again, but then concentrates on the arguably very distracting other things he’s got to do. After another five intense minutes of making out, Bruce pauses in the middle of a kiss.

“What?” Tony moans, his teeth impatiently reaching for his partner’s lower lip.

“Just remembered that the condoms are at the bottom of the suitcase,” Bruce mumbles.

“For god’s sake,” Tony curses. “It’s fine, I’ll go get them.”

“No, stay there, you’re not supposed to put weight on your foot…” Bruce extricates himself from both his partner’s embrace and the blanket before Tony can stop him.

Tony watches his boyfriend tiptoe over the ice-cold floor towards the suitcases, goosebumps forming all over his body, and start rummaging around. Then he notices the cursed cat has been sitting right next to their bags since god-knows-when, watching their mostly-naked forms with slitted eyes and definitely judging them now.

“I am s-so sure that I packed them back in after w-we used them in that hotel in D-Delhi…” Bruce sighs, rummaging through their belongings.

“God, Bruce, get back in here—I can hear your teeth chattering…” Tony sighs.

Bruce looks up with a guilty expression and definitely blue lips. “I don’t even know if I can do anything with the cat watching us,” he admits.

Tony opens the blankets half an inch in what is supposed to be an inviting gesture and his partner crawls back in, pressing himself against Tony as his whole body shakes.

“I can still try to do so-something nice for you with my h-hands,” Bruce whispers, “just l-let me warm up a little.”

“Sure, Bruciebear…” Tony teases, his voice the kind of sugarcoated that he’d never thought he’d use in any way except sarcasm. He feels a little saccharine though as he lies there, holding tightly onto Bruce’s soft body somewhere in the middle of the cold mountains.

Bruce’s shivering stops after a bit and a few minutes later, his breaths even out. Tony knows he won’t be able to sleep—the pounding in his injured foot is harder to ignore now that there is no distraction, and he’s not sleepy at all. It’s not that Tony doesn’t get tired; it’s just that the times he is and the times he is lying in an actual bed rarely ever coincide.

As he lies in the darkness listening to Bruce’s quiet snores, it occurs to him that he hasn’t checked his emails once since they left Delhi. Bruce would probably count this as a win in his plan to take Tony on a different kind of holiday and get his mind off SI-related projects and Iron Man. Tony briefly considers taking out his tablet and catching up with work, but then decides against it. It’s mostly because the thought of getting out of the blanket is not at all appealing, but also because he realises it’s been a while since Bruce slept like that in his arms and holding him feels... well, not bad.

Tony’s frequent nightmares always make themselves known—he will squirm and shift in his sleep, sometimes mumble or even moan when they get really bad—and if Bruce is around, he always wakes him up before it comes to that point. Bruce, on the other hand, dreams absolutely silently. It’s only when he takes in a short, sharp breath and stiffens in Tony’s embrace that he realises his partner is awake.

“You okay, Big Green?” Tony asks softly.

“Hmm,” Bruce mumbles, not very convincingly. He takes a few moments to ground himself, shift around and calm his now quick and shallow breaths, before his eyes settle on Tony. “You know, I always say I liked my time in Kolkata,” he says. “And I did. But I was still on the run, and it was never… never safe, you know? I always felt like I might have to leave any day. Sometimes it’s just hard to shake that feeling.”

"Well, this time you get to stay right here," Tony says, reaching for his partner’s hand under the blanket and squeezing it tight. "And thank god for that because we're not fleeing anywhere fast on this ankle," he adds with a huff of humour.

"Is it bad?" Bruce sounds concerned again—the exact opposite of what Tony was going for. "Do you need some more ice?"

"Nah," Tony dismisses with a flap of his hand. "I'll just stick it out of the blanket and let that famous Indian-Arctic air take care of it."

Bruce finally gives a short laugh at that and starts to settle down again before stopping suddenly. "We've got company," he observes.

“What?” Tony’s eyes dart to the door.

Bruce motions his head to the foot of the bed, where that damn Natasha-Cat has curled into a ball, a foot’s distance from Tony’s toes. “I guess that’s a compliment?” Bruce ventures. “She’s watching over us.”

“Or maybe she’s making sure that we don’t go anywhere else before she and her feline associates can kill us in the morning,” Tony retorts. “Cats are unpredictable.”

“I think you’re thinking of Nats, not cats,” Bruce says, curling back up under the blanket and shifting closer to Tony.

“Telling her you said that,” Tony mutters.

“Just go to sleep, Tony…”

The morning comes with rays of sunlight creeping through the gap under the door and the dusty window. Tony did get bored in the night after all and, after a couple of fruitless attempts to train Natasha to bring over his bag, he crept out of the bed himself to gather his StarkPad. Now the cat is sitting on the window pane above the bed, intently watching the light reflections on his screen.

Bruce wakes up when Radhika knocks on the door to bring them two cups of steaming chai and biscuits.

“Did you sleep at all after my nightmare?” he asks after thanking her and setting the tray on the bed.

“I was watching over you,” Tony replies cheesily. “Well, that and saving our Nigerian subsidiary from a diplomatic crisis.” Tony takes the cup of tea and carefully sits fully up against the headboard.

“How’s your foot?”

Tony grimaces. “Trying to win the competition for the world's largest eggplant.”

The ankle is swollen even more than the previous day and now a mottled green and blue colour. Bruce prods a few places and then decides that driving is not an option and getting to the hospital is the priority.

After having breakfast and packing (under Natasha’s watchful gaze), Tony thanks the family for their hospitality and leaves a generous tip before getting into the car.

Bruce sits on the passenger seat next to Radhika and Tony positions himself sideways on the backseat, the injured ankle stretched out. It quickly becomes evident that Radhika wasn’t exaggerating about her driving skills. She makes her way down the steep mountain safely, and admittedly, takes the sudden sharp turns much smoother than Tony did on their way up.

Radhika and Bruce start talking about Arundhati Roy’s newest book and then get into an argument about whether one should give money to beggars, only half of which is led in English. Tony feels himself zone out, tiredness finally taking over. He lets his head rest back against the window and watches the mountains slowly give way to hills as they get closer to the city.

Half asleep already, he thinks that despite everything, maybe he will let Bruce choose their next vacation after all.

____________

All my fics

#science bros #hurt tony #vacation #fanfic #tony stark #bruce banner #india #fuck caa #fuck ncr #which has nothing to do with the fic #but needs to be said

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lunarscaled · 1 year ago

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-> They wish they had brought their phone with them to take a picture of his face so he could see it---at his request they're acting this way, and he still has the audacity to look shocked about it! If they weren't doing their best to keep it in check ( biting their tongue, cautious not to let their teeth sink through the sides of the muscle ) they'd have started barking laughter already. They eye the glasses held above their head with the focus of a cat stalking a squirrel out of their reach, a noise of thought clinging to the back of their throat. They didn't really want them, but it wouldn't be true to Mammon's nature if they didn't go for something pricey like that. They don't flinch when he taps their faux pair ( they had modified them a little to look more like his, but they weren't much better than any other 20 grimm pair. Lyric didn't wear glasses, after all ) but make a show of brushing his hand away and leaning, as if they were worth protecting.

"Cause yers are better, duh. I want the real thing."

-> They are prepared to accept his refusal even if they must pretend to be displeased with it to stay true to the character; Lyric knew how important Mammon's hard-earned attire was to him, and they wouldn't risk possibly bending or breaking his glasses for a joke, just as they wouldn't actually demand candy from him with interest. They inhale and prepare a disgruntled, dramatic whine when he leans down close to them, scarce inches between his nose and theirs---and their brow furrows, act faltering ( but they recover it quickly. hide their confusion under assessing stare and tilt their head to the left. ) Baiting them? With their claws? What if the lenses were scratched? But Mammon wouldn't refuse such an offer outright. And yet, Lyric could not compromise their consideration of their friend. They try to pick something in the middle, that he still might say: roll their shoulders back and lean their head in the other direction so the decor on the collar of their cropped jacket makes delicate metallic sounds. He could see the scales on their neck and trapezius muscle from this angle.

"... It's not a treat if ya don't give 'em to me. Unless you're tryin' to get more tricks instead, and end up with an empty treat bag."

-> They cross their arms across their chest, fitted just above the wrap-around harness and buckles, not too tight. Lyric had a tendency to hold themselves, but Mammon did so as an aloof act. They are careful, considering their own body language.

"If they get scratched they aren't worth anything."

They'd done it! They'd taken his advice and, for a short while at least, adopted his mannerism. It wouldn't last, but they had embraced his speech patterns and attitude so well that he was now doubly taken aback. There was no room for stubborn haughtiness. He was openly and unmistakably aghast.

"What?! Hall nah, these are mine! Ya got any idea what it took for me t'get these?" He pulled them off and dangled them about Lyric's head. "These ain't cheap, and I had t'work a shit-ton of jobs just to scrounge up enough grimm!"

His beloved shades were placed onto his nose again. With that hand free, he tapped the knock-off pair Lyric had. "These ain't too bad, I guess. Why d'ya need mine?"

Then it occurred to him that he might regret not handing them over. That, and he had never let them borrow this things before. If he did, he realized, he would see them wearing his sunglasses. They would share something distinctly his, marking them as someone special to him.

If he allowed that, then. . .

Maybe, just maybe, other demons would catch on and steer clear.

His earlier refusal felt bitter in his mouth now, but he didn't take it back blatantly. He leaned forward, putting the glasses on his face within reach. "Unless ya wanna take 'em yourself."

#xamassed #⋇ IN A CITY WHERE REALITY HAS LONG BEEN FORGOTTEN: OBEY ME!

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lifeofanerdygirl · 5 years ago

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All I Want for Christmas Is You

Lena stays behind to help Kara clean up after the Christmas meal. Fluff ensues. However, is it too good to be true?

Christmas had been a success at the Kara Danvers’ household. Everyone was able to attend, as thankfully it was a silent night and no aliens or otherwise decided to wreak havoc on the city. The feeling of happiness one gets when surrounded by friends and family was ever-present throughout and the addition of good food, drinks and a competitive evening of games made it even better.

Everyone had already left for the evening apart from Lena who had stayed behind to help Kara finish cleaning up. Kara had insisted that she didn’t need to, as she knew Lena had to be up early tomorrow morning for a work meeting and insisted she go home and get some sleep. However, Lena was persistent, effectively using her CEO board room skills on her, and she quickly gave in. Then again how could she say no to spending more time with Lena Luthor even if it involved the mundane task of cleaning?

As Lena was washing the coffee table, kitchen island, and dining table, Kara was finishing up loading the plates, silverware, glasses and anything else that could fit into the dishwasher. She then filled the sink up with warm, soapy water and began to wash the dishes that either didn’t fit or needed to be washed by hand. Luckily, there weren’t too many, so it wouldn’t take too long.

“Need a hand drying those?” Lena asks. “I’m almost done here. I just need to finish up washing the table, which for some reason has more crumbs and gravy stains where you sat,” she teases. If Kara would’ve looked behind her at that moment, she would’ve witnessed the all too familiar Lena Luthor eyebrow raise and smirk.

“Yes, I’d love help drying! Also, there’s nothing wrong with making a little mess while enjoying food! At least nothing ended up on the ceiling!” Kara proclaims, almost scrubbing too hard on the gravy dish she currently has in her hands.

“On the ceiling?” Lena asks, confused.

“It was several years ago. Before I met you,” Kara informs her. “Long story short, mashed potatoes and gravy ended up on the ceiling after Alex had made some smart-ass comment which made me laugh. Really Alex? While we’re trying to eat? our mom scolded her while giving us both the death glare. Alex knew better to watch what she said after that incident and thankfully nothing has happened since then.”

Lena just smiles at her, laughing and continues washing the table. Of course, that would happen. Classic Danvers sisters and their antics. Once she finishes up, she strolls over to Kara, handing her the washcloth to which she rinses out and then hangs up to dry. She grabs a clean towel out of the drawer next to her, handing it to Lena and begins washing the large tray that the turkey had been on. She then rinses it off and carefully hands it to her.

They get a system down quickly, with Kara washing and rinsing and Lena drying and putting the dishes away. They occasionally ask each other how work was going and Kara brings up the fact that she found a really cute dog she wanted to adopt online, but their time is mostly filled with comfortable silence. Before they know it, all the dishes are done and Kara didn’t even have to use her super speed.

“Thank you for staying to help Lena. I really appreciate it!” She says as she lets the dirty water empty down into the drain.

“No problem, Kara. It’s a lot quicker with two people plus I got to spend more time with you,” Lena responds, as she hands her the now damp towel for Kara to hang up to dry.

Kara gives her a huge smile and Lena can’t help but smile back. That Kara Danvers smile was contagious and was one of the things Lena loved about her.

“Well, as much as I would love to spend even more time with you that’s not cleaning, I really should be heading out considering I have that meeting early tomorrow. Plus, I still have a few final documents I need to look over in preparation for it.”

“No worries, Lena! Thank you again for staying to help! I definitely appreciate it!”

Kara follows Lena to the doorway, but as they approach the door, they notice that something strange is hanging from the ceiling. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.

“Is that mistletoe? Hanging in front of my door?” Kara asks, staring up at the object as if she’d never seen mistletoe before.

“It appears so,” Lena says, trying to hide the blush that is forming across her face.

“When and how did that get there?”

“Good question. I am not sure...”

Dammit, Alex.

“Wait, what? Did you say, Alex?” Kara asks her.

Oh, crap. She realizes that she must have said that under her breath instead of in her mind. Damn super hearing.

“Maybe Alex decided it would be funny to hang it up,” Lena says, hurriedly coming up with an excuse.

“Well, then how did she manage to sneak back in here without me hearing or seeing her?”

Lena tries to keep her best poker face before continuing.

“Well, that was probably when you were distracted after I spilled a half-empty glass of wine when I was cleaning up by the coffee table earlier and we both went into your bedroom to find me a new shirt to wear. Then while you were rinsing out my stained one, you mentioned that you thought you heard the door, so I told you I thought Alex might have forgotten something and you were like oh okay and continued to rinse out my shirt.”

“Oh,” Kara says, finally putting the pieces together. Her sister often forgot her jacket or something else behind and would let herself in later to retrieve it, so she wouldn’t have questioned it. However, she realizes that Alex’s timing seems a little too coincidental, so she questions Lena further. “So, even if she was playing a joke on us, how did she know to come in at that moment while we were both preoccupied?”

“Um, good luck I guess?” Lena responds, giving Kara her best I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about-look even though she knows exactly what Kara is talking about. She may or may not have texted Alex when Kara was still preoccupied with trying to get the stain out of her shirt while she was supposed to be putting on the new one Kara had given her. However, at the last minute, she panicked and changed her mind. She thought she had texted Alex to abort the mission, but apparently, either Alex ignored the text, never even received it or maybe she didn’t actually press send like she thought.

Kara eyes Lena suspiciously and decides to listen to her heart to see if she’s lying, which she probably should’ve done a lot sooner. She notices her heartbeat is through the roof and continues pressing Lena for answers.

“You mean to tell me that my sister just randomly decided to come back to hang up mistletoe as a joke after everyone else left when it was just us two remaining in the apartment at the same time we were both out of the room and preoccupied?”

“Yes,” Lena responds, but the reply ends up coming out as more of a question than a convincing answer.

“Ok, Lena, what is going on here? I can hear your heartbeat, so I know you’re lying and if I don’t get an answer soon...”

But before Kara can get another word in, she is cut off by Lena’s lips on her own. Lena makes sure it only lasts a few seconds and she steps back keeping her eyes locked on Kara’s, trying to gauge her reaction.

Kara just stands there speechless, chest heaving along with Lena’s and keeps her eyes focused on her. It doesn’t last too long though as the electricity in the room becomes too much and they meet halfway, lips connecting once more.

This time the kiss is longer, deeper and more passionate. It’s as if they were both starving and this kiss is finally satisfying their hunger. Kara brings her hands to Lena’s waist and pulls her in closer, which causes Lena to release a small moan and Lena’s hands become tangled in golden curls.

After a couple of minutes, Kara breaks the kiss and drags Lena over to her couch and urges her to lie down on her back. Lena obeys, her mind not working properly and just following Kara’s lead. Kara climbs on top of her and reconnects their lips, not wanting them to be apart any longer. Soon hands start to wander but they start off slow, not wanting to rush things.

“Is this okay?” Kara asks, blue eyes filled with passion and tenderness staring down at green.

“Yes, definitely okay,” Lena responds and lays a searing kiss on her.

Each kiss they exchange is filled with so much love and passion and the feeling of trying to make up for lost time. Hands start to wander again and soon Lena’s hands are at the hem of Kara’s shirt.

“Kara?”

“Yes?”

“Kara?”

“Lena, if you’re asking for permission, just take the damn shirt off!” Kara shouts, just wanting Lena to get on with it.

“Kara wake up!”

Soon Kara’s mind starts to slip from unconsciousness back to reality and a form that looks like J’onn starts coming into focus.

“Wha-?” Kara asks.

“Kara, you fell asleep. Luckily, Kate noticed and told me to go keep an eye on you just in case.”

“Sorry, J’onn. Must’ve been tired. Wait. Did you hear anything? Was I talking in my sleep?” Kara asks, panicking, her brain finally registering that she that kind of dream about Lena while J’onn was right next to her.

“Kara, it’s okay. You’ve been through a lot these last few days, so I let you sleep. All I heard was you muttering Lena a few times. I assumed you were having a nightmare about the planet getting destroyed and Lena being gone along with it.”

“Yeah. It was definitely a nightmare,” Kara lies, knowing there’s no way she’d actually tell him what her real dream was about. Then the reality of their situation hits her. “I can’t believe they’re gone. All of them. We don’t even get to have Christmas together,” she adds realizing her dream was hinting at what time of year it was. Maybe it was a nightmare after all, as it made her realize what she won’t get to have.

Tears start to form in her eyes. Right now they’re worrying about saving the multiverse when they should be worrying if they have all the food and drinks needed for the Christmas meal and how the seating arrangement is going to work. It’s one of her favorite holidays, as it means friends and family all coming together to share a meal. The fact that it won’t happen this year breaks her heart.

“It’s okay, Kara. We’re going to get them back,” J’onn says, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

However, before he can say another word, they’re interrupted by Kate calling them over, saying something about a team meeting.

“Well, I guess we should go,” J’onn states, reaching his hand out to help pull her up while also bringing her in for a hug.

“Thanks, J’onn,” Kara replies, using her hands to wipe the tears from her face.

“Once we get them all back, we’ll have that Christmas with everyone. It may be a little late, but after what everyone has been through, I think it’ll be exactly what we need.”

“Sounds perfect,” Kara says, smiling at him with hope in her eyes.

Once all of this is over and everyone is back, she will go and talk to Lena right away, no matter if she wants to listen to her or not. She will wrap her up in the biggest hug she can manage without hurting her and finally share her true feelings and not hold anything back. Maybe after hearing what she has to say, Lena can start to forgive her. Hopefully, because of all that has happened, it will help put things into perspective and they can put all the bad stuff behind them and work on rebuilding their relationship. She hopes that she gives her and everyone else a second chance and joins them for that Christmas meal J’onn had suggested. She realizes it could be a long shot, but she has to try.

Because really all she wants for Christmas is for Lena Luthor to be back by her side.

#supergirl #supergirl season 5 #supercorp #kara danvers #lena luthor #jonn jonzz #my writing #one shot #fluff #some angst

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random-red-ramblings · 6 years ago

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Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean Characters: Javert (Les Misérables), Jean Valjean, Cosette Fauchelevent, Toussaint (Les Misérables), Rivette (Les Misérables) Additional Tags: Post-Seine, Javert Lives, Slow Burn, old man virgins, Eventual Porn, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, guys getting through their issues, tentative friendship, Friends to Lovers, Javert using slurs to describe himself, wet dreams, Masturbation Summary:

Javert's moment with the Seine is interrupted but his confusion and uncertainty remain. Life continues to be difficult for him with these new trials of conscience, but perhaps it gets somewhat easier in the presence of a friend.

Friendship is the last thing either of them expected and maybe, in the end, it's a bond that runs far deeper.

Chapter 7

Javert had not made contact with Valjean, or heard from him, in over two months. Javert ran out of reasons why he had not visited - his last letters at the end of November had skirted too close to lying for him to be comfortable maintaining such correspondence. Javert ceased to respond and Valjean eventually stopped writing. Javert had allowed their relationship, whatever it was, to dwindle into nothing.

Autumn ended, Christmas passed and a New Year began. Javert had no care for these dates and no reason to celebrate - he never had done. There was still no sign of Thenardier, which only soured Javert's mood further. He had hoped the blackguard would have attended the execution of his fellows in a sick fascination but Javert and his men had hidden in the crowd and did not catch sight of him.

It was a cold February to reflect his mood and he heard news of the Pontmercy wedding in the form of gossip overheard on his patrols. The lower classes always liked to marvel about the rich, although they often found their misfortune most gripping, sometimes a positive story conjured fantasies they could escape into for a moment. Folly, Javert thought, a beggar woman imagining a Baron might whisk her away and present her a fine white dress. It would only pain them more to open their eyes and see the reality of the hard, wet cobblestones where they resided.

Little did they know it but that was almost precisely what had happened. Not that Cosette was a beggar (Valjean might not ever let him set foot in his home again if Javert said such a thing) but she was an orphan, born with the lowest in society. Perhaps she did not even know she was an orphan, Javert mused; Valjean would want to protect her from all the bad things in the world. She called him ‘Papa’ readily enough, with all the affection it was meant to have.

He considered writing a letter of congratulation to Valjean, but that seemed foolish. What would he be congratulating Valjean for? If he were to send congratulations it would be to the happy couple and he could not bring himself to do that. Time rolled on and the opportunity for such a message passed.

He still saw Valjean in his dreams. They occurred less often now but he still could not manage to get through a week without one. Valjean would whisper how much he had missed him and Javert would apologise with all the care and dedication he could.

Sometimes he thought he saw Valjean when he was out on patrol, but whenever he looked back it always turned out to be someone else. Part of him wished that their paths would cross, that fate would bring them together once more and Javert did not have to choose not to see him. He patrolled Valjean's regular haunts in the hope of catching a glimpse of him but to no avail. He was likely in his daughter’s home, doting over her as always, gaining joy from her happiness. As it should be. Javert had no place in such a life.

The Spring sunshine chased away the winter frost and blossoms bloomed in the Luxembourg. Javert tried to prevent his gaze from lingering on the flowers and the bench on which he had sat with Valjean in the last of the Summer heat. It was as if the last days of April were making an extra effort to inject good cheer into the city but to Javert it only felt as if it were mocking his heavy heart.

“Sir…” Rivette said cautiously as he lingered at the edge of Javert's desk.

“What is it?” Javert snapped.

“Well, I know it's not my business but I was wondering… that gentleman friend of yours… When did you last see him?”

“He is not-” Not a gentleman? Not his friend? “He is not your concern.”

“I used to see him talking to you sometimes that's all.” Rivette continued regardless. “He's that charitable old fellow isn't he? A good man. And… well, I think he's the one who took you in after the barricade- so anyway,” Rivette hurried on before Javert argued, “I saw him yesterday and… He didn't seem quite right, Sir.”

“How do you mean?” Javert leaned towards him, all of the denials on his tongue forgotten.

“He seemed… lost, Sir. Just lingering around Rue Saint Louis. I asked him if he needed any help and he looked so afraid, he said he was sorry, even though I told him he wasn't in any trouble, and he just… ran away.” Rivette frowned at Javert's desk. “I'm just worried for him is all, he seems a good friend to you. It's not my place to make assumptions but he is old and I wondered if he was… quite in his right mind. He seemed awfully vulnerable.”

“That is concerning… Thank you for bringing it to my attention. The amount of money he carries around…” Javert said to justify his concern as a man of the law being concerned for a good citizen and nothing more. “He’ll be an easy target.”

“When was the last time you saw him, Sir? If you don't mind my asking.”

Javert sighed. “It's been months. Four or five months! I will check on him, Rivette. I fear I have been neglectful.”

“I hope he is alright, Sir.”

“Thank you Rivette.”

Javert collected himself and left for Rue des Filles du Calvaire. He hailed a fiacre in his urgency and sat consumed with ideas, each worse than the last, about what could have happened to Valjean. He jumped out of the fiacre as soon as it pulled up, thrust the necessary coins into the driver’s palm, and rapped on the door of Number 6.

He was about to pound his fist on the door again when it opened to reveal a startled looking maid.

“Where is Va-Fauchelevent?” He demanded.

The maid frowned at his rude manner of speaking. “That's Madame or Baroness Pontmercy to you Sir. What is your business here?”

“I am Inspector Javert and I have pressing matters in regards to Monsieur Fauchelevent. He is not here?”

“No, Inspector. Haven't seen him in a long while.”

“Then I must speak with the Baroness.”

“I will fetch her,” the maid inclined her head, motioning for him to step into the hall and closed the door behind him. “Wait here.”

Javert stepped inside and tapped his foot with impatience until Cosette arrived, looking just as anxious and harried as he felt.

“Inspector! Come in, come in!” She ushered him into a lounge, gesturing for him to sit but Javert shook his head.

“Madame-”

Cosette shook her head, aghast. “Oh no, Inspector, please, we are friends. Call me Cosette. I will not have you say all of these silly things like my Papa does. Can you believe he insisted that I call him Monsieur Jean? Monsieur Jean! What is that? It is not even his name! Oh tell me Inspector, how is he? I did not like how he was behaving in his last visits.”

Javert's heart plummeted. Monsieur Jean: the name he should have always possessed and yet Valjean wished it to be spoken by the one person who should have used that most beloved name - Papa - instead.

“And when did you last see him?”

“Oh… It has been weeks! He told Marius that he was going away on a journey.”

“When will he be going?”

“Why, he has already gone! Quite some time ago. Did he not tell you? When did you last see him?”

“My associate saw him on Rue Saint Louis only yesterday.”

“But that is so close! Why is he not here? What is going on Inspector? Where is my father? Please, you must tell me what is happening.”

To see her so distraught reminded Javert of Fantine and of how he had remained cold back then, denying her desire to be reunited with her family. It unnerved him and he risked lightly resting his hand on Cosette’s shoulder. He was different now, there was no doubt. His heart ached for Valjean and for this loving child who had accepted that quiet, kind man so willingly in a way that no one else had. Javert had the power to make things right, to give this woman her father and save Valjean from his martyrdom.

“I will. But your husband must join us so we can see everything clearly.”

“I will fetch him right away,” she said as she hurried from the room.

Javert was more certain than he had been about anything since the barricade. He knew what he must do when he found Valjean and he was sure he knew where to locate him.

Cosette rushed back into the room. “Inspector! What on Earth is going on? Marius tells me I must be mistaken and you cannot be here because you are dead! What is the meaning of this?”

“You,” Javert growled as Marius Appeared behind her. When he had assisted Valjean in returning the boy home after the barricade, he had not recognised him beneath the muck. “You owe me two pistols.”

Marius did not respond, only stared at him, pale and wide-eyed. Javert tutted in frustration.

“Explanations are in order. Sit.”

They obeyed, sitting side by side on the couch.

“But Inspector-” Marius began.

“Enough. You will speak when spoken to. We do not need any more confusion. Now, you will tell me what V- your father has been doing from December until now.”

“We were living how you knew us to - at Rue de l’Homme-Armé.” Cosette said. “He helped organise the wedding, which happened in February.”

“And presented us with Cosette's dowry. A large sum,” Marius added, staring intently at Javert as if he were trying to tell him something else.

“Did he attend the ceremony?”

“Of course! He took me down the aisle but he had injured his arm so could not sign the papers.”

“Did he indeed?” Javert muttered.

“I insisted he visit every day when I came to live here. I wanted him to live with us but he would not have it and…”

“And?”

Cosette frowned at her lap. “He behaved very strangely. He would only receive me in the dusty little basement room. I made sure it was cleaned for him, and as nice as it could be with a fire in the grate and comfortable chairs… But then he started to refuse those things and…” Her eyes sparkled with tears and she paused to collect herself. “And the last time it was just a cold, bare room!”

“And ‘Monsieur Jean’.”

“Oh do not remind me! It is awful!”

“And then he stopped coming altogether. Monsieur Pontmercy,” Javert refused to call him by his ridiculous title, “what did he tell you? That he was going away?”

Marius shifted uncomfortably. “You must understand Inspector, I thought you were dead-”

“And what does that have to do with anything? Speak plainly man!”

“But,” Marius cast a sidelong glance at his wife, “he told me to keep his secret and that Cosette mustn't know.”

“He would keep secrets from me even now,” Cosette whispered to herself. She wiped her eyes. “I won't have it Marius. There are no secrets between us. We need to help him and you will tell me.”

“Very well.” Marius sighed and turned to Javert. “At the barricade Monsieur Fauchelevent took you, the captured spy, away to execute you.”

“Execute!” Cosette cried. “Marius! As if my father could ever do such a thing!”

“Evidently he did not.” Javert interrupted before an argument ensued.

“But how was I to know! Cosette has never mentioned your name, I had not seen you since, and when he told me his story it explained why he would wish an inspector dead. When I questioned him about it he did not deny it! Why would he allow me to believe him to be a murderer?!”

“And believing him to be you stopped him visiting your home.”

“Marius! Tell me you didn't!”

Marius hung his head. “We agreed it was for the best,” he held up his hand before Cosette could interrupt. “You do not know the things he told me, my darling.”

“Then tell me! I told you that he saved your life! What could possibly outweigh the gratitude you should feel for him for that act?”

“I think,” Javert interrupted once more, “that it is your father's story to tell. We shall go to him and hear what he has to say.”

“Oh yes! You know where he is? Can we go at once?” Cosette was already out of her seat but Marius remained frozen, looking terribly anxious.

“Do not worry yourself,” Javert told him. “I already know his story.”

“You do?” Marius frowned in disbelief, likely thinking Javert could not know the whole tale otherwise Valjean would be in the bagne.

“I do. Now come. We will clear this matter up.”

They left immediately and Javert hailed a fiacre. The Pontmercy’s no doubt had their own means of transportation but he did not want to wait for the driver to be summoned and the horses haltered. Javert barked the address and held the door open to hurry Cosette and Marius inside.

Cosette recognised the street they headed towards. “But this is… Inspector, are you telling me my father has been at home this whole time?”

“We will find out.”

keep reading

#les miserables #les mis #valjean #javert #valvert #fic

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schadenfreudefreude-blog · 6 years ago

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This is what youth and adolescence feels like

There are beautiful, wonderful, tender memories from childhood I could put in this story; my childhood loves and my pleasant life in gentle, loving surroundings filled with light. But I am interested here only in the steps I have taken in my life to arrive at myself. I will leave in the glowing distance all the lovely oases, blessed isles, and paradises whose magic I experienced; I have no desire to set foot in them again.

And so, for as long as I stay with my girlhood years, I will speak of only the things that felt new, that pushed me onward, broke me loose.

Then came the years when I had to recognize once again the primal attraction within me, one that had to cower and hide in the permitted world of light. Like everyone else, I too experienced my slowly awakening sexual feelings as an enemy and a destroyer, as something forbidden, as temptation and sin. The great mystery of puberty, which I was desperately curious to solve and which gave rise to dreams, lust, and fear, did not fit at all in the sheltered bliss of my peaceful childhood world. So I did what everyone does: I led the double life of a child who is no longer a child. My conscious life was lived in the familiar space of what was allowed, and denied the world rising like a new dawn to me. At the same time though, my life was lived in dreams, urges, longings of subterranean kind across which my consciousness built ever more anxious and fearful bridges as the childhood world within me fell apart. Like almost all parents, mine did nothing to help the life forces awakening within me, which were never spoken about when I turned thirteen and I got the first guy who courted me and I ghosted because I'm so afraid and innocent and then while I was one of the cheerleaders of the cheerleading squad, there's this musician volleyball player Senior Captain guy who became my first boyfriend for six months and broke up with me in Yahoo Messenger because we were in a long distance relationship and I'm not fulfilling the girlfriend duties enough or maybe he found someone else in Manila. After that, I only involved myself to feel attraction through having crushes and I never had a boyfriend after that year and in my college years. My mother strictly taught me when I was fourteen to only give it to the man I'll marry in the future; my future husband should be the first one to get it. And until now, I still obeyed it and I'm still choosing to wait for the right time and the right person. My parents only tried, endlessly and untiringly, to help me in my hopeless efforts to deny reality and stay in a child's world that grew more and more false and unreal everyday. I do not know if parents can do anything else, and I am not criticizing mine in particular. It was up to me to finish growing up and find my own way; I did it badly, like most well-raised children.

Everyone passes through these difficulties. For the average person, this is the moment when the demands of his life come into the starkest conflict with his environment, when he has to fight the hardest to make his way farther along his path. Many people experience the death and rebirth that is the destiny of us all only this once, as childhood rots from within and slowly disintegrates, as everything we have grown to love abandons us, and we suddenly feel the solitude and deathly cold of the universe around us. And very many people remain stuck at this hurdle their whole life long, desperately hanging on to the irretrievable past and clinging to the dream of a paradise lost, the worst and most deadly of all dreams.

The sensations and mental images with which the end of childhood proclaimed itself in me are not worth telling here. The important thing was that the dark world, the other world, was back. At the same time, the other world outside me was gaining more and more power over me, too.

When vacation was over before college, I went to Baguio. Both my parents came with me and entrusted me with all possible care to a condominium dormitory. They would have frozen with horror had they known the kind of life they were letting me wander into.

The question was still whether I would, with time, turn into a good daughter and useful citizen, or whether my nature was pushing me onto other paths. My last attempt to be happy under the shadow of the parental house and its spirit had lasted a long time, for a while it had almost succeeded, but now it had finally and completely failed.

The strangest emptiness and isolation I had come to feel for the first time the summer before my sophomore year in college (and oh, how well I got to know it later; this emptiness, this thin air!) did not pass away quickly. I found it oddly easy to leave home, I was a little ashamed of not being sadder, in fact; my mother expressed her worries, but I couldn't. I was amazed at myself. I had always been a sensitive child who expressed her feelings; a good girl, when it came down to it. Now I had completely changed. I acted with total indifference toward the outside world and spent days at a time attending only to myself, listening to the dark, underground currents rushing and roaring inside me. I had shot up very quickly in the past six months and looked miserable, skinny, and immature. Everything girly boyishly lovable about me disappeared; I was well aware that it was impossible to love me as I was, and I did not love myself either. I missed myself who loves writing much of the time and there I was memorizing the periodic table and formulas, solving Physics and Chemistry problems for my pre-med course.

So, when I shifted to Communications from Pharmacy in the next semester, I was neither liked nor respected because I was a new face in the Humanities department. They would say hi to me and asked me if I'm Chinese or Korean. I have no friends at all. No one knows me. Boys teased me and then left me alone, having decided I was a weird, distant, unpleasant sort. I took pleasure in this identity and even exaggerated it, grumbling my way into a solitude that looked like a feminst superiority and contempt on the outside while secretly I suffered constant fits of depression and despair. At school I got by for a while on what I had already studied back home, the class was a bit behind me where we had been because I love writing and journalism when I was in high school because I was the news editor of our school paper in my senior year and I was part of the editorial staff for 4 years in high school, and I got into the habit of viewing the other students my age with a certain contempt, as children. It went on like that for a year. Nothing changed on my first few visits home, and I was always glad to go back to school.

Then it was early November of year 2014. Whatever the weather, I would take little intellectual walks, which often gave me a kind of pleasure that was full of melancholy, scorn for the world, and contempt for myself as well. That was how I felt one evening as I strolled through the city of Baguio in the damp, misty twilight. The wide avenue of public park was completely deserted, and inviting; as I walked down the lane, thickly covered with fallen leaves with a dark, voluptous desire. It smelled wet and bitter; distant trees loomed up eerily out of the mist, tall and shadowy.

I stopped at the end of the road, not knowing what to do next. I stared down at the dark vegetal mass and greedily breathed in the wet smell of death and decay, which something inside me responded to and welcomed. Oh, how insipid the taste of life was!

Someone approached down a side path, his coat billowing in the wind. I wanted to keep walking, but he called my name.

"Hello, Lianne. Huy, Lianne!"

He came up to me. It was Lance, the first guy I seriously liked when we were living in my first condominium dormitory when I was first year in college. He is now a physicist and he studied in UP Baguio. I confessed to him that I like him when I was 16 and we were both cool about it and we are good friends after that. I always enjoyed seeing him and had nothing against him except that he always treated me like a baby.

"And what brings you here?" he called out affably, in the tone that bigger kids liked to take when condescended to talk one of us. "Writing a poem, I bet."

"Never occured to me," I snapped back.

He laughed out loud and walked next to me, chatting. I had completely forgotten what that felt like.

"Don't think I wouldn't understand Lianne. I know how it is, when you're taking a walk like this in the evening mist, with 6PM thoughts, you want to write poems, I know. Poems about dying nature, of course, and the lost youth it's a symbol of."

"I'm not that sentimental. How dare you!" I defended myself.

"Alright, nevermind. Alam mo kapag ganito ang weather it's good to find a nice quiet place with a glass of wine or something along those lines. Sama ka saken? Come with me. I happen to be all alone. Or ayaw mo? Ayaw kita mapariwala if may plano ka maging good model student."

Soon we were sitting in a small pub at the edge of the city, drinking a dubious wine and clinking out our glasses together. I didn't like it very much at first, but still it was something new. Soon though, not used to drinking wine, I started talking my head off. It was as though a window had opened inside me, and the world was shining in; how long, how terribly long it had been since I'd said anything I really felt! I started to give my imagination a free rein, and before I knew it I was telling Lance the story of Cain and Abel in the Bible.

Lance listened with delight. Finally, someone to whom I have something to give! Someone who could make deep talks with me. He clapped me on my shoulder, he called me a deep one fellow and my heart swelled with pleasure: I could finally let myself go, indulge in the need to talk and communicate that had been pent up so long, and feel acknowledged by someone older than me, like I was worth something. When he called me brilliant and smart, what he said sank into my soul like sweet, strong wine. The world shone in new colors, thoughts came to me from a hundred mischievous sources, wit and fire blazed up within me. We talked about our teachers, our schools, our classmates, and it seemed to me we understood each other splendidly. We talked about the Greeks, paganism, and Lance insisted on turning the conversation into confessions of amorous adventures. Here I had nothing to contribute. I had not had any adventures, not worth telling. And what I had felt, built up by my imagination, burned within me but the wine did not free it or enable me to talk about it. Lance knew a lot more about girls than I did, and I listened passionately to his fairy-tale stories. What I learned was unbelievable: things I had never thought possible entered ordinary reality and seemed obvious, normal. These girls in his stories have already acquired quite a store of an experience. Among other things, that girls always want nothing but chivalry and attention, which is fine as far as that goes but not the real thing. You could get farther with women. They were much more reasonable.

I remember the night very clearly. When the two of us started home late, past the dully burning gas lamps in the cool wet night, I was drunk for the first time. It did not feel pleasant. It was excruciating. But still, there was something about it: sweet excitement, rebellion, spirited life. Lance took good care of me, even while gripping about what a total beginner I was, and he brought me home, half carrying me, and managed to smuggle us into the dorm through an open hall elevator.

But after a short dead sleep, I woke up to a headache, sobriety, and terrible sadness. I sat up in bed, still wearing my shirt from the day before, with my other clothes and shoes lying around the floor and stinking of smoke and vomit. Between headache, nausea, and unspeakable thirst, an image rose up in my soul that I had not seen for a long time: I saw my parents' house, my hometown, Father and Mother, my siblings, the garden; I saw my quiet, comfortable bedroom, the school, and the market square, all of it flooded with bright light, radiant, all of it wonderful, godly, and pure, and I now knew everything, had still belonged to me the day before, just a few hours ago, had been waiting for my return, but now, only in this moment, it had sunk forever under the waves, was cursed, was no longer mine. It had thrown me out and now looked upon me with disgust! Everything I had so profoundly loved, everything back to the most distant, golden garden of my childhood that my parents had given me, every bless, every Christmas, every bright, pious Sunday mornings at home, every flower in the garden, it was all laid to waste, I had trampled it under my feet. So that's how I looked in the inside! I, who went around despising the world, proud in spirit. I was a pig, like scum, drunk and filthy, disgusting and low, a wild animal taken unawares and overpowered by hideous urges. I, who had come from the garden where everything was purity and radiance and blessed tenderness, who have loved poetry and Bach music, now looked like that inside. I could still hear my laugh ringing in my ears, drunk and out of control, bursting out in idiotic stops and starts and it filled me with rage and disgust. That was me!

Despite everything, it was almost pleasurable to suffer these torments. I had crept around blind and numb for so long, my heart cowering poor and miserable in the corner, that even this self-hatred, this horror, this whole horrible feeling in my soul was welcome! At least I felt something! The embers still flickered with some kind of fire, a heart still beat in there! I was confused to feel something like liberation and springtime in the middle of all my misery.

Meanwhile, to the other side, things went downhill with me in a hurry. My first binge was soon only a first to many. There are a lot of drinking and running wild went on as I meet more friends who asked me to go out. I once belonged to the dark world. At the same time I felt miserable. I was living in a self-destructive riot. I can still recall how tears came to my eyes once when I left a bar on Sunday afternoon and saw children playing in the street, bright and happy, with freshly combed hair, in their Sunday clothes. And the whole time that I was entertaining and often shocking my friends with my monstrous cynicism at the dirty tables of cramped pubs between puddles of beer, in my heart of hearts I still respected what they were mocking. On the inside I kneeled in tears before my soul, before my past and my parents, before God.

I never felt truly one with my companions. I was still lonely when I was with them, and that's why I suffered so. And I never went along with my buddies to see boys. I was alone and full of burning longing for love. A hopeless longing even while I talked like a hardened libertine. No more was more fragile, more full of shame, than I was. I was anxiously ashamed of the warm, shy moods I so often felt, the tender thoughts of love and care that so often came over me.

I cannot summarize in brief about what I learned from my adolescence stage. The most important thing I learned from it was another step on the path to myself. I'm now young adult. I was an unusual young woman around twenty-two years old, precarious in a hundred ways but very far behind and helpless in hundred ways. When I compared myself to the other people my age, I sometimes felt young and full of curiosity. There were times when people see me gifted and creative. They admire how I write and how I sketch and paint. During college, I was eaten up with worries and self-hatred about how hopelessly isolated I was from other people, how cut off from life. They are all dating but I'm closed.

After college, I lived again at my hometown with my family. This new environment gave me courage and taught me to keep my self-respect. The way people always found something valuable in my words, my dreams, my thoughts and imaginings, always took them seriously and discussed them in earnest, became exemplary for me.

I like music because it's outside morality. I can't keep comparing myself to other people. I sometimes feel like I don't belong, I blame myself for following a different path than most other people. I have to unlearn that and I did. Stare into the fire, look at the clouds, and when ideas and intuitions came to me and the voices of my soul start to speak, I trust them and I don't worry about anything.

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iammultifandomaf · 4 years ago

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Chapter 23 - What now?

BROTHERHOOD

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12211562/23/

It was obvious, how did I even not think of it? Allison thought nervously in the backseat of the cab which was making its way to the mountain. It's ridiculous that we have a place here. Inside of a fucking huge rock.

"Miss, are you sure this is the right way?" the taxidriver asked carefully.

"Yes, yes, go ahead," Allison answered sweetly. She understood that the blonde woman behind the wheel could have felt a bit unsecure on this almost forgotten way which lead through the woods. Thankfully, it's still light outside. But it won't last long. God, how do I get her out... her thoughts wandered from this and that.

When she got the message from her cousin, she couldn't believe her own eyes. Or could she? Was she aware of it? That her aunt would do it? Maybe yes. But–

The car stopped. "We aren't there yet–" Allison said.

"I... I didn't stop the car...," the taxidriver said, perplexed. Her confusion exchanged a look of shock when she glanced into the back-rear mirror. Allison did, too, look back, and gulped.

Fuck.

She felt the terror rising within her, it was hard to breath.

How did he get out? she panicked. The back of the car has risen a bit and fell back down with a loud thud. The taxidriver was frozen in shock. Not the reaction I need, Allison thought.

She was only able to watch the nightmare going around the car, stopping by the window where the blonde woman sat. He gently tapped at the glass – it seemed almost funny. The taxidriver looked at him, her eyes wide open. "Yes?" she said slowly, without opening the window.

"Could you please wait here for a bit, love?" he said, british accent sounding through the window. So, he's from England. I actually haven't ever heard him speak, she realized.

"We just need to borrow the lady in the back for a minute," he continued with a smile. The taxidriver looked back at Allison, puzzled.

There's a we, then, Allison concluded and looked at the other side. Her eyes got caught at the sight of her redhead friend, giving support to her boyfriend. Or exboyfriend is it now?

"Uhm, miss?" the taxidriver interrupted Allison's thoughts, "do you know these people? Am I to unlock the car?"

"I think... even if you didn't, they'd find a way. So... please, open it."

"Uh-huh, she answered in disbelief. Click. "Opened."

...

It has been a wild ride up to now. It happened all so fast, she just now was slowly realizing what had happened. Lydia looked at herself, noticing the dried blood on her clothes. Some was hers, some wasn't.

They were now at the top. They had to been inside some sort of cave system in this hill. Because there were only woods and plains around.

Credence was standing a bit further from them, as if he was trying to find something. A way out, perhaps, she thought. Her eyes landed on Stiles who, now realizing, was heavily hurt. He had a lot of bruises, some scratches, his nose seemed crooked, broken probably, and he couldn't stand on his left foot. The reality of the situation hit her just then, she looked at his worn down face, emotionless, like a blank page. Did he just lose his brother?

She felt the tears flowing down the cheeks, sobbing uncontrollably. Lydia tried to be quiet, she turned around so they wouldn't see. But her chest was going up and down and she didn't know how to calm herself down. Lydia dropped to her knees, her legs so weak all of the sudden. She covered her face, feeling stupid.

Suddenly, she felt a touch on her shoulder.

"Lyds," a soothing, quiet voice, "it's alright – it's the shock, that's all."

He may be right, could be the shock, she sobbed on though.

"I-I... you–" she got out but couldn't create any words.

"She broke down?" a different voice, arrogant tone.

"Credence...," Stiles said, like a father chastening his child. No response.

With difficulty, Stiles positioned himself in front of her, kneeling as well. He touched her hands, slowly putting them down, uncovering her swollen eyes.

He gave her a smile, a small one, which somehow angried her.

"How... how can you be so put together?!" she cried, "you just lost... John... I– it's my fau–,"

"Shh."

"Don't shhh me!" Lydia threw hands into the air.

"Can't we just, you know–" Creedence said but was cut of by Stiles' strict look.

"What? You can't judge me for saying it! Look at her!"

"I am looking at her," Stiles said slowly, "Her, I was actually planning on marrying once, so show her some respect."

These words hung in the air for quite a time. Credence only gave out a small "sorry", almost not audible.

Lydia was like frozen at the spot. What did he just say? Marry me? That had to been before, he thought he'd be human forever and never encounter these people, right. I was his only hope, for sure...

"Great," Stiles said, reacting to Lydia's stare into nothing. "Things are working out just fine," he said with irony and stood up, slowly, trying not to put weight on his left foot.

"I don't want to interrupt anything of importance," Credence said almost carefully.

The hierarchy between them is unbelievable, Lydia thought as she watched the vampire standing in front of Stiles who was hurt, a bit bowed to the side – because of the foot. But despite all this, even despite Credence standing tall, unharmed, the difference was visible. Stiles had something about him which put him above Credence.

Weird, a bit scary, Lydia thought. She had never met a person who would act towards Stiles like that.

"There's a car nearby, we could make it, use it...," Credence continued when Stiles kept his silence. He only nodded.

"Alright, so– I'll just–," Credence didn't finish his sentence and Lydia wasn't able to take in everything what had happened within the few next seconds. She only felt that something picked her up from the ground, held her tight when her cheeks were hit by fast wind around her and then.

Nothing.

She was put down on the ground again, next to a forest road. She heard a car, on the right, so she looked that way.

Her eyes widened at the sight of Credence who was holding the car slighlty above the ground by the back of the trunk.

He let that car fall down back and walked around it. Meanwhile, Lydia, who was trying to support Stiles with her own body, began slowly closing in.

After Credence said something to the driver, the back door, on the other side from where Credence was standing, opened.

Allison, only this word flashed through Lydia's head. Stiles suddenly let go of Lydia and straightened his back to look directly at her friend. Was Allison still her friend, though?

Credence stayed by the car, perhaps wanting to check on the driver. Make her wait.

Allison looked confidently at Stiles, then her eyes moved to her right, passing Lydia's gaze, ending at Credence, to whom she sent an arrogant glare. He repaid her hostility with a smirk, his eyes filled with amusement and despise.

"We don't have to make a scene here. Get back in the car, you two, too. We're going back to the city," Stiles decided. Nobody tried to disagree. Credence looked a bit disappointed but he obeyed immediately. Before he himself got in, though, he 'helped' Allison to find her way to the car, too.

Stiles limped by himself to the door and sat next to Allison, as if nothing had happened.

Lydia took the seat left to her friend whilst Credence sat next to the lady who was still shaken up.

"We're ready to go, Miss, please take us to the centre," the vampire said politely.

...

His ankle ached a bit due to his attempt to walk before. Oh, well, he thought.

"Take us to Manhattan, Upper East Side, 87th street, for now," Stiles said to the driver who nervously shifted in her seat, glancing to her right where Credence sat, covered in dry blood.

"So, what now?" Lydia suddenly asked in a weak voice. Stiles' eyes moved to the redhead who was stifly sitting, watching her fingers on her lap. Her eyes were glassy as if she was about to cry.

He felt a sharp pain in his heart, seeing her like this. What did I drag her into?

“When we are in New York, you should go home, Lydia. Maybe visit your dad..."

"What?" Lydia asked, confused, and looked strictly at Stiles.

"What are you planning on doing with Allison?" Lydia asked, her voice filled with worry and fright.

"Um–."

"What do you mean by 'Um'?" Lydia raised her voice which startled the taxidriver again.

"Lyds... this is something... I don't want you to be mixed up in it. Not any more than you are–"

"What do you mean 'not mixed up in it', Stiles? You think that I'll let my ex torture my best friend with his crazy friend over here?" she said loudly and gestured to Credence who smiled at the question which infuriated her even more. "What are you laughing at, creep?" she leaned closer to him with growing spite.

The vampire turned his head back at her with an intimidating look in his eyes which brought Lydia back into reality.

She shouldn't be yelling at a creature like this, he could snap her in two without breaking a sweat. Lydia felt Allison's gaze for the first time. She, too, felt this way. Not only because of Credence, though. The one who scared Allison most was the one on her right.

Stiles put his hand on Credence's shoulder which made the vampire turn his gaze on the road again.

"What I mean, Lydia," Stiles continued, "is that you should go on with your life. Allison was born into a family which tried to subdue us for centuries. And that's fine, everybody needs a purpose, right?" he said smugly and looked at Allison who avoided his eyes.

"So, now, I'll get Mich back. I promise that no harm will come to your friend, Lydia. I just need some information, that's all."

Lydia's breathing quickened a bit. She's never heard Stiles speak in such manner. He obviously perceived Allison and her family as a plain joke. But can he still think this way even without his mojo?

Lydia glanced into Stiles' direction, realizing that he had been looking at her, waiting for an answer.

"I– I... That doesn't matter. I want to stay by her side... I want to know what happens... to her," Lydia said, now less confident than before. Stiles looked at her for a bit and then said a simple: "Alright."

"Alright?" Lydia repeated, not believing what she just heard.

"Yeah, alright. I won't make you do something you don't want... and if you don't want to go home yet, then don't."

Lydia noticed that her friend looked surprised as well at his statement but kept her silence.

"Well, then, I stay by you," Lydia said, looking directly at Allison and grabbing her hand tightly for reassurance. Stiles smiled at her act.

Lydia wasn't certain, though, if he found it comical or if it was a genuine smile.

...

The rest of the ride was silent. Stiles looked out of the window, thinking about how to handle Lydia. Not in a bad way of course. Nothing had changed about the way he felt about her. But under these circumstances, he had to uncover something which he tried to hide for so long.

It was quite easy to be all nice and kind when he was just another human amongst many, doing everyday's chores, going to work, having a girlfriend.

Sometimes, he thought of a more radical solution which in his eyes was the simpler one, but he chose a different path in the end. Why? He wasn't sure. Maybe to fit in. Maybe it was for her only.

...

They arrived sooner than Allison expected. She was surprised that Lydia took her side even though she was the reason her redheaded friend was captured in the first place.

Maybe she thought of Stiles' revelation being worse than Allison's. Allison was human after all. Stiles was not. Or at least he used to be different.

The brunette shook off these thoughts because she didn't know the answer to them anyways.

The car stopped and the taxidriver's fingers nervously drummed on the steering wheel.

"We're here," she announced with a distant voice.

Allison jumped up a bit from scare when suddenly Stiles looked at her.

"Allison, would you be so kind and borrowed me some money so we can pay this lady? Unfortunately, your family stripped me of all my belongings, including my wallet."

Allison froze for a bit, hearing him say these words in such nonchalant way. Her fingers unzipped her purse and fished out her pink wallet which she then handed to Stiles.

This was the first time their eyes met. Just for a second, though. She didn't want to stare.

But, if she wasn't mistaken, his gaze was not threatening, nothing like that, more like the opposite. She gulped.

Stiles took out some bills and handed them to Credence, saying only: "Could you handle the rest, please?"

After these words, he slowly got out of the taxi. Allison and Lydia stayed in the car, finally looking at each other, not sure what to do next.

"So, we hope this will be enough for all the trouble," Credence said and both the girls looked at him. Allison's eyes widened at the sight of his fingers which were elongated by dark sharp claws.

Is he gonna hurt her?

No, he cut himself swiftly in the palm and a little streak of blood appeared. The taxidriver looked at his hands in shock but before she could have said anything, the blood rose in the thin air and created an circle which stayed in front of her face. Her eyes were focused on the circle and Credence said something which Allison didn't understand.

Is he using magic? How does he know magic? she asked herself.

Within seconds, the blood literally evaporated and Credence looked back at Lydia and her.

"Well, let's get out of the car, shall we?" he said and opened the door. Lydia, too, opened the door and got out, holding it open for Allison.

Oh, crap, here we go, she thought and pushed herself out of the car where the vampire, Stiles and her friend were waiting.

#stiles stilinski #stolos #credence #lydia martin #allison argent #brotherhood #thomas shelby #chapter 23 #what now?#fanfic #fanfiction

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