#-the guy who's entire thing is how smart he is- gets turned into an unthinking beast | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

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Getting Bored - part 3 - ao3 - tumblr pt 1, pt 2

Perhaps it was merely the competent coordinator in him, but Jin Guangyao truly appreciated clever schemes working out exactly as planned, even if he was the one being schemed against.

It didn’t count when it was a matter of chance, like Nie Mingjue finding him in the middle of committing a murder – that was his own fault for not paying better attention, not planning better, and to a certain degree simply his bad luck – but rather, when there was a deliberate effort to set up the circumstances in such a way as to leave an enemy with no retreat and no way out but to react exactly as you wish…

Beautiful.

Annoying, of course, when it interfered with his own plans. But a pleasure to observe nonetheless.

Sadly, his father did not take such things as calmly as he did.

By this point, Jin Guangyao was able to repress his flinch at the sound of something expensive breaking as it was thrown against the wall.

“Motherless bastard, son of a whore!” Jin Guangshan hissed, and it was only the fact that he was glaring out the window of the inn they were staying at in Yiling that let Jin Guangyao conclude that he was not referring to himself. “How dare he pull a thing like his – and at Yiling, no less? The sheer gall of it –”

The gall, Jin Guangyao presumed, was in outwitting Jin Guangshan and outdoing the Jin sect at their own game. It had to be that, because in all other respects it was a masterful stroke: the Yiling Patriarch implicitly realigning himself with the Jiang sect by acting in the role of Jiang Cheng’s shixiong in hosting the announcement of the marriage between Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng, the Nie sect’s agreement with that location representing their endorsement of Wei Wuxian’s return to the cultivation world and the end of the ostracization the Jin sect had worked so hard to accomplish, while the marriage itself represented the formation of an iron-solid alliance between the Nie and Jiang sects that in a single stroke rendered the Jin-Jiang marriage alliance null – since after all, Jiang Cheng would be bound to put his husband’s requests above those of what, in the end, was merely a married-out sister.

(The fact that Jiang Cheng adored his sister unreasonably and wasn’t the sort to listen to husbandly authority was irrelevant. Jin Guangyao might be smart enough to use that, but Jin Guangshan wasn’t.)

Or perhaps what truly galled Jin Guangshan was how, while they had all been absorbing the implications of the news they had received along with the invitation, Jin Zixuan had loudly – and publicly – exclaimed that it was wonderful, joyous news and that he wished Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue a long and happy life together.

Obviously, that would have had to be the public response regardless, but there were ways of saying it and there were ways of saying it. Jin Zixuan’s exclamation hadn’t allowed for any nuance or implication or rumor-mongering, nothing that they could have done to salvage the situation and try to use it as another way to strengthen their sect by weakening the others.

They could have implied that this union in fact represented Nie Mingjue’s hot-headed impulsiveness, even irrationality, hinted at unspoken but well-known things about Nie Mingjue’s longevity and mental state – suggested that Jiang Cheng was trying to take advantage of those things, marrying himself off for a political benefit while only counting a few years in cost…but it was no point in thinking of those things now.

Now, thanks to Jin Zixuan, the only thing they could do was come to this little inn in Yiling and grit their teeth and smile, their lips full of well-wishes they didn’t mean in the slightest.

Moreover, while Jin Guangshan saw the entire thing as little more than an exercise in frustration in his proper heir, who he believed to be too noble and chivalrous to think of the implications before he spoke, Jin Guangyao had seen the faint smile on Jin Zixuan’s face right before he’d spoken, and the expression on his face upon hearing the news hadn’t been surprise.

He’d known, and judging by the pleased but not shocked expression on Mistress Jiang’s face, the source of his knowledge was clear. Jin Zixuan had known, and he’d spoken deliberately; he’d locked his sect into expressing only joy at the union, undermining all their plans, and he’d done it on purpose.

Jin Guangyao was dying to know how Nie Mingjue had arranged that.

Because he had, of course. Jin Guangyao had immediately quizzed his contacts at the Lotus Pier, and they all confirmed that the marriage wasn’t anything as pedestrian as a mere love match – Nie Mingjue had explicitly proposed on the basis of mutual benefit for their sects, and Jiang Cheng had accepted on those self-same grounds. He had even announced it to his sect in that fashion, explaining some of the benefits he believed the arrangements would bring to the Lotus Pier and assuring them that he would never forsake their interests even as he planned to spend at least one month in every three at Qinghe.

If it had been a love match, Jin Guangyao wouldn’t have been that impressed. It didn’t take a genius to fall in love and luck out into a political move that shook the world, especially since Nie Mingjue’s luck had always been irritatingly good, but to deliberately plan and execute such a move – not only the alliance itself, but to also use the arrangement as an excuse to get the Yiling Patriarch and all his tricks and toys onto the side of the Nie sect when days before he had been an enemy to all the world – to use Wei Wuxian in turn to obtain instant approval from the Lan sect, given Lan Wangji’s inexplicable fondness for the man and Lan Xichen’s desire to please his brother – to even use Jiang Cheng’s connection to Jin Zixuan to undermine the Jin sect’s ability to fight back – to do it all at once –

Beautiful. Truly beautiful.

He hadn’t thought Nie Mingjue had it in him, to be honest.

All that talk about honor and doing the right thing and all that – he’d long assumed that it was mere naïveté, the mind of a child in the body of a man trying to play at politics, that Nie Mingjue was a blunt instrument good only for war. In such circumstances, especially with what happened between them in the past, it was only reasonable for Jin Guangyao to break with him fully and support his father instead.

But now that he knew that Nie Mingjue was actually capable of such a clever ploy…

Jin Guangyao watched without expression as his father continued to break his own things in his impotent anger, like a toddler having a tantrum that wouldn’t change anyone’s decisions one bit.

Perhaps it was time to start reconsidering which horse he was backing in this race.

Jiang Cheng hadn’t expected Wei Wuxian to have such a passion for planning his wedding, although in retrospect he really should have. After all, they’d always schemed together as children about the sort of wonderful grandiose wedding they were going to ensure that Jiang Yanli would have, and yet when the time came it had not been possible to include Wei Wuxian in the actual wedding planning or even execution.

He was clearly getting his feelings out about all of that by insisting on micromanaging every possible aspect of this wedding.

Since Jiang Cheng didn’t actually have the patience or interest to argue with the merchants regarding the exact shade of the streamers to be used to decorate the Lotus Pier, he was happy to let Wei Wuxian run wild with it.

He’d worried a little a first – Wei Wuxian was still the Yiling Patriarch, after all, feared and loathed by all – but bizarrely enough everyone seemed to be taking his return to the cultivation world in stride, as if they’d all collectively forgotten that they’d forced Jiang Cheng to expel him from the Jiang sect less than a year before. He’d even heard some of the smaller sect leaders arguing that as adherents to the Jiang sect, they ought to get first access when Wei Wuxian started selling genuine versions of some of his new inventions.

On the basis of Wei Wuxian’s close connection to the sect that had raised him, no less!

Maybe it was only that it was very hard to be afraid of man shouting about how the mandarin ducks in Jiang Cheng’s wedding robes had to be sewn in proper gold thread, none of this half-assed yellow business, didn’t they know that Jiang Cheng had a complexion that would be faded out by yellow?

Still, with that worry settled, Jiang Cheng had very happily allowed Wei Wuxian to use his wedding as a means of reintroducing himself to the cultivation world and settling back into something vaguely resembling his original role as Jiang Cheng’s shixiong – no longer part of the same sect, unfortunately, not the Twin Heroes he’d hoped for when he was younger, but so much better than the unthinkable alternative that he wasn’t angry, only grateful.

Of course, there were some aspects of the wedding preparation that Wei Wuxian couldn’t help with.

Jiang Cheng’s face burned as he looked down at the books on his desk, both the ones he’d already reviewed and the (much larger) pile of books still to go, as well as the study guide he’d been writing for himself on the side. He’d had to steel his spine and ask Nie Huaisang for them, but luckily Nie Huaisang – who was enjoying spectating the wedding planning, since what he was doing couldn’t really be considered helping – had been, as always, a reliable source for such things.

Such…pictures.

Jiang Cheng was getting married, after all, and it wasn’t as though he’d had the mechanics of how cutsleeves did things explained to him during that extremely awkward conversation in his early teens about how babies were made. That talk had been traumatizing enough that he’d properly refrained from doing anything at all with anyone, much less another man, and as a result he had to try to figure things out from the beginning.

It was possible that Nie Mingjue was more educated in such matters than he, and would be able to act as a guide for him, but the idea of making some sort of amateur mistake made Jiang Cheng’s skin crawl. He wasn’t the genius Wei Wuxian was, confident in getting everything right the first time he tried no matter how unprepared he was.

Studying up in advance was the only solution.

Even if it did make his face hot and his breath come too fast and require occasional breaks from the work to go walk around the Lotus Pier until his heart rate came down to something more normal.

(Jiang Cheng secretly suspected that he didn’t feel desire the way other people did – he’d never looked at a person and gone oh yes I like the look of that the way it usually got described, never granted anyone more favors because they were pretty, never felt like he was missing out on something by not having someone in his bed – but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy getting off. In theory, having someone to assist with that would be even better, and he...didn’t know what to do with that.)

Gritting his teeth, Jiang Cheng picked up another book. Not pictures this time, he noted to his relief, although he’d found that some of the narrative texts managed to be even filthier than the explicit images, all implication and suggestion and no wrong faces to get in the way of him imagining himself in that position.

This book, though, started pretty slow. It was well-written, taking the time to flesh out the characters and actually throw in a bit of plot to keep the background from being too boring, though of course the focus remained on the two main characters getting closer together – which they did slowly and cautiously, rather than jumping straight into bed together the way it was in most such books. There was a lot more emphasis on kissing and on their general reticence and growing familiarity around each other, perfectly reasonable given that the characters weren’t that close to each other to start with.

It was a nice change, obviously much more applicable to the situation that he and Nie Mingjue were in than in some of the other books where there was nothing but smut, and Jiang Cheng found himself reading it quite avidly, wanting to find out what happened next, and it wasn’t until he was nearly three-quarters of the way through and the first spring scene had actually cut out before describing the actual contents of the relevant activity that he abruptly realized that the stupid book wasn’t pornography at all, but a romance.

He scowled at the book, which was good enough to finish anyway but still, what a waste of time! Why had Nie Huaisang put this in with the rest of them?

After all, Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue weren’t in a romance – this was a political arrangement, not a love-match. It was all hard-nosed logical decision-making, cost-benefit analysis. Emotions didn’t play a role in it at all, and that was just how Jiang Cheng wanted it, given the mess emotions had made of his parents’ marriage.

Sure, Jiang Cheng enjoyed Nie Mingjue’s company. He found the man interesting and engaging, and enjoyed being around him regardless of whether they were actively doing something or merely sitting in a comfortable shared silence.

Sure, kissing him made Jiang Cheng’s heart race and his face go red, while embracing him made him feel warm. The thought of going to bed with him filled Jiang Cheng with anticipation rather than revulsion – he still didn’t look at Nie Mingjue and break him down into pieces, thinking nice legs or good ass or anything like that, but he thought he could enjoy touching him and being touched in return, and imagining it with him was far more interesting than imagining it with anyone else.

And, yes, sure, it was a bit like that character in the book had put it, that being with him was better than being without him, and being without him felt lonely as it never had before –

…wait.

Wait.

Oh, shit.

“So, I think I might have messed something up,” Jiang Cheng said, bursting into the room that set aside to be Nie Mingjue’s office during the time he would spend at the Lotus Pier, since with it being one month out of three there was bound to be days when they had to deal with confidential sect business that the other couldn’t be involved in. He looked as if he had run the entire way.

Nie Mingjue pushed his papers away. “Is someone dead or imminently dying? Are we going to war?”

Jiang Cheng paused and frowned, distracted from his panic. “No, it’s not that sort of problem.”

“Then there’s time left to fix it,” Nie Mingjue said. Death was irreversible, war was catastrophic, everything else was negotiable – or stab-able. The Nie sect was a very practical sect. “Sit down and tell me what happened from the beginning.”

Jiang Cheng looked relieved at receiving clear instructions, something Nie Mingjue had noticed from early on – it seemed to help his anxiety to know that there was someone keeping their head. Ironically enough, Jiang Cheng himself was excellent at keeping his own head in front of the sort of injustice that sent Nie Mingjue out of his mind with rage; he immediately defaulted to planning on what to do, which in turn calmed Nie Mingjue down.

They were really a very good match, he thought to himself, pleased; it was just as he’d suspected – or, perhaps more accurately, hoped.

Jiang Cheng sat down. “Okay,” he said. “Right. I messed up –”

“Non-fatally.”

“…yes, non-fatally. But I still did mess up, and it involves you.”

Nie Mingjue arched his eyebrows.

“I understand that our marriage is an arrangement designed to better both our sects,” Jiang Cheng said. He was now staring fixedly at the wall a little over Nie Mingjue’s head. “But I appear to have developed…feelings.”

Nie Mingjue managed not to flinch, primarily out of years of practice of attending truly gruesomely awful discussion conferences.

That was a disappointment, especially as things had seemed to be going so well. It had always been a risk, he supposed, and one he knew to prepare himself for, although it did come as something of a surprise – especially this late in the process. Nie Mingjue hadn’t seen anyone around Jiang Cheng that he thought might be a likely person for it.

“For whom?” he asked, remaining calm. If the person was inaccessible, or someone who might be joined into the marriage, then the deal was still salvageable – certainly his father hadn’t complained – but if this was a sticking point…

Jiang Cheng blinked at him owlishly. “What? What do you mean for who? For you, obviously!”

Now it was Nie Mingjue’s turn to blink. His heart turned over in his chest, abruptly twisting the sting of disappointment into the pleasure of a nice surprise, but mostly what he felt was confusion.

“Okay,” he said, scowling a little, “what’s the problem, then?”

Jiang Cheng looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “That is the problem! It’s one thing entirely to make an agreeable business decision with someone you like well enough, friends can do anything, but it’s not exactly the sort of feeling you get for friends.”

“We’re…going to be married, though?”

“Yes! Exactly! Feelings in a marriage lead to jealousy, jealousy leads to stupid irrational behavior, which leads to resentment, which poisons the entire relationship –”

“A-Cheng,” Nie Mingjue said, feeling as though he might be allowed. “Marriages are supposed to cultivate feelings.”

Jiang Cheng frowned.

“Not everyone is your parents. Most people, in fact. You reach an agreement with someone you respect, you marry, you put in the work necessary to turn that respect into feelings you can use to base a lifetime together on – what do you think all that practice we’ve been doing is the foundation for?”

“But…”

“Jealousy doesn’t necessarily lead to resentment,” Nie Mingjue explained. “As long as the feelings are reciprocated, a little jealousy can be – not a problem.”

Sometimes very much not a problem, not that Nie Mingjue personally suffered from that taste.

(He was not going to explain the details of his own parents’ relationship, however useful an example it might be in this context. If Jiang Cheng wanted an explanation of how people could end up eroticizing jealousy and sexual possessiveness to the point that watching their beloved implicitly reject them in favor of another went from being distressing to exciting, he could ask Nie Huaisang about it.)

“Oh,” Jiang Cheng said, and looked relieved.

He wasn’t the only one.

“How did this come up, anyway?” Nie Mingjue asked.

“Oh, I was reading a book,” Jiang Cheng said, and for some reason he flushed a little. “It depicted a romance that reminded me of how you and I interact, and my feelings on the subject, and, well…”

“What book?”

Jiang Cheng pulled the book out of his sleeve – it was one of Nie Huaisang’s favorite romance novels, Nie Mingjue could identify it on sight based on how many times he’d seen his brother flipping through it and sighing – and tried to offer it over, only when he did another book that had somehow gotten stuck up to the back of the first one fell down to the floor, landing on its spine and falling open.

The page it fell open to was illustrated. Vividly.

There was a moment in which they both stared down at it.

Nie Mingjue pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, and Jiang Cheng turned beet red and leapt to his feet and started stammering something about making a study guide to avoid embarrassing himself and not to pay any attention to it and anyway it was all Nie Huaisang’s fault – Nie Mingjue believed that one immediately – and anyway the only reason it’d fallen to that particular page was because he was convinced that it wasn’t even possible –

“No, that one’s possible,” Nie Mingjue said, standing up as well. “You just need support – look, see, if I lift you up against the wall like this –”

He demonstrated.

“– and you put your legs like so, it all works out just fine. Entirely plausible.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth was slightly agape, his breath coming a bit quickly; his cheeks were still a lovely shade of pink, and Nie Mingjue could tell fairly easily that Jiang Cheng’s attempted explanation about the reason he had been lingering on that particular page was a lie.

“Oh,” he said, “and I like you, too. Just so you know.”

Jiang Cheng smiled.

#mdzs #jiang cheng #nie mingjue #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #getting bored #mingcheng

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years ago

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Good Omens - Addiction (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is addicted to affection. Addicted to touch. But being an addict, he can't seem to manage to find a healthy relationship, nor make any relationship last. After his latest break up, he decides to forgo the emotion and go straight for physical satisfaction.

... He just wants to find someone who needs his body. He's not particularly picky as to who - or what - that entails. (5792 words)

Notes: A major re-working of another piece I wrote. If you guys like this one, I will complete the scene that should come after it ;) Let me know. Vampire Crowley. Warnings for mention of blood and blood sucking. Sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale walks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, eyeballing the outfits he’d laid out earlier, scathingly critical of every item he chose even though, had you asked him two hours ago, he would have claimed each as tied for favorite. He’s 90% dressed already - cream colored trousers and a matching long-sleeved button down, a pale blue waistcoat (one he’s been told matches his eyes perfectly), tartan socks, and his best cocoa brown Derbys. All he needs now is a bowtie.

Does he need a bowtie? He doesn’t know exactly what the protocol is regarding neckwear where he’s going. He definitely prefers to wear a bowtie. Would not wearing one send some sort of message? Aziraphale assumes forgoing a bowtie might make him appear more casual. At ease. But in the context of the place he’s headed, might it also mean that he’s easy?

He sighs. He’s thinking too hard about this. This place he’s going - he’s paying to be there! What the Hell does the possible hidden innuendo of wearing or not wearing a bowtie matter under those circumstances? He hasn’t left the house without a bowtie on in over four decades!

He’s wearing the bowtie.

His gaze slides over his bed, the ties in the running lined up side by side on his comforter. He reaches for one, fingers hovering just above before he changes his mind and goes for the one beside it, picking it up between pinched fingers and holding it to his neck. He turns to his full length mirror and takes a peek.

“This one?” he asks no one, appraising the plain, gray fabric. “No. No, that won’t do.” He tosses it back on the bed and grabs another one - a tartan tie that matches his socks.

Heaven’s Dress Tartan. His family’s tartan. It’s pretty much the tie he wears for every occasion.

Naively, it makes him feel protected.

“This one?” he muses, already nodding his head. “Yes, this one.” Aziraphale slips the narrow strip of fabric about his neck and ties it. He looks himself over in the mirror, chest puffed with pride, but it doesn’t last long.

What is he doing?

He’s too old for this.

Maybe he should pack it in, wrap up his libido and call it quits. He’s had a good run, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need the physical. No more hugs, no more kisses, no more sex - that wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop from his smart outfit to his feet.

Except it would.

It would for Aziraphale.

He can’t give up touch. He’s never done well without some speck of it in his life.

Deep down inside, he knows he can’t survive without it.

It’s not as simple as feeling lonely or unfulfilled. His need for affection goes beyond that. And it’s stronger - so much stronger - than him.

Being an addict is no small burden. Aziraphale knows that firsthand. He’s seen what addiction can do to people. He’s seen how it can devastate families.

He sat around for years and watched, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and child, turning him from parental figure into perfect stranger well before Aziraphale’s formative years, then into an enemy when Aziraphale decided against going into medicine, law, or business (the big three that would ensure the family fortune would multiply and thrive long after his father was gone) and instead majored in linguistics and literature.

His father’s addiction led to his mother’s. She’d hit the bottle to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she’d loved since secondary school, drift away, drinking herself stupid until she couldn’t remember what day it was, where she lived … or that she had a son.

But addiction isn’t only cause and effect. It can be hereditary. It spread through the Fell family like wildfire, jumping from generation to generation. It started with Aziraphale’s great-great-great-great-grandfather on his father’s side and trickled down. Since Aziraphale is the last living Fell, his family’s vices have caught up to him, pooled around his ankles with nowhere else to flow to.

Threatening to drag him under.

Aziraphale has an addiction, too. Anyone who talks to him for about five minutes would say that his drug of choice is books, and indeed there are a good many reasons to believe that. Aziraphale loves books. He’s amassed such a collection that he even became an antique book dealer, but mostly as an excuse to find a place big enough to house his vast collection.

No, Aziraphale gets addicted to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. And he can’t live without it. He’ll take it from anyone willing to give even a smidgen of it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully blossom with people who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Not that these relationships would have gone anywhere if given the chance. That’s part of the problem. Aziraphale tries so hard to find the tenderness stolen from him at too early an age, he doesn’t necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, spots where rain won’t ever find them, away from the sun’s nurturing rays.

Tonight, walking alone through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he’s suffering the aftershocks of one such break-up. But this time, Aziraphale was prepared … somewhat. Which is to say he saw the signs. He knew the end was coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. But instead of doing the adult thing and cutting ties painlessly, he let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could. And afterwards, when he’d brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex’s apartment – toothbrush, shaving cream, CDs, a few shirts, underwear, the possessions that he’d used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

He arrives at the obscure establishment before ten o’clock, having fooled himself that he’s ready to move on even before his ex’s side of the bed is cold. He’s doing right by himself. No more leaping into empty relationships just to have his mind messed with and his heart broken.

He’s skipping straight to the physical.

This is the way to go.

But there is also the chance that he’s being phenomenally stupid.

Aziraphale has paid money for questionable things before, things that he’s looked back on and regretted, shoving them as far behind him as he could so as not to think about them ever again.

But paying to feed his addiction - he’s never done that.

The place he’s gone to, with its ornate wooden door set into the face of an everyday brick wall, looks like a day spa if anything – a rather foreboding day spa. In a way, Aziraphale had expected it to look that way. That or a bar. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? A bordello, perhaps? He’d heard about one that operates out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Let it never be said that Aziraphale didn’t do his research.

From what he’d heard, this place isn’t only the most exclusive of its kind in London, it’s the most discreet.

Silent as the grave, he’d been told.

There is no buzzer, no knocker, not even a door knob. No indication at all that anyone is allowed in but Aziraphale knows better. He sends a text to a number he paid a hefty sum for, along with a selfie that takes longer than he’d care to admit to take, but that’s not entirely his fault. There are strict requirements for this photograph - angle, background, head tilt, etc. The phone number is one-time use. After he hits send, he won’t be able to follow up with another message, so his picture needs to be up to spec.

Each selfie he takes, he despises immediately. The first one … well, the first one always bites, doesn’t it? In the second one, his face is too fat. Chubby chipmunk cheeks and puckered lips? He looks like a frickin’ cherub! The third one … ugh! Where was he even looking? The fourth one - definite serial killer with that awkward, thin-lipped grin.

He can’t keep doing this. He has to pick one! He’s running out of time! Ten o’clock sharp the message had said! If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to be even a minute late!

He decides that his next picture will be his absolute last. Whatever comes out of this shot, he can’t take another one. He holds his phone up at the pre-determined angle, holds his breath, plasters on his most sincere smile … and prays to God.

Just then, the unthinkable happens.

He fumbles his phone.

He’d been holding so hard to it and his smile that his fingers had begun to sweat. He loses traction, the traitorous thing sliding out of his grasp. The shutter clicks, the flash fires, and his phone makes a lyrical trill of affirmation.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops like a lead balloon straight to his feet.

That noise - that skipping of high-pitched notes that he chose at random because they reminded him of Rites of Spring - indicates that the picture sent without Aziraphale having a chance to double check it first.

“Oh … Hell!” he curses. He should have taken the damned thing at home! The glow from his reading lantern would have given his skin a soft, golden cast; made him look younger; mysterious; but he forgot that a picture would be required. In every photo he’s taken in this doorway, illuminated only by a chemical bulb above his head, he looks anemic, harsh shadows thrown by the overly bright flash elongating his nose, hollowing his cheeks, sinking his eyes into their sockets. But this one, snapped off while his phone was negotiating gravity, is likely to be the worst one yet! Instead of a solid face, he’ll look like a blur.

A middle-aged blur with absolutely no relationship prospects. Not even a cat.

Aziraphale scrolls frantically through his gallery to try and find the picture, see what disaster he’s unleashed, but he can’t locate it.

“Where are you, you little …?” he mumbles, heart thrumming so hard it’s beginning to make him nauseous. The picture isn’t in his saved file. Not on his SD card. It’s not in his sent messages. So where the frick is it!? Aziraphale has to see it, has to know what he’s done, has to know if he’s failed. Has to know if it’s worth waiting out here, or if he should turn tail and head for his bookshop. Somewhere in between bribing his phone and threatening to smash the screen to bits, the door pops open with a click.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, his head shooting up like a prairie dog’s on its guard.

The door.

The door is open.

He mustn’t have sent a horrifying photograph after all!

But it may not stay open for long so he’d better move his arse!

He pushes the door further and steps inside. It closes behind him the moment he’s through. He turns quickly to see who shut it since he didn’t notice a doorman when he entered.

But there’s no one.

He’s in the foyer of this large, imposing place completely alone.

As far as he can tell.

He has the distinct feeling he’s being watched.

Of course he’s being watched! he scolds himself. They probably have security cameras everywhere in a place like this! There’s nothing sinister about that! Why, he went to a thrift store not too long ago that had a security camera installed over every aisle, and the most notable item they had for sale was a velvet painting of Margaret Thatcher! Pull yourself together, Aziraphale, for Heaven’s sake!

Now that he’s inside, the place reminds him more of a bank than a spa: long stretches of empty hallway decorated in shows of old school wealth - leather chairs, ornate mirrors, glossy wood drawing tables, a long Persian runner leading him to his destination with chandeliers marking the path every ten feet or so. There’s been more money invested in this one hall than Aziraphale’s father could afford to put into their entire house, even with his lofty inheritance.

He can’t help thinking it would make the old man pea green with envy if he were alive to see it.

Little does Aziraphale know that there are two other hallways ahead of him just like this one.

Aziraphale walks through a total of three locked doors to get to what could be deemed ‘the main lobby’. He’s not escorted, but he does need to be buzzed through, the same melancholy voice asking him to repeat his name through an intercom at every checkpoint. Aziraphale marvels at the embassy-level security but he can’t help but wonder: is this a common practice at these places? No one mentioned anything about this.

What sort of trouble are they trying to prevent?

Aziraphale imagines most people might turn around at this point, go back the way they came and forget all about this place, but not him. As he approaches the final door there is no going back for him now. Not when he’s so close to what he wants.

He goes through the procedure one last time – name and then buzz. But this door is heavier, takes a bit more strength to push open. Black lighting overhead engulfs the room, creates a void that makes everything within indefinable. A few feet in, a wraparound counter fluoresces purple. Aziraphale sees only a single occupant in this room - a man sitting behind the counter who looks, from the outset, like a regular human being.

Of course, Aziraphale has never met a vampire before. He has no idea what one should look like.

He walks up to the counter, the door behind him swinging close and shutting with the same poignant click as the rest. But once this door seals, it takes the light with it, plunging Aziraphale momentarily into near complete black.

The man doesn’t look up at Aziraphale’s arrival. Aziraphale clears his throat to get his attention.

“E-excuse me?” he says nervously, his stomach flipping somersaults from his pelvis up to his neck. His voice sounds thin and disappointing to his own ears. Then again, he barely speaks to anyone from day to day. Maybe it sounds exactly the way it should.

The man sitting behind the counter – dark-skinned but with an ashy paler - blatantly ignores Aziraphale, who’d be standing practically on top of him if not for the counter between them. He flips exaggeratedly through the pages of his magazine (Aziraphale can’t tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale repeats, louder but still weak.

The man sniffs the air. He shifts only his eyes to address Aziraphale, looks him over, then returns to his magazine. “Wot do you want?”

“I … uh … I have an appointment. F-for a session.” Session. Is that the right word for it? No one Aziraphale talked to about this gave him the in on the lingo. “With a man by the name of Crowley.”

The disinterested man flips another page. “An appointment, huh?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it’s surprisingly deserted. Aziraphale can’t see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, aside from the glowing furniture, it’s so dark in there – a darkness his eyes refuse to get accustomed to – someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I’m … uh … sort of new at this.” His statement is met with a silence as thick as a brick wall. He chuckles, anxiety starting to get the better of him.

He feels vaguely like he might be in danger.

If he backed out now, walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

Then Aziraphale realizes fuck! He’d probably need to be buzzed out the same way he was buzzed in. And the man behind the counter might have to be the one to do it. He has the same dry, unenthusiastic tone in his voice as the one that greeted Aziraphale at every door.

The man glances Aziraphale’s way, then blows out a breath, obviously annoyed he’s still there. “I’ll tell him you’re here Mr. …”

“Fell. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man repeats but doesn’t reach for a phone or make a move to inform anyone that Aziraphale has arrived. He gives the air another disdainful sniff and scrunches his nose, raising his magazine to cover it. “Did you have sushi for lunch, Mr. Fell?”

“Uh …” Aziraphale clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like to a creature with super-sensitive olfactory organs. He did have sushi, but that was days ago. There’s no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listermint he uses daily.

“Was it refrigerated properly? Or do you buy your food from the day-old section of your local market?”

Aziraphale’s hackles rise. He disregards the feeling that he’s in danger in defense of his favorite restaurant. “I really don’t think that Hot Stone would stoop to selling day-old sushi!”

“Did you even remember where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scolds without listening to him. “I mean, have some respect, for Satan’s sake!”

“That’s enough, Ligur.” A new voice, amused but stern, says from the shadows. “If you don’t stop badgering the customers, we won’t have any, and then how will you afford your flat? Hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Ligur replies, barely bringing himself to care.

Inconceivably quick, their new guest goes from standing in the light to standing before Aziraphale. Ligur snickers at the move, like he’s seen it too many times before, but Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any mind. Ligur might not be impressed, but Aziraphale can’t. stop. staring.

Aziraphale has never seen such a man.

He’s never imagined a man like him could exist. He’s sure he could spend his entire life trying to think him up and still never come up with him. He captivates Aziraphale in a matter of seconds, mystifies him without lifting a finger. He’s tall, slim, and fair. He reminds Aziraphale of a prince from an old world fairy tale. In fact, Aziraphale knows just the book he’d find it in. He intends on searching for it the moment he returns to his shop (he thinks hopefully). The man’s eyes, even in the absence of light, are piercing, simmering in their depths with a light all their own.

The man doesn’t walk up to Aziraphale. He stalks. And the way he carries himself leads Aziraphale to believe he can take anything he wants with a snap of his fingers. At the moment, he’s stolen Aziraphale’s voice, his breath, practically every thought in his head.

Aziraphale’s entire focus becomes this man.

The man moves a step forward. Aziraphale takes a subconscious step back.

“I believe that you are my ten o’clock,” the man says.

Aziraphale nods, not sure if he’s expected to speak ... or if he’s allowed. “Are … are you … Mr. Crowley?”

“In the flesh. And you must be Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tongue curls around his words, the hint of an accent making an appearance. Several accents, actually. At his root, the man sounds English, but not born. But his accent is acquired, not practiced, bred from immersion. There are other touches here and there - a dash of Birmingham, a little cockney perhaps, an Irish brogue, peppered upon a foundation that sounds firmly Scottish. Lilts and rolls add flavor to Aziraphale’s name so that he feels he’s hearing it spoken out loud for the first time. Even lost in that dialect soup, Aziraphale doesn’t think it’ll ever sound more perfect than it does rolling off Crowley’s tongue. It tickles his eardrums, silently begs Crowley to say it again.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. “Aziraphale Fell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It will be soon.” Crowley winks. “Follow me, Mr. Fell.” He smiles, teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights, but those teeth … that smile … make him look predatory, and Aziraphale considers again if coming here was the smartest idea, especially since he did so impulsively, took no precautions. He was so distracted by his break-up, so wrapped up in shoulds and shouldn’ts, what people would think of him if they ever found out, that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

What if he simply disappears?

No one in his life would dream of looking for him here, and he left absolutely no clues to point them in this direction.

Regardless of the warning bells tolling in his head, new ones firing off with each pound of his heart, Aziraphale follows Crowley down several vacant hallways. The place was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illuminations doing nothing more than throwing shadows on the walls – shadows deep enough to disappear in. Crowley walks swiftly. Aziraphale almost loses him twice, but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with doors. Aziraphale hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart speeds in his chest.

It slams to a stop when he hears a man scream – strained and blood curdling.

Aziraphale can’t tell if the man is screaming in pleasure or in pain.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Um … is he going to be alri---?”

“Right this way, Mr. Fell,” Crowley interrupts, opening the last door on the left. “This is my private office. No one will dare disturb us in here.” Aziraphale hesitates but decides to go inside, not because he feels any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn’t, he might run the other way. Crowley waits patiently till Aziraphale steps in, then shuts, and locks, the door. “Now … what can I help you with today?”

Aziraphale paces the room, examining its violet walls with their black-and-white photographs mounted in minimalist glass frames. It isn’t much brighter in here than in the lobby, but it’s more inviting - the sort of space created specifically for people to spend time in together, get to know one another. A round, wooden table in the center of the room holds a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. Candles cover every level surface - some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, and scent the air with the sweet fragrance of vanilla. Their dancing flames reflect off the glass, the constant flickering making the room appear to sway. It’s disorienting. It gets Aziraphale’s adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, which Aziraphale assumes is the desired effect.

He’d heard that a speeding human heart can be a powerful aphrodisiac for a vampire.

They apparently get off on it.

Against a far wall sits a plush, red sofa, and against another, a four-poster bed.

Aziraphale bypasses the bed (it isn’t his gut decision, just the safest seeming one) and heads for the sofa. “I … I have a problem. An addiction.”

“Go on.” Crowley strolls over to join him, each step he takes deliberate, noiseless, as if his feet don’t make contact with the ground at all, gliding on the air right above. Aziraphale watches Crowley settle onto the far end of the sofa, sitting catty-corner to keep his amber eyes on him. That predatory expression he wears moves from his smile to his eyes, which track Aziraphale’s movements with unnerving precision. “Well, I … I’m addicted to affection, a-and everything that comes with it - touching, holding, kissing, sex, from anyone who wants me, really. And I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha.” Crowley crosses his legs. He draws it out, diverting Aziraphale’s attention purposefully to them. “So tell me why you think I can help you.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Crowley moves, the fluidity of limbs that would look spindly on a human but not on him. Not in the slightest. “Because even though I need companionship, nobody seems to need me. But from the things I hear, you gentlemen … do.”

“We’re not desperate, Mr. Fell,” Crowley groans, rolling his head back on his neck, his eyes following along.

“Oh, no! No, no, no! That’s not what I …!”

“We service a distinguished clientele. We have certain expectations.”

“I understand that.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a thorough once over with eyes that burn through him, every move Aziraphale makes telling Crowley more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Fell?” Something about the way Crowley repeatedly calls Aziraphale ‘Mr. Fell’ shoots right to his stomach and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel compliant, confused ...

“I’m an antique book dealer,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley chuckles. “Ah. So you hawk old, worn-out romance novels to elderly women wanting a tingle in their lady gardens?”

“Uh … no,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle himself because, he has to admit, he’s gotten one or two of those in his lifetime. “Mostly literature, first editions, rare texts, misprinted Bibles, that sort of thing.”

“And you make a living from that?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, a tad uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Not that I need to. I live mainly off the interest of a generous inheritance. I get to do whatever I want mostly.”

“I see.” Crowley’s tone shifts, as if Aziraphale passed some sort of test. “And where do you currently live?” With a flick of Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s hand crawls up his own shirt, reaching for his bowtie. He grabs a tail and pulls it, unties it, then goes after the top button. He toys with it, undoes it, feeling constricted, uncomfortable while it’s fastened.

“I live over my store front in Soho.”

Crowley slides an inch closer. “With a roommate or …?”

“A-alone.” Aziraphale moves on to the second button. “I live … I live alone.”

“Impressive. And your blood type is AB negative?”

“As far as I know.”

“Interesting.” Crowley moves another inch closer. “Alright. Let’s give you a shot.”

“A-and how do you do that … exactly?”

“Give me your arm so I can take a taste. Then I’ll know if we can use you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, long fingers with black painted nails motioning for Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale doesn’t take it. He has a second of doubt, of Are you nuts!? that stays him. But it’s been so long since Aziraphale has felt truly wanted. And this man … or this creature … wants what he has to offer. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes. It’s cut and dry. No muss, no fuss, no emotions involved. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came for.

“If you’re nervous, I could always …” Crowley makes a gesture toward Aziraphale’s neck and smiles an alluring, toothy grin – charismatic, hard to resist. But Aziraphale might not be ready for what Crowley’s proposing. It seems a little too intimate.

“O-oh no.” Aziraphale rolls up his sleeve. “It’s not that. I was just … uh … thinking.”

“Oh.” That single syllable sounds tragically disappointed. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, of course. But just so you know, it’s always an option.”

Aziraphale gets a sudden image in his head of Crowley lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his fingers undoing the rest of his buttons and reaching beneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly down his skin. He envisions Crowley removing his clothes one piece at a time, marking his flesh with kisses, with bites, taking small sips as he paves a trail to his trousers. Sharp fangs slice through the threads that keep the button sewn on and he pulls down the zip with his teeth. There’s a mouth on Aziraphale’s cock, sucking, hands massaging his chest, the gentle brush of silky hair against his thighs, the occasional sting of a cut opening, a tongue collecting, and Aziraphale writhing with the sweet agony of it. He doesn’t picture himself cumming quickly, but sees himself sliding along the beveled edge, getting to that point, hanging from the crest of it, just to be sent back to the beginning, to start the process over again.

It feels planted, a suggestion. Aziraphale isn’t sure how. He’s not savvy to the abilities of vampires beside the blood sucking thing. It’s not real. Aziraphale knows he’s still dressed, can feel the fabric of his shirt sleeve balled in his fist, but he starts to sweat at the thought of it. His cock aches because of it. That’s what he wants – the give and the take.

It changes his mind, stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, gaze fixed to Crowley’s seductive eyes, “that does sound like it could be … nice.”

Crowley grins. It’s almost too easy. “Oh, it will be,” he purrs. “I promise.”

Aziraphale scoots closer until they’re sitting beside one another, knees touching. Crowley wastes no time kissing Aziraphale’s neck, cool lips pressing against hot, sensitive skin. Aziraphale moans. God, it’s been so long. And whatever Crowley is doing with his tongue, circling the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing builds.

As Aziraphale’s heart beats faster and faster, until individual thumps are no longer distinguishable from the whole.

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, fangs lengthening as he searches for a place to sink in and drink. He finds the perfect spot and bites. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide.

“Oh … God.” He becomes rigid as the sensation of smooth and sharp assails his skin, but he succumbs to the sublime numbness and melts into Crowley’s arms. “Oh … oh God …”

Crowley retracts his fangs, licking them clean. “This isn’t really the place to be praying,” he says, inhaling Aziraphale’s scent – fresh, rich, healthy, untainted blood. The blood all vampires crave - not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind a night club or filled with preservatives like the bagged gunge they have the option to buy down at NHS Blood and Transport. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Aziraphale is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He’ll make Crowley rich … if he can bear to share him.

Crowley might just decide to keep Aziraphale to himself.

It’s not just Aziraphale’s blood that tempts him. There’s something else, something sizzling beneath his skin that Crowley suspects Aziraphale doesn’t even know about himself. But it sends sparks through Crowley’s skin with every touch, a white light that nearly burns too hot to hold but fuck it all! The second Crowley moves his hand away and it’s gone, it makes Crowley want him more.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, following Crowley’s mouth, whining like a kicked puppy when it seems he won’t be returning to the task of biting his neck. But it’s not that. Crowley has every intention of taking his time with Aziraphale. Savoring him. He wants to hear Aziraphale beg for it, beg for Crowley’s teeth buried deep into his neck, beg for the euphoria that comes with being fed upon.

“Do you like that, angel?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s skin. He punctuates his question with a nip around Aziraphale’s jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Crowley’s knee and squeezing. “Yes, please.”

Crowley hums, lips pressed to Aziraphale’s neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. He licks over the pinprick marks, exploring with his tongue for a spot to take another bite. “You know, I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“You … you do?” Aziraphale rises from the sofa in a trance, following Crowley when he moves their soiree to the bed, preparing to make Aziraphale his own private nightcap.

“Oh yes.” Crowley lays Aziraphale out on the mattress and crawls over him, like in the vision. His fingertips creep up Aziraphale’s neck, up his cheeks, the pads coming to rest against his temples. A blue spark, an arc of static electricity, and Aziraphale’s brain fills with images that cloud his vision over so that Crowley’s eyes disappear, replaced by what promises to be a long night in this room, and all the methods of pleasure Crowley plans on using to distract him while he feeds. Skin against skin, Crowley’s hands covering his as Crowley enters him, his body possessing his. Aziraphale can already feel how hard Crowley would claim him, how sore he would be after, and Aziraphale wants it. Wants it more than life itself.

And he’s willing to pay with every drop to have it.

The vision rolls on. With every fantasized thrust of Crowley’s hips, it monopolizes all five of Aziraphale’s senses - his own moans in his ears with Crowley’s voice dripping honey underneath, the pungent smell of sweat and sex around them, the coppery taste of Crowley’s mouth, the slide of a flesh against his so smooth it feels like marble, and Crowley’s eyes - those snake-like eyes with pupils razor blade thin - watching unblinkingly as Aziraphale comes apart beneath him.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body on the bed with Crowley’s fingertips rubbing circles against his skin, Aziraphale watches this fantasy in awe - open-mouthed and without an inch of fear. He shudders when he sees himself coming, the memory of similar sensations igniting every nerve in his body, turning fantasy into reality. Crowley absorbs every tremor, the way Aziraphale thrums beneath him, his hips bucking up in search of friction. Crowley smiles, reaches between them to start unbuttoning his own uncomfortable trousers.

And let the feasting begin.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, nose nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck, following the pounding rhythm of his heart for a place to tuck in. “I could become very addicted to you, Aziraphale Fell. Very addicted.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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octoberobserver · 5 years ago

Text

“Just To Dream In The Moonlight” - (Eddie Can Sing)

Richie Tozier was on a date.

Eddie Kaspbrak was not.

Instead, he was at home, the home he had been sharing with Richie for five months now, hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table and steadily building up a knot in the base of his spine because he was too fucking old for this shit.

Fuck his life.

He had died, come back, divorced his wife, moved half-way across the country, only to find himself working from home on a Saturday night while his roommate, best friend and, oh yeah, love of his pathetic fucking life, went out to dinner with some handsome, single, ��Instagram model.’

I mean, what the fuck even is that anyway?

Eddie knew this day would come, of course. Had seen it almost instantly after Richie came out, live on stage.

Richie was a catch. He was funny, smart, and…yeah, he’d admit, handsome. Bev was right. He did ‘grow into his looks.’

So, it didn’t take a genius to realise that him coming out would soon draw the attention of all the eligible men within a hundred mile radius and for them to show their interest. They’d be fools not to.

And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Kaspbrak?

With a groan, Eddie dragged a palm down his face, snapping his laptop shut and pushing it away from him.

He had to cut out this wallowing bullshit. It wasn’t a good look, at all.

Richie was on a date and that was…good.

Right?

Eddie, as a good friend, should think that’s a good thing.

Then again - has Eddie always been a good friend?

With a roll of his eyes, he shut down that line of thinking, knowing it was the blame of the two glasses of wine he had just inhaled while pouring over Teddy’s illegible ‘reports’ while trying to ignore what Richie could possibly be doing right about now.

Or who, his mind added scathingly.

Shaking his head, Eddie mentally-scolded himself for his stupid, jealous streak.

Richie had left just over an hour ago, throwing him a half-hearted wave, muttering a low, “Won’t be long, Eds. Trust me,” and snapping the door shut behind him.

It hardly screamed a guy who intended on having a little Wham, Bam, Thank you, Sam.

Not that there’s anything wrong with a one-night-stand. Richie is a consenting adult, Eddie’s treacherous brain reminded him.

Despite this, Richie had insisted, all this week that it was “practically a business dinner.” Something that his publicist had apparently set up that was more than a little mandatory for some bullshit-Hollywood-reason.

Richie had not seemed too psyched about it either. Lamenting to Eddie more than once that he didn’t have time for “aging-ex-Disney-stars-looking-for-the-ultimate-selfie-or-whatever.”

But that had been before he had seen the picture.

Up-and-coming actor and singer, Dylan Lemass was…hot. Even Eddie could concede that.

And, he was a little more age-appropriate (at 33) than most guys DMing Richie at four in the morning.

Richie hadn’t been quite quick enough at hiding his impressed eyebrow quirk at the picture sent to him by Bev after some googling.

“He looks…nice,” Eddie had ground out through clenched jaw, heart panging as Richie began to nod.

“Uh, yeah. I guess. If…if that’s your type.”

“Richie, that guy is everybody’s type.”

He had looked at Eddie then, something indecipherable on his face.

“I’m not usually into…blonds.”

Usually.

That had been the only word to ring in Eddie’s head.

“Well,” he forced himself to shrug, punching Richie harder than he intended on the shoulder, “just see how it goes. You never know��he might…he might be your Mr Right.”

Fuck, actually, Eddie was a damn good friend, okay? He had encouraged Richie, “Mr Right” and all that shit, and helped him pick between two (admittedly ugly) shirts and everything.

He was friend of the fucking year.

Friend.

Just a friend.

With a sigh, he crossed to the fridge, fully intending to help himself to the leftover cheesecake that Richie had bought them in celebration of four months of Eddie allowing himself dairy again.

“I know you belong to somebody new,” he sang under his breath, the old song he had heard on the radio this morning continuing to be an ear-worm, “but tonight, you belong to me.”

He crossed the kitchen to get a spoon from the drawer, because it was an eating-straight-from-the-container-despite-that-being-gross kinda night, and sticking it directly into the strawberry mousse.

“Although we’re apart, you’re a part of my heart,” he continued, cheesecake in one hand and picking up his half-empty glass with the other, making his way out to the couch.

“But tonight, you belong to—”

“A bit of Eddie Vedder, huh? Eddie squared, I like it.”

He jumped so high that his red wine sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the glass.

“Fuck, Richie! Don’t scare me like that, dipshit!”

The man in question snorted out a laugh from his position at the front door, keys still in hand, jacket half off one shoulder.

“I did say ‘honey I’m home,’ Eds. Not my fault you were too busy crooning to notice.”

Eddie’s face flushed as he collected himself, carefully depositing his glass and cheesecake on the coffee table before straightening up and tilting his head at his friend.

“You’re home early.”

He didn't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did.

He winced.

“I mean, uh…how’d the date go?”

Richie’s face was pretty expressionless as he shrugged.

“We wined, dined and sixty-nined. Just how I like it.”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open.

“Wha—”

“I’m kidding, Eddie, Jesus,” Richie held up his hands as he kicked off his shoes, leaving them by Eddie’s on the rack by the door and padding over in his socks to the couch, sinking down into it with a loud sigh.

“It went exactly like I thought it would,” he mumbled to the ceiling, slipping his glasses up his forehead to rest in his hair, his eyes falling closed.

Eddie watched him for a moment, unsure what to do, before taking a seat beside him, turning to properly look at him.

He seemed…tired. Weary.

Sad?

Shit.

Time for Eddie to be a good friend.

“Well, fuck that guy, Rich,” he reached out and clasped Richie’s arm. “He’s clearly a dumbass if he can’t see what a fucking catch you are.”

Slowly, those dark eyes that Eddie loved so much blinked open, meeting his with something indistinguishable glimmering in them.

“Thanks, Eddie.”

It was the most sincere Eddie had heard his friend be in a long time.

It made his heart skip a beat.

Quietly, he reached out and picked up the glass and cheesecake, holding it out.

“Wanna watch that new Chris Hansen exposé?”

A small smile crossed Richie’s face, breaking through the weariness like a soothing balm.

“Sounds like a plan, Eds Spagheds.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, throwing the remote at him before standing up.

“I’m opening another bottle. Don’t start without me.”

He crossed the room, into the kitchen and towards the fridge.

“He couldn’t sing for shit either, Eds,” Richie called after him, sounding pained. “He made me suffer through like four YouTube videos of him squawking his way through covers. I wanted to use the steak knife to stab out my own eardrums. It was fucking torture, man. You’re a hell of a lot nicer to listen to.”

Eddie froze, bottle in hand, the soft, unthinking compliment making him blush from head to toe.

“Eddie Vedder is technically a cover too,” he reminded him as he fought (and failed) to keep the grin from his face.

“Yeah, I know but…least it’s not the Patience and Prudence version. Talk about creepy. That’s some Children-of-the-Corn-type shit.”

Eddie snorted out a laugh as he made his way back into the living room, sinking down into the couch, his stomach lurching as his thigh pressed against Richie’s.

Richie held out his cheesecake-topped spoon, dangling it in Eddie’s face and making obnoxious airplane noises.

“Want some before I infect it with my Trashmouth germs, Eds? It’s a one time deal. I know how you feel about double-dipping.”

Eddie leaned forward, closing his mouth around the spoon, eyes gluing to Richie’s as he swallowed the bite and pulled back slowly.

Richie’s eyes were the size of saucers, clearly shocked that Eddie had called his bluff.

“Uh, I…” he cleared his throat, “it’s good?”

Eddie smirked, “Yeah, it’s good.”

“Cool.”

They lapsed into a short silence, Richie shifting to face the TV just as Chris Hansen popped up and launched into his latest case.

“Thanks, Eds. For the uh…cheesecake.”

He nodded, deciding not to comment as Richie kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, his shoulder pressing into his as he slowly, carefully, raised the spoon to his own lips.

Eddie blushed like a teenager as he kept his gaze firmly on the TV, trying not to think about the fact that Richie so easily put his mouth somewhere Eddie just had his.

At about the twenty-five minute mark, Eddie felt a soft, familiar pressure close to his neck.

Tilting his head ever so slightly, he saw that Richie had fallen asleep, his cheek pressed into Eddie’s shoulder, his glasses askew.

A small smile spread across his face as Eddie let his own head tip back a little, resting against the couch, the lyrics of that godforsaken song flittering into his brain.

“Wait down by the stream, how sweet it will seem, once more just to dream in the moonlight…”

(Read the entire series here)

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #eddie can sing #my fanfiction #happy birthday to richie tozier #hope in some universe he got his happy ending...in more ways than one

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probably-drunk-madara · 4 years ago

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{ f o r s c i e n c e }

replying to: @senjuofthesea

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It’s never been nicer to take a pill. Madara has no idea why. It doesn’t make sense by most accounts: the water is freezing, his hands are cold holding the dumb thermos, and his body is still not entirely over having retched almost an hour ago. But there’s still some stupid warmth above it all. Maybe it’s from the fact that he can’t quite look at Tobirama’s face still. Just his hands.

Madara scrunches his nose at the Senju’s comment about food. “You’re supposed to eat with these. The Denny’s is just another couple blocks. I won’t die.” It’s something akin to pride. But that’s not the right word. Madara knows what the word is. He doesn’t want to think it now because it’s ridiculous. Pointless even.

But it really doesn’t feel that pointless in the moments before he recognizes it. While he’s still standing there, almost subconsciously leaning toward the only body-heat around, it feels nice. In those moments of thoughtless bliss, all he wants is to huddle up inside a Denny’s booth, or under a goddamn blanket, and warm up. Close his eyes. Relax the knot in his stomach, the clench of his jaw, the strain in his neck. He doesn’t know where these things come from, but he knows how to get rid of them. Sort of. Or he thinks he does.

And maybe that’s just it. Maybe it’s just a normal thing. Maybe it doesn’t have to be stupid and pointless. If they can kick each other’s asses in a university bathroom on the first day of school, then they can go sit at a Denny’s and warm each other up. Or something like that.

All Madara knows is that he’s over drawing lines in the sand for this sort of thing.

It’s not gay, it’s just...

Gods, what even is it? It’s normal. It’s just a typical thing to want, is it not? It’s human. It’s predictable, a brain-wiring. It’s all the shit he learned in 7th grade science class. It’s just typical.

It’s not gay, it’s normal.

Is it that normal? It’s not platonic. As much as Madara wants it to be, this feeling is not the sort of thing he would relate to platonic affairs. This is not typical of the platonic. Maybe it is, but then it ceases to be platonic at that point. So, no, it’s not normal.

Not normal, just...

“Come on,” he says, his eyes reaching Tobirama’s with a slight burn, maybe a bit more intense than he intends. Madara’s unthinking brain almost makes a grab for a hand, as if to guide them both along, but he resists. “I don’t want to throw up again. That’d be your fault, too, you know.”

But he doesn’t turn away and walk either. He waits. His eyes stay trained softly on Tobirama. Not always on his face, but consciously on him now.

It’s gay.

He doesn’t care if it makes him the idiot here. He has to look this in the face. This and way too many other things. But this somehow seems easier than the rest. For some god-awful reason. These feelings had since undergrad to simmer, and here he is, a grown adult Uchiha and drawn to a Senju. (Another one. And that thought doesn’t make him feel good either. But that's something to dissect later.)

And to think: if Madara had been in this mess with anyone else but Tobirama, there’s a strong likelihood that Madara would be talking about it with him. Offhandedly, of course, in bouts of frustration. Tobirama isn’t the only person he knows on campus, or in this city for that matter. But it isn’t like he has many close friends here. And gods, if Madara had a boyfriend, or someone to complain about at all, he would be complaining to Tobirama. Probably annoying the shit out of him in the process.

But the guy isn’t a hard-ass. Tobirama isn’t really a jerk, even though Madara says it. Those accusations are only half true. Tobirama never really ever seemed to care enough one way or the other to be judgy, and quite frankly he has always had a good amount of smarts. He’s reasonable, probably even a good person, if Madara stifles his pride long enough to admit it. And that’s absolutely the trouble.

Madara can’t really vent about this. Oh, he loves to vent. Shit-talk, gossip -- gods, anything. It makes him feel better. And this dumb thing, sitting in his chest. This is the biggest weight he has, one thing he needs and is willing to expel, and the only person here who would even give him an annoyed yet reasonable response is Tobirama. Izuna might be Madara’s only hope in the family, but the two brothers are the same: they’re idiots when it comes to these things. They have the same problems, thanks to the same parents, and they can hardly offer each other little more than solace most of the time. The idea of telling Izuna that he’s fallen for yet another Senju sounds atrocious. Izuna warned him off Hashirama enough back in undergrad, even if it was to protect him from Tajima’s wrath. And besides, right now, Madara is not looking for comfort, nor heedless warnings. He’s looking for answers. And Tobirama, unfortunately, is the only one with all the answers.

The revelation leaves Madara with an awkward choice. He can be blunt and ask the man the real questions (which sounds absolutely awful in these circumstances, given that, along with likely being entirely uninvested in most of Madara’s nonsense, Tobirama also seems to be heartily uninterested in men, along with most people). So, that leaves Madara at his other option: he can hold off. Abide his time and wait for the right words. Or wait for it all to leave him. Wait for it to die. Wait to get annoyed with himself or Tobirama, whichever comes first. Whatever he does, Madara really doesn’t want to have hope in something like this (even though his better judgement usually flies right out the window at a moment’s notice).

“Come on,” he says, in a gentle, beckoning tone. He might almost sound patient. It feels freeing. He watches his own better judgment fly out the door, and for now, he doesn’t panic. If he’s going to let it die, at least he’ll enjoy some of the high.

The Senju doesn’t look good. Forgetting his nose again, Madara snorts a laugh at Tobirama’s words of dismissal. ‘I'll live and that's all that matters.’

“I didn’t say anything about dying, I said you look like shit.” The corners of his lips almost curl into a smile. He doesn’t quite let it, but he doesn’t stifle it either. But his eyes finally look at Tobirama’s face again. He lets himself feel scared and stupid. It’s a good feeling, for what it’s worth.

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#rp #for science #tobimada #madatobi #tobirama senju #madara uchiha #modern au #college au #university au #senjuofthesea #yep this mediocre ass #you keep telling yourself that #// he's slowly accepting it #// slowly #// this poor guy i feel for him #// he's so dramatic

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threeletterslife · 5 years ago

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Cuss Out

→ summary: As a senior in an old, cockroach-infested school, you’d honestly rather die than take a zero period class at the asscrack of dawn. But there’s a quiet boy who sits next to you that keeps you from ditching. He’s kinda cute (although you’ve never really seen his face). Yikes. But as they say, actions speak louder than words, right?

→ pairing/rating: jungkook x reader | PG-13

→ genre: this was supposed to be fluff until i realized how fucking funny this whole situation is so now the majority of it is crack | high school!au

→ warnings: profanity as always

→ wordcount: 2.3k

→ a/n: inspiration hit because i hate my physics class and guys this is like my FIRST crack fic on tumblr after having a depressing fic streak 🤭 i hope you laugh as much as i cackled when i wrote this shit

Say you're on your deathbed. Your right leg is already crossing the thin line that divides life and the afterlife; you begin to feel your body succumb to death. But an angel appears. She sparkles, glimmers, and asks if you would like a second chance. You nod your head frantically. Anything to see another day, another sunrise. But the angel says there is a price to pay. She twirls her long, curly blonde hair with a perfectly manicured, dainty finger.

She leans in and you catch a whiff of Bath and Body Works' Beautiful Day perfume. It makes you feel uneasy. You don't trust that smell.

"If you want a second chance, my dear Y/N," she sings, her voice light and feathery. "Then you must retake AP Physics C."

I what???

Your daydream skids to a complete stop and you jerk awake, hands flying to steady yourself and eyes wide in confusion.

You look around your stupid zero period AP Physics C class to see if anyone had witnessed your embarrassing actions. But it looks like everyone else is half asleep—except those crazy kids who are actually taking notes. You breathe a sigh of relief before turning towards your uptight teacher, Mr. Chung. He's droning on about magnetism again, his posture annoyingly straight and voice fairly high-pitched—like he never went through puberty. Honestly, if you hear him say 'right-hand rule' one more time, you might just raise your own right hand and slap the shit out of the nearest person. And that person happens to deserve a good slapping, in your opinion.

She's the pesky girl in front of you that won't stop spritzing her stupid perfume in ten-minute intervals. You swear to the heavens you used to like the scent of Beautiful Day. But now, it makes you want to throw up.

Yes, AP Physics C is the epitome of a hellhole.

What's more, you don't know anyone in the class, which makes everything worse than it already is. You wouldn't be surprised if some kids in the period thought you were mute—rightfully, too, because you've never spoken a single word. Frankly, you don't feel the need to.

God, lecture days are the worst. Mr. Chung yaps on and on about a subject that frankly, you don't give two shits about. You're only taking this to fill up your schedule, anyway. Besides, the only unit you enjoy in physics (electric circuits) is over, which means everything else is tedious and stupid.

You don't know how you're going to survive another few months of this.

Then again, you suppose something does keep you coming to your zero period class every day. It's the only thing that actually keeps you from ditching.

There's this quiet boy that sits right next to you. As a fairly reclusive person yourself, you know shy people don't really catch people's attention. But he does.

Well, you barely even know what he looks like since he wears a cap covering his face or pulls a hood over his head every day. So you can safely say the boy doesn't interest you because of his good looks. He piques your interest because he is weirdly considerate.

You're a zero period class, which means when you come into the classroom, the stupid chairs are set on top of the stupid tables so the janitors can clean the stupid floor. It's such a fucking pain in the ass to have to haul your rather heavy chair back down at seven a.m. in the morning so you can sit on it for fifty-seven instructional minutes.

You've embarrassingly struggled over putting your chair back down for the first month of school. But after that first month, magically, your chair would be put down for you.

The boy who sits next to you would be the only one near your seating row. So you know it's his doing. But strangely enough, your seating row consists of four seats. He only puts down the chair for you and himself.

It's an awfully sweet gesture that doesn't go unnoticed.

And he's been doing that every day without fail since last year.

Honestly, it's your senior year and you wouldn't be too against ditching your zero period class, but he keeps you grounded. You need to come every day to see if he puts down your chair. It's the only interesting thing going on in your life, anyway. College decisions are out, you're completely stress-free and you're only coming to school so the office doesn't report you to your parents.

Come to think of it, you're not even sure what the boy's name is. Jeon... Junook? Joonuk? You've only heard his friends call him by his last name, so that's what you've been calling him in your head.

Jeon.

It sounds kinda dreamy.

Yikes. I cannot be possibly falling for a boy I haven't spoken a word to.

But even the way he makes sweater paws with his oversized hoodies is fucking adorable. And sometimes, his head droops a bit, which means he's dosing off again. See? You have that in common with him. Both of you can't stay awake during Mr. Chung's lecture.

You applaud anyone who can stay awake through Mr. Chung's monotonous lectures, actually. Okay, back on track, though.

You've been keeping your little crush on Jeon to yourself for months. You're sure your secret will stay with you when you graduate this stupid hellhole that they call a school. You can't wait to leave this cockroach-infested high school. Well, you'll miss your friends, a couple of teachers, of course. And you'll miss Jeon too... But other than that, you can't wait to leave.

The sound of Mr. Chung yelling at a fellow student makes your daydreaming come to a halt. You sigh. Every week, that man gives out at least one detention. You figured your best bet to not get one is to not talk at all. It's been working so far, too.

You look over at Jeon to see how he's faring. But his head is on his desk, his arms covering his face entirely.

Must've had a rough night.

You're contemplating whether to wake him or not. Mr. Chung might go on a serious rampage if he catches someone so blatantly ignoring his oh-so-important lecture. You're just about to muster up all your courage to speak your very first word to Jeon—and your first word in the class—when something scuttles beneath your feet.

You freeze.

Oh, fucking hell no.

It is what you think it is.

A big, fat, ugly, winged-ass roach.

It twitches its antennas almost sinisterly, and you scream silently, mouth open in shock. If it flies straight at you, it's game over. You're logging out of the group chat of life.

Ohmygod. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Okay, if you're smart about this, you'll get out of it without a major heart attack. You slowly tug your feet up to your chest, hands shaking and eyes glued onto the disgusting insect.

Apparently, the cockroach does not like being called disgusting in your thoughts. It twitches its antennas again as if to give you a warning signal.

Bitch, you curse at it.

You regret doing that.

The fucking cockroach hears you. And the next thing you know, it's flying straight at you with what you assume is blind rage.

You have no time to think. You scream the first words that come to your brain, "FUCKING SHIT," before nearly falling out of your chair to escape the terror of the fugly cockroach.

The roach manifests itself on your backpack, probably smug about the terror he'd just caused you.

Meanwhile, the whole class is staring at you. You, the quiet, shy girl that some people didn't know existed.

And for the first time, you're able to get a clear look at Jeon's face. His hood had fallen off of his head from the force he had jerked awake when he had heard your vulgar cussing. He's beautiful. His slightly long, curly hair brushes against his wide, doe eyes, and he's staring you down with a shocked look on his face. Your lips part as you examine his features. Oh fuck. I didn't expect that to be under the caps and hoods. And the fact that he's intensely meeting your gaze... You flush, unable to take his blatant stare, you turn away to see your teacher shaking his head at you.

"Y/N. That was unacceptable behavior," Mr. Chung's stern voice yells at you from across the classroom. Your teacher looks a bit shocked at your outburst as everyone else in the room. "We do not... partake in such profanity."

Your eyes grow larger as you stutter, pointing at the cockroach on your backpack. "I-I! Mr. Chung—"

"Detention, Y/N. I'll see you after school."

"I—" you start, fists clenched and eyes watering up with frustration. "I'm sorry, but there was a—"

"WHAT THE FUCK?! THERE'S A BIG ASS FUCKING COCKROACH. HOLY SHIT!"

Your eyes bulge out as you see Jeon of all people yell at the top of his lungs. His voice is surprisingly soft even when he's using it to shriek vulgar profanities. He turns back to grin at you, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Before you can even react to his unthinkable gesture, Mr. Chung begins to yell:

"Jungkook! That is absolutely unacceptable. Profanity will not be tolerated in this classroom! Both of you! Detention after school!" Your teacher huffs. Jungkook. You perk up at the sound of Jeon's actual name, a stupid smile blossoming on your face. Bad timing, though. "What are you smiling about? You know what, both of you leave the class until you are able to behave yourselves."

Humiliation tinges your ears red as you hang your head low. God forbid you were being chided by your teacher like you were back in freshman year.

"There's a cockroach on her backpack, Mr. Chung," Jungkook protests, crossing his arms.

Warmth floods through your cheeks as Jungkook defends you.

"Did I ask?" Mr. Chung counters to your utmost disbelief. "Leave your backpacks and get out of class. We'll talk when the period ends."

Fuck.

Jungkook looks over at you, shrugging. He mouths, Oh, well, we tried. Let's go.

Wait, alone time with Jeon Jungkook outside of class? Maybe the cockroach was a sign of luck. Even so, you shudder as you look at the disgusting piece of shit sitting on your backpack. The ugliest luck on Earth, that is.

You maneuver your way around your bag, quickly following behind Jungkook as he struts out of class as if nothing had happened. You feel the eyes of all of your classmates on your back and you would be lying if you said you weren't sweating up a storm.

The moment you're out of the class and away from the windows and door of the room, Jungkook lets out a large sigh of relief.

"That was one hell of a cockroach," he laughs, his nose scrunching up cutely and bangs falling in front of his eyes.

"Y-Yeah," you manage to answer. "Sorry. I think I might've gotten you in trouble..."

Jungkook grins. "Pity. Guess I'll have to spend time with you in detention."

"Do you think Mr. Chung will kill us?"

The boy snorts, casually leaning against the wall and gives you a sideways glance, tilting his head curiously to look at you. "That man's all talk and no action. He hasn't put a student in detention in thirty years... Although he seems like he does every week. I think we'll be fine."

You nod, cheeks turning red as Jungkook stares you down.

"You know, I've been meaning to talk to you for a while," he confesses, smiling softly at you. "But I'm always drowsy zero period, so I didn't want to say something stupid. You really woke me up today. Thanks, honestly."

"O-Oh," you mumble, "yeah, um, no problem. Oh, and thanks for putting my chair down for me every day."

"No biggie," Jungkook grins. "Oh, and by the way, you free this weekend?"

"Uh, yeah," you say, nodding, heart beating as you realize what this is going to lead to.

"Good!" Jungkook exclaims. "I've always wanted to take you out sometime... Is this Saturday okay?"

You nod, too shell-shocked to speak. Turns out the shy boy isn't so shy at all. He'd been quiet because he was tired.

"Great!" he says, clasping his hands together.

The rest of the conversation flowing nicely. The two of you are really getting to know each other. And you find that your instincts had been very accurate—this boy is godsent.

When the bell rings to signalize the end of zero period, you're honestly a bit disappointed. For the first time, you wish your zero period dragged on longer.

"Well, it was so nice getting to you know," Jungkook says as he waves his phone. "I'll text you the details about our date later!" He begins to walk backward away from you, waving.

You watch him like you're entranced in a deep, magical spell.

"Y/N?" he calls when he's several feet away from you.

"Yeah?" you answer.

"You know, I didn't know you were such a cuss out!" he says, winking at you. "Would've never pinned you as the type!"

You giggle, shaking your head. "Speak for yourself!" you call back, making Jungkook grin wider. "And Jungkook?" God, his name sounds so right, rolling off your tongue.

"Yeah?"

"You forgot your backpack, silly. It's still in the classroom."

"Oh shit!"

masterlist

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook crack #jungkook fluff #jungkook #bts fanfction #cuss out #i imagined this whole story line in my chem class #this was originally supposed to take place in an ap chem class but then physics whipped my ass more than chem so #i kinda laughed writing this #i'm kinda lame

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kinetic-elaboration · 4 years ago

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June 2: 2x21 Patterns of Force

Took a nap after work today!! Perhaps a bad idea.

Anyway, some thoughts on the... awkward Patterns of Force.

Another story about Jim looking for his hero, I see. That never (always) ends badly.

Definitely getting an image of little Spock (teenage Spock? young adult Spock? all little Spocks) reading about Earth history.

Oh no, an armed drone. That does not bode well. Why do Kirk’s heroes always betray him?

A subcutaneous transponder. That seems like a useful device to introduce into the narrative. (Slash remember for future purposes...)

Also it reminds of me “He’s a...a... a transponster!”

Spock in a hat. I guess the Ekosians and/or Zeons don’t have pointed ears, then.

“It’s our old enemy...fascism.”

Well this guy literally was not subtle in his references to Nazi Germany. (I’m referring in universe to what’s-his-face but this also applies to the episode writer.)

“The evidence is clear... someone did interfere.”

“You look quite well for a man who’s been utterly destroyed, Mr. Spock.” This man canNOT stop flirting for one second.

Lol, using Spock to distract the Nazi.

“It’s logical to pretend to be a Nazi? Okay, I’m convinced. You said the magic word.”

“Look! I captured him!” So proud.

Kirk’s face when Spock says he would make a convincing Nazi. Bb, you’re not doing the compliment thing right. (I’ll actually be quite honest... I find the humor in that moment but it also makes me uncomfortable given both these actors are Jewish.)

That said, Kirk is canonically better at blending into undercover scenarios than Spock is. He thinks better on his feet, creatively.

How do these people NOT recognize two whole-ass aliens.

...Maybe they do.

I do like when Kirk is being interrogated and still tries to be charming..

That Nazi really lost a lot of authority after being dressed down by his superior in front of the captives.

I like this Zeon.

“The flaw in the plan is this locked door.” Thanks Spock. It’s this subtle humor that I think people often miss in him. Like where you can’t tell if it’s intentional or not.

Kirk is so smart!!! He never gets credit for being this smart.

Hmm, taking out the transponders is such a weirdly intimate scene.

The Zeon wants to be included in this adventure so much but they’re obsessed with each other, like “What Zeon?”

“I’ll be your platform, Mr. Spock.”

This is such a weirdly humorous interlude for a story about Nazis. Kind of reminds me in a way of that conversation with the police man on City on the Edge of Forever. I mean that ep was much better but just like the sudden switch in tone.

Spock’s like “Oh, that was cool. Made a laser.”

I heard Kirk say, “You, over there,” as in directing Spock to stand over there, but the subtitles say “Beautiful. Over there.” As in, “we did a beautiful job getting out, now Spock, stand over there.” But combine them...?

Not gonna get a disguise for Spock huh? Just gonna let him be shirtless a little more for no apparent reason.

Poor Zeon. These aliens are inscrutable and not letting him in on anything.

“Alien pistols.”

“Who would win? the entire military force of this planet or two phaser-less space husbands?"

I probably shouldn’t laugh every time Kirk impersonates a Nazi but I do. "Don't mind me... completely believable Nazi here..."

The unsubtle of the Hebrew names. And of course.. .Zeon.

“We’ll be just as bad as the Nazis.” No, actually, you’re not and never will be that’s not how it works. BUT you definitely should help the aliens. Like, that phrase grates because it’s usually used to refer to, like, use of violence, use of “censorship” but here’s it more about turning away people who are different or minority and so then it does make sense but....the connotations.

Spock’s like, “May I... get away from this emotion? Has enough time passed for me to ask that?”

More Nazis! Following them everywhere!

Oh, psych. Not Nazis after all.

Spock’s like “Betraying your own father, you say? I have never thought about that.”

“The Fuhrer... is an alien?” Actual real line AND a correct summation of the situation.

This ep does not paint the Federation in a great light. Although to be fair... John Gill was breaking the rules so.

Documentary corps... I love it. Great disguise. Flash lights in people’s eyes, have an excuse to stay in a group, no on looks at you. Genius.

Spock is honestly so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about EVERYTHING. He cannot be tamed. Again, really an aspect of him I miss in the reboots.

Kirk really is the captain of everyone in his vicinity.

“Think positively, Spock.”

Uhura is unflappable. “A Nazi Colonel’s uniform? Of course, Captain.”

Send him down naked if you have to!! Yes, please, send him down naked.

Spock giving McCoy detailed instructions on how to put on boots... Why was dialogue like this not in the reboots?

McCoy is so polite. Polite first, confused later. “Nice to meet you, Nazi--wait, Nazi???”

I love how McCoy immediately put on his drunk face and Spock was like, "An opportunity to insult McCoy?? Awesome.”

So I assumed the Chairman was either dumb or didn’t recognize them with their shirts on but apparently he was yet another mole, so. At least it’s not a plot hole.

“The speech has no discernible pattern or logic.” Hmmm, I wonder what it feels like to have a leader who speaks with no discernible pattern or logic?

Guys. Pals. Awful people. Did he really give orders, or did he just say random shit? People will flock to anything. I'll be honest, I actually think this is one of the subtler and better parts of this episode: how chilling it is to contemplate how people will rally around any non-speech that has the right tone and a few key words. This is garbage language. But it incites people to kill.

McCoy and his stimulants again.

Spock and his mind probing again.

Wow Spock really messed with his mind there. “He can answer questions but not otherwise speak?” What kind of crazy shit is that?

They are being so mean to Spock. “Malformed ears.” “Low forehead.” That’s not a low forehead, that’s bangs.

Nice triumivirate scene at the end. Feels good, feels organic. Kirk likes to hear his two BFFs bickering because it feels like all is right with the universe, and I agree. Nature is healing.

This episode has a very weird (and very hard to swallow imo) backstory. Like, who primarily associates the Nazis with efficiency? And even if you do, if you think there’s something to the way they put together the country so fast post-WWI, all of this “efficiency” is directly tied to hatred and violence. Like Isak said, the Ekosians have nothing to hold them together BUT hating Zeons. That's at the center of the design. It's not like Gill’s plan backfired it was just... a horrible plan?? It doesn’t even make sense to me that his “effective regime” was co-opted by one hateful person because what was at the center of the “Nazi” regime before the hatred of Zeons? What could it have been? There are no other alternatives provided. Also, even if it could have been somehow accomplished without the use of a scapegoat.. is fascism really an ideal? Like the story never reckoned with that concept at all, which I find disturbing.

Here’s the thing about Gill. He is a certain real type and I appreciate his inclusion up to a point. He’s the Naive, Hubristic Intellectual. He thinks because he’s studied something, academically, he knows more about it even than people who experienced it, and he can fix all of its problems. “I can do this, but better. I am so smart, I am so well-informed, I have no flaws.” I can even see this sort of person being someone a young Kirk would admire because there’s an optimism and idealism to this naivete. I don’t think Kirk is arrogant but he is very idealistic, and when he was a young man, still in the market for heroes, or at least idols or mentors? Yeah, someone with that kind of attitude toward life--that we can deeply understand and then improve upon history--would have appealed to him. It’s possible that Gill even was the “compassionate, gentle” person that Kirk thought, or that he had that side to him.

Where I think the episode erred is in absolving Gill of most of his guilt for this state of affairs. He does die and he does admit he was wrong, but his biggest sin is allegedly in introducing a regime that could be co-opted for evil rather than one that was inherently bad. He is literally drugged (tortured in a way), to emphasize just how non-culpable the narrative thinks he is. Also, while he does apologize for interfering at all, even this is fairly brief and not expanded upon in the rest of the narrative. The truth is he shouldn’t have interfered in general, because that’s not his place or his right, and he shouldn’t have interfered in this way specifically. Even if Malakon hadn’t risen and taken over, the ideal Gil was imposing was one of unthinking uniformity, lack of autonomy, worship of a leader over the rule law--these are not the values of the Federation, the show Star Trek, or me. But he’s used more as a device to explain why the show is so unsubtly Nazi, rather than a real villain or object lesson. Even though Gill is a much better object lesson than Malakon.

And what about Malakon? The ending presents him, literally and in so many words, as the “one evil man” responsible for all of this. I think we know both from studying history and, unfortunately, from our own times, that this is untrue because impossible. One evil person is just a lunatic ranting on the street corner. One evil leader became leader because others agreed and gave him power, or agreed in part, or made a deal with the devil, or disagreed but said nothing, or spoke but were overwhelmed. It’s a disservice to the subject matter to say that dictatorships or authoritarian regimes are that simple. I get that the episode is only 50 minutes and it needs to wrap up, and it’s simpler to say “Okay, killed the Villain, now we can go back to being Not Evil, all the Ekosians will be as happy as the Zeons because we never really wanted this.” But Hitler and his henchmen weren’t the only Nazis. Regular people--and in this context, regular Ekosians--weren’t Nazis too.

Overall, the episode was okay. Very awkward though. Very blunt. I think it would have been better off not using the Nazi symbology so literally. Like the idea that a human would come into a society and purposefully create something from our history is interesting (and “what if Earth but alien?” is certainly something TOS likes doing and finds various ways to do--like the gangsters in A Piece of the Action or Neo-Rome in Bread and Circuses or even literal Greek Gods in Who Mourns for Adonais?) but not worth it given which society was being emulated. It seemed to be too much an excuse to dig out the old WWII movie costumes (and put Jewish actors in Nazi regalia which... is very... distressing) and not so much an excuse for some kind of commentary along the lines of what I said above re: the hubris of historians, the hubris of time. That aspect leaves a bad taste. It had some good ideas but I think, again, it was hindered rather than helped by how literal it insisted (for some reason) on being. Compare it to A Private Little War, which was just about as obvious a Vietnam allegory as you can get, and yet still didn’t literally transport anyone to Vietnam, and this ep looks all the more clunky. I’m probably judging it more harshly than I have on previous viewings, but I really feel like... you can use sci fi to make a commentary on the rise of authoritarianism, but the delicacy of the subject matter requires you to be particularly thoughtful in the way you do it and the actual statements you’re making.

Anyway, the Enterprise Defeats Nazis is a good episode summary at least.

I think in my last attempt at a whole rewatch I stopped at around this point. I seem to have watched the next two episodes, according to Amazon, but I have a weird feeling I only watched one, the next one, By Any Other Name, and then stopped. I don’t remember either of them so we’ll see how that goes! Will they seem familiar or not?

#the year 2021 #2021: fandom thoughts #2021: star trek #star trek tos

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quercussp · 5 years ago

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The Fantastic Mr. Whiskers

Rating: T

Word count: 3.1k

Summary:

Mr. Whiskers does not approve of guests. But this human? This human was ok. This human could stay.

Authors note:

Happy holidays @babethepig! I hope you like this fic, even though I interpreted the prompt a bit loosely.

Written for the prompt: Phil can talk to animals but he keeps his power hidden. Dan and Phil start dating. Dan has a cat (because in this universe Dan has the right opinion and Phil is not allergic) the cat is really grumpy and usually hates everyone but it loves Phil. Dan is confused especially after he keeps catching Phil and the cat in -what looks like- deep conversations. The cat doesn't like certain things and Phil seems to know just why it is grumpy all the time, Dan gets suspicious and Phil ends up telling him about his power.

A huge thank you to my betas @alittledizzy and @templeofshame and the WWC crew for the support and encouragement. I couldn't have done this without you <3

Warnings: very minor homophobia (blink and you will miss it)

[read on ao3]

Mr. Whiskers was fond of his human. Most of the time. Ok, about half of the time. He assumed that the human meant well, but why did he keep buying this disgusting fish flavored dry food when Mr. Whiskers obviously hated fish? How many times did he have to turn over the bowl or sulk in the corner under the table for his human to figure that out? Weren’t humans supposed to be the most intelligent animals in the world? (Mr. Whiskers internally snorted at that. Yeah right, they think that, but then they also shout at pictures moving in the big box in the living room. Even the most stupid alley cat knew that they can’t hear you if they’re inside the box.)

His human also insisted on inviting the most horrible people into his flat. One of them was apparently his brother, and they always cooked some kind of ridiculous meal with no meat whatsoever, only carrots and stupid broccoli. Not even a little dash of milk! Absolutely no edible scraps Mr. Whiskers could steal from the table and enjoy in peace. The other person who came over to their home was a woman with a loud voice and different colored hair, and the tendency to constantly want to squish Mr. Whiskers with no consideration of his dignity or desire to be squished. He wasn’t some kind of lap dog to be “cuddled” and cooed at! Didn’t that woman have a mother who would teach her to KEEP HER STUPID FURLESS HANDS TO HERSELF? Honestly, some humans needed a little scratch once in a while to know their place, and he didn’t care that his human would yell “Mr. Whiskers, behave yourself!” every time he did it. He’ll behave himself when the guests behave themselves.

And the third semi regular visitor his human had was his mother, who called his human “Daniel” and would sit on the sofa drinking tea in silence. Sometimes she would ask a question like “So, have you decided about going back to university?” or “Are you still working at that convenience store? I think you should be looking for something more serious,” or “Have you been seeing anyone? My friend’s daughter is about your age, I think you should give her a call.” And even though she never did anything annoying to Mr. Whiskers and even sometimes brought him a nice treat, he absolutely hated having her over, because his human would get sad and quiet afterwards, and sometimes lie in bed for an entire day. And no amount of rubbing against his hands or purring on his chest would make him smile.

But most of the time, it was just the two of them. His human would usually have to be woken up by Mr. Whiskers’ insistent meowing. Honestly, if it weren’t for him, the human would probably never get to work on time. And Mr. Whiskers would never get fed. After giving Mr. Whiskers some food (ok, why the constant fish? Urgh, it’s disgusting), the human would pour some milk over his dry food (without fish, one would note. Why does the human get fish-free dry food while Mr. Whiskers has to suffer?) and sit at the table slowly chewing on it. If the human would get too slow or close his eyes for too long, Mr. Whiskers would make sure to drop something off of the counter to wake him up. Then, the human would go into the bathroom and shower (yet further proof that humans are not that intelligent. Why would anyone voluntarily pour water over themselves? Idiotic.) and get dressed. There would then be the regular argument where Dan would shout “Why did you have to sleep on my work pants again? You got fur all over them! Just use the fucking bed I bought you!” and Mr. Whiskers would hiss and jump straight into the pile of clothing on the floor of the bedroom and start kneading at them. Show his human who’s boss. Then the human would leave and Mr. Whiskers could get some good sleep in the human’s comfortable bed. (Dan wonders why Mr. Whiskers doesn’t sleep in the bed he bought him? Well, why did he buy him a bed that’s like 20 times smaller than his own? Does this human seriously thinks that he needs more space than Mr. Whiskers? Ridiculous.)

The evenings were mostly spent with the human sitting in front of the big box with some kind of toy and screaming loudly at the moving objects while Mr. Whiskers lay curled up on the couch and eyed his human with pity. They are never going to hear you, you fool. Just give up already. And after dinner (fish dry food, again; someone needs to smack some sense into this human) they would go to bed, Dan under the covers and Mr. Whiskers usually on the large chair where the human put his black work pants that night. (What? The chair is comfortable!)

So when one evening, someone Mr. Whiskers never seen before walked in with his human, Mr. Whiskers was immediately suspicious. The new guest was as tall as Dan, but had black hair and bright blue eyes. He was smiling and out of breath, and was looking around the apartment in wonder.

“So, this is my place,” Dan said, his voice sounding uncharacteristically shaky. “And this is Mr. Whiskers. Don’t mind him, he’s very grumpy, so don’t be offended if he hates you.”

Mr. Whiskers hissed in indignation. He wasn’t grumpy! He was an absolute delight if you knew how to behave yourself. He even let his human pet him a couple times the day before, and only hissed at him twice this morning! And Dan dares to call him grumpy?

“Hello Mr. Whiskers!” replied the stranger. “I’m Phil! It’s very nice to meet you.”

There was something really weird about this new human’s voice. Mr. Whiskers couldn’t exactly place what it was, but something was very different.

“Phil, you’re so funny! You honestly think he understands you?” Dan laughed and Mr. Whiskers meowed, offended. Did his human think he’s stupid?

“Of course he does, Dan, and I don’t think he likes you saying that.”

Ok, Phil seemed to be acceptable so far. He seemed respectful. Mr. Whiskers could give him a chance. For now.

“Oh Phil, you’re so precious!” Dan replied, and looked at the new guy with a smile on his face that made Mr. Whiskers want to roll his eyes. He looked at him like a little kitten looks at his first bouncy ball, or like his mother used to look at him when she would lick his face. Disgusting.

They ended up sitting on the couch and shouting at the lit up box together, and Mr. Whiskers felt his good opinion of the new ‘Phil’ human decline a bit. He might be smart enough to know that Mr. Whiskers understands them, but still obviously not the brightest kitten in the litter. He was also a little odd in other ways, biting Dan on the shoulder sometimes and giggling all the time. Perhaps he was hungry? Mr. Whiskers would also sometimes bite his human for food, but Dan seemed to react very differently to Phil biting him. When Mr. Whiskers would bite, his human would screech and call him a “dirty animal.” When Phil bit him, however, Dan would flush red and giggle. He looked like a tomato, it was frankly ridiculous.

It was long dark outside by the time Phil stood up from the couch and headed out. He hugged Dan and whispered something in his ear, and then looked Mr. Whiskers directly in the eyes and said “Goodbye Mr. Whiskers! See you soon!”

Something was definitely off about this person.

***

After that night, Phil became a constant presence in the flat. He would come over almost every night and stay later and later. Occasionally, he would stay overnight in the human’s bed and eat breakfast with them. He also seemed to progress from biting Dan to doing all sorts of other stupid things, like licking and sucking on his mouth, laying on his shoulder or on his chest and nuzzling into his neck. And his human seemed to not only allow it, but do the same to Phil. At one point, his human actually pushed Mr. Whiskers out of the bedroom and closed the door. And didn’t let him in the entire night, which was so unthinkably rude that Mr. Whiskers had no choice but to pee in Dan’s palm tree. The next morning they both emerged looking like they didn’t sleep at all, which of course they didn’t. Who would be able to sleep without Mr. Whiskers watching over them? And why did Phil have dark spots all over his neck?

However, even with all of this, having Phil around all the time definitely had some benefits. First of all, Phil apparently loved pizza, which meant that if Mr. Whiskers whined hard enough, he would always get a little pepperoni or sausage out of their plates. Additionally, Phil’s presence drove away Dan’s need to invite other people and Phil himself was always very respectful of the “don’t touch the cat if he doesn’t want it” rule. And of course, Mr. Whiskers was somewhat satisfied to see his human so happy. Some might even say that Mr. Whiskers was happy for him, but those people would be wrong, of course; Mr. Whiskers was far too important of a creature to really care about the wellbeing of his human (even though he did know that if Phil dared to hurt Dan, he would scratch his eyes out and not even think about it).

But the most significant changes came from the fact that Phil seemed to somehow just know things. Or, at least, guess some of the things Mr. Whiskers wanted. For example, one time when they were having breakfast and Dan was pouring the horrid fish dry food into Mr. Whisker’s bowl, Mr. Whiskers let out a frustrated meow. While Dan refused to get the hint for several years, Phil immediately seemed to understand Mr. Whisker’s frustration and told Dan that “I don’t think your cat really likes this type of food, maybe we should get him something different?” And indeed, a couple days later Phil brought over several different bags of cat food and had Dan perform a complicated taste test to determine which one was Mr. Whisker’s favorite. And somehow, Phil was able to exactly tell Dan which one Mr. Whisker’s liked most (the duck flavored one, of course, although the beef and rabbit one were also not bad).

Phil also would always say a proper hello and goodbye to Mr. Whiskers and always asked him if he could pet him. But the weirdest thing was that when Mr. Whiskers wasn’t in the mood for sentimental cuddles, Phil would just chuckle and say, “Ok, ok, maybe next time.” And whenever Mr. Whiskers allowed Phil to pet him, the human managed to scratch the perfectly right spot. Mr. Whiskers has never met a human who understood him as well as Phil.

***

One morning, Mr. Whiskers could tell something was wrong as soon as he woke up. The day before was one of the rare nights Phil wasn’t here, and Dan had spent the previous evening outside the house, only to come home at two am, pale, shivering and with puffed red eyes. He immediately went to bed without even saying hi to Mr. Whiskers or giving him the normal scratch behind the ears. The next morning, no matter how much Mr. Whiskers meowed or scratched at him, no matter how many cups he threw off of the counter, his human refused to get out of bed. He was lying under his blankets, covering his entire head, and Mr. Whiskers could hear a quiet sobbing from under it.

That morning Dan never got up for work. He just lay in bed, standing up only once to go to the bathroom and carelessly throwing some food in the general direction of Mr. Whisker’s bowl. The sun set and his human never stood up to turn on any lights. He just lay in bed motionless, sometimes letting out a quiet sob.

It was fully dark when Mr. Whisker’s heard the door open.

“Dan? Baby? Are you home?” Phil’s voice rang out in the darkness. Mr. Whiskers immediately raced to the door and started meowing at Phil. If anyone could cheer his human up, it would be Phil. Something was definitely wrong.

Phil entered the living room and turned on the light. Then he looked Mr. Whiskers right in the eyes and said, “You’re saying he didn’t get out of bed at all?”

Mr. Whiskers stared in shock at Phil.

“Listen, Mr. Whiskers, I can speak to animals, it’s no big deal. I just didn’t want Dan to know in case he thought I was weird or something. But we can discuss this in detail later; can you please tell me what happened to Dan?”

If Mr. Whiskers were a less dignified cat, he probably would have freaked out. But Mr. Whiskers doesn’t freak out. He’s always collected and poised, and honestly it’s not like he was that surprised, truly. (He definitely was.)

Quickly collecting himself from not being shocked at all, Mr. Whiskers proceeded to tell Phil exactly what was going on. Phil just looked intently at him and nodded along.

“Did he have anything to eat? He was crying yesterday? He was supposed to stay at his parents, but you’re saying he came back in the middle of the night? Ok, ok. Wait, slow down. Oh, he sometimes cries when his mom visits? Ok, I’ll see what I can do. Thank you, thank you!”

With that, Phil poured some water into a glass and quietly opened the door into the bedroom.

“Let me see how Dan is doing and I’ll feed you, Mr. Whiskers,” Phil whispered. Ok, that was fair. As long as it didn’t take forever, because dinner was supposed to be served at least two hours ago.

After a couple minutes of waiting, Mr. Whiskers slid into the dark bedroom and saw that Phil was lying in bed next to Dan, combing his fingers through his curly hair and murmuring into his ear.

“I’m so sorry, love. It’s his loss, you’re perfect. I’m so so sorry.”

“I wanted them to get to know you…” Dan sobbed. “I thought they would be happy for me.”

“They’ll come around, Danny, and if not, it’s their loss. It’s going to be ok, I’m here.”

Mr. Whiskers wanted to remind Phil of his promise to feed him dinner, but decided that he might not actually be that hungry. Instead, Mr. Whiskers climbed onto the bed and firmly planted himself between the two humans, kneading at the softness of Dan’s stomach and purring loudly. Dinner could wait until his human was a little happier. Maybe Mr. Whiskers would even curl up in Dan’s lap later, and let him pet him for an hour or two. Mr. Whisker’s was generous like that.

***

The next morning Phil woke up earlier than Dan and slipped out of bed into the kitchen.

“Let him sleep” he whispered to Mr. Whiskers who was about to start the normal process of waking Dan up. “I told our manager he won’t come into work today; he had a rough night.”

Mr. Whiskers followed Phil out into the kitchen and jumped up on the breakfast bar.

“So…” Phil said.

Mr. Whiskers stared at him.

“You hungry?”

Of course he was.

“Why is all of this crap on the floor? You tried to wake him up that way? Honestly, Mr. Whiskers, are you expecting me to clean this up? Of course you are.”

Phil quickly swept up the broken china and put the rest of the junk off the floor back onto the counter.

“Here, let me get you some food. Do you want the duck or the rabbit? Duck? Ok!”

He poured some food into the bowl and put it on the table.

“Come have breakfast with me, Mr. Whiskers. I think Dan might be sleeping in for a bit.”

Phil made himself a cup of coffee and got a biscuit from the cupboard. They sat at the table in silence, both munching on their food for a bit.

“So… Alligators are pretty cool, aren’t they?”

Mr. Whiskers just stared at him.

“What? They are! I went to the zoo with my family once and the alligator told me that my thighs are my best feature! Although I don’t know if he was saying that from an aesthetic or food related point of view. Either way, that was really nice of him.”

Mr. Whiskers glanced down at Phil’s thighs.

“Well, the alligator liked them, so you can keep your snarky comments to yourself,” Phil laughed. “Dan appears to like them, so shush.”

Mr. Whiskers laid down on the table and flicked his tail.

“Hey, don’t insult my boyfriends taste. He chose you as a pet, didn’t he?” Phil smirked. “Well of course he didn’t choose you, it was the other way around, what am I even saying. And you did a good job, you have a nice human there, don’t you.”

Just as Phil was saying that, the door to the bedroom creaked open and a sleepy-looking Dan emerged.

“Who are you talking to, Phil?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

Mr. Whiskers and Phil shared a glance and the cat jumped off the table and walked towards Dan. He rubbed his side on Dan’s legs and purred.

“Why are you suddenly so nice? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, babe, we were just having breakfast. Do you want something?” Phil replied in an exaggeratedly innocent voice.

Honestly, Phil was the worst liar Mr. Whiskers has ever seen. Dan looked at Phil with even more suspicion.

To break the tension, Mr. Whiskers had to plunge his claws into Dan’s naked shin.

“Owww, you animal, what the fuck!?” Dan shouted, and Mr. Whiskers proudly walked away, successfully defusing the situation. Watch and learn, Phil. Watch and learn.

“Will you still move in with me if this monster of a cat lives here?” Dan asked Phil, rubbing his scratched up ankle. He plopped himself into a chair at the table and took a sip of Phil’s coffee.

“Do you seriously think I would dare move in without getting Mr. Whiskers’ approval?” Phil replied. “It’s not like it’s up to you or me if I get to live here.”

Mr. Whiskers jumped into Dan’s lap and curled up into a ball. Dan automatically started combing his hands through his soft fur.

“Do you approve, Mr. Whiskers?” Dan asked him. “I think he approves,” he smiled widely at Phil.

“Oh, he does, as long as we keep buying him the duck-flavored cat food,” Phil replied.

Mr. Whiskers started purring loudly in Dan’s lap. Phil was ok. Phil could stay, he decided.

#phanfiction #my fic #phan #phandom fic fests holiday exchange

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accio-moon · 5 years ago

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puzzled (david dobrik)

Warnings: none

requested!!! david is crushing on u big baby style

David had been battling with the fact that he had a crush on you for weeks. You got introduced to the vlog squad because you worked with Erin’s fiancee for Emo Nite, and he had caught feelings ever since. He loved your laugh, how smart you were, and how you were always down to have fun. His feelings sincerely scared him. He hadn’t had a true crush since his last girlfriend, settling on mindless hookups here and there. But you were different. There was something about the way you looked at him that gave him butterflies. He would get visibly nervous whenever you were around, and people started picking up on it. Jason was the first one to notice, but he mainly kept it to himself. He was excited that David finally had someone he was interested in. He was surprised but very happy. He would find ways to get Carly and Erin to invite you to their outings. Carly and Erin were the second set of people to catch on. You had joined them on their Starbucks runs and David was unusually quiet, the nerves quite apparent. He drummed his fingers on his steering wheel aggressively when he responded to you. Finally, Natalie realized what was going on when she caught him creeping on your Instagram feed. She also didn’t say anything, but she smirked to herself and sent a text to Jason.

natalie: omg david is so in love with y/n

jason: Took you look enough to realize!

natalie: we HAVE to set them up

jason: I know, if not it’ll never happen.

natalie: has anyone else realized? this is so cute i cant hes such a baby

jason: C & E

natalie: perfect! they know y/n a lot better anyways. we should come up with a cute date for them that they’d both enjoy

jason: Yes!

The group schemed up a perfect date for the two of them: an escape room for two. They knew you loved solving puzzles and David loved vlog-worthy content, so throwing you two in a room for an hour would be the perfect way to get you two to talk and hopefully realize your feelings for one another. When you got the invite from Carly, you didn’t think twice. You were looking forward to spending time with everyone. Plus, you absolutely adored escape rooms. You loved working in groups and solving problems. When you arrived, you found David, Carly, Erin, Jason, and Natalie. You smiled excitedly as you greeted everyone with a hug. An attendant from the escape room explained that each was designed for a two-person solve. Immediately, Carly and Erin paired up. Jason and Natalie were next, high fiving each other with a big smile. You looked at David and shrugged nonchalantly, making him giggle and shake his head. The two of you were assigned to a horror-based escape room that required you to figure a way out before you were caught. It was set up like an intricate basement under the captor’s house. You worked closely to piece together all the answers you needed to solve the different puzzles, completely losing yourselves in the story. You collaborated to easily, and David collected a ton of silly footage of the two of you piecing together the clues. As the time got closer, the ceiling would shake and creak under the weight of the captor, making you scream and work faster to find things. Audio of the captor yelling at you played loudly into the room, scaring the two of you. You jumped into David’s arms instinctively. He wrapped his arms around you and hid his face in your shoulder as he screamed.

“Uh, sorry. Back to the game. We have five minutes.” You laughed nervously, scratching the back of your neck.

“Y-yeah, the game.’ David blushed intently, immediately getting flustered.

Neither of you could think clearly. You felt so comfortable in his embrace, and he wanted that moment to last forever, You were seconds away from losing when you finally unlocked the door, cheering in excitement. He engulfed you in a hug, lifting you off the ground and cheering. You laughed loudly, wrapping your arms around his neck tightly.

“I guess we’re a good team, Dobrik.”

“Guess so.”

“Congratulations, you were the only two who escaped.” Jason laughed, approaching the two of them.

“How was it?” Natalie wondered, raising an eyebrow.

“Fun. Really fun.” You smiled widely, looking up at David.

“Yeah, I loved it.” He nodded, returning your gaze.

“Did you finally kiss in there?” Erin wondered, making the two of you turn red in embarrassment.

“W-What? Why would we?” You stuttered, laughing nervously.

“You’re both so in love with each other. David, stop being such a dork and kiss her.” Carly instructed, crossing her arms.

“You guys are the worst.” David shook his head, rolling his eyes playfully.

You were interrupted by the game master, who helped all of you check out. David drove everyone home, leaving you for last. The entire ride, he contemplated whether or not he should ask you how you felt about him. He was head over heels for you. but your true feelings were the one puzzle he couldn’t solve. You seemed equally as friendly and flirty with him as the rest of your friends. He didn’t want to make things weird. He parked outside of your apartment building with a smile. You quickly hugged him goodbye before starting to gather your things.

“Y/N, is what Carly said true? Are you actually into me?”

You smirked, looking up at him through your long lashes. You swallowed your pride and did the unthinkable. You leaned towards him, pressing your lips against his. He took your face in his hand, deepening the kiss. You pulled away breathlessly, smiling widely.

“I’ll let you solve that one.”

#david dobrik #david dobrik imagine #david dobrik x reader #vlog squad #vlog squad imagine #erin gilfoy #carly incontro #jason nash #y/n #imagine #imagines

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connan-l · 5 years ago

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Those Left Behind

Fandom: The House in Fata Morgana Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Georges Bollinger & Giselle’s Family Summary: Years after his brothers’ deaths, Georges decides to go visit the family of the young woman who had supposedly lived at the cursed mansion with Michel. Why though, he is not sure himself.

Content Warning: Discussion about grief and death. Vague allusions to Michel's past abuse, Giselle's sexual assaults and all the bad stuffs in general that took place in Door 7.

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Link on Archive Of Our Own

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Notes: I've always been a little disappointed that we know almost nothing about Giselle’s family. I wish we'd been given a bit more information about them... I mean, we don't even know their names. If you named that asshole Amédée, you could've named Giselle's mom and sister too, Novec. I understand that they didn't have as much importance in the narrative as Michel's family, but I feel they still would've been great to flesh out Giselle's character even more. She is the main heroine, after all.

But in any case, I wrote this because I’ve been curious about what must’ve become of them after Giselle took on the role of the Maid. Her mother and sister spending the rest of their lives without ever knowing what truly happened to her is pretty sad…

It was also interesting to write Georges in the aftermath of Michel's death. I made him a lot more... mellow in it, which might seem a bit out of character, but I was thinking that it'd make sense, with him being older and having to deal with his brothers' deaths and his remorses.

There is brief mentions of the short stories The Painting's Ramblings and III. Boy Meets Girl.

Also, this takes place in 1106, so Georges is fourty and it is two years before his own death, and six years after Michel's death.

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The streets were pretty empty. There were a few middle-aged women here, some kids playing with a ball there, but otherwise, they seemed almost completely devoid of people. Devoid of sounds. Maybe it was because of the gray sky and the thick clouds that threatened to break down in a heavy rain at any seconds now. It certainly wasn’t a beautiful day at all; not a day anyone’d choose to randomly stroll the capital's streets. Yet, Georges had felt the need to go out now — felt it had to be today, otherwise he’d never do it.

It was a day where he didn't have much to do, anyway. Although, if he was being honest... he had been relatively free since more than a decade already. He still had some work as a painter, of course, but this had diminished with the years, and albeit the fact he was still officially the head of the Bollinger family, it had been a long time since he had actually bothered himself with any business related to it. Instead it was his wife, the beautiful Aimée and her eternal smile, who took care of it — and she had done so ever since they got married about eighteen years ago now. It had been a gradual thing. At first, she would only bring him drinks and give him some advices here and there; then when things started to get too hard or frustrating for him, she'd told him to go sleep and to leave it to her; and before he even knew it, Aimée had the entire control of their family's affairs. Obviously Georges had been reluctant about this at the beginning — he had tried more than once to get things back in his hands, but every time Aimée would assure him that everything was perfectly fine, that she could absolutely handle all of that by herself. And, well, to say the truth... she was right.

Georges may not be the kingdom's brightest person, but he still could easily see how extremely intelligent and clever his wife was. Never had the Bollinger family been as rich and influent than now under her leadership. She was more than capable to be in charge of everything; be it finances, politics or otherwise — Georges would even say she seemed to have been born for that. She was infinitely more skilled and smart than he could ever hope to be — infinitely more than even his father or grandfather had been in her place before her. She had a gift to rule and manipulate people, and if he was being honest, it was a little scary. The only thing holding her back was her gender — and Georges could only imagine how much more terrifying she would have been had she been born a man.

So, after a while he ended up letting her do as she pleased — even if it wasn't actually to the taste of everyone. Although he was technically the face of the Bollinger household, nearly all of the nobility was aware of who was truly pulling the strings, and a lot of them didn't like that. That was only to be expected — a man leaving all of the truly important work to his wife was unthinkable, outrageous. People openly looked down on them sometimes. Georges couldn't even remember the number of inappropriate remarks Aimée had gotten, both subtly and unsubtly telling her she would be better off at home taking care of their children. But Aimée never seemed to mind it — she only smiled politely, and continued to do as usual as if nothing happened.

Georges didn't care much about the condescension either. He had never liked doing all of those boring and annoying family business — always thought Dee would have been a better head for the house, or hell, even Michel. He'd rather concentrate on his one true passion: painting. Which was exactly what he had done for the last twenty years or so. Even if truthfully, painting had actually taken a back seat in the order of his priorities since the birth of his two sons, Séverin and Dieudonné.

Georges had never imagined himself as a father. He always thought the task to be way too hard — here again, both of his brothers would've been much better dads than him. But the day his first boy was born, it had been as if his entire world had been turned upside down. Suddenly, all of his prime concerns became completely dedicated to his children's lives — about what was their needs, their education, their tastes and hobbies.

The day Dieudonné, only three years old, had excitedly showed him his first ever painting — an abstract landscape with all the colors of the rainbow — Georges didn't think he'd ever felt as happy and proud in his entire life, and he had actually started bawling right on the spot while his tiny son had just stared at him curiously.

The boys both had pretty differing personalities — the oldest, Séverin, was a tough adventurous little guy — he loved spending most of his time outside, with a soft spot for animals, and was an outstanding equestrian, despite being only seventeen. The other one, Dieudonné, was one year younger than his brother and had a more gentle personality — while he also loved playing outside, he had taken more after his father, being instead more interested in art. The two of them were pretty close — Georges had made sure that no matter what might happen between them, they always knew they had each other's back. Made sure that they don't make the same mistakes he had made with his own brothers.

In general he spent a lot of time with his kids — maybe it was, in a way, to really set him apart from his own father, who had always been extremely distant and too taken by work to allow himself a lot of time with his children. Aimée wasn't really fond of this, however — she had told him in mutiple occasions that she thought he spoiled them too much, that he was too easy on them — but Georges would honestly rather be close to his sons and "spoils them too much" than the opposite. Even if, lately, he had... some sort of tension with Sév. The boy had started to be quite rebellious and to spend more time with his mother rather than him. Georges wasn't very worried about this, though; he missed his son and the time where he had no difficulty getting along with him sometimes, yes, but he just thought it was something normal. Sév was a young man who was just on the cusp of adulthood, so there was nothing odd about him wanting to get away from his dad.

Georges sighed, his eyes surveying his surroundings. The more he walked through the shopping streets of Paris, the more the sky seemed to get grayer. He honestly worried that at this point it was going to rain soon. He hoped he'd be able to find what he was looking for before, though. Or rather, to find the people he was looking for. He was aware he actually had very little chance to find them — hell, for all he knew they could have moved out of the city a long time ago. From what he had heard, they did have money troubles, after all.

Still, he wanted to talk to them no matter what, so he continued to do his best searching by asking around, talking to all the shopkeepers he saw. He didn't have much chance, until he found an old man with a rough face and two small eyes as gray as the sky.

"Um, hi," Georges greeted him. "Is that okay if I ask you some questions?"

The man first eyed him strangely — probably because of his expansive-looking clothes, which wasn't really something the people here could afford. Georges grinned at him.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he continued. "But do you know if a merchant family lives around here?"

"You'll have to be a bit more precise, my good sir, 'cause that's kind of almost half the families from the area."

Right. It was a shopping street, after all, so of course. "Yeah, um. I think they used to be a family of three ladies: a mother and her two children. One of the daughters was named Giselle."

As soon as Georges pronounced that name, the man's eyes brightened. "Ahh! Are you talking 'bout Margot's daughter?"

"Uh... maybe?"

"That's the only family that fit I can think of. Margot's husband died from a plague almost thirty years ago now, so she raised her two girls alone. She never remarried. The youngest's name was indeed Giselle."

"Oh. Then that must be them, yeah."

"I remember her well, Giselle. A sweet girl, always peppy and smiling. A shame, what happened to her."

Georges raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what happened to her?"

"What? Ya don't know?" The man asked, then scratched his head. "Well, one day she started working for some noble's house and... disappeared. There was a lot of... unsavory rumors about her that spread around a while after that... To tell you the truth, it's a bit unclear what happened to her exactly... Some say she was killed, other that she ran away. In any case, she just never came back home."

As Georges had expected, the man didn't give him much more information than what he already knew, but he still thought it had been worth trying.

"Her mom and big sis live over there, two streets below in a small house," the man said while gesturing to the left. "It's just the two of them ever since Giselle's gone."

He crossed his arms and sighed. "The eldest was supposed to marry some rich guy at one point, but in the end the wedding was cancelled. They both loved each other, but she was just a poor merchant lass and didn't have enough money for the marriage to go through... and with the rumors about her sister... Sad story, really."

"I... see," Georges simply said, as he wasn't sure what to answer to that. "Well then, thanks. Good bye."

He waved at the man, then turned around and started walking again, following the instructions he had been given. He made his way through the city's streets, eyeing the rare passerbys and the modest houses with a kind of nostalgia. It had been a while since he had just strolled through Paris like that — especially since he had stopped taking as much work as before. And even then, the people who commissioned him were mostly just nobles or rich bourgeois, so he very rarely adventured himself in the poorer districts. This part of town was far from being the slums — but it was still a lot less wealthy than what he was usually accustomed to.

In fact, he thought that the last time he came around here was... that afternoon when he was still just a teen and where he had taken Michel outside dressed like a boy, without telling it to anyone, not even to Dee. Georges vividly remembered that day because of the heart attack he almost had when he lost Michel for a few hours. Now that he thought about it, that had been... probably the only time where Michel had went into the city like that, as their mother always refused to let him out of the house. The only other time he had been outside after that was for... going to that mansion. Even though there had been so many other things Georges had wished to show him...

But this peculiar trail of thought tended to send him spiralling into interminable sadness and self-hatred, so he decided to stop thinking about his brother altogether for now.

As he kept walking, the road became more and more narrow, until finally, he managed to reach a house that fitted the description he had been given. Just like the man had told him, it was a small, humble house — not old or decrepit or anything, but certainly far from being a wealthy residence. He thought it looked a little bit cramped to live here for what had initially been a family of four... even though they had only been two for a few years now.

Lost in thoughts, it took him some times to notice he wasn't actually alone here and that there was another presence not far.

A woman was on the porch. She seemed to be at least a decade younger than him — in her early thirties, probably. She had long, wavy black hair tied in a pony tail. She was currently extending the laundry on a small drying rack, plunging in and out of the basket in rhythmic, meticulous movements. Although Georges was only a few meters away from her, she didn't seem to have remarked him at all, being instead too focused on the wet clothes.

Georges watched her for a moment silently. He knew that he should try to talk to her... but he was hesitating.

The reason he was here in front of a strangers' house was because of something that had happened a few months ago. He was with Sév, helping him out with his studies, until he decided to go search an old mathematics book that was in his former father's room to teach his son something. After Antonin's death, Aimée had been the one to take care of his belongings, and she had almost thrown and given away everything. Her cold attitude regarding this had surprised Georges, as she had always seemed close to the head of the Bollinger family. He and Dee had still managed to save a few things, and since then Antonin's room have been left empty, pretty much abandonned. It was only used to stock some things from time to time.

When Georges entered in the dim and dusty bedroom, he started to tamper with his dad's things unceremoniously and inadvertently made an ancient stack of papers fell on the floor. All while swearing, he gathered the pages... and then one of them caught his eyes. It was... a sort of old official document, describing the firing of some maid who had worked for their family because of a mistake she had made. She had been exiled to a mansion to expiate said fault... This didn't interested Georges in the slightest, until he noticed which mansion this maid had been send off to.

It was the same place where Michel himself had been exiled.

A chill ran through Georges' back as he intently continued to read the document. The maid's name was Giselle, and she was a young woman who came from a relatively poor merchant family — unusual thing, as normally the maids working for their family were abigails who themselves came from pretty well-off households. Why would their family employ some run-of-the-mill town lady? There was something off about all of this, but as Georges kept reading, suddenly he remembered.

He didn't think he had ever actually met in person this woman, but he certainly had heard her name a few times before. It had been about seven years ago, maybe — some sort of scandal had blow up within their family. Their father apparently had an affair with a maid. This had been kind of a shock to Georges at the time — even if, retrospectively, it shouldn't have. His parents' relationship had degenerated more and more over the years, until they almost didn't even talk to each other — things having been made even worse with Lydie's illness eating away at her. Rumors of the maid having seduced the head of the Bollinger house while seeking his richesses and status spread around, and so the woman was quickly condemned for adultery — but then Antonin intervened. Instead, she was just sent into exile, at the same mansion were Michel lived — though, of course, that had been something their father ignored.

Georges recalled Dee panicked a little upon learning this, and in the end he told him he had secretly sent a letter to the young woman so that she'd take care of Michel as his servant. And then, none of them heard any more about it — that was, of course, until Antonin died, and that... Michel was sentenced to death. Which Georges only heard all about after everything had been settled. He had learnt about the letter Michel had sent to their mother, the assault on the mansion and finally his brother's death only afterwards.

He hadn't even been able to read that letter — the last letter his little brother had written — until a long, long time after Dee's death. Because everything... was just too painful. He still had it now; carefully folded in a small box in his room, that not even Aimée or his sons had the right to touch. And he had memorized every word drafted on it — Michel's determined claim of his identity, his demand of being accepted as such by them... and him announcing that he was in love with a woman.

He hadn't mentioned the name or any more detail about his beloved, but there was only one woman who Michel could have fallen for — the only other human being who had been sent in exile with him. So it wasn't a stretch to assume that this maid Giselle... had been the one he was talking about.

Georges now remembered the smile that had unconsciously sprout on his face upon reading this, and then the overwhelming sorrow that had followed. His little bro being in love should have been something special; something worth celebrating — and in normal circumstances, Georges would have definitely spent days teasing Michel about it and would have done and said things pretty embarrassing to him. But when he finally read that letter, Michel had already been dead since a long time ago. So instead the only emotions left in him were sadness and guilt. His thoughts then had been full of conflicted feelings and mostly about his brothers, thus that maid had completely faded from Georges' grieving mind.

He didn't think Dee said anything about a woman when he attacked the old mansion with the other knights. He didn't say much about anything, actually — which, given how Georges kept hurling insults at him and practically jumped at his throat, wasn't surprising. But, then...

What had happened to her? Did she ran away somehow? Did she came back home, to the capital? Or did she die there in the mansion with Michel?

For some reason, these questions wouldn't leave Georges' mind. He kept obsessing over this woman — his brother's lover, the last person who had been at his side before his death. So, he decided to make some research about her. He asked the old servants of the house, and when he questioned the head maid who had served them for about ten years now, she grimaced. Manifestly, this wasn't a story she looked back on fondly. Still, she told him what she recalled of this Giselle — about how she was an upbeat and hardworker person, albeit being inexperienced and a bit clumsy. She didn't know what happened to her after her departure, but in any case, it seemed she never came back to Paris. She mentioned that her family kept harrassing the Bollinger house for months afterwards, wanting to know what had happened to Giselle, and they were only given the explanation that she had been exiled for a mistake she made. Although Antonin kept sending some money to her family even after her exile — maybe out of guilt. But they ended up refusing and cut off all ties to the Bollingers, so he still stopped shortly after.

In other words, there was no concrete answers to what had happened to her. It was as if... she had just vanished. Stopped existing. It was kind of a scary thought. But the more Georges learnt about her, the more he wanted to know. He didn't know why exactly he was drawn to her like that. Maybe it was because... he felt that if he could know more about this woman, maybe he could know more about Michel. Maybe he could know more about the life of the brother he neglected for more than ten years.

A part of him thought that he shouldn't do that. That he didn't even had that right.

You abandonned him. You did that to him.

But his curiosity was stronger than that.

And it was how, in this ugly day, he had decided to survey the shopping streets of Paris in search of this mysterious young woman's family. However, he hadn't been able to find much about them; only that they were composed of her mother and older sister, and that they were merchants.

Now, against all odds, he had actually managed to do it. He had been able to find the house of his brother's beloved. And now, what? What was he supposed to do? Talk to the woman on the porch? How? To be honest, he hadn't actually thought that far ahead. He started thinking this had been a bad idea, that he should get back home — but at this moment, the lady raised her head.

As she did, two bright, beautiful jade eyes pierced him.

"Hello?" She said hesitantly.

She was obviously very perplexed by this unknown man who had been staring at her from afar quietly. The last thing Georges wanted was for her to think he was a creep, so he hurried to grin in the most friendly way he could.

"Uh, hi!" He greeted her while scratching his head. "Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I'm Georges."

The woman — who he guessed was probably Giselle's big sister — cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "Okay...?"

"Uh, right. Don't worry, I'm not a bad guy or anything."

"Sounds like something a bad guy would say," she replied without missing a beat.

"I-I'm really not! I just wanted to know... are you, uh, the daughter of a merchant lady named Margot...?"

She still looked intensely dubious and on the fence, but nodded despite it. "Yeah, Margot's my mother's name. What is this all about, Georges?"

"Well... uh..."

Georges sighed. What was that all about? That was a good question. To be honest, he wasn't sure himself. What did he expect to see, coming here? What did he expect to learn? Did he think knowing more about that maid would... give him some closure regarding Michel? Regarding Dee? After all these years, all these mistakes?

How ridiculous. Then again, him being an idiot wasn't something new.

The woman's frown in front of him deepened the more he stayed silent, so he finally started talking again while giving her an awkward smile. "I, um... it's gonna sound a bit weird, maybe, but... I am here because I wanted... needed to know more about someone. Someone... you used to know."

After hearing this, her expression kind of softened and she looked a little less hostile — instead, there was a clear curiosity and surprise shining in her green eyes. She was a really beautiful lady. Georges wondered how much her sister had looked like her. Did she have black hair too? The same pretty emerald eyes? Unfortunately, he doubted he would ever be able to answer these questions.

"Someone I knew?"

"About... seven years ago, I think, there was a young woman who worked as a maid where I live," he continued. "Her name was Giselle."

This time again, the woman's expression changed. But it was a way more radical change — her entire body tensed up visibly, her face lost its colors and her eyes widened.

"How do you know my sister's name?" She exclaimed.

"So she really was your little sister?"

"Of course she was! Th-That's not the point, how do you— Oh, wait... you said she worked as a maid to your place... No way... could it be you're from the Bollinger family?"

She almost spat the name with disgust, and Georges felt a disagreeable feeling engulf him. She was clearly angry — and so for a moment, he thought about denying it. Denying his identity, throwing away his name, running away from this angry, hurt woman who glared at him, getting as far away as he could from Aimée, from his house full of bad memories, from his dead brothers, from the guilt and the self-hatred, from his entire past and life as Georges Bollinger—

But as he continued to stare at the person in front of him, he felt as if her jade eyes pinned him on the spot and gave him no escape.

"I... am," he finally admitted.

It was obvious Giselle's sister already knew the answer before he even said it, but her face still contorted in cold rage.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said in such an icy tone that it sent shivers in Georges' back. "Go away."

She turned around, highlighting her message, and while Georges maybe kind of understood her reaction, he just... couldn't let it end at that.

"W-Wait a minute, please!" He said, grabbing her arm, but the woman brusquely released herself from his grip and glared at him once again.

"Don't you dare to touch me! I don't have to spare a single second for you."

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to touch you," Georges apologized, and he meant it — he always had a tendency to act before thinking. "I just— I just want to talk with you. I won't take a lot of your time, I promise, just a few minutes—"

"Do you not understand what "no" means? I'm a busy woman, and I don't want to associate with you or your family in any shape or form anymore. So scram!"

"I... understand that... But please, at least hear me out first."

The woman's face became red with rage. Her eyes were not only angry now, they were outright hateful, and Georges honestly thought she was going to slap him. It wouldn't have been the first time he got slapped. Or punched. Albeit generally, Dee always interfered before things get too bad, even if he really didn't want to.

Dee wasn't here to save his ass anymore, though.

"I can't believe the gall you have!" She screamed. "Do you realize what you're asking me? You said you weren't a "bad guy," but you randomly show up at my house, want to force me to talk about my sister who disappeared years ago, and for whose disappearance your family is directly responsible! The Bollinger family is the one who took Giselle away from us, so if anything, you should tell us about her! So no, you have no right to ask anything from me, or even to put a single foot into our house!"

Georges felt frozen in place. Her words resonated in his mind, stuck in his brain. None of them were wrong, he knew that. They certainly were the ones who had exiled that maid because of a "mistake," and then made her "disappear" because Michel became inconvenient to them. Although her sister probably didn't know the last part, it wasn't wrong of her to assume the Bollingers were the cause of Giselle's misfortune...

“Clémence? Is everything all right?”

Suddenly, a voice called out from inside the house. Giselle's sister — "Clémence," it seemed — winced, then turned around to exclaim: “Yeah, it’s fine, Mom! Don’t worry!”

She then sighed, glared once more at Georges, and started talking again, this time in a quieter tone in order to not alarm her mother inside. "Now leave. Mom's old and she has a poor health, so the last thing I want is for some fool to stress her out."

Georges stared at her silently. He knew he should listen to her, that he should go. He knew that his family had irremediably hurt these people. That because of them that person had lost a sister. The words of the man he had met earlier came back to his mind, and he realized that she had also probably lost her fiancé too because of all of this. So he was aware that even if he never actually hurt them directly, or never even intended to hurt this woman or her family — the only fact of him being involved with the Bollinger house made him guilty by association.

But, even so...

"I'm sorry," he said.

Clémence blinked, incredulous. "What?"

"I'm sorry... for what my family did to you. For what... we did to your sister."

"And you think some half-assed apologies will make anything better?"

He chuckled lightly. "No, of course not... I know I can't do much to repair the wrong that has been done to you... I can't give you back your sister... but I... still wanted to apologize."

He paused. He didn't really know what he was saying, honestly; he just tried to bare his heart to her as much as he could.

"I had... a younger sibling too. And I made... a lot of mistakes, and did a lot of hurtful things to him... but I was never able to apologize to him for that..." He swallowed loudly. "Nor will I ever be able to."

Clémence looked at him. She was still wary and angry, but looked a bit calmer now.

"So... I'm not saying you have to forgive me or my family... I wasn't expecting it. I just... wanted to apologize. Sincerely."

She kept staring at him in the eyes, her expression unreadable. The cowardly part of me him wanted to look away, but he couldn't bring himself to. It would have felt... rude. Then finally, after some time, Clémence sighed and ran a hand in her black hair.

"They didn't even told us anything."

"Huh...?"

"When Gigi... got exiled. No one came to tell us anything." She snorted. "I guess some lowly merchants like us don't even register in rich nobles' minds, so why would they even bother?"

The resentment in her voice was palpable — and it hurts. She obviously didn't seem to want to tell him all of that, but she kept on talking anyway.

"When she began to work there, we already barely heard from her at all. But she was supposed to come see us during winter towards the end of the year. So when she didn't show up... we got really worried. I came all on my own at your house, and I almost had to fight for anyone to give me any answers as to what happened... and then finally a servant came to me. And you know what he told me?"

Georges didn't, but he could easily guess. Because he had heard all of the rumors that had been propagated about Giselle back then, even if he had paid no mind to it.

"That my sister was a "greedy whore" who "seduced" the head of the family. That she had been "rightly punished" and sent away in a place far away to atone for her "sins"."

She glared at him yet again so fiercely it was as if she was looking at that servant who had told her those things.

"What a load of bullshit! Gigi would have never done something like that. She was such a stupid airhead, never on earth she would've been able to "seduce" anyone! And the guy was going on and on about how he couldn't even tell me where she had been sent, or how I should just be happy that she was even alive at all!"

She was starting to get very worked up, and realizing this, she stopped for a moment, plunged her face in her hands and took a deep breath.

"Mom and I couldn't just leave it at that, though. So we kept coming there every time we could, asking for more answers. But every time we were just met by the same rubbish. Until one day..." Her voice trailed. "One day, about a year later, another guy came to me saying that, apparently, my sister had just... disappeared from the place she had been sent. That she would never come back anymore."

She laughed out loud. "Ridiculous, right? They were the ones who exiled Gigi, and yet they had lost trace of her somehow? They had— lost her? Don't make me laugh!"

Georges recalled the head maid mentioning something like that to him. However, he himself had never heard about merchant women going to visit the household frequently before... Though he guessed that maybe Aimée knew, and that she had just judged it unimportant to tell him, as she so often did...

“Do you know what it’s like?” Clémence asked bitterly. “To have a sister who just… just suddenly disappear? Not dead, not runaway, just… disappear. Gone. Without any explanation.”

He felt his throat tighten even more. He had the reflex to want to reply he knew, actually — that he knew what it was like to lose a sibling. To have a younger brother disappear on him — and an older one too. But he also knew that his situation and Clémence’s were radically different, and he had no right to compare his to hers.

She never actually let her little sister rot locked up in a room for two whole years. She never exiled her all alone in a mansion and then just forgets about her for a decade.

She never indirectly (killed her) caused her death.

“I’ve always known Gigi shouldn’t have gone work there.”

“What?”

“To your freaking household. I knew there was something shady about it. I just felt it,” she said. “I mean, who would propose a job as an abigail to some poor merchant’s daughter? It never made sense. Mom and I were against it at first. But Gigi, she… she was so enthusiastic about it. She kept repeating that it was an ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’ That ‘with the money she’ll make there, she’ll solve all of our problems’…”

She snorted. “‘Solve all of our problems,’ my ass. She was such an idiot…”

Clémence sniffled and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Despite her harsh words, there was no anger in them, only… sadness. Maybe a bit of resentment, but it was decidedly not aimed at her sister.

In fact, she seemed almost about to cry.

"So, yeah," she continued. "If you ask me if I forgive you, then no, I don't. And I don't care much about your apologies, either. You can keep them."

Georges looked at her sadly. He had already guessed as much already. He realized now that this attempt at genuine apology had problably come off as incredibly self-centered from her persepctive, even though it had never been his intention at all. Georges always ended up hurting others without meaning to, even now that he was a middle-aged man, it seemed...

"Clém, what on earth is taking you so long? Oh..."

Finally, another woman appeared on the porch — the mother, Margot, Georges guessed. She was a small, plump lady who was clearly a lot older; her round face smeared with wrinkles and the few black locks that escaped from under her headscarf had some obvious silver streaks, but otherwise her eyes were of the exact same beautiful jade shade as her daughter’s.

Clémence bit her lower lip and looked annoyed — she manifestly had not wished for her mother to see Georges.

"Oh my... Who is this man, Clém?"

"No one. Just some lost guy. He was going to leave," she said, while glaring at Georges and making him very much understand that his presence was not wanted anymore. "Right now."

And Georges had no intention to protest anymore. He didn't know if he had gotten what he wanted. Probably not. But he felt like if he stayed any longer, it would only add salt to the wound. However, just as he was about to turn around, a hand grabbed his arm.

"Wait a minute, please," Margot said, at the surprise of both Georges and her daughter. "I cannot just let you leave like that... Who are you?"

Georges felt stuck. He threw a desperate look at Clémence, who instantly put a gentle hand on her mother's shoulder.

"I told you, Mom, it's no one. He was just lost."

"Clémence, please. I may not be all that young anymore, but I am not senile either. You've been talking with this man for a moment now, so he can't just be someone asking for his way."

Clémence sighed, understanding that she wouldn't be able to get her way out of this. The older woman looked at Georges and smiled sweetly — and she looked so adorable and charming that he was sure she was the kind of person who could win anyone's trust.

"I'm sorry if my daughter said anything rude to you, she tends to have a bad character with strangers."

"Mom!" Clémence exclaimed, offended, but her mother paid her no mind.

"My name is Margot," she continued in a warm voice. "And you are?"

"I..." Georges looked over at Clémence, as if he was waiting for some kind of permission. But she said nothing, only looking away in annoyance, so he had no other choice. "I am Georges Bollinger."

Margot didn't seem surprised or upset at all upon hearing his name. Maybe she had already overheard them talking before — which wouldn't be surprising given how loud they had argued up until now. But he was still nonplussed that not even her friendly smile seemed unfazed — it was especially jarring considering Clémence's extremely hostile attitude.

"Oh my, is that so," she simply said instead. "I am honored to receive the visit of such a noble person. That is very unusual."

Georges grinned back at her, as her smile was contagious, but in a more reserved way. He wondered if maybe she was being sarcastic, but there didn't seem to have any trace of bad faith in her words.

"So what could bring you here, Lord Bollinger?"

"That's, um..." Yet again, Georges looked at Clémence for some assistance on how to answer, but the woman seemed utterly determined to not helping him out at all.

"I was... I just wanted... to know a bit more about... one of the maids that worked for us some years ago..."

Finally, Margot's smile slipped away from her face and a more complicated expression formed in its stead.

"About Giselle...?"

Her face was painful to look at. She didn't seem... sad, per se. More like wistful. Nostalgic. But something in her green eyes was just hard to watch — it was the eyes of someone who had an old, horrible wound that had just been slowly reopened.

The eyes of a parent who had lost their child and tried to come to term with it, he realized.

This made Georges suddenly think about his boys. About Sév who loved animals so much and spent most of his time riding his favorite horse. About his little Dieudonné whose pale blue eyes shined like jewels whenever his dad would teach him about a new painting technique.

What if, one day… one of them were to get snatched away from him? If one of them were to die, or to just… disappear, like this young woman Giselle? To just vanish without any explanation?

The pain he felt at the idea was indescribable. If something like that were to truly happen, he didn’t think he'd be able to bear it. He loved his kids way too much — the simple fact of imagining them hurt was a sickening thought to him.

Never on earth would he be able to understand the awful way his parents had treated Michel.

Of course he didn’t understand it before either, but now that he was a parent himself, it was even less comprehensible. Yes, there were times where his kids could be annoying brats or act like true little demons, but even then Georges never had the impulse to do anything to cause them pain. How come someone could even imagine wanting to hurt their own child — want to kill them — was beyond him.

And he didn’t think anything could change that. Even if one of his sons were to suddenly tell him he wasn’t a boy, or that they were to do something truly atrocious like murder a person. He just couldn’t imagine stop loving them.

(Though, then again… he did hurt both of his brothers, even though he had never meant to…)

And yet, this was something that had happened to this woman. Seven years ago, her child had been snatched away from her without she had a say in the matter, and she didn't even know what had happened to her. If she was even still alive or dead. The more he looked at her, the more he felt an overwhelming guilt opress him, and the more he felt angry at his father. At himself, too, for never even having heard or dared to learn about this whole ordeal concerning that maid.

Margot's face was hard to look at for all sorts of reasons — but on the other hand, she didn't seem to have any troubles looking at him, as she kept on staring straight into his eyes with an odd persistence — as if she was trying to see something in there Georges didn't know existed. After some time, though, she turned around towards her daughter and smiled gently at her.

"Clémence, honey," she said in a sweet voice. "Could you please give us some moments alone? I'd like to talk a little with Lord Bollinger."

"What?" Clémence almost screamed, her eyes as wide as saucers. "Why would you talk to him?"

"Well, he said he wanted to learn more about Gigi, so I want to tell him about her," her mother answered innocently.

"Mom! He is from the Bollinger family!"

"I am aware."

"And you— you...!"

Georges thought for a minute Clémence was going to punch a wall in frustration — but instead, she just stomped her feet on the floor.

"Sure! Why not! Go talk to the asshole rich boy, whatever!" She yelled, before going inside her house and slamming the door behind her.

"Um," Georges muttered, uncomfortable. "I, uh..."

Margot turned toward Georges and smiled again. "I promise you she is not always like that. Usually she is a very sweet and bright lady, but she tends to get a bit defensive when her sister is concerned."

"I... I see..."

"Now, Lord Bollinger... Would you mind taking a little walk with me?"

Margot extended her hand towards Georges, all while smiling lovingly. Despite feeling a bit awkward and guilty, he still accepted it and offered her his arm.

________________________________________________________________

"Over here."

While elegantly holding his arm, Margot walked in a slow, tranquil pace, her steps soft but firm, and she brought Georges a few streets away from her house. They arrived at a large, clear square, where a small fountain flowed in the middle. It was a pretty ordinary, modest spot, and yet there was a kind of charming, cozy aura to it.

"I used to bring the girls here often when they were children," Margot continued. "I would sat on this bench, and watch them play around the fountain. They always ended up completely soaked at the end of the day!" She laughed softly. "And oh dear, there was even that one time where Clém completely pushed her sister into the basin. Gigi sulked and didn't talk to her for two weeks. It sure was something."

Georges didn't know what to say as the older woman reminisced the past, so he just silently listened to her. She went to sit on the bench she was talking about, and he imitated her.

"Tell me, Lord Bollinger..."

"You can just call me Georges," he instantly told her. He had never liked formality, even less being called "Lord."

Margot smiled. "All right then, Georges. Tell me... Do you have children?"

"Ah... yes, I do. I have two sons. Though... they're soon gonna be grown adults in very little time."

"Is that so... I've always thought being a parent was such a strange experience," Margot mused. "It makes your world suddenly revolve all around these tiny human beings. It's wonderful, but at the same time it can give you so much worry..."

Georges could absolutely relate to this. Becoming a father hadn't really changed his personality per say, but it had certainly shifted his entire life... For a moment, Margot stayed quiet, her gaze fixated on the small fountain. It seemed as if she was lost in her memories, when her daughters were still only young children, he supposed.

"When Hugues... my husband died, at first it was as if the entire world had died with him."

Her voice was suddenly at lot softer. She was almost whispering, but thankfully there was no other noise around and they were the only two people here, so Georges had no problem hearing her.

"My parents died when I was a teenager, and Hugues didn't have any family either, so after he passed away, there was only me. It's funny how when he was by my side, I had almost no anxiety at all as a mother, but as soon as I was left alone, it didn't feel like I'd be able to be a parent anymore. These girls were so young — only six and three years old — so how was I supposed to raise them on my own? How could I feed them and give them a roof over their heads? How could I protect these little girls against this world? It didn't seem feasible. But..."

She took a deep breath. "But then, I still remember it so vividly — that day Hugues died, I turned around and looked at them, and they were both here, standing and holding hands and watching me, and then I understood I wasn't actually alone. I was all they had now too, so I couldn't fail them. I had to manage something, somehow. So I worked as hard as I could, just so they could have a future. So they could live the life they wanted as best as they could."

Her gaze fell on her knees. Georges could only imagined how hard it must have been for a single mother to raise her two daughters alone. As someone who had been born into a rich and noble family and had been blessed his entire life, her situation seemed so far away from his own.

"But at some point, you know, these little girls started to grow up... and I had to realize and accept that it is impossible for me to protect them against everything. That I had to let go of them. This is something every parent have to do, right? It is normal. But even so..."

She swallowed. "Even so, it kills me to know I wasn't able to protect my own child. When I realized I would never see Giselle again... I felt like I had to go through what I lived with Hugues' death once more, but a lot worse. Because this time... it was this person I had raised on my own, that depended so much on me, that I had failed. It is so painful to come to term with the fact... that I wasn't able... to give her that happy life I so wanted her to have..."

Georges looked away, towards the fountain — which was a lot less harder to contemplate than the bereaved woman next to him. He couldn't do or say anything to console her, after all. He never even met the child she had lost. Didn't even knew about her until...

Suddenly, the letter Michel had sent to their mother just before his mansion was raided by the knigts came back to his mind. The last letter his brother had written. Georges still remembered the kind serenity that had emanated from it. Michel's writing had seemed as if... he was at peace with himself. A bit anxious, maybe. But nonetheless determined, sure of his own self, hopeful about his future. Of course, Georges hadn't been able to see him in person so he couldn't really confirm it, but while reading his words... he felt it was the first time he had felt his brother as open and comfortable with himself. And the principal change for that was probably...

The woman he loved he mentioned in the letter. Georges was only making assumptions here, of course; he couldn't assert all of this with certainty — hell, he couldn't even assert that the woman his brother mentioned loving was Giselle. But... it was what made the more sense, and what his heart was telling him too.

He looked over at Margot once again. She was still staring at the fountain, her eyes unfocused. He thought... that if her daughter had truly been Michel's lover before his death... then that it was something that he should tell her. Michel and everything surrounding him had become a taboo no one should mention in his house, and Aimée certainly wouldn't approve of him talking about it. He could still remember the stern talk she had given him when he had started talking to his sons about their late uncles in her presence. But Margot deserved to know — and honestly, at this very moment, he considered this older woman as a lot more important than his wife.

"Margot," he called her softly. "I need to confess something to you."

The woman raised her head and looked at him curiously. "Yes?"

"I... I had a brother," he began. "Heh, heh, well, I had two, actually. An older brother, and a little brother a lot younger than me. We were... kinda close, the three of us." His throat felt tight — but he still forced the words out of his mouth. "But, um... my little bro — Michel, his name was Michel — he was, uh... a bit special. Our parents didn't like that, and so because of this, when he was sixteen, we had to... send him away in a mansion."

Margot looked at him intently. She probably wondered why he was telling her all of this, and Georges couldn't really blame her for being perplexed.

"He lived here in exile for... about ten years," Georges continued.

"For ten years? All alone?" Margot inquired, a manifest concern in her voice.

"Yes," Georges admitted. "Well, that was, until seven years ago... when your daughter, Giselle, was also sent there."

"Ah... I see..." Margot brought a hand to her mouth. "So she had been sent to a mansion... They always refused to tell us where she was..."

"They... lived about a year together in that mansion. And... after our father's death, Michel sent us a letter... saying he wished to come back home. And that he..." Georges looked straight into Margot's eyes. "That he wanted to go home with his lover... a woman he had fell in love with."

Margot gasped upon hearing this, and her eyes widened. "Oh dear... You don't mean..."

"He never mentioned the woman's name, but... I do believe he was talking about your daughter, yes..." He stopped for a moment, hesitating, and after remebering the letter he finally added:

"And I do believe... he loved her dearly."

Maybe it was a bit presumptuous to say this as he had never seen the two of them with his own two eyes... but it was just his gut feeling. Margot didn't reply anything, she just stared at him with wide astonished eyes... and as much as he dreaded this, Georges choose to continue talking.

"However... like I said, Michel was... a bit different. Our mother considered him to be... an hindrance... so instead of accepting their return at the capital, they... we..."

Georges paused a moment, then took a deep breath.

"It was decided to send knights at the mansion to execute Michel."

This admission of the truth still hurts, even after all these years. Georges didn't think it'll ever stop hurting. He could be on his deathbed and still feel his heart ache whenever thinking about this.

Of course, he left Michel's gender issues out of the picture — he felt it would be rude to his brother to talk about it without his permission, and it wasn't a very important detail to mention in this very moment. He also choose to left out Dee's involvement in this — how he had actually been the one to kill Michel — for the same reason.

"I don't know... what happened to Giselle after that," Georges admitted. "According to... the knights who were there, they didn't find any women in the mansion... So maybe she escaped... but it seems more likely that she's also..."

He couldn't bring himself to end his sentence. Margot stayed a moment in silence. Georges wondered if maybe he shouldn't have said that after all, that maybe he had made her pain only worse...

Until he heard a soft laugh.

"Oh... Oh my, I see! So even in this situation... she still managed to find love..." She laughed again, but this time he heard a small hiccup at the same time. "Thank goodness!"

Georges felt lost. He was expecting her to be devastated at those news, but... instead, she seemed... relieved.

"Thank goodness...?" He repeated.

"I always..." Margot sniffled, some tears shining in the corner of her wrinkled eyes. "I always worried about what must've happened to Giselle after she was sent away from the Bollinger house... Wondering if she spent the rest of her life in pain... if she was being mistreated in some way... if she died all alone and miserable..."

She looked up at Georges. Despite the tears in her eyes, she was smiling.

"But you just told me she had a lover, right? If she was able to fall in love with someone, then that mean that even if she went through some hardships... she was still able to find joy. She was still able to find peace and be happy. This is..."

Margot closed her eyes, and brought her hands to her chest.

"This is a lot more than I could've asked for..."

Georges could sort of understand why she reacted this way. It must've indeed be a relief to learn that at least her daughter had been in love and happy at some point. But still, to him... something about this felt off. He didn't comprehend how she could still see all of this in such a positive light. He didn't comprehend why she seemed to have such a good time talking with him... despite him having indirectly caused so much damage to her and her family.

“I… don’t understand,” Georges admitted. “Are you not... angry at me? I just told you that Giselle... had likely been killed because of our family problems... and I am… I mean, I am from the Bollinger household…”

I am one of the people who took your daughter away from you, is what he didn’t have the courage to say out loud.

Margot looked at him and smiled sadly. There was a natural, genuine kindness in her eyes, something so gentle that it could melt his heart.

He felt like crying.

“I do not have the energy to be angry anymore,” she simply answered. “Clém is angry; this is how she copes. I don’t know if one day she’ll stop being angry. But to me, anger would accomplish nothing. I am still hurt, of course. I am still so sorry about what happened to Giselle... and about what happened to your brother, too... I still miss my little girl every day. But…”

She stood up, and looked over at the fountain. As if drawn to her, Georges did the same unconsciously.

"Instead of being angry or mournful, I just want to spend the rest of my days thinking that at least my children had a happy life. And what you just told me about Giselle... that was what I'd hoped hearing for the last seven years."

Margot once again turned towards him... and tenderly, she cupped his cheek in her hand; her smile wide and fond.

"So thank you."

Georges was pretty sure he was going to cry now; but for some odd reason, no tears actually came. He didn't know what kind of expression he had at this moment, but Margot stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down into a hug.

So he gently��returned her embrace in silence.

________________________________________________________________

When he came back home at the Bollinger house, it was late in the afternoon. The sky was just as gray as it had been when he had left; yet there was still no rain. After their weird awkward hug, Georges had escorted Margot back to her home. The woman kept talking about her girls, and she also asked some questions about Michel — Georges assumed she was very curious about what kind of man her youngest child had fallen in love with.

He got another glare from Clémence before leaving, but they didn't exchange any words. She was still very clearly defensive towards him, though Georges didn't blame her at all. He supposed Margot was going to relate to her what he had just told her, and he hoped this would at least bring her some closure. The old woman also insisted for him to come back visit them sometimes. Georges didn't know if he would — but a part of him had already decided he'd try to help them out a bit by giving them some money. He was pretty sure Clémence was going to refuse any money coming from the Bollingers, but he still felt the need to do something for them, or at least try to.

Upon entering his house, he was greeted by a few servants, but saw no traces of his wife or his sons. He had no idea where Aimée could be at this hour, but his kids were probably in their rooms — or at least Dieudonné was. And sure enough, the boy was there, crouched down on the floor with a myriad of colorful paint cans all around him.

"Oh, Dad! Welcome back!"

As soon as he saw his father, Dieudonné smiled and run up to him.

"Where were you?" The teenager continued. "You suddenly disappeared without telling anyone. I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to you!"

Georges grinned and ruffled his boy's hair. "Sorry about that, buddy. I'm fine, I was just out in town. Are you alone here? Where's Sév?"

"With Mother. As usual," Dieudonné said, shrugging.

"I see..."

It was pretty normal for Sév to rotated around his mother lately, so it wasn't surprising at all. But for some reason, this time that worried Georges a bit — though he quickly dismissed these thoughts.

His mind was full of way too many things to concern himself about this for now. He couldn't stop thinking about his brothers, about his parents, about all the mistakes he had made, about this maid he had never met and who he didn't even know the appearance of, about Clémence's bitter glare and Margot's sad, gentle words.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

Dieudonné softly tugged at his sleeve, tilting his head curiously. Georges looked at him. The tiny human being he had raised himself.

And then, just like Margot had done earlier, he wrapped his arms around his kid and hugged him tightly.

"Wow! Hey, what are you doing, Dad?"

The boy seemed startled at first, and tried to get himself out of the embrace. Dieudonné wasn't as repulsed by physical affection as Sév was, but he still was very much a teenage boy and thus was often embarrassed when Georges did things like that. However, he stopped struggling when he noticed his father's shoulders were shaking slightly.

"Dad...? Are you... Are you crying?"

Georges didn't answer anything — instead he just burried his head further in his son's neck. The tears that had threatened to roll during the entire afternoon finally escaped him now. His thoughts went to Michel. To Dee. To the two women he had just met today.

Then an odd thought crossed his mind. What would have happened if, back then, he had learned his mother's intention to kill Michel and had managed to stop Dee? If Michel had came back home with Giselle like intended?

He could have met her in person, he thought. Michel could have met his nephews. He could have married the woman he loved. That meant Georges could have met Clémence and Margot in actual happy circumstances. All of them could have been a family.

Or maybe things wouldn't have gone as well as this. Maybe there would have been other obstacles on the way.

But Georges would never knew, because his brother had died in that mansion and couldn't come back to life. Because his stupid mistakes had also indirectly caused the pain of an entire other family. Because there was no way to go back in time and fix this, because there was even no way for him to just apologize.

Because he had no other choice than to bear the weight of his own sins for the rest of his life.

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makeste · 6 years ago

Text

BnHA Chapter 189: The Worst at Giving Up

Previously on BnHA: Endeavor fucking died you guys. Obviously he’s not really dead (...I think), but like. He lost an eye and is all laid out on a slab of building looking in pretty bad shape. This is bad for a number of reasons. One, he is the current number one hero (and holds that position solely because of his strength, I might add), so the fact that he up and died fighting against this High Heels Noumu doesn’t exactly bode well for the rest of the world. Two, he was just starting to be redeemed, dammit. Although this might still work out for him in the long run in that regard. And three, his kids were all watching, and as conflicted as their feelings toward their father might be, this still isn’t the kind of thing any of them ever wanted to witness. With that said, it feels a bit sudden for the world to just suddenly descend into chaos, so maybe the dude will somehow make a comeback. And Hawks is still there, of course, so I guess we’ll just see what happens, huh.

Today on BnHA: The world watches as Kamino 2.0 plays out before their eyes. High Top Noumu is all “IS THIS YOUR KING?” but then Endeavor fucking leaps at him and shuts him up. Natsuo is all “what the fuck he should be dead” but Fuyu says that Endeavor has always been ridiculously stubborn about giving up. Aizawa comes running into the Heights Alliance dorms to find Shouto already watching the battle along with the other 1-A students. Hawks and the other pros evacuate the terrified crowd as the newscasters all but revel in the panic. That is, until Endeavor’s young fan from earlier calls them out and points out that Endeavor is still alive and still fighting for them. Which is true, despite the fact that he can barely move. But as All for One once said, wounded heroes are the most dangerous, and as Endeavor powers up his flames once again, Hawks steps in to lend an assist, boosting Endeavor’s speed with the help of some of his feathers as the Number One gets ready to turn the High Wire Noumu to ash.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 209 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

for fuck’s sake Hawks

CAN YOU READ THE ROOM HERE, KID. A MAN IS DEAD FOR GOD’S SAKE

another pro is reporting to Hawks that High Horse Noumu spewed out nine of these other Noumus in total, so they should split up and take care of the others, and also evacuate the rest of the civilians

and now the rest of the building is coming down and Hawks is glancing back in that direction, again way too casually tbh

please react more appropriately, Hawks. sincerely, the person who couldn’t stop laughing in the previous chapter

and now we’re cutting back to High Blood Pressure Noumu who’s still all “IS THERE A STRONGER HERO?” while Endeavor lies there still very much dead

and he’s looking around and something seems to have caught his attention but we’re not shown what, or at least not yet

did Endeavor get back up somehow? or Hawks showed up? or what. COME ON I wanna know dammit

and because there’s always a fucking news helicopter reporting from way too close to the scene whenever the current number one hero is fighting someone super strong and nearly dying because of it, we’re cutting to said news helicopter

motherfucker so now he’s rampaging, huh? great. that’s just great

has been.....................

SO ANYWAYS

the reporter is saying that this scene makes you remember -- “even if you don’t want to” -- the nightmare from three months ago

and yeah. it really does. and ngl I love that everyone in this universe had that exact same thought. they’re all still traumatized by it. and people were only just starting to get to the point where they could at least pretend like everything was fine, and they were moving on. but then something like this happens and it’s like, fuck, no we’re not fine. we are not fine at all

anyway, but Endeavor’s fingers are twitching! so that’s a good sign there

lol what

bruh you’re going to cauterize that wound just FYI. I assume you’re doing that intentionally to stop the bleeding, though. which is probably a smart move. but basically this is guaranteeing that the father-son resemblance is going to be closer than ever following this

anyways, I was waiting for him to pull a move like this (which is why I got so excited that I went into a crazed laughing fit). because like it or not, he is our current number one, and he wasn’t just gonna go out in some punkass way just like that. look at what All Might pushed through in order to beat All for One. Endeavor would hardly be able to call himself a shounen hero if he couldn’t do the same himself

he’s launching another fire lance at Heigh-Ho Noumu’s head, but it looks like he dodged and he said Endeavor was too slow

and he’s grabbing onto him again

oh fuck

not this shit again

fucking look at this!

HOW MANY BUILDINGS IS ENDEAVOR GONNA BE PLOWED THROUGH TODAY

also, yeah. at this rate the casualties are going to be really bad. Endeavor really needs to finish this guy off like yesterday

ahhhh we’re cutting back to Natsu and Fuyu

NATSUO IS WORRIED OMG

nothing like watching your estranged father possibly get himself killed on live television to make you realize that you want to sit down and try to work things out, huh. this family needs healing

ffff

but he can’t. that’s not what it means to be the Symbol of Peace

“a hero is somebody who brings reassurance.” I keep thinking back to this quote from Horikoshi now. so this battle is Endeavor’s turn to prove that he can inherit All Might’s mantle, at least for a little while. the people need someone they can believe in. if he beats this Noumu, their faith will be restored in a way that it hasn’t been since Kamino. but if he loses, or if he runs... it’s not just him that loses. the whole fucking world will lose whatever hope they still have left. if their heroes can’t protect them everyone will just be going around living in fear. it’ll be exactly like how it was before All Might

so yeah, Natsuo. he can’t. he’s gotta man up

Fuyu says everyone has things they just can’t accept even if they understand them

“the worst at giving up” is quite possibly the most positive spin anyone could ever put on Endeavor and his whole deal. wow. it’s both accurate and extremely forgiving, given the lengths we know this man has gone to in order to not give up in the past

but here, it just so happens to be the exact virtue that we need!

so now we’re cutting to the people screaming and running with absolutely no chill whatsoever, which is understandable. but like people are pushing and shoving in their panic to get away

this one hero guy is trying to provide some leadership and telling everyone to stay calm but he’s practically being trampled himself

eh what’s this

who the hell asked you, sentient camera

but yes. I mean, they’re not wrong

yay we’re cutting back to U.A.

there are a whole lot more people watching than there were just a few minutes ago. even Bakugou is there. and interestingly, one of the ones watching Todoroki rather than the TV

SENSEI DAD IS HERE

were you going to tell him to watch it if he wasn’t?? lol what was your game plan here exactly. just wanted to check in on him before anything else, I guess

(ETA: yeah I don’t think he really had a plan. just “shit I gotta go make sure Todoroki is okay.” and then upon finding him and seeing that he isn’t, “well shit. I don’t know what I was expecting”)

anyway Todoroki is not doing too hot

poor kid. he has SO MANY ISSUES with his dad, but one thing he never, ever anticipated was the possibility that he could ever lose like this. he wasn’t prepared for this at all

oh shit someone on TV is screaming at the camera person to stop running their mouth

yo, I really like this dude

-- oh shit, isn’t this that fan from earlier??

holy shit, I love this kid though?

like, now I’m sad that Endeavor doesn’t have his own OFA that he could pass on to this deserving young fanboy

and now the news is cutting back to the helicopter feed, and fuck if I know why they didn’t do that earlier

High Seas Noumu is flying toward the evacuation area oh shit!

but!

High Strung Noumu is looking back at Endeavor in surprise and asking if he has regeneration abilities too

lol he wishes

he is just a tired old man who’s been smashed through 13 buildings today and is in a shitton of pain right now most likely

but! he’s firing another blast at High Road Noumu nonetheless

holy fucking shit Endeavor

“worst at giving up” indeed

jesus

okay can we pause this for just a second, because I just got to thinking that Endeavor is so fucking strong. and then I thought, we already know it’s basically a given that Shouto is going to surpass him one day. and just. holy shit though. the next generation is going to be terrifying, aren’t they

anyways. go get that bread Endeavor

Endeav is frantically thinking about how to kill it now. “it’s unthinkable that I could capture it alive!”

yeah, um. please don’t tell me that had still been your game plan this entire time up till now

anyway so he keeps thinking he needs to surpass its speed and incinerate it again just like before

OH LOOK WHO IT IS

you sure took your fucking time didn’t you

so you’re gonna work together, yeah? Hawks gets him into position and Endeavor takes him out?

Hawks is thinking that no one else out there was truly even trying to surpass All Might except for Endeavor

him and two little boys who were too young and idealistic and stupid to know any better lol. and they’ll actually end up doing it, too. what a great story. someone should write a manga about that

-- oh shit

ouch

I feel like Hawks actually really admires Endeavor? but in like this lofty, devil-may-care way which is quickly becoming his trademark

(ETA: he definitely admires him. which is particularly interesting coming from someone who wasn’t even a big fan of All Might. more than anything else, it seems to be Endeavor’s tenacity that he admires. his unwillingness to give up even in a hopeless situation. which makes a lot of sense in hindsight, given what we now know about Hawks’s own situation. there’s probably a lot he can relate to there)

oh my god!

this is one of the best visual metaphors I’ve ever seen holy shit. I’m in love with this panel

just. the chasm between All Might and the rest. and the sad, hopeless Endeavor nevertheless trying his best to build a bridge across with whatever he has. even though it’s hopeless. and Hawks watching quietly in the background

fuck but I love it

oh snap you guys!!

HAWKS I CHANGED MY MIND, YOU’RE COOL

...except, damn it. you’re still suspicious. idk. I don’t know what to make of any of this to be honest. we know absolutely nothing about what’s going on still, except that High Maintenance Noumu is about to get Endeavor’s flaming fist in his face!! fuck yeah!!! I feel like all of Hawks’s wings would be incinerated and that’s probably really bad! but who cares because it’s really fucking cool lmao

(ETA: well apparently they can grow back quickly enough, so we good. thank you Hawks)

#bnha #boku no hero academia #endeavor #hawks #todoroki natsuo #todoroki fuyumi #todoroki shouto #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #makeste reads bnha #apparently horikoshi took a one week break after this chapter when it was originally published #that must have been rough #not only having to wait the extra week #but also dealing with the fandom which I expect was probably exploding at the time #with people being all 'how dare he' with regards to horikoshi giving endeavor a heroic moment #but I mean in real life heroes are far from perfect too #bad people can do good things #and people who did many bad things can choose to stop doing more of them #and it's important to show that #if people consider someone to be past the point of no return then there's no incentive for them to ever change #might as well just keep being the worst #that's why redemption arcs are important #and this one (which is still ongoing) continues to be excellent imo

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spn-meanttobe · 5 years ago

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Spn Meant To Be Masterlist - 2016

Here is the roundup from the last spn_meanttobe challenge! The entries were wonderful and stay tuned for details regrading a brand new challenge coming this way soon!

RPS

Title: Butterfly in a Glass case Author: all_the_damned Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 5K+ Warnings: dollification, spanking, rimming, indentured servitude, prostitution, BDSM, dubious consent/non-con, hurt/comfort, mental atrophy, body modification, control collars Prompt: "Captured": Lifelong best friends James Laird and Lola Caraway are reunited when Lola moves to LA after college. Lola is starting her new life, new job, and a new romance with a successful lawyer--a relationship which forces James to question the nature of his feelings for Lola.James has always been a master at pleasuring women, so it was an easy transition to play a Master on-screen in a series of BDSM videos which have brought him fame and the promise of a lucrative career. The films have also brought him the attention of hardcore producer Eva Satana, who wants James to be a ruthless Dominant -for real- in her brutal and extreme BDSM scenes.James soon finds himself caught in a contract he cannot break and compelled by threats to the woman who's stood by him through everything.Summary: When you’re a doll, there’s not much to do other than dream. Jared can barely remember a time when he wasn’t a doll. On the best and worst days, he gets to be with Jensen. Link to fic: Ao3 (Must be logged in to read) Title: Can a Girl Ever Have Too Many Cowboys? Artist: beelikej Pairing: Danneel/Jeff/Jensen/Jared Rating: PG-13 Medium: Photoshop Warnings: Polymory Prompt: 33. The Trouble With Texas CowboysNo sooner does pint-sized spitfire Jill Cleary set foot on Fiddle Creek Ranch than she finds herself in the middle of a hundred-year-old feud. Quaid Brennan and Tyrell Gallagher are both tall, handsome, and rich...and both are courting Jill to within an inch of her life. She's doing her best to give these feuding ranchers equal time-too bad it's dark-eyed Sawyer O'Donnell who makes her blood boil and her hormones hum.Link to art: LiveJournal Title: Home of the present Author: crimsonepitaph Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: R Word Count: 32K Warnings: language, mentions of depression Prompt: A man in need of a comeback…A woman in need of love. Off the court, tennis star Jason Cartwright's playboy image is taking a public beating. On the court, he's down forty-love. A comeback is in order, but the makeover he needs is in the hands of the woman he loved and left fifteen years ago. While single-mom, Izzy Connors, sees people for who they really are through the lens of her camera, even without it, she knows Jason isn't the star he appears to be. All she sees is his wasted talent and playboy lifestyle. Will the click of her camera shatter his world as well as his heart? Summary: Jared Padalecki is a failing tennis legend striving for a comeback. Jensen Ackles is the unwitting photographer co-opted in the makeover project, a biography meant to change the game. Single dad, definitely not a fan of Padalecki's, and a cynical human being in general, Jensen takes the job out of necessity, and gears for a year long charade. But what happens when Jensen discovers more than he signed up for - not just about Padalecki, but about himself?Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: Jensen's Choice Author: zara_zee Artist: amberdreams Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 44K Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, torture, minor character deaths, dubious consent*, rough sex, light kink (bondage, spanking, edging/orgasm delay,cock cage, slight D/s), crime, discussions of child abuse, smoking, drug use, addict in recovery, bad language and homophobic insults.*For the purposes of a dark romance, I’ll say dubious consent, however it should be noted that in the beginning, Jared has all the power and Jensen’s consent is definitely coerced. In the real world, I would classify that as rape. On the whole many unhealthy attitudes to consent are conveyed here.Prompt: An ex-pool hustler must fight her attraction to a sinful, sexy biker when she's kidnapped by the Dragons MC and sold to the club's Vice-President. Summary: Seven years ago talented pool hustler Jensen Ackles fled LA for his home state of Texas—with a price on his head and HellSpawn MC on his tail. Now, Jensen’s past has finally caught up with him. His debt has been bought out by the Vice-President of HellSpawn, Jared Padalecki, who expects Jensen to satisfy his dark sexual appetites. But even worse than life as the VP’s beck-and-call boy is the very real possibility that Jensen just might be falling for the sinfully sexy biker. Link to fic: on LiveJournal Link to art: on LiveJournal Title: Pranking the Padalecki Author: whiskygalore Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 9K Warnings: younger Jensen, older Jared, spanking, bad language, schmoop with a happy ending Prompt: The Brat Next Door Tessa Randall has loved playing practical jokes on her brother's best friend, Trace Samuels, for as long as she can remember. But when she pushes him too far one day, she finds herself getting her long-overdue comeuppance over his lap. When Trace follows this treatment with a kiss, Tessa's confused emotions take an unexpected twist. Has she been menacing the boy next door her whole life, just to get closer to him? Has it been her motive all along to simply get his attention? And if so, where does she go now that she unquestionably has it? Summary: Jensen Ackles has loved pranking his brother’s best friend, Jared Padalecki, for almost as long as he can remember. But when he pushes Jared too far one day and finds himself on the wrong end of a spanking, Jensen lets slip a secret that might change things forever.Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: Up Against Your Will Author: amypond45 Pairing: Jared/Jensen, past Jared/Genevieve, past Jensen/others Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 17K Warnings: reference to past rape/abuse (not graphic or specific) Prompt: Blind Wolf: Julia has never been on a date in her life. She's a curvy girl with no money, no education, and no way out of the town she works in as a library assistant... until Damien shows up. He's just like the prince charming Julia always imagined would sweep her off of her feet. There are just a few things standing in the way of true happiness: he's blind, he's dating someone, and he's WAY out of her league. Oh, and he's a werewolf. Damien lost his eyes two years ago in a wolf battle. Ever since then, the straggler pack of disabled wolves he leads has been searching for a place to call home. One house seems like the perfect choice, but Damien realizes too late that the person who lives there is the girl he met at the library. The human girl. Damien is torn between loyalty to his pack and raw lusting desire for the girl who haunts his dreams day and night. She's a human. How could she be his true mate? Summary: Jensen wasn’t planning to rent out the apartment in his basement. But when a tall, handsome stranger offers him a deal he can’t refuse, Jensen puts aside his natural shyness and lets Jared move into his home. Now Jensen’s having intense dreams, hearing strange sounds in the night, and one day he sees a wolf in his backyard. Can Jensen regain his carefully ordered life (and his sanity) before it completely unravels? Or will he give in to his passion for the beautiful blind man with all the wildness in his heart? Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: Dead men do tell tales Author: siriala Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 18K Warnings: mildly creepy and supernatural stuff surrounding death (which is not made into a major issue in this fic), shady but friendly Chad, voyeurism, judgmental and mean people Prompt: Her Ladyship's CompanionIn the Scottish countryside of Selkirk, Lady Isabella Stirling resides at Bowhill Park, serving penance for a sin that nearly ruined her family. For five years she has been condemned to a loveless marriage and confined to the estate where she does little more than tend her rose garden. With her husband absent for months at a time and few visitors, Bella lives a lonely existence, denying the passions that burn within her very soul.Then her cousin comes for a visit and makes an outrageous suggestion: what Bella needs is a lover. A hired lover. Despite her need, Bella says no. But soon Mr. Gideon Rosedale arrives-and he is at her service for two weeks. Indulging in what she intends to be a harmless flirtation, Bella is overcome by Gideon's intoxicating presence. And when she at last permits him to satisfy her desires, she discovers she's done the unthinkable-she's fallen in love.Summary: Jared has been alone most of his life. Good thing dead people can't be picky when he talks to them. Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: The Roommate Author: ashtraythief Artist: beelikej Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 for fic, PG-13 for art Word Count: 12.6K Warnings: ummm… there’s porn? And description of unhygienic storage of clothes? Unhealthy amounts of cereal consumption? Idk, this is just really schmoopy and floofy. Prompt: One Night With Her RoommateEver since her former roommates deserted her, Meg has had to share an apartment with a lazy, obnoxious ass. He won’t pick up after himself, and he refuses to get a good job. Plus, he doesn’t always wear enough clothes—which is really a problem, because he’s hot. Maybe he’s occasionally funny. And every now and then he can be sweet. But mostly he’s just annoying. It doesn’t matter how much he’s starting to flirt with her—Meg is going to resist. She’s way too smart to fall for a guy who never takes anything seriously. But then everything changes in only one night.Summary: When Jared moves in with Jensen, Jensen’s life is turned upside down. Jared is a terrible roommate; messy, loud and entirely obnoxious. Unfortunately, he’s also pretty hot and even kinda nice when his socks aren’t clogging up the sink. Not that Jensen would ever do anything about that, because Jared is straight and a giant slob. Or so Jensen thinks. Link to fic: on Ao3 Link to art: on LiveJournal Title: My Wicked Pirate Artist: kinkajou Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: G Warnings: none Prompt: Azure-eyed Alanis was by far the most exquisite treasure ever claimed by the black pirate known as the Viper, but his motives went deeper than his silken promise to ravish the feisty Yorkshire heiress. Commanding the waters of the Caribbean was his means to an end: reclaiming his birthright—and his blood debt against those who had betrayed him.Then he gave her nights of wicked pleasure...Comfortably betrothed to a nobleman, Alanis never imagined the heady emotions involved in the true games of seduction—games this blackguard seemed to thoroughly enjoy playing with her. Swept up into an adventure that soon revealed a gentleman and kindred spirit beneath the ruthless veneer of a privateer, Alanis began to soften towards her enigmatic captor, as her pride and her heart fell under his erotic spell.Link to art: on Ao3 Title: After All This Time Author: safiyabat Artist: vilabelle Pairing: Jared/Jensen, Gen/Danneel, Jared/Stephen, J2DG Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 7K Warnings: Internalized homophobia, het sex, Chad Prompt: Kinky Neighbors: The Mitchells and the Harts have been next door neighbors and friends for the past year. They have loads in common; double incomes, professional careers, no kids...and a kinky streak. Now they're about to become very good friends...with kinky benefits. The sex between them all is hot, naughty, and unbearably exciting. It isn't merely swapping partners and moving to another room; it's true foursome sex, same room, same bed, all four involved. For Drew and Cat Mitchell and Logan and Alexis Hart, it's about barreling through boundaries none of them have ever crossed before, doing kinky things they've only fantasized about. But when they begin to exchange not just sex but emotional connection, the problems start; a little jealousy, feeling left out, wanting more from the wrong partner. Can two couples really share everything without losing it all? Summary: Jensen's a pretty happy guy. He's happily married to his hometown sweetheart, Danneel, and he's got a thriving law practice in Austin. He lives next door to his lifelong best friend, Jared, who is married to his and Danneel's girlfriend, Gen. When Danneel and Gen suggest bringing Jared into the bedroom, though, things get weird. Jensen thought Jared had gotten over his schoolboy crush on Jensen, but it turns out that Jared isn't the only one with lingering feelings.Link to fic: on LiveJournal Link to art: on LiveJournal Title: The Lost Author: phoenix1966 Artist: amberdreams Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 93K Warnings: swearing, murder (off-screen), violence, m/m, top!Jensen, bottom!Jared, bottom!Misha (offscreen) Prompt: Al King is a rock singer and selfish stud extraordinaire. His brother and manager, Paul King, gets Al whatever he wants and boy does he want a lot. Dallas is a former hooker gone beauty queen/actress. Everyone wants a piece of her and she plays hardball like the best of them. What happens when the plane they are on crashes in the middle of the Amazon jungle? Summary: Big screen star Jensen Ackles was on his way to Brazil to continue filming his latest project. He was glad to lose himself in the role and bury the pain of his broken heart by slipping on a stranger’s skin. Because of his manager’s twisted attempt to help, he found himself on a private jet with a high-class rent boy. Before he could figure out what to do with that, a bolt of lightning sent them tumbling into the rainforest. Link to fic: on Ao3 Link to art: on LiveJournal Title: The Other Wesson Author: firesign10 Artist: milly_gal Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 8K Warnings: none Prompt: Beth Bradley has a problem. Everyone is expecting her successful music executive boyfriend, Charlie, to be her date for her best friend’s wedding. There’s one hitch: Charlie doesn’t exist. Unless she can think of something fast, she’s headed for the most humiliating weekend of her life. Alex Tanner has a problem. The former Navy SEAL's search for a double agent lands him at the Kensington Hotel, and he needs a cover to finish the job. When the sexy maid of honor blackmails him into pretending to be her lover, he thinks he's been handed the solution. Except Beth has a way of stumbling into trouble, and when the man Alex is hunting starts targeting Beth, Alex has to decide between solving the mystery or protecting the woman who has stolen his heart. Summary: Jensen Ackles has a problem. Everyone is expecting his successful accountant boyfriend, Sam Wesson, to be his date for his best friend’s wedding. And Jensen is the wedding planner! There’s one hitch: Sam doesn’t exist. Unless he can think of something fast, Jensen is headed for the biggest humiliation of his life. Jared Padalecki has a problem. The government agent's search for a possible sex trafficking ring lands him at the Isla Grande Resort on the Gulf of Mexico, and he needs a cover to finish the job. When he meets the sexy wedding planner while planting a bug in his room, Jensen blackmails him into pretending to be his boyfriend. Jared doesn't mind--he thinks he's been handed the ideal cover. Except Jensen stumbles into trouble, and Jared has to decide if this resort romance is just play-acting—or the real thing! Link to fic: on Ao3 (art embedded in fic) Title: These Violent Delights Author: dimpled_sammy Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 82K Warnings: Violence, gangsters, minor character death Prompt: Romancing the Mob Boss. Trina Hathaway is a waitress in a Las Vegas strip joint who spends a romantic evening with a good looking hunk she met at the club. Hoping to see him again, but not disappointed when she doesn’t, she goes on with her life. But a week later, when she interviews for a job at the renowned PaLargio Hotel and Casino on the Vegas Strip, and discovers that the owner of the hotel is the man she had slept with, a man who very much wishes to rekindle what they had captured that passionate night, her entire life spirals into a new and dramatic world where family ties and ever-increasing violence ropes them in. Summary: Jared Padalecki has only ever wanted to get out of Sin City. Trapped by extenuating circumstances, he works as a waiter in a Las Vegas strip joint, doing what he can to get by, including spending a romantic evening with a handsome stranger who wanders into the club one night. Hoping to see the stranger again, but not disappointed when he doesn’t, Jared moves on with his life. A month later, Jared interviews for a job as a financial consultant at one of the largest and newly made over Hotels on the Vegas strip. Jared gets the job, only to discover that his new boss is the same man he slept with: Jensen Ackles, the enigmatic and ice cold business man. Jensen Ackles, the city's biggest mob boss. Torn between his longing to get out of the city and his yearning to be closer to Jensen, Jared finds himself being sucked into a new and dangerous world where loyalty is everything, passion exists on a knife-edge, and the ever-increasing violence makes it impossible to escape. Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: Heartstrings Author: madebyme_x Artist: quickreaver Pairing: Jared/Jensen Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 7.5K Warnings: Language and references to drug and alcohol abuse Prompt: Heartstrings. As Julia prepares to settle in for another typical 12-hour shift in the ER, she's ready to handle anything...That's before Slade Hale rolls into her life...on a stretcher surrounded by 15 doctors and nurses. To her he's just another patient, and a cocky asshole Rock Star with an ego. Or at least that's what she thinks. When she's assigned to be his personal nurse, Julia suddenly feels out of her comfort zone. Slade is the most beautiful man she's ever seen in person and even in his vulnerable condition he seethes of raw sex appeal. When he starts to wake up, that's when the real trouble begins...Julia desperately attempts to fight his charm and wit, to stay professional, to keep the upper hand. Summary: Washed-up rock star Jared is rushed to hospital, and it's up to uptight nurse Jensen to fix more than broken bones. But what is it that they say? Opposites attract, or something like that... Link to fic: on LiveJournal Link to art: on LiveJournal

Supernatural

Title: Behind Glass Author: museaway Pairing: Dean/Castiel Rating: Teen Word Count: 21.3K Warnings: Temporary Character Death Prompt: Life as he has known it is over for Adan when his mother tells him she has bought a mansion in an exclusive community high in the redwood mountains. There are no other young people living there except one, a girl named Chrystal who has never been outside the community before or known anyone her own age. But Adan can only admire Chrystal from afar, she is beautiful and he is covered in scars. Summary: Castiel has spent his life secluded in the woods. At his father’s warning, he’s never left the property. He has no memory of his mother, and his father doesn’t come above twice a year with supplies now that Castiel is grown. But when he befriends a boy named Sam who trespasses on his land, and Sam's older brother, whose face and arm were maimed in an accident, he begins to doubt everything his father has told him. Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: The Trouble with Benny Author: angelus2hot Pairing: Dean/Benny Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 2K Warnings: none Prompt: Can a girl ever have too many cowboys?No sooner does pint-sized spitfire Jill Cleary set foot on Fiddle Creek Ranch than she finds herself in the middle of a hundred-year-old feud. Quaid Brennan and Tyrell Gallagher are both tall, handsome, and rich...and both are courting Jill to within an inch of her life. She's doing her best to give these feuding ranchers equal time-too bad it's dark-eyed Sawyer O'Donnell who makes her blood boil and her hormones hum.Summary: It took awhile for Sam to realize even though Dean could have almost anyone he wanted, his brother only wanted Benny. But when he did he and Garth devised a plan to get Dean to finally go after what he wanted. Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: Happenstance Author: stonenumberone Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 18K Warnings: Pre-series AU, underage sex, underage drinking, complete lack of listening to the concept of Stranger Danger, swearing and just a little bit of angst and sibling incest. Prompt: Colin Hartman can now add college to his list of failures. On the coast-to-coast trek home from California, Colin stops at a gas station in the Nevada desert, and can’t help noticing the guy in tight jeans looking like he just stepped off a catwalk. When he realizes Catwalk is stranded, Colin offers a ride. Riley only intended to take a short ride in Colin’s Jeep to the Grand Canyon. But one detour leads to another until they finally find themselves tumbling into bed together. However there are shadows in Riley’s eyes that hide a troubled past. And when those shadows threaten to bury the man whom Colin has fallen in love with, he vows to get Riley the help he needs. For once in his life, quitting isn’t an option… Summary: Dean’s never been really good at that whole “accomplishment” thing. Drifting is the one thing he really knows how to do, and a trip after his latest failure—college—with just him, his car, and the wide open road is exactly what he needs. Running into a boy with legs longer than the California coastline was definitely not on the agenda, but hey, it’s not like Dean has anywhere else to be. When the trip becomes more of a series of detours, Dean finds himself more and more drawn to the young Sam, who seems to be carrying more baggage than Dean originally thought. A secret revealed threatens to shatter everything they’ve built together in this short time; will they make it through or crash and burn like every other thing Dean has ever touched? Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: Sunrise Cove Obsession Author: smalltrolven Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 9K Warnings: Beyond Awful!John Winchester Prompt: Naomi Bowes lost her innocence the night she followed her father into the woods. In freeing the girl trapped in the root cellar, Naomi revealed the horrible extent of her father’s crimes and made him infamous. No matter how close she gets to happiness, she can’t outrun the sins of Thomas David Bowes. Now a successful photographer living under the name Naomi Carson, she has found a place that calls to her, a rambling old house in need of repair, thousands of miles away from everything she’s ever known. Naomi wants to embrace the solitude, but the kindly residents of Sunrise Cove keep forcing her to open up—especially the determined Xander Keaton. Naomi can feel her defenses failing, and knows that the connection her new life offers is something she’s always secretly craved. But the sins of her father can become an obsession, and, as she’s learned time and again, her past is never more than a nightmare away. Summary: When the boys are forcibly separated at twelve and eight by a father gone mad their lives take very different turns. When they are then reunited fifteen years later, they don’t recognize each other. Dean’s promise to stay away from Sam even though unwittingly broken brings a danger back that may kill them both. Link to fic: on Ao3 Title: Indelible Author: dare_darcy Pairing: Dean/Sam Rating: M Word Count: 25K Warnings: Light BDSM Prompt: Leni Brewster should have been disappointed when her twin sister had to bail on holding her hand during her first tattoo, but going to her appointment solo means time alone with the sexy-as-hell tattoo artist who falls into the Do Not Touch category. Only Jamie Rodriguez isn't as off-limits as Leni thinks. Privately single for months, Jamie finds himself more than looking forward to having the hot little librarian in his chair. And when she accidentally reveals a naughty secret about herself, he can't get his hands on her fast enough-he has to know what else she's hiding under that buttoned-up exterior. What he discovers sets his blood to boiling, igniting a burning determination to test every single one of the boundaries, both personal and physical, that she's set for herself. Summary: Dean Singer is a tattoo artist, single and unhappily so. Sam Winchester is the sexy librarian who has been feeding his secret book habit. When Sam walks into Dean's shop, will Sam break through Dean's walls and see the man beneath? (Summary to be fixed when I'm not sleep deprived.) Link to fic: on Ao3

#spn meant to be #masterlist #2016

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chibivesicle · 6 years ago

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Why is Yuusaku so awkward with Ogata?

Something that has been bothering me since the start is in regards to the relationship between Yuusaku and Ogata. The nice thing about having the break between chapters 188 and 189 is it has given everyone’s brains some time to settle and ponder things other than the arrow in Ogata’s right eye. . . .

It has always appeared to me that the relationship between Yuusaku and Ogata was rather one-sided. I definitely do not have the general take that the Japanese fanbase has, where Yuusaku is this pure angel individual (okay so more like the Yuusaku fanart community).

It is clear in the chapter 103 revisions from the tankoban, that more scenes were added in to explain Ogata’s statement about Yuusaku and the difference between an individual raised by two parents and an individual abandoned by parents or born out of situation where the parents are not both their to raise the individual.

People have spent a lot of time and effort in trying to determine what is going on between Yuusaku and Ogata and what Ogata was able to conclude from his interactions with him.

Ogata’s body language and implied overall avoidance of Yuusaku really indicates that he did not want to associate with Yuusaku or want to be seen with him (unless ordered by Tsurumi). Ogata clearly saw that he was a well respected man and a model second lt. and flag bearer.

We still do not know how Yuusaku found out Ogata was Hanazawa’s illegitimate child, but it is clear that Yuusaku didn’t understand how trying to strike up a brotherly relationship with Ogata likely wasn’t going to go over well. From what Ogata tells Hanazawa, Ogata and his mother were officially “dumped” by him when Yuusaku was born. He had a legal heir and he did not want to be found out for having an affair with a geisha for the fear it would sully his reputation.

What has always struck me as odd is how Yuusaku couldn’t figure out that there might be a reason why he never knew about his older brother and why he never met him until in the 27th. Yuusaku comes from an elite family. I’m sure he knew about gossip and rumors and all sorts of class related things to realize he father wouldn’t want to let it become public that he had an illegitimate child who was out in Ibaraki.

Ogata assumes that part of his personality comes from his own assumption that Hanazawa and Yuusaku’s unnamed mother loved each other. In some ways, it is kinda cute b/c Ogata grew up as a commoner, he was in an environment where people could marry for love if they desired (not saying it is 100% possible, but marriages weren’t for political reasons and producing an heir). I wonder if this in part a reason why he took not being loved by his mother and father so hard? Did he see other families in his area where there was evidence of love. I will say that b/c his grandma went as far as bringing both him and his mother back home, she was a grandma who loved them. I think it also implies that grandma was the “head” of the household, so, go grandma Ogata. She likely took on his mom’s debt and hence her working hard and leaving him home alone with his mom to provide for both of them.

What is interesting is that when Yuusaku finds out that Ogata is his brother he’s like;

“Wow!!!I’vealwayswantedanoldersibling,andweshouldtotallyhangout andbondlikesiblings!!!!!”

The idea that Yuusaku’s very existence might have lead to Ogata’s less than ideal upbringing doesn’t even seem to register with Yuusaku. Instead, it is clear he kept trying to be friends with him, break protocol and all him older brother and make all sorts of awkward for Ogata. What is very clear is how awkward Ogata’s body language is with him all the time and Yuusaku is just out to lunch.

So I’m only going to drop one panel in this meta and it is this one right here.

This is from when Ogata goes out for night on the town with Yuusaku (at what is clearly Tsurumi’s orders). When Ogata invites Yuusaku out, you can see him blushing as he’s just so excited to have the chance to interact with Ogata outside of the context of the military. I guess they went out for dinner or something before they head to the brothel. The whole point of this trip is to determine if Yuusaku is able to give into temptation and have sex even though he is expected to remain a virgin as the flag bearer.

So, I’ve read this panel over and over and over to figure out what the deal with Yuusaku is. Why can’t he read Ogata? Why is he driven to keep doing what he wants to do based on his feelings? And then I came back to what Ogata tells him:

The flag bearer is handsome, a high achiever, a paragon of moral virtue. . . . basically, they’re the face of the regiment.

We haven’t seen Yuusaku’s full face, but Ogata’s an attractive guy (well, his mom would also have to be attractive based on her former profession), and Yuusaku is a taller and a more nutritionally balanced man with a rather smooth complexion. So we will assume he’s an attractive looking guy too. He also states that this individual must be a paragon of moral virtue, so someone who will uphold the rules, serve as an example to others and also implied to be a virgin by not giving into temptation so to speak.

So now I’m going to come back to what he said in the middle, “a high achiever”. Yuusaku attended the military college with the full intent to enter the military at the age of 21 as a second lieutenant. This means that Yuusaku would have been well educated, he’d learn a foreign language as a future officer and all sorts of military specific knowledge as well as becoming more cultured as an individual. But then it finally struck me, Yuusaku is known to be a high achiever. What does this mean? Yuusaku was a nerd! He had to have performed well in all of his coursework and the military academy and done very well for himself in all of his assignments and whatnot.

And then things finally clicked in my brain. Yuusaku was raised in an affluent household, so he was raised in a sheltered environment. He was likely tutored and educated as a child and kept busy with all sorts of activities to benefit his future career as a solider. He likely excelled at all of these things and was a good little son doing everything he was asked to do. Since he excelled in his studies, it shows that he was academically an intelligent person. But he’s an individual who exists in a very small and simple bubble for most of his life.

Why to I feel bold enough to think this was Yuusaku’s background? I’ve been working with people like him for years. I have many colleagues who are very intelligent people and academic high achievers. They are very focused on doing their job and being very excited and into it. But most of these people lack what are known as soft skills, and when presented with a situation outside of social behaviors that exist to maintain the social construct that we exist in are very awkward.

Many of these people cannot “read a room” so to speak. They are weak at reading other people’s body language. They miss verbal cues. They lack the ability to read between the lines. I’ve sat through so many meetings where several of these people are talking to each other but no one is getting what the other person is saying and it just becomes this awkward conversation that an entire room is subject to. Someone else will try to steer things in another direction but it goes right over their heads b/c they still aren’t getting it.

I’ve come to the conclusion that Yuusaku is one of these people. He’s intelligent and has done well in a very specific context. But, it looks like despite how smart and good he is at following the rules, he likely lacks good people skills and soft skills. It was clear in chapter 165 that he was very good at being the cheerleader for the regiment and following a very tightly defined role to the absolute best of his ability. What is interesting is that as a flag bearer he only needs to lead by being inspirational and a symbol or as Ogata will later imply an “idol” for the regiment. But Yuusaku’s role is the complete opposite of what Tsurumi is doing as a first lieutenant. Tsurumi is always talking to his men, he’s got them doing different roles within the 27th; we see many of the men hanging back in the trenches, the more wild ones like the Nikaido brothers and Noma and Okada are shown running behind Yuusaku towards the Russians, while it appears he primarily had Ogata sniping from far behind in the trenches. This may have in part been due to his eventual plans to use Ogata as his personal hitman, but he clearly determined what each of his men was good at doing and put them in the appropriate place. Tsurumi is exceptionally good at reading people. Tsurumi is likely even more intelligent than Yuusaku was (as a spy) but he also possessed the soft skills to be a very effective leader and to use his personnel in the best way possible.

This is why I think in chapter 165, Yuusaku is unable to understand what is happening between him and Ogata. This likely is some sort of test of Yuusaku’s character (I mean Ogata by himself couldn’t hide a Russian POW and pull him out onto the battlefield without someone on authority turning a blind eye to them e.g. Tsurumi). The fact that Yuusaku is really hung up on the fact that they are breaking the rules indicates to me two things; 1.) he was raised in an environment where this concept was unthinkable and looked down upon 2.) he also does not have a type of intelligence that is flexible and adaptive. Many intelligent people are successful b/c they figure out when the rules help them and when the rules hinder them; they determine when it is a good idea to break the rules.

Furthermore, his response to Ogata’s own personal coping mechanism is so childish and simplistic. He says it can’t be possible for someone to not feel guilty for killing another person. He can say this without thinking what could be going on in Ogata’s head b/c he can only draw from his own sheltered and protected childhood and education and what was clearly imposed on him from their father. In part, Yuusaku doesn’t know any better, but in part it is due to his very limited life experiences and likely being too much of a nerd to be able to read those around him.

I’ve often wondered why Hanazawa let Yuusaku become a flag bearer. All of Hanazawa’s actions indicated that he’s incredibly image conscious and aware of how he is perceived by others. He is a man from a lineage of military men (which Tsurumi and others cite in reference to Ogata’s skills and drive) so it makes sense that Yuusaku is also in the military. But for him to be a flag bearer implies that he likely will not survive to advance in his military career. For a man with only one legitimate male heir, who comes from a long line of military men this concept baffles me. If he had two [legitimate] sons, then I could see grooming one to take a leadership role like himself and another becoming a flag bearer for family honor bonus points. God that sounds terrible, but I see Hanazawa as that type of man.

So I’ve wondered why Hanazawa would let his only son that he recognized and invested so much time and resources in be a giant target to the Russians? I’ve wondered if he saw that Yuusaku lacked the skills to be an effective leader and this was the best use of him as an heir - to be the honorable flag bearer and not to embarrass the family by being a poor military commander (which Hanazawa ultimately was). This seems horribly cold and calculating for Hanazawa’s own pathetic ego, but he comes off as the type of man who could do that.

I also think that is why Koito’s father is so insistent on making sure that Koito learns to be an effective leader of men. If you are able to have the privilege to be a person in the position of power in the military (the elite) than it is best for you to learn how to lead your men not only for your own and the military’s success but for the success of those individual men. We know Admiral Koito was friends with Lt. General Hanazawa, I’m sure he watched the parenting that Hanazawa did and may have seen Yuusaku’s personality and then looked at Koito’s own personality.

I do think that b/c Yuusaku took his duties as a flag bearer seriously as well as being 100% obedient to Hanazawa and being able to essentially uphold a contradiction, that he made such an impression on Ogata. Even though there were many aspects of Yuusaku that Ogata clearly did not like, he is not the type of person to hate him for who he was. I think instead Ogata did respect him in his dedication to following the rules of their father and upholding the standards of the flag bearer. What Ogata likely wasn’t able to see was that Yuusaku was trapped in that role and likely had no other options. Ogata can only see Yuusaku as a son who followed his father’s intentions to his ultimate death on the battlefield.

Lastly, I think the juxtaposition between Yuusaku and Ogata’s personalities and backgrounds are supposed to highlight that Ogata was likely the “rightful heir” to follow Hanazawa in the military. Hanazawa, due to his own ego, abandoned Ogata and when he joined the military, was as a lowly private with no chance for leadership. But based on Ogata’s abilities, intelligence and skills, backed up by the statements made by Tsurumi, we are likely supposed to read that Ogata “inherited” the ability to be yet another Hanazawa military commander if given the right circumstances.

#golden kamuy #gk meta #hanazawayuusaku #hanazawakoujiro #ogata hyakunosuke #koito otonoshin

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katthekitkatlord · 6 years ago

Text

Do not eat!

This is for my dear buddy!! Trok belongs to them and Zika and Zu’kon belong to me.

Warning! NSFW!

2100 words.

Trok didn’t know what to expect when he heard a low growl followed by a throaty gasp escaping a room on board the odd metal hut. He was still trying to come to terms that this was all real and he had not taken a hard fall and blacked out. It had been ten days though, so the weird ‘time travelers’ must be telling the truth.

With trusty stick in hand, Trok rounds a corner and is left with only one door left to open, the sound even louder, this time he could hear a wet slop and a moan. His quills stood on edge for what ever was happening on the other side of the door must be made of nightmares. Doing as the colorful yautja showed him, Trok opened the door and poked his head in to see.

What he saw next, he will never be able to forget. What he saw was the big short yautja sitting on the bed, arms holding him up as his mandibles where spread wide up at the ceiling. All kinds of sounds of ‘pain’ coming from him. Between his legs, sat on his knees, was the brightly striped baby sized yautja and he was doing the unthinkable. He was eating the big short yautja genitals first.

A shriek of fear came screaming out of Trok as he lifted his trusty stick in the air. He will save this big short yautja from being eaten by the brightly colored striped yautja. But he was stopped when the big short yautja pushed the attacking one away and caught the stick just as he was bringing it down to hit the other.

“NO!” Big short yautja growled. “Zika”, Zu’kon points to Zika, “Good guy. Remember.” He spoke slowly and made sure to not use threatening body language.

“But, much smaller yautja eat you. I protect.” Trok raise his stick back up on the last part, just to have Zu’kon pull it back down.

“No. Smaller yautja not eat me.” Zu’kon glances at Zika who was being smart by laying on the floor.

“What he do then?” Trok asks.

Zu’kon could feel his eyes almost bug out his head. How was he going to explain all this to a Neanderthal? He didn’t know, but he had to come up with an answer quick. “Um..” Zu’kon didn’t get a chance to answer before Zika decides now was the time to talk.

“I please him.” Zika barks from the floor. “Make feel good.” Zika had no shame and could talk sex with a priest all day. Zu’kon visibly sighed with relief.

“What?” Trok growls.

“I make feel good. Feel really nice.” Zika sits back on his ass and opens his legs. Troks eyes goes straight to his hard on and Zika grins. “See.” He points to Zu’kon’s hard on, who tries to hide it when Trok looks. “I make feel good.”

“No. You used mouth. Can’t use mouth. Mouth for eating.” Trok huffs.

“Mouth can be used for more than eating.” Zika is using his persuasive tone. “Mouth bring pleasure if done right.” Zika must calm himself when Trok cocks his head. He was curios now and Zika knew he had him sold.

“Don’t understand.” Trok admits.

“Want me to show you?” Zika asks as he gets up from his spot on the floor. Trok nods yes and Zu’kon can feel his soul leave his body. Zika points to a place on the bed and instructs the giant of a yautja to sit. Trok doesn’t fight him and does as told, sitting neatly of the large bed close to the foot. Zika turns his attention back to Zu’kon, gave predatory and hungry. “Sit.” He orders. Zu’con had half a mind to ignore the order and call this entire thing off, but he would be a liar if he said he wasn’t somewhat into it.

Zu’kon takes up his old place on the bed, setting back on his arms, legs spread for Zika to come between and sit.

Zika takes up his place between Zu’’kons legs and get to ‘work’. He takes Zu’kons cock in hand and gives a few helpful strokes. “Now, I am not hurting Trok. My teeth might graze him, but its so little that its just a tickle. Watch me now.” Zika spreads his mandibles and opens wide, tongue coming out to lap and wrap around the head of Zu’kons’ cock, sending a shiver up the stocky yautja’s spine. Trok on the other hand was still wrapping his head around all this, but he no longer had the urge to whack Zika with a stick.

Making sure Trok was paying attention, Zika politely takes Zu’kons cock deeper into his, letting the cock head rub on the roof of his mouth as his tongue tightens and laps at the shaft. Trok leans forward to get a better look of what was happening in there, Zu’kon on the other hand fear he sees the light of death approaching him.

“No teeth.” Trok says, most likely not even meaning to have said them out loud. Zika then opens his throat up and sucks down Zu’kons cock. Zu’kon lets out a long line of curses mixed with moans. Trok looks at Zu’kon who held his eyes closed as he gasps, not expecting Zika to do what he did.

As Zika works Zu’kons cock, pooping off for a much-needed breath here and there, Trok shyly flicks his tongue out for a taste of the air around him. It was almost like a punch to his scenes. A rich concoction of sexual hormones born of lust and it makes his sheath drool.

Zika turns Zu’kon loose when he notices he was getting close to cumming. Zu’kon had a tell and that was the sound change in his voice. Zu’kon growls at Zika for stopping who just laughs at him. “Trok wants some attention too.” Zika purrs and looks to the big male. “What do you say big guy? You want a turn?”

Trok nods his head. He was more curios than anything, though his body did react in a way that said he was interested. Zika moves away from the now pouting Zu’kon and places himself between Troks legs.

“Be a good boy now and try not to thrust.” Zika instructs him before removing his loin cloth. Zika purrs at the lovely sight of his cock head poking out of his drooling sheath. It was adorable. Zika reaches up and gives a few soft touches, stroking the inside of his legs and around his sheath opening. He was so focused he didn’t notice Zu’kon come up behind him, though he almost jumped out of his skin when Zu’kons large hand gripped his aching cock. “Ah puak me.” Zika gasps.

Trok looks to see what Zu’kon was doing and couldn’t help but grin when he see’s the smug look plastered to the gray males’ face.

“Go ahead Zika. Suck him off while I breed your tight little ass.” Zu’kon growls into his ear as a hand kneads at his ass. “Such a horny thing you planed this didn’t you.” Trok was confused, but he was turned on now thanks to Zika’s little gasps and the lewd sight in front him.

“You found your gift?” Zika asks, hot breath against the fully erect cock belonging to Trok.

Zu’kon fingers around Zikas hole, only to remove a blue and black plug. “Why yes I did.” He nips the smallest males’ shoulder and uses a knuckle to to feel his loose entrance. “I think Trok is waiting for his gift. Think you should give it to him.”

Zika focuses on the large cock in front him, It was far bigger than Zu’kons, but Zika was no quitter. He took the cock in hand, green eyes focusing on Troks face before going in with a couple tentative licks, swirling his tongue around the swollen head. Trok jerks, not expecting the sensation, but already egerly whining for more. Zika purrs from how cute Trok was being and rewards him by taking him in as much as he could, tongue forced to work over time to accommodate for the bigger size.

Zu’kon groans from the sight. He’s not big on sharing what is his, but Zika had already made it clear to him that he wasn’t to be owned, but this, the sight alone could make him bust. Zika was so tiny compared to Trok when he was already tiny compared to other ‘normal’ yautja. Zu’kon helps Zika along with encouraging words, all the while he lines himself up with his waiting hole, sinking into him with a single thrust.

Zika moans and this sends a surprise shock of pleasure through Trok who is reminded to not thrust when Zika reaches up and pushes his hips down. Trok had to fight with himself to keep still, his pants and moans a clear indicator of his patience waning.

Zu’kon grins at the male and chuckles, thrusting slowly in and out of Zika. “Be a good boy Trok and I’ll let you breed him.”

Trok understood what that meant. New goal in mind he nods his head and takes a few calming breaths. He was still new to the sexual field, almost no experience, and he didn’t want to cum to early, so calming breaths it was.

Zu’kon didn’t worry about, or think about Zika’s orgasm, he will get his when Trok was buried deep inside him. All Zu’kon wanted was to chase his orgasm and to make sure Zika was stretched enough for Trok. Didn’t take long though being how Zika stopped sucking him off when he was so close. He pounded into him, each thrust making him take Troks cock a little deeper. Zu’kon eventually did cum with a low drawn out growl, his seed filling Zika to the point it was running out.

“Good boy.” Zu’kon breaths as he pulls out. He moves away from Zika for a second so he could better lift him up off the ground and all but tossed him on the bed. Trok was snapped back to reality when he realized Zika was no longer mouthing his cock but instead was ass up on the bed. “There’s your reward.” Zu’kon hums as he sits beside Zika.

Trok moves to a better position on the bed, looking dead ahead at Zika’s used ass. Trok swallows, not knowing exactly what to do next.

“Move closer to him. He’s not going to hurt you.” Zu’kon slaps his ass and chuckles when Zika hisses at him. “Get up close and kneel behind him.” Trock does as told, but still looks to Zu’kon for guidance. “Slowly, and I mean it, slowly slide your cock into him.”

Doing as told Trok slowly slides in, there was some give, but other than that it was easy. Once seated he had to take a moment an let the chill running through him go away.

“Now just sit there for a moment. He’ll let you know when he’s ready.” Zu’kon instructs as he rubs Zika’s back.

Zika has always been ambushes. He didn’t give Trok no time to wait when he started to move. Trok looks to Zu’kon who nods his head yes and that’s all the male needed. Trok fucks into Zika with purpose. Bowed over his back, Trok holds himself up with a single arm as his other hand grips Zika’s waist with an almost punishing grip.

The room fills with grunts and growls, accompanied by the slick slap of flesh on flesh. Zika had already came and Zu’kon was purring encouraging words to him as Trok neared his own orgasm. Zika was weak and the only sounds coming out of him now where soft, quiet mewls.

When Trok finally came, he came a wall shaking roar, his seed filling Zika to the point he knew he had a little bulge. Once done, Trok was mindful to not collapse on Zika, but did so to the side on his back.

“Such good boys.” Zu’kon praised as Zika collapsed on the bed. Zu’kon gets up only to collect a couple warm wet rags and gives one to Trok and keeps the other so he could clean Zika up enough for a little nap before a much-needed bath.

Trok watches as Zu’kon cleans Zika up the best he can before pulling him up against him to snuggle with.

“Come on. You too big guy.” Zu’kon says looking at him over his shoulder. Trok doesn’t need to be told twice before he came to snuggle up behind Zu’kon, pulling him and zika up close.

#zika #zu'kon #trok #writing #I am not a writer #yautja #fic #predator #yautja fic

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imyourliquor-youremypoison · 6 years ago

Text

Heksen af Kattegat (Ivar x OC) Halloween Oneshot

(= The Witch of Kattegat in Danish)

Synopsis: In the deepest part of the forest there dwells a creature of darkness. Everyone knows of her yet no one saw her and lived to tell about it. Like a shadow, she is and she is not. She is a lurking presence, the silence of the night, the breath in your neck. No one dares to venture out there after dusk, for there is an evil in these woods, and she is it.

Word Count: off the charts, just make sure you sit comfortably and don’t have a pressing appointment in the coming hour

A/N: This is not part of anyone’s Halloween challenge but my very own. I challenged myself to write a goddamn Halloween fanfic for once and not just ignore the general spooky mood in favor of doing my own thing like an absolute asocial. I really wanted it to be a one shot and not turn this into yet another series I have to update more or less regularly. It’s long guys. It’s a monstrosity, I’m sorry.

He grew up with this story. They all did. It was a bogeyman parents told their children about to make them behave, nothing more. It was an ancient tale someone made up and that got passed onto the next generation and so on until its origin was lost to all. A story of magic and things that go bump in the night, a warning to the young ones who were tempted to sneak out at night, or venture too far into the woods.

But Ivar has always been a smart child, sharper than any of his brothers. He was by far the less likely to believe such a tale - and judging by his mother's knowing smile she was aware of it. He listened carefully and glanced at his older brothers staring at their mother with wide eyes glimmering with wonder and barely hidden fear.

One day Ivar went to see his mother and told her he knew the truth.

“What truth are you speaking of, my sweet child?” Aslaug had asked, gently pinching his chin.

“Your story is a lie!” He accused, making her stare in surprise. “It can't be real! No one lives that old!”

A fair point, she had had to admit. Her expression softened a bit upon hearing his argument, as though she had been expecting something else.

“Some living creatures live a very long time,” Aslaug started, “to find them, all you have to do is gaze into their eyes, and you will see the weight of all their years of existence,” she countered, tapping the tip of his nose.

The action caused a childish kind of frustration to appear on his face – Ivar hated not being taken seriously because of his age. How he wished he too was as old and wise as time sometimes. How he secretly wished the tale was true, and that such state of agelessness was achievable – the things he would do!

“Now where are you brothers? It is time for dinner,” his mother told him, putting an end to their conversation before Ivar could argue further and ask more questions.

Ivar crawled away to get his brothers, a scowl on his face as he called their names. His mind was elsewhere during the whole evening. He sat through dinner but didn't say a word, barely ate as he glared ahead of him, thinking hard.

If his mother was telling the truth then he had to find out more about it. He had to listen more carefully tonight when she would once again recount a dark tale to capture their attention and put them to sleep.

For if the tales were real, it opened new horizons. Horizons that young Ivar could not see the width of yet. In hindsight these stories were hardly appropriate for children, even if his brothers begged for the scary stories, claiming they weren't afraid. But Ivar had stopped counting the number of times he caught them shooting a wary glance towards the forest and its shaded areas.

Ivar and the other children of Kattegat had grown up hearing tales of a monstrous thing lurking in the dark, waiting for a child to wander off to eat them. Sordid tales of a shape-shifting creature with no name, no face, an ageless being to stay clean of, lest they find themselves in its clutches.

Stories about the one thing even mighty warriors tried to avoid, something – someone – that fought not with weapons but with something entirely different. Stories about the witch of Kattegat.

Despite his young age, Ivar could say he faced a great number of hardships in his life. And some of those very nearly made him do the unthinkable. He remembered the first time he spoke of finding the witch, how the room fell silent, as though time came to a stop, how his brothers stared in shock and bewilderment, their spoons halfway to their mouths. Then all hell broke loose, and it was like they were children again – terrified of the scary, children eating, men mauling, life sucking witch that lived in the woods. A table full of grown men afraid of a creature that might not even exist.

Ivar had abandoned the thought – it was nothing more than that after all, a spontaneous thought he didn't plan on acting on, not really.

His eyes burned with an untamed flame but he could do nothing about it. He was the youngest son, the cripple, the last in line, the unworthy. His ambitions would forever remain unachievable because of his physical condition – or so he thought up until Ragnar came back from the dead, old, diminished, and the shadow of the legendary king he became years before.

His life sped up from this moment on, and all thoughts of witches and magic were pushed out of his minds. At least until he nearly drowned during the journey to Wessex, when his father took him to sail west with him. Though even then he remembered with great clarity the moment he went underwater and wished, hoped, prayed for a magical intervention. He didn't like to think too hard about his miraculous survival. He tried to forget the rocky beginning of his adventure. But then, when things turned sour and he was imprisoned while his father was being executed, his mind turned once again towards this witch and the powers she might have.

Oh he remembered clear as day how strongly he wished for a magical interference. If the gods didn't meddle with their mortal lives and save his father, then maybe the witch would have. Maybe if he had found her as he had considered so many times for years, he would have tamed her by now made her into his plaything, his pet.

But he hadn't. He hadn't, and his father died, and he sailed back home to gather forces and avenge that cruel death, unworthy of the king he was. He came back to Kattegat with a furnace alight behind his dark irises, a fire no disability would ever extinguish or diminish. Confident in his skills despite the lack of usage of his legs, Ivar allowed his ambitions to come alive again. Ragnar had blown on the red embers of his rage and drive.

He didn't need magic to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was greatness. A name for himself, a legend, a legacy.

He wouldn't stop before he got what he wanted, until the witch trembled at the mere mention of his name. He would bring the creature to its knees.

His mother was dead. Ivar's mind was hazy with hurt, anger, and grief. His hands ached to reach for his mother's hands, yet there was nothing to grasp. She was gone. He screamed at the void, his voice echoing around him. No one heard him, that much he was sure of, for he had wandered far from the town.

No one wanted to deal with him anyway, and he didn't want to deal with them either. Sitting on a rock in the middle of the thickest fog he had ever seen, Ivar wallowed in self-pity and cried for his departed dearly beloved mother, killed by the usurper Lagertha.

It was right then and there, on this rock, after hours of sitting unmoving in the cold humidity that Ivar came to a decision. Nothing else worked, nothing his dead father, his dead mother, or his thick brothers ever suggested, or approved of has ever shown any results. He needed to take action.

Floki always laughed when Ivar brought up the tale of the witch, as if he had been warned by every mother in Kattegat not to tell the children it was but a bogeyman. As if he was hiding something behind his maniac laugh. Ivar knew better than to ask him directly, for no one was as good as Floki to answer questions without giving a proper response.

Knowing that there was something someone withheld from him was motivation enough to Ivar. He wanted to know – no, more than that, he needed to know. He needed to see for himself. Perhaps it really was but a tale to scare the young ones, but if there was even a slight chance it had any truth to it, then he had to try.

Ivar set his mind. He would find the witch, make her use her powers on him, give him proper legs, and with them he knew he would find a way to rise above his current condition and kill his mother's murderer.

The decision ended up being an easy one – because of Lagertha's overtaking of Kattegat he was welcome no more, and while his brothers still fought her upfront, he was planning his revenge. She publicly refused his challenge when he asked to battle it out with her. She had the nerve to turn her back to her enemy, showing no more worry than if he were still a child and not a young man trained in the art of war.

Ivar seethed with rage and let it be known to all of Kattegat that he would avenge Aslaug and kill the usurper. The wretched woman ruined his life. She robbed his mother of a painless and dignified death and instead shot her in the back, like a coward would. She was defenceless and surrendered without resistance, there was no honour in killing an enemy who didn't fight back.

The thought still made his brain boil with anger, though it happened a few months ago. Ivar was on a self-exile, wondering if he would ever find his way back; if anyone had noticed his absence at all; if he was on a wild goose chase. So many questions swirled about in his head and the quiet of the woods did nothing to prevent him from over-thinking.

His arms hurt and were covered in bruises because of his crutches. He walked the woods painfully slowly, the bumpy tracks, leaf covered, muddy ground did nothing to help him navigate in the maze that was the forest. Each and every tree looked exactly like its neighbours once he reached a point he had never been before. His entire body was but ache, hunger, and cold.

Maybe he was going to die in these woods, ruminating his thoughts of vengeance until his last breath – that would surely take place under some oak during a night colder than usual. Maybe the witch would come across his lifeless body and smile – yet another foolish man who thought he would find her.

No.

Such thoughts were not allowed, he couldn't have it. His brothers would never be able to accomplish their vengeance without him, he knew it. They had legs but if the brain guiding them wasn't set on the right path it was pointless, they might as well be headless chickens. If the gods had granted Ivar legs, he would be king of the world by now.

He tripped on a root, his body hitting the hard ground in a thud muffled by the leaves and moss. He cursed out loud, having long stopped caring if there was a living soul to hear him cuss. Surely that wouldn't put off the witch if there ever was one in the first place.

But instead of getting discouraged, each passing day of nothing but trees, mist, and mud felt like a blow of wind on the red embers of his determination. The more she hid from him, the more he wanted to find her. For her existence suddenly seemed real, and not a mere story anymore. Alone in these gloomy woods, Ivar felt it in his bones that something dangerous lived here.

Its presence made his hair stand on end, his sweat run cold, his blood curl. It was madness to whip his head round every time he thought he saw movement, only to see it was a raven or an howl sitting on a branch and staring at him with big, curious eyes. He rubbed the base of his neck and stood up again, with more difficulty but more determination each time he fell. His knuckles were dry and bloody, each joint sore, every patch of skin burning from the biting cold.

He didn't care. He walked on, straining his muscles, pushing through the pain. For she was there, Ivar knew it, felt it. He has roamed these woods day and night, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up his bad leg – his worse leg – and pushing way beyond the limits of his body. Surely that couldn't be for nothing, the gods wouldn't play such a tasteless trick on him. Whatever awaited him, it had to be grand, she had to be a terrifyingly powerful creature, and he would use it.

For days now he followed a moving shadow. His guts told him she wasn't far, but his eyes kept betraying him. Shadows don't move on their own, and nothing in the surrounding stillness moved, so naturally it couldn't be that the shadow moved. No matter the wind, the trees were ancient and thick, but he could have sworn something moved behind the line of trees, something fast, something silent in the night.

After the first week he recognized a particular crooked tree and realized he had walked past it a couple times already. The shadow was leading him round and round in the hopes to tire him out or make him go mad. Loki himself could be playing with his sanity and Ivar would be none the wiser. However, the young Viking highly doubted the trickster god was the one leaning his astray.

To Ivar it was a sign he was close to his goal, for this shadow must have belonged to someone. And whose could it be but hers? Who lived this far out in the woods knowing evil lurked in its darkest corners?

It has now been three weeks since he realized he unintentionally became the sorceress' plaything. The thought was maddening, but at the same time he was sure no one had been this close to finding out who she was.

As always when dusk came and it became too difficult for Ivar to keep on moving in the dark with his crutches, he found a place to settle for the night, wrapping himself in furs and willing away the cold. Moss was not his bed in Kattegat, and he constantly had to remind himself he no longer had a bed or a home in Kattegat. The wind blew hard tonight so he had to find a sheltered corner to sit down, leaning against a twisted tree that looked like it came straight out of his nightmares. The woods' silence was slowly replaced by the noise of nocturnal animals who came out of their hiding spot, and Ivar closed his eyes.

It was a relatively harsh and restless night, as most were these days. He couldn't tell whether it was due to the setting or the circumstances, but he knew that neither the cold hard ground nor the death of both his parents helped in the matter.

Things were no longer what they were, what they were supposed to be, or what they seemed to be. Everything was either too quiet or too loud, too slow or too fast. Ivar couldn't trust his senses anymore. His eyes saw things that were not, his ears perceived sounds that couldn't be. Like the soft whispers of the wind, murmuring against his neck. If he was inclined to believe such things possible, he'd say he even felt a warm breath against his nape.

But he was undoubtedly alone. He didn't need eyes nor ears to know that, he felt it. No human presence other than himself was in these woods. Then again, perhaps the witch wasn't quite human.

He stirred and shook from the cold in his sleep, until he was rested enough that his eyes opened from themselves, though it was still night. The frightful sight before him nearly caused his heart to stop. He stopped breathing, and he would swear the forest also held its breath in this moment.

She looked at him with intent, a sharp glimmer in his glowing eyes. Ivar didn't dare move a muscle, not even to breathe. She blink and narrowed her eyes, as though she was gazing upon a curious creature she had never seen before in her life. Still and struck mute, Ivar could do nothing but stare back with equal focus – not that he had the option to look anywhere else, her eyes quite literally shone in the dark, like two crystals catching the moonlight.

Her face remained hidden in the shadow of her cloak, a clothing so dark he couldn't see where it ended and where the night began. Ivar could make out a nose and a mouth, but before he could fully study her face, she moved.

A brisk, silent movement that seemed to finally free Ivar of her spell and allowed him to take in some much needed air. She stood a mere few meters away from him but the air was already much more breathable and he could think straight again and not just stare in fascination.

“You are trespassing,” came her disembodied voice, whispering and screaming at the same time, coming from here and there, from the sky above and the earth below, from in and from out. The words echoed in his mind as though Ivar was the one who thought them. He blinked and she was gone.

Ivar was on his feet faster than ever.

“No!” He yelled when his voice was returned to him. “Don't go!”

Ivar looked around, seeing nothing in the pitch black night but the glowing eyes of small animals and birds. He still felt her. She was there, watching him, like a predator watching their prey.

“You are not welcome here.” The voice became clearer and Ivar spun around, wincing at the pain and grunting.

He nearly toppled over both in hurt and shock. The sun had set hours ago and the moon wasn't full tonight. He could barely make out her figure standing a couple meters to his left. But even at this distance her eyes in particular stood out - sharp clear eyes, holding his attention like she'd put a spell on him. Ivar felt stuck, like he had just stepped into a trap. They were entrancing and for a moment he forgot he had to say something.

The creature stared at him, slowing titling her head to the right as if studying him. Her eyes were a light colour but were painted black. Charcoal it seemed was smudged over her face from ear to ear and the stark contrast of colours didn't help Ivar's sudden muteness. There wasn't much else he could see other than her pale complexion - a ghost really. As though she had spent years avoiding the daylight. No wonder he couldn't find her during daytime, perhaps she only wandered out at night, like all the other forest creatures who want to avoid men.

“I need your services,” he finally said, the words coming out croaky and more hesitant than he would have liked.

She did not move. Her glare was strong and piercing. Ivar shuddered, either from the cold or her hard stare. It was clear that she had no intention to answer that. Even worse: she looked amused!

“You have magic. Use it to fix my legs, help me achieve my ambitions and I will cover you in more gold than you can imagine,” he continued, growing impatient.

He had been looking for her for days now, the least she could do was to speak to him. Facing such intense silence unsettled him.

Of course his first instinct was to bargain. Who could resist the thought of gold and living a life of opulence and comfort? She could apparently. She sneered, though she remained quiet, her hard unforgiving gaze stuck on him. The thought that he was a defenceless mouse in a trap struck Ivar again but he shook it away.

“Land. I can give you land if gold is of no interest to you,” he added. “Power. Servants if you want,” he kept on going, not seeing that she couldn't be swayed by earthly possessions.

“The land belongs to no mortal soul, only the gods own this land and the sky above,” the creature barked back as if Ivar had just made a blasphemy.

Her voice was smoky and low, as though she hadn't used it in some time and was only now getting back the hang of it. He recoiled when she stepped forward menacingly and cursed himself for showing a sign of weakness to an unknown creatures who could very well turn out to be an enemy.

“I have more power than you could ever give me, and I will never use it to submit another living creature,” she told him with a bit of condescension, a clear sign that she wasn't a complete stranger to the way of men after all.

“Then ask and you shall receive whatever you want, witch.”

She backed away at the last word, her eyes finally looking down and freeing Ivar from their mesmerizing sight.

“No.” It was curt, final.

“No?” Who was she to refuse his more than generous offer?

“I will not. You are king enough as it is, and vengeance is sterile act. I will play no part in this power game of yours,” she stated, giving him full sentences at long last.

Ivar was beginning to think her seclusion had driven her mad. He was no king. He was the errand son of a dead king, whose throne was currently occupied by his first wife and the killer of his dear mother. If there ever was a creature as miserable as Ivar he has not heard of it.

“The gods took your legs away, it is not my place to give them back,” she explained, her voice softer this time, as though she realized she has been bargaining with a grieving child and not a mighty Viking threatening her with an axe. “Everything has a reason to be or not to be.”

“So it means that you have the ability to. You could help me if you wanted,” Ivar pointed out, not exactly waiting for an answer. “You seem to know who I am. If so, you should know I'm not beyond using lower methods to obtain what I want.”

He couldn't be sure because of the dark but Ivar swore her figure didn't stay still. Like a cloak, shadows moved and billowed behind her, as though they were a living creature ready to strike whoever threatened their master. The shadows didn't engulf her, they surrounded her, enveloped her like a protective glove. His very being screamed at him to stay where he was and not attempt to close the space between them.

She started smiling. First timidly and than bigger and bigger until it became grotesque. Was it possible to stretch your mouth so wide open? Ivar wouldn't know but cold sweat trickled down his back while a shiver ran down his spine.

“And if you know who I am then you should know the wise thing to do is to turn around and never look back,” she replied, the threat barely veiled behind her amused tone.

Her presence grew, Ivar felt smaller, oppressed by the heavy shadows.

“Wise people never achieve anything. I deemed the reward worth the risk when I set my mind to finding you,” he told her boldly.

“You walk alongside death and treat it like a comrade but one day it will look you in the eye and you will know, it never was your friend.”

Her ominous statement took him aback, but her words burned in his memory, where they would stay for a long time, he was certain of it. He blinked one moment too long and she was gone. Laughter erupted in the air. It came from nowhere in particular yet everywhere at the same time. It felt like being surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves on the hunt, liking their chops in anticipation of the meal to come.

“Go. You are unwelcome,” she said again, this time from his right.

She stood farther away, all trace of humour gone from her features. Somehow she seemed even more hidden by the dark than before.

“I will not help you. The people of Kattegat do not deserve my help, or my mercy. I do not owe anything to anyone. Leave me be and do not come again or you will regret it.”

Her last words were spoken softly, like a whisper, like a hushed confession she spoke into his ear. But there was no mistaking the dignity of her tone, and no doubting she would carry out her threat. Before Ivar could protest, she was gone again, vanishing between the trees. They too looked like they could move and dance with the shadows. She was no longer here this time, he didn't feel her presence any longer and the noises of the sleeping forest started again, breaking the eerie quietness. Feeling he had already tested his luck enough for one day, Ivar made to return to his sleeping spot to finish his night and get some rest. He would look for her again tomorrow. He would come walk these parts as many times as he had to in order to get what he wanted.

Aslaug had told Ivar countless times that perseverance was key but he hadn't really given it much credit until now. Being in the shoes of a predator for the first time in his life made him realize just how much discipline and will it took to wait. Waiting for his target to show herself, waiting for her to acknowledge him, speak to him.

Patience was a quality he did no possess, and he cursed the gods once again for making him so. Nevertheless, he persevered and roamed the forest until his body reached its limits, until his arms were blue from the cold and the bruises, his skin dry and red from the merciless wind blowing through the tall trees.

It was a good day when he caught sight of the witch, even if she disappeared almost immediately. She hasn't tried to lure him into a trap, which he considered a small victory. She hasn't lead him astray again, but on the other hand she hasn't spoken to him again either. Ivar was desperate for a conversation, a chance to speak to her and defend his cause. She was obviously a creature of intelligence – there was no mistaking the glimmer in her eyes – only a sharp-minded person would behave the way she did.

She proceeded with caution, studied her stalker, kept her distance. He supposed that if she hasn't tried to hex him into oblivion despite her clear threat the day of their first meeting it meant that she wasn't past seeing reason. Perhaps she only waited for Ivar to make a better offer.

But what could a witch want? She lived secluded, alone, and only the gods knew what she was truly capable of. Was there anything Ivar could give her that she couldn't get herself? It was a thought worth pondering – especially since Ivar had so much time to think now that she reverted to silence.

The more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to reconsider his mother's tales and the legend surrounding the witch. Could it be that she was the owl and the raven that seemed to follow him during his first weeks of wandering? Would she answer truthfully if he asked? If it was him he wouldn't tell a soul.

Sometimes he thought she was there but didn't see anything. On other occasions he saw her, and then she walked round a tree and was there no longer. On rarer instances he thought he heard footsteps, or the rustling of leaves and branches indicating someone was coming, but nothing moved at all.

He would have burnt this forest to the ground if he thought for a second that it would get her out of her lair, but he knew better. If he disrespected her sacred land, she would forever remain out of reach and never listen to him. She made it clear that she was a being of the earth, protector of the woods and its inhabitants – perhaps she would kill him for his crimes lest he give in to his destructive urges.

No. He would keep going. He would follow her like her cloak of shadows until she couldn't ignore his presence anymore.

She sighed, and knelt to the ground. This young Viking was tenacious, she had to give him that. Her hands dug in the wet ground and ripped out the roots she needed, storing them in her basket before she rose to her feet again. A slight shiver made her hair stand on end, and she knew he wasn't far.

He was good. Very perceptive – for a man. Despite the wards she cast about her he somehow always found his way back towards her, even forcing her to use tricks to lure him away. The sun has barely risen in the foggy morning, but already she sensed he was near, the sound of his crutches tapping against the ground growing closer.

She walked on, her eyes fixed on the ground, looking for herbs and mushrooms. Would he ever give up? He was young and reckless, but she sensed no danger from him. He had an aura of darkness about him, as though his young age hid horrendous actions, and she had no difficulty imagining him do terrible things, but still he did not seem to mean harm – not towards her.

When his eyes locked with hers, she saw not fear like she usually did in the eyes of men, but profound respect, awe, and envy. Truly she pitied the poor creature. She wished her fate to no living being, not even the wretched people of Kattegat.

Having found a tree with the mushrooms she was looking for, she stopped walking again. Her mind constantly jumped back to the Viking, unable to push him out of her thoughts. So far she has been able to keep her home hidden from view, leading him in a wrong direction every time he came too close, but she knew it was but a matter of time until he slipped past her vigilant eyes and saw where she lived.

Why couldn't he give up like the others? Run away in fear? She greeted him in the worst way possible, in the middle of the night, by surprise, and let her shadows loom over him like the wide open jaws of a predator ready to rip his head clean off. Why was he still walking in her tracks?

He wouldn't last much longer, that much she knew. Each day the nights became colder and the small animals began to prepare for winter, soon the forest would become quiet as a grave, and the young man would die. The cold and hunger would take him sneakily, with no warning.

And for a reason beyond her comprehension, it didn't sit well in her stomach.

Sighing once more though there was no one near enough to hear her, she left a few mushrooms on the bark of the tree. She already had more than enough, and he needed them more than she did anyway. Momentarily breaking the silence spell she put on herself, she walked away noisily to catch his attention.

Hopefully he would follow it and find the mushrooms. His cheeks hollowed by the day.

Ivar wasn't a fool, he understood what she was trying to do, and he hated it. But one thing he came to realize was that she didn't want him to die, and that played in his favour. Why else would she leave fruits, mushrooms and edible plants in her wake? It also told him that she knew he followed her, and that she let him. So perhaps he shouldn't take too much pride in his tracking skills, perhaps she only allowed him to follow her, as opposed to Ivar hunting her down.

For a moment he thought he had the upper hand but she was a step ahead of him. What was going through her mind? If she thought he was going to get tired of pursuing her or bored, then she had another thing coming. Ivar wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted, one way or another.

It seemed like the witch saw no reason to hide while she performed dull daily tasks. Ivar saw her walk about here and there, picking fruits, gathering small wood, chopping bigger firewood, collecting moss, fetching water. All of this told him one important thing: she had a house.

Somewhere in these woods was her home. She wasn't an evanescent creature that appeared and disappeared at will and fed on unlucky children or the soul of mortal men. She ate apples, and stew, and slept in a bed.

His stomach rumbled at the sheer idea of a warm meal. Ivar hasn't had meat in a while – rabbits grew rare these days.

“By the Norns, you stubborn thing!” He heard her curse from behind him and nearly gave himself whiplash when he twisted his head around to see her.

There she stood, in the shade of a tree. Though shade implied that there was sunlight, and Ivar hadn't seen the sun in about as much time as he hasn't had meat. However the day hasn't come to an end yet, and he could see her better this time. Her face remained hidden, but her appearance was much less intimidating then during night-time.

“I told you,” he started. “I need your services. I will not go back until you listen to me.”

His voice was cautious, as to not make her flee again. He's had a lot of time to ponder what he was going to tell her once he managed to get her attention.

“Are you on a death wish?” She asked him, cocking an eyebrow under her heavy hood. “Will you hide away in a corner to die like an animal? Go back to your village and leave your mad thoughts behind. I cannot help you,” she insisted, trying to make him see reason.

Ivar's mouth twisted in a cocky grin, his confidence rising.

“You seem worried,” he pointed out, not bothering to hide his victorious smile.

“I do not want to have your rotting corpse on my territory,” she scowled. His grin wavered under her stern gaze.

“I thought the land belonged only to the gods,” Ivar said, using her own words against her.

She at least had the decency to look offended. More than offended, she became angry and stepped forward until her feet stood firmly in the ground before Ivar, his eyes no higher than her knees.

“I will not play your games, young Viking,” she uttered menacingly.

“My name is Ivar,” he told her, and this time he saw her flinch slightly, even if most her face was still unreadable what with the charcoal she painted it with.

“Very well, young Ivar...” she started, and he almost scowled when he heard her using the word young again. Young, young... Always too young to be taken seriously, even by a hermit witch. “I do not care for your play on words or your desperation. I do not care for your life, you shall live or die or do whatever you see fit.” Her eyes didn't leave him, they pinned him to the ground, silently forbade him to move or talk until she was done. “But I will not have you spoiling these parts. For the last time, go away.”

Once the last word was uttered she looked away and spun on her heels, ready to leave him in the dust with the knowledge that her point came across. But that was a mistake she would only make once, for Ivar wasn't done with her.

“I don't believe you,” he said. The sap even had the gall to snigger! “You wouldn't be here, lecturing me, if you didn't care.”

The witch stopped dead in her tracks but refused to turn around. She bit down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood to the surface. Her hand was already in her basket, and she was no liar.

“It's true that I do not have the prerogative of being insensitive to other creatures' suffering,” she said at long last, when the silent had stretched so that Ivar thought she wouldn't answer at all. “Perhaps it is my weakness, but it's one I gladly embrace. Here!” He turned around only to throw something at Ivar, which he caught as a reflex. “Soon there will be no small animal left to hunt. No fruits, no mushrooms. I might have some sympathy for you, but the seasons don't care if you live or die, Ivar. Go home. You don't belong here.”

This time he sensed he couldn't say anything else to change her mind – for now. Ivar watched her resume her walking when suddenly she stopped again.

“One last word if I may. Don't give your name so freely in these parts, young Viking. There is evil in this world, and not all as gracious as me.”

With those ominous words she left him alone, vanishing between the trees as per usual. Ivar supposed she didn't want him to see where she was going, and concluded that she must be going home – like she suggested he should.

But he wouldn't. Ivar looked down at his hand, still somewhat befuddled. He didn't think too long or hard though, and simply bit in the loaf of bread. He moaned in delight – it was crusty on the outside, and soft and still warm on the inside. It was dark bread mixed with all sorts of nuts and herbs.

Be that as it may, she just provided him with enough food to last another handful of days in the woods, and he would use them to carry on his stalking.

Some days he didn't see her at all, and while Ivar expected it to anger him, it mostly disappointed him. Even he could not ignore the loneliness of his endeavour and relished her company – although she mostly ignored him or lectured him, he found her rather endearing.

He was sure that she had grown to appreciate his presence just as he did hers. After years of living alone in the woods, surely she must seek out conversation and human company? What of her needs? Who warmed her bed? Who helped her not go insane?

He observed her and tried to follow her lead to survive in this wild environment. He tried to find the secret spots where mushrooms still grew in the increasingly cold temperatures, or spot the edible herbs. When he did he stuffed his mouth with the little brown fungi, sometimes not even bothering to rinse them in a puddle. Hunger dominated him. The witch made a very good point when she said he would starve himself to death by staying here, but Ivar would reach his limits before giving up.

If he left now he might never find her again. Perhaps it was what she wanted, but he wasn't going to take the risk. Not for a good night's sleep, not for a large serving of pork chops. Mushrooms made him sick now, but he had to keep eating anything he could. It warmed him up to have something in his stomach, and it gave him enough force to continue walking.

Some other days, he didn't even try to talk to her at all. But he kept a close eye on her, as if he waited to see what she would do if she found him spying on her again.

One day he saw her cleaning herself in a pond, swimming across, amid the fallen leaves floating on the surface. He briefly thought that it was too cold to bathe in the dark waters, but she didn't seemed bothered at all.

After a while she returned to the edge and started washing away the sweat, mud, dust and dirt. Her hair was longer than he had imagined once freed from all the knots and ornaments. It clung to her back and reached the bump of her backside. He expected its dark hue to make a stark contrast with her creamy skin but was once again stunned by what his eyes shows him. Not black hair, no, but white, pure as freshly fallen snow, blending in with the rest of her uncharacteristically pale complexion.

They say all cats are grey in the dark but Ivar could not have expected this any less. Where was the creature of darkness he was told about? And if she's not it, than who was she?

Her arms were littered in tiny scars as one would expect from someone who lives in the wilderness. But what stood out most where the many runes littering her entire body. Up and down her legs, on her stomach, on her arms and around her wrists.

From the spot Ivar was posted at he could not read them but he was fascinated all the same. They were everywhere. Her body was a book.

She lived alone out there, how could she have tattoos on her back? Where did they come from?

She was back to him, her hands trailing up and down her arms to scrub off the dirt. The water around her became muddy, so she dived down and came back to the surface a couple meters from where she stood, pushing her long hair out of her face.

This time she faced Ivar fully, and it was as though he saw her for the first time. However he couldn't bring himself to look anywhere but her face, for her eyes were locked on him. He suddenly understood with full force that she had always been aware of his presence. She let him spy on her. Probably for days.

And he didn't even care. So far all he had seen was a troubling dark creature always draped in long cloaks and engulfing dresses. He couldn't remember seeing her face once, he didn't know what she looked like at all. The memory of her piercing blue eyes still burned in his mind, like two flaming torches flickering in the night, eclipsing everything else.

She didn't move, didn't blink, didn't try to cover her naked body. Ivar was locked on her gaze, and a strong pull emanated from her. He was struck by the urge to join her. He couldn't walk, and certainly couldn't swim, trying to join her in the pond would be suicide. Yet something about her sucked him in – and as sure as the sun rose each morning, he knew that very same thing would spit him out.

Yet his body took the lead despite his better judgement, and Ivar was shocked beyond words when he felt his legs push his body up from the ground without the help of his crutches. He stood tall and without any pain or outside help for the briefest moment, and then came the darkness.

Ivar woke up in a start, sweating and heaving, his eyes darting madly around him to see where he was and what was happening. He didn't recognize his surroundings at all. It was dark, he wasn't outside, he was too hot, and laid on something soft. This was as far as his assessment of the situation went.

“Stay still you foolish boy,” a voice snapped at him.

He didn't recognize it, but he knew the sternness in it, he had heard it before. His dear mother's voice had the same ring to it whenever she addressed her wayward sons, and Ivar recognized the scolding tone of a woman who intended to be obeyed.

There was something on his chest, making it an ordeal to breathe. Each new intake of air was a gift, and Ivar struggled to get rid of whatever weighted down on him, though however much his hands fumbled around he did not find a thing.

“I said stop moving!” The voice came again. “I told you this would happen, I warned you that you weren't welcome.” A tinge of panic tainted the scolding voice, and Ivar felt someone else's hands still his own and place them back each side of his body. “The forest protects its inhabitants and chases away the foolhardy who dare trespass. I tried to tell you, I tried...”

Was she talking to herself? Ivar couldn't tell. His eyes were closed again, unable to keep open what with the blindingly bright flame dancing in the hearth. A house, he was in a house. A woman's house. Could it be... ?

“Oh young Ivar,” the voice said, and this time he knew. The witch. He felt a cold hand rest on his forehead, wiping away the sweat pearling there, combing back his damp hair. “Fight.”

There was will in this single word, determination. It wasn't a wish, it sounded more like an order, like a demand. And somehow, he wanted to obey. It instilled strength in his sore limbs, cleared his mind. The hand still stroked his head, chasing away the cold dampness and grounding him to this world.

Ivar recognized the symptoms of a fever, and he knew the first night was crucial. If he made it through the night, he would survive.

He had to fight.

The second time he woke up it was daytime and he was alone from what he could tell – but not for long. Ivar barely had the time to take in his new surroundings, and wonder if he really was inside the witch's house, if this was all it took – a little fever – to get in, when she burst through the door, letting in a gust a chilling wind.

She was rubbing her arms to warm herself and sat down on a small stool in front of the fire to warm her hands. Ivar did not budge – if she didn't notice he was awake, then it was the perfect occasion to study her from up close. Apart from the few times she wanted to intimidate him into leaving, he never saw her this clearly.

That and this one time he saw her bathe, right before his fever took a hold of him. A memory that brought red to his cheeks and made him stir despite himself. She whipped around and stood up, grabbing her basket overflowing with all kinds of herbs Ivar couldn't identify for the life of him.

“What happened?” He asked, his voice coming out huskier than he expected. How long has it been since he last used it?

“You didn't take my warning seriously is what happened,” the witch replied, her voice sharp and final.

“Tell me,” Ivar insisted, coughing a bit to set his voice right. “I don't remember anything.”

She froze, her hands crushing a few herbs in her closed fist and looked straight ahead of her. For a moment Ivar thought she wasn't going to answer, or maybe even kick him out for being such a troublesome guest.

“My guess is that you ate poisonous mushrooms,” she finally said before setting to work again, cutting up some herbs, ripping the leaves off others, crushing certain flowers and throwing it all in a pot over the fire. She let it all brew and stirred occasionally, still turning her back to Ivar. “But I can't know for sure what it was. All I can tell is that your fever wasn't due to sickness or a weakness of body.”

Ivar grumbled something under his breath when he heard 'weakness of body' but he didn't say anything more than that. He should feel lucky he got an answer out of her. She was still draped in her black cape, the hood up even inside her house – probably for his sake and not just because she was still cold from her trip outdoors.

Truth be told he felt better than the last time he was conscious, but he was still heartsick, as though he was back on the boat that took him to Wessex, when he nearly drowned. His head was a haze, his memory hazardous as well, and his throat felt dry.

“I need water,” he said.

He saw her sigh more than he heard her, but the witch fetched a pitcher of water nonetheless. She poured some in a horn and came to sit next to him, holding it up for him to drink out of. Ivar drunk sloppily, all the while staring at her face, trying to see her from under her gigantic hood.

“More?” She asked when he was finished.

“Please,” Ivar said, the word burning his throat almost as much as the thirst.

She repeated the same operation as before and came back, and when Ivar had emptied his second drink he felt better.

“I suppose you must be hungry as well,” she said, not bothering to hide the slight annoyance in her tone. It made Ivar feel like a stray cat that ventured into someone's home and that now needed feeding.

“No mushrooms,” Ivar grunted, sitting upright on the makeshift bed.

It looked like she set him in front of the hearth to keep him warm, but this room had three doors, one of them leading outside, which meant the house was bigger than what Ivar saw from where he sat. She didn't give him her bed.

“I, unlike you, know my edible mushrooms from the poisonous ones,” she sniggered, obviously finding great amusement in the thought that her threats and the harsh weather didn't make him budge but a little mushroom nearly got the best of him. “You will eat whatever I give you, these times don't allow choosiness,” she added more seriously.

“I suppose you expect a thank you,” Ivar said in a mocking tone soon as she handed him a bowl of stew. He could see carrots floating in it, and potatoes. “But we wouldn't have come to his if you had agreed to listen to me in the first place.”

He couldn't see her clench her jaw but Ivar sure as Helheim heard her teeth screeching.

“It's not too late to kick you out of my house and let the wolves finish what the mushrooms started,” she warned him. “I gave you my answer the day we met: I won't do as you ask. I didn't leave you waiting for an answer young Viking, and it is no one's fault but yours if you don't accept it.”

His anger flared again, and Ivar was tempted to throw the bowl in her face, if only to make her finally show herself. Obviously he won't get his way with her like he did with most people. Most people were afraid of him and it made it easy to drop a few veiled threats here and there to bend them to his will.

The witch wasn't an ignorant people of Kattegat who lived in fear. She was in her home, Ivar was at her mercy in the middle of an unknown, dark forest full of dangerous animals in the early winter, and she knew for a fact that the most dangerous of them all was herself.

“Eat now, before it gets cold,” she told him, with that same motherly voice she used on him before. Ivar knew not how to refuse her when she used that voice and he was hungry anyway, so he obeyed.

“I know what tales your people must have told you about me, I know what they call me,” she started talking while he spooned the stew into his mouth, closing his eyes at the delightful taste and moaning when it warmed him from inside. “I've been spending a great deal of my time wondering what drove you to this length. What on earth would make you seek out the witch of Kattegat, the monster that eats children and bathe in the blood of men?” She asked.

Ivar recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one though.

“Then I thought perhaps you were the same as me,” she suggested. “Perhaps they drove you away because you were different and it scared them. But it just doesn't line up with the gold and land you promised me, should I accept to help you in your vengeful quest.”

He took mental note of everything she said, it would become food for thoughts later.

“If they drove you away then why don't you seek vengeance yourself?” Ivar questioned her, having finished his bowl.

Without asking if he wanted more, she gave him another serving. He didn't know if she was any good at brewing potions but he had never tasted a better stew in his life.

“They haven't, not really. But they would, given the chance,” she told him laconically.

“I do not understand you,” Ivar admitted, even if it pained him to do so.

“It is better if you don't. I don't wish to elicit pity, and I know you wouldn't sympathize with me even if I told you everything about me.” Ivar was about to protest. “Soon as you are better, I will lead you back to the path leading to your village, and we will never meet again.”

“No.”

“I won't house you forever, and you have already proven yourself quite bothersome,” she replied, squinting her eyes at him. “I have better things to do than to care for a crippled young Viking who wants nothing more than enslave me for my powers.”

“If you choose to stand by my side I shall do no such thing,” Ivar told her. “Together we could rule the entire world,” he assured her.

The witch blinked and stared at him in surprise before finally bursting in laughter. She stood up, wiping away tears and went back to her basket to put away her herbs now that Ivar was sated.

“I don't want to rule the world Ivar. I don't want to rule anyone but myself,” she told him, still laughing a bit. “You and I could not be more different it appears.”

“It seems so, yes...” Ivar agreed. “But it doesn't mean we cannot help each other. What would it cost you to help me? Why do you refuse so adamantly?” He wondered, attempting to drive out her motivations while she still felt talkative.

“I don't meddle with men. I have always lived away from your kind, who are wary of me, who scorn me, spit on me as I walk by. It might seem selfish or unfair to you, but you have no idea what you ask of me, young Viking. I cannot help you.”

“Then explain. Tell me why it is too much to ask. What is the cost?” Ivar insisted.

A gust a wind coming from nowhere suddenly made the doors and windows slam shut, and extinguished the fire in the hearth as well as all the candles he had lit in the room, and Ivar felt her presence looming over him after she'd dropped her basket to the floor.

It was like they were back in the forest on their first encounter, the shadows where everywhere, and his heart froze in shock. Ivar's breath caught in is throat, stricken with fear. He suddenly understood where her reputation came from.

“The cost! You always speak about cost! Cost, cost, cost!” She screeched at him, her voice transformed into something sharp and unpleasant. The sound pierced Ivar's ears, it felt like so many nails being driven into his skull. “You think you can buy everything? You can buy land, and thralls, and slaves. You can buy armies, loyalty, even a throne. But you cannot buy me, Ivar. You cannot buy my magic, and you certainly cannot repay me for what I already gave you.”

And just like that, the light came back. The windows opened, letting in weak rays of sunlight, and the fire in the hearth was just as roaring as it was before the witch's display of power. Her voice too was back to the clear, crystalline sound Ivar knew.

“Don't forget I saved your life. You owe me,” she said before storming into the next room, leaving Ivar to his thoughts.

A quiet mutual understanding was born between them from the moment Ivar understood who exactly he was up against, and developed a new sense of respect for the witch. The witch who vehemently refused to give him her name.

Somehow he managed to bargain his stay, and she accepted for obscure reasons he intended to find out. He hadn't expected her to accept and found it very suspicious that she did, but couldn't exactly complain as it provided him with more time to convince her that he was in his birthright to wage war against the usurper who killed his mother.

It seemed to emulate some kind of an emotion when he mentioned his mother, and so Ivar tried to coax answers out of her yet again, asking her about her family.

“I live alone,” she told him as an answer, but Ivar could tell she tried to elude the question.

“Where does you family live then? Surely you can't be all on your own. Someone must have helped you get all the tattoos on your back,” he told her nonchalantly while peeling vegetables as per her request – their deal was that Ivar could stay as long as he worked for it, and help bring food on the table and wood in the hearth. It had only been three weeks so far.

The witch dropped her knife, and it stayed stuck upright in the wooden floor. She was sitting fairly far away from him, still hiding from his eyes as much as she could, therefore Ivar couldn't see the expression on her face, but he guessed it.

“How do you know about that?” She asked him.

A chill ran down his spine, and the temperature of the room dropped all of a sudden.

“Don't pretend you don't remember,” Ivar replied, taking a bite out of a carrot.

“What are you speaking of?” She asked, the cold in her voice undeniable but not as chilling as seconds before.

“I know you saw me spy on your bathe,” Ivar said, without an ounce of shame.

He mused that she didn't have any reason to deny it either, or feel shame. She was a beautiful woman. Why she kept trying to hide her face from him was a mystery because as far as he could tell, he has seen it all.

She picked up her knife and slammed it in the table. At least it got Ivar's full attention, and he stopped looking at the damned carrots instead of taking her astonishment seriously.

“Ivar,” she said his name and it sounded like it came from inside his skull. “This never happened.”

“What do you mean it never happened? I didn't just make it up, how else would I know of the runes on your back?” He said, now looking at her.

He didn't appreciate that she tried to make him a liar, or doubted his word. Ivar might be many things, but he had honour and pride, and he wouldn't lie about watching a woman bathe.

“You mean these?” She asked, and under Ivar's started eyes she pulled back her sleeve to show the runic tattoos swirling around her wrist.

He thought he would never get to see them again, especially not any closer than he did on the day he spied on her.

He frowned. They didn't make any sense.

“I know you cannot read them,” she said upon seeing the confusion painting on his features. “What else did you see?”

His eyebrows rose up now, and he smirked.

“Plenty,” he stated in a manner that he wanted smooth, but it only earned him a stern glare. “You were bathing, witch. What do you think I saw? And shouldn't you know it too? You caught me staring that day.”

“It never happened,” she repeated, stressing each word this time. “Whatever you saw must have been a fever induced hallucination, I would never have let you spy on me bathing, let alone let you live if I caught you doing so,” she assured him.

Ivar could tell she told the truth, there was no mistaking the dangerous glimmer in her eyes. It had nothing to do with her being a powerful witch, and everything to do with her womanly pride.

“Then it must have been a gift from the gods,” Ivar stated. “It is a sign we were bound to meet.”

“It is a sign you ate hallucinogenic mushrooms,” she corrected him dryly. She didn't want to admit it out loud but Ivar must be right in some way. He does know about something she had always kept hidden from the eyes of the world, and that was no coincidence.

“You have no need for this hood now, witch,” Ivar told her, having resumed his cutting vegetable and cleaning mushrooms.

The words were spoken lightly, Ivar didn't think she would give him any mind, as her eyes were lost in the distance. She must be thinking over what he told her, and not even listening to him anymore. But suddenly he felt her eyes on him, and when he looked up, she had dropped her hood and undid the knot tying her cape at the base of her throat, letting the material slip to the floor.

His eyes widened as he took in the sight, and he stilled. He never got a good look at her up until now, however much he tried. He began to study her more closely in the dim daylight.

Her long hair was a mess of braids and beads and tangles along with feathers and leather strips. She wore a string of leather around her neck, to which she attached little bones she found on the forest grounds. Birds, rabbits, cats, dogs, foxes, does, chicken, and many Ivar could not identify. They hang around her neck and clicked with each of her movements.

Along with her current appearance, Ivar invoked whatever memory he had of her other attires. On cold days she draped a roughly cut fox pelt on her shoulders, the colour matching her hair and making her look like a strange animal. Her fingers were dipped in black, her nails long and sharp – or so he would have sworn after their first meeting, but now, when he looked at her hands he saw normal, clean, hands.

She carved the bones she picked up and stuck them through the holes in her ear lobes. She concocted various mixtures of many different colours that she used to paint her face along with the black charcoal around her eyes. She wore leather and bird skulls around her wrists. Jewels, she liked jewels.

There was not a hint of gold, not even iron. Wood and bones and stones, sometimes flowers were her source materials and she lived in complete harmony with her surroundings. Never disfiguring the face of he earth, never leaving permanent marks of her trace. Nature ruled over her and not the other way around. She was a wild thing, untamed, untouched, unreachable.

Ivar thought she wasn't so different from him after a few months of frequently seeing her, but perhaps he was in the wrong. Perhaps he wasn't up to the task he set himself to.

A ghost. She was pale as a ghost, and Ivar's understanding of the world shattered when he was finished taking in her appearance.

“What are you?”

Soon as he asked the question he felt stupid for it. He remembered the gentleness of her touch against his hot forehead during his fever, and decided she couldn't be a ghost.

“I am a woman,” she barked at him, as if he had somehow offended her. “I thought you, out of everyone, might understand that. After all I'm sure people have put your manhood in question because of your own... defects.”

She stomped away to the bowl of clear water and splashed some on her face to get rid of the paint and charcoal, washing it all away. Her cheeks beheld an angry red hue when she was done, but Ivar saw her more clearly than ever.

Her long white hair, and pale skin glowed even in the light. No wonder he had thought her a magical being in the darkness of the forest, no wonder he thought her eyes shining in the dark. She was the colour of a freshly fallen snow, still immaculate and free of footsteps. Her clear eyes stared back at him, waiting for a reaction.

“Are you even a witch?” He asked. “Or just another poor creature forgotten by the gods?”

A sadness tainted his voice, and she guessed that thinking about her own physical defects hit very close to his own. Still, she huffed lightly.

“Do you need to ask? Have I not given you proof enough yet?” She replied.

She had. They both knew it.

“I stand by what I said. You should understand better than anyone on this earth why I need your help in avenging my parents and retrieving their kingdom. You know my pain, and my frustration, you feel it too.”

“I only wish for a quiet life, one I am denied among men, but that the forest grants me,” she explained, sitting closer to him now. “If we are as alike as you say, then why can't you understand how I feel?”

“I supposed it is not in my nature. I was born a prince.”

“I was born a nothing. I know my place, and I stick to it. I like it. I do not aspire to anything more than what I already have, and I wish you can one day find the same kind of peace I have here,” she said, letting her hand rest on his elbow.

It was the first time she touched him. Ivar didn't count the time when he was sick, he was barely conscious. He felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his arm, and she must have felt it too because she withdrew her hand abruptly and looked at it in confusion.

“I'm sorry, I don't know-” She started, but was interrupted when Ivar pulled her to him, his arm holding her waist and pressing her to him.

She was warm, and soft under his hands. He could feel the gentle slope of her curves as he moved his hand up her body. She stopped breathing when his nose brushed against her own, he could feel her holding her breath. How long would she last?

Her own hands found a place to rest. One palm open above his heart, the other one of his shoulder. She was acutely aware of his proximity and how it affected her heartbeat and her ability to think straight.

She knew he was giving her a chance to push him away, or say no, but she stayed still, and listened to the steady beat of his heart under her palm, counting in her head in a vain attempt to slow down her own. How could he stay to collected?

“I have never kissed a witch,” he told her, his lips grazing against hers.

“Because I'm the first one you meet or because they all rejected you?” She somehow managed to ask, though her head was a mess.

“I knew I'd get you from the first time I heard about the scary witch of Kattegat,” Ivar told her, his hot breath making her dizzy. She tried to keep a clear head. “The tales the elders told us when we were children sparked my interest, even then. My brothers feared you, but I knew I'd find a soul mate in you,” he continued whispering seductively until he felt her lean in slowly, parting her lips ever so slightly.

He was about to close the remaining distance between them when she pulled away and laughed. Not mockingly, not to be mean, but Ivar still felt hurt in his pride when she stood up. But standing up she needed to do, because she couldn't keep the conversation going for much longer if he held her like that.

No man had ever touched her like this. No one who stumbled in her part of the forest ever treated her like a woman. She wanted to kiss him, oh yes she wanted it so very badly. But it was a bad idea.

“The tales of the elders!” She exclaimed. “How old do you think I am, Ivar?”

He frowned a bit.

“I think you have no age. That time doesn't affect you like it does mortal men,” he said, ignoring the growing grin on her face.

“This might be a disappointment to you, but I am not an ageless magical creature. These tales spoke of my mother, and her mother before her, and so on...” she explained, and light suddenly appeared in Ivar's eyes.

She could see the question forming in his head and chose to answer before he could ask it.

“They are dead now. Killed by your own.” Now a shadow fell before his eyes and his mouth twisted in anger and disgust. “Every now and again men think the witch is vulnerable, that age is a sign of her weakness, and go hunt the elder of my family. They think they killed the witch of Kattegat, but then the next in line replaces her, and the story repeats itself with each new generation.”

“I will put an end to it once I am king,” Ivar vowed. “With your help.”

“You never give up. I understand, I suppose it is a quality – most of the time. But I do not intend to live long Ivar, rather to live well.”

“You could have both. If you come back to Kattegat with me no one will dare lay a finger on you, you will be under my protection and that of my brothers. The fool who will defy the sons of Ragnar to get to you is not yet born,” he told her with so much certainty in his voice that she dared imagine what her life would be like if she agreed.

But she didn't consider the thought seriously, not even for a moment.

“I am so sorry,” she began, and Ivar's face fell. “You must think that I settled for this life of reclusion, but it did not. I chose it. I chose to stay away from men and their violence.”

“You must let some men into your life,” Ivar's tempered flare. “You are the daughter of someone, I would wager even witches need a man to have a child.”

She stepped back a little, blushing.

“We have our ways,” she admitted, looking away with dignity and refusing to meet his burning glare.

Ivar stood up now, using the table to keep himself standing.

“What of the male children? Do you throw them into the sea? Eat them?” He now accused her of all sorts of hateful things, and she knew it came from a place of anger and frustration because she denied him a kiss, and once again refused to help him, but his words stung all the same.

“If we birth a boy we bring it to its father,” she said, as detached as she could.

She hadn't experienced any of this herself, for her mother had only given birth to one child: her. These were tales to her, as much as the scary witch of Kattegat was a tale to Ivar. The children mauling witch.

“How do you lure the men to your bed? Do you venture out of your land and hex a poor passer-by, and then leave him with a child to care for if it turns out to be a boy?”

His accusations made her feel small, and little by little she stepped back until she stood in a corner, and Ivar advanced on her, having grabbed his crutches.

“No!”

“Do you use people and throw them away? Aren't you doing the very thing you reproach me?” He barked at her. “At least I have the decency to be honest about my intentions. I came here asking for help and offered something in return! What do you offer? A night between your thighs?!”

“Stop it!” She shouted.

Her voice came out disembodied and she filled the room, her shadows flaring about her until this corner of the house was but a pitch black hole and Ivar didn't know where the ground was anymore. The dawning realizing that he overstepped an invisible line came crashing down on him, but it was too late to take back his words.

“Another word and I will rip you apart you foul man!” She threatened him. “Do not test my patience, for its limits will come much quicker than you think. I will not stand being insulted in my own home another second!”

Her eyes now glowed red and fiery like the deepest pits of Helheim, and Ivar felt the ground quake and shake as if the entire house was connected to her in some way, trembling with indignation in face of Ivar's grotesque accusations.

When she reabsorbed the shadows and the ground felt steady again, Ivar collapsed, his eyes not leaving hers as they recovered their normal ghostly colour.

“Be careful where you direct your anger, Ivar,” she told him with her usual voice now. “I am not one of your thralls, you cannot yell at me and expect no consequences, and no reaction. I will not submit.”

“I don't expect you to.”

Feeling her own tempter rising, she scoffed and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her. It was a downpour outside, the cold rain hitting her at hard as small drops of metal, and she didn't take her coat. No, instead she ran to the pond and dove in it.

She didn't calm down until she was under the surface, the water cancelling out any and all noise, even the one inside her.

Ivar hadn't stopped pacing around since she left, anguishing over what could happen to her out there in the cold and wild weather. He couldn't go out like that, he wouldn't make it back, and it wouldn't help if he got lost in the woods.

Though perhaps she wished for it to happen. He knew he crossed a line, and took his frustration out on her for no reason. His ego took a severe blow and his quick temper got the best of him. She never gave him any reason to think badly of her. She fed him, cared for him, gave him shelter, and trusted him with information she had never shared with anyone, and what did he do?

He pushed her away. Because every single person who ever cared for him had left him, one way or another. His father executed, his mother murdered, his uncle Floki self-exiled, who was left?

If he allowed himself to let this young witch into his life, would he have to watch her leave too? Did he want to take the risk?

All those weeks far away from home, from his brothers and from the politics of life, showed him life under a new perspective. She was right to refuse his invitation to accompany him to Kattegat. Her life here was much sweeter. The slow and steady pace of life was comforting, even Ivar could admit that, though his Viking blood boiled for war and raids.

She had a home here, a safe, undisturbed home that he violated. And if he took so much as a second to consider things from her point of view, he could easily understand why she refused so adamantly to help him, and thus engage with men and their pointless feuds.

He was so relieved when she came back that he thought he might pick her up if he could. He quickly assessed the situation, taking note that she was soaked through and through, shaking so much her teeth rattled.

“B-bath,” she breathed out.

Ivar first thought she was asking him to draw her a bath – which he never did and didn't know how to do, even if he was willing to oblige her. But then she walked past him, grabbing his sleeve as she did and lead him into the small adjacent room. There was a basin and while Ivar still wondered what she was doing, he saw it fill up all on its own.

The witch whispered something under her breath until it was filled to her satisfaction and steaming hot. She undressed before his eyes, her clothes sliding down her body and creating a puddle on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Ivar asked, a lump in his throat. He felt hotter than a minute before.

She didn't answer before she was fully immersed in the hot water and the trembling of her limps stopped.

“I'm taking a bath, it's really cold outside,” she said as though it was nothing. “Sit.”

“Don't order me around,” Ivar told her but did what she said anyway.

“You accused me of a great many serious things, Ivar, I think you owe it to me to listen now,” she declared with unwavering resolution. He couldn't deny her that.

“I am listening,” he told her. “I'm always listening.”

“Not always no, if you were you wouldn't have said those atrocities,” she replied.

While she was outside Ivar had vowed to not let his temper speak in his stead anymore, but the moment he heard this familiar aloofness in her voice he was tempted to scream again.

“Don't do that. You're not a detached person, you take things at heart,” he pointed out.

Her white hair clung to her face and she pushed it back, then grabbed the bar of soap sitting on the edge of the basin, still ignoring Ivar. It was maddening to speak to someone who obstinately refused to look at him!

“I was wrong to let you in as much as I did,” she said. “You took me by surprise with that strange dream of yours, but it was a mistake to tell you so many things about me.”

“I will not betray your trust,” he assured her. “If you don't give any credit to my word at least trust my selfishness. What would it bring me to share what I know? Information is power, and I know the witch of Kattegat now,” he added when he saw her wrinkle her nose upon hearing him ask her to trust him.

“Oh I know how much you value information. I know you will keep my secrets. But I still regret telling you. I regret thinking for a second that you weren't like the other men. That we were the same. My mother knew what men were like and I should have listened to her instead of taking pity on you and letting you into my home, my sanctuary. This is what I get for saving your life I suppose, being accused of murdering children and raping innocent men.”

Ivar swallowed thickly but stayed silent.

“No man is innocent,” she declared, her eyes finally settling on him. “Least of all you.”

“I know. I'm the one who murders men, women, and children. I'm the monster Kattegat should fear,” he said. “And I'm on a warpath.”

“So what am I in all of that?” She asked, her eyes pleading again, pleading for the truth, for relief. “A means to an end?”

“At first yes.” Relief did come when she heard the honestly in his voice, but it had a bitter after-taste. “I expected a quick exchange of favours and to never see you again, not that you'd take me in and care for me.”

“I do not care for you,” she told her, but her eyes disagreed.

“I care for you. And it'll get you killed,” Ivar said. “Which is why I am leaving on the morrow. You'll never hear of me again unless you seek me out yourself. In which case you will be welcome in Kattegat once I take it back.”

She wanted to believe him but his promises sounded empty. Her mother didn't die for this to happen. Her grandmother wasn't burned alive for her to make the mistake to trust a man's word.

“Allow me to make you one last offer before we part though,” Ivar added.

The witch closed her eyes. Of course. Of course he was only after her powers.

“What could you possibly offer me now? I already declined everything you were willing to give,” she scoffed, a bit more irritably than intended.

Would she miss bickering with him and hearing him promise her the world against the smallest favour? Yes, she would. But the longer he stayed the harder the toll on her when he would leave. In all honesty she was tempted to give him what he wanted just to get rid of him, and perhaps it was his strategy all along, to wear her out.

On the morrow. He would leave in a few hours. Why did it feel like a such a long time, and yet so short?

“Me.”

She froze.

“What are you even saying?”

“Me. I'm on the table now. You need a man, or you'll need one at some point, to have a child yourself.”

“Who says I want a child? Why would I want to bring a living being into this world only to see it suffer like I did for being different? If I had half a mind I would remain the last of my line until you fail to keep your promise and a group of angry men who blame the witch for their bad harvest come and kill me!” She exclaimed, and soon climbed out of the basin, wrapping herself in furs to keep warm.

She stomped off to her bedroom, and Ivar followed.

“You don't have half a mind, you have a whole, brilliant one. And I can tell you desire a child. Any girl your age would already have three in Kattegat.”

“You don't know my age.”

“I'll wager you are my age,” he said, crushing her weak argument. “You are lonely, and you seek connection. Otherwise you wouldn't have taken in a poor Viking cripple, let alone bear with my foul mood and mouth.”

“You do have a foul mouth,” she agreed, shooting him a serious yet somewhat amused glare that Ivar took as a positive sign.

“I came here to use you, and I regret it. If I wasn't so blinded with rage I would have seen past what the tales said. I would have seen the woman behind the witch. I do now.”

Couldn't Ivar see the impact of his words? She wore her heart on her sleeve and her face must have betrayed her emotions yet he didn't take notice of the anguish, the agony he put her into. Talking about children, about connection. What did he know about those things? He himself probably never thought about them or took them for granted. He had no idea how much it hurt to know that she might never get either.

“What do you want from me Ivar?!” She shouted at him, barely holding back the tears. “What will make you stop this sweet torture? I cannot bear it another second. Do you want me to drop a crown on your head? Make all your enemies drop dead this second? Bring back your parents? Make you an able bodied man? You seem to think I have endless power, that I can defy the gods, but I cannot!”

She sat down on the bed, still holding onto her furs, rage-wiping away the tears that fell down her cheeks.

“I told you from the moment we met that I cannot undo what the gods did. I cannot bring back the dead, or take lives without consequences. I cannot give you your legs back without sacrificing something else, I cannot- I... I cannot...” She hiccuped helplessly, slipping to the ground.

Ivar caught her before she hit the floor and lifted her back onto her bed, only now measuring the full extent of the harm his had done.

“You said it yourself, I owe you for saving my life. This way I will pay my debt to you, and if the gods see fit to give me a child, even one I will never see, then it will be compensation enough.”

“But I cannot use my magic for you,” the witch said again, as if to emphasis her powerlessness in this situation.

She drew her power from the earth, and gave back everything she took in various ways. What he asked of her- what he wanted her to do... it would require too great a sacrifice. This much power would kill her.

“The offer is on the table, I won't take it back. You decide what happens now,” he told her, still holding her against him. “Don't be afraid of what might happen if you have this child, my child. Whether you accept or not, witch hunting has come to an end, I will make sure of it. And if anything happened to my child, I would raise Hel and rain down on whoever touched her.”

“Do not talk like that.”

She couldn't listen to Ivar talk about her child, their child, as though she was already there, cradled in her arm, smiling up at her. Like they were happy parents who marvelled at their offspring and swore to kill anyone who laid a finger on her. The sheer thought tore her insides.

“Magic... is a curse, Ivar,” she managed to say in between two hiccups. “We are both cursed.”

“I know,” he said, once again wishing he could address her with her own name. “I know... But it doesn't need to be so always.”

It was snowing on Kattegat, and Ivar rose early this day. He always made sure to wake up before anyone else when the weather promised snow, because he wanted to see his kingdom covered in an immaculate blanket of untainted snow. No one had stepped out of their house yet, no one had disturbed the perfect landscape before his eyes.

Snow always reminded him of the witch. After their goodbyes he never saw her again, no matter how many times he tried to find his way back to her little house in the woods. People thought him mad.

Most thought him dead by the time he returned, and while he kept a secret where he had spent the last few weeks, his brothers guessed what he was up to.

“Did you find her?” Hvitserk had asked him elusively.

Ivar grinned and rustled his brother's hair, knowing he hated it.

“Find the witch? Do you still believe in children's tales Hvitserk?” He had said. The remark made Hvitserk grumble something and never bring up the subject again.

It all happened so many moons ago that Ivar wasn't entirely sure he could trust his memory, but on the other hand, how could he have made it all up? If he wasn't with the witch, where was he during those months he disappeared?

If he closed his eyes he could still see her smile. She hadn't done it often, but she did offer him a smile when she bid him farewell, her hands crossed over her stomach in a silent prayer, and that was the last picture Ivar had of her. He was glad it was a happy one. He wouldn't have been able to bear it if they had left things the way they were after their argument.

He had never consoled a crying woman before, and never thought he would be any good at it. Perhaps it was simply because he could never understand their sadness. But he understood the witch, as she did him. And he stayed with her until her tears ran dry.

He expected her to turn him down again, especially after she admitted – or rather after he finally understood, though she has been telling him in subtle ways all along – that she could not solve his problems with her magic, that it didn't work like that. But in the dead of night, he felt her slip under his furs, and when he turned around he saw her beautiful clear blue eyes asking him a silent question.

He answered with a kiss, and his hands found the tender flesh of her hips, relishing in her warmth and the soft feeling of her delicate skin under his rough hands. He had trailed his fingers up on down the runic tattoos on her back and those on her thighs.

This night was imprinted in his mind, and he couldn't shake it off. In the end he never knew if the night they spent together bore fruit, but he mused that he liked it this way.

He liked not knowing what his Ísdís's real name was. In the end he had to settle for a name himself, if only to think about her in another term than 'the witch', and settle on what she reminded him most of.

Yes, Ivar liked quiet winter mornings, before the usual hustle and bustle of Kattegat. Yes, sometimes he regretted having ever left the arms of his little witch, and even sought her out in the woods. But he still remembered what he told her – that she would never see him again after their night together, unless she came to him.

He liked to think that she watched him come and go, and smiled to herself. His Ísdís, his first love. He would never know what could have been. All he knew was that he wasn't brought a little boy wrapped in furs nine months after leaving her. He knew that in his old days he would once again go to the forest and seek her out. Maybe find a tomb engraved with the same runes that ornamented her body. He had memorised some of them.

But for now, she was alive, he felt it in his bones. He sensed her presence sometimes, and when he looked up and saw a raven, or an owl, or sometimes a fox lurking behind a tree, and just assumed it was her, watching over him.

He would never be entirely sure that he made the right decision when he left her, but it felt right in his heart.

She was a wonder. A mystery that should be left alone and unsolved, lest it lose its magic.

If you like my work please consider buying me a coffee <3

[Edit and moodboard by me, feel free to share/save/repost as long as you credit me]

A/N: The witch is obviously albinos. I didn’t state it explicitly because the word albinos didn’t exist before the 17th century.

Ísdís: Derived from Old Norse ís "ice" and dís "goddess".

This is indeed an ivar x Reader work, but written third person, and the name Ísdís is a name he gave her because she never revealed her name.

I tried to make it spooky but I’m not a horror writer and it shows (i think). But anyway, the goal wasn’t to make you crap your pants but to go a little off the beaten track and try something new (and something I haven’t read yet). Also it’s a 100% self indulgent work, because I’m very passionate about witchcraft and I was just waiting for the right time (and a valid excuse) to go witchy on your asses.

Spoopy Halloween everyone

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