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hee0soo · 5 months ago

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When Stars & Moon Align

Pairing — Park Seonghwa x afab!Reader

Summary — Imperial Commander Park Seonghwa is a strict, unforgiving man, ready to follow through with every cruel command he is given... Until the woman he loves reveals herself to be part of the resistance...

Genre — angst, a lil fluff at the end, hurt/clmfort maybe (?) honestly i don't even know anymore

Warnings — pregnancy, death, suicide (?) like bro she asks him to kill her okay, mentions of war, literally every warning that comes with starwars tbh, bloodshed, mention of embyo death(?)

Word Count — 4.1k

Rating — NC-17

A/N — Plsss don't hate me for any inaccurancys! I haven't watched Star Wars in a good while and was simply inspired by this look ⬆️ for golden hour pt. 2

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©hee0soo on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

Not many things were able to throw Park Seonghwa off. He was a well known Commander within the First Order, recognized for his calm, almost cold persona. A man that did not hesitate to kill when necessary or told to do so by the higher ups, cruel almost if one were to ask the victims of his torturous skills of pulling information out of a stubborn rebel. Many had claimed to withstand him and all had failed.

For the First Order, he was an important asset who knew how to get what he wanted and had no qualms about doing what was needed to get exactly that.

And so it was all the more surprising to see the cold façade of ice crack upon coming face to face with the rebels they had managed to catch just a few hours prior. He had yet to see them, only having known about the incomers after getting the order to prepare one of the chambers.

But now, staring into the face of the woman he had tried so hard to hide from his superiors, he had a hard time hiding the storm of emotions brewing inside him.

Had he known that you, his wife, the love of his life, was one of the rebels the First Order and thus him were trying so desperately to eliminate? Of course not! However to say he was surprised would also be a lie.

You had never been one to do as you were told. A true whirlwind that he had to save from getting her ass handed to her more times than he could count. Someone who was able to bring out the softer, more carefree side of his personality with something as simple as an eye bat and a smile that made it look like the stars were sparkling in them.

Hands bound behind your back and on your knees, glaring at the cold grey shimmering ground under you, you sat there. Waiting for what was to come.

“What should we do with them, Commander?” the muted voice of one of the officers cut through the heavy silence that surrounded them even while standing in the middle of a bustling hangar.

Seonghwa, schooling his face as best as he could back into a cold glaring picture of nonchalance, inhaled before staring down at your kneeling form. “Bring them to the interrogation chambers. I will take care of them in due time.”

He watched your muscles tense upon recognizing his voice.

“Yes, Commander!” The troopers roughly pulled you to your feet and if Seonghwa hadn´t had to pretend to be ignorant of whom you were, he would have ripped the trooper to shreds for doing so.

Hiding his amusement over how you immediately snarled at the poor trooper, swearing up and down at him with every insult he knew you knew off, he walked behind you with quick steps. The two men you were captured with were either dragged behind them or just as stubborn as you were being. It was pathetic how much they struggled with getting 3 non force wielders in Seonghwa’s opinion.

“Don´t fucking touch me you bastard!” you snapped when you were being forced forward particularly harsh, trying to hit the trooper with your leg which promptly got you a blaster smacked to the head. Delirious you sagged in yourself, sight swimming ever so slightly as you felt the spot start to bruise.

“Is that how you treat your guests? Were you not taught how to receive any?” The comment, seemingly directed at nobody, Seonghwa knew was for him to hear.

It was ironic because while when he was rarely at home, you almost never received guests in your house and when you did? You had to show him first how to treat them nicely.

You reached the Interrogation rooms. Funny how they were called that when they should have been called torture chambers, if one were to ask you. Sadly nobody did and so you quickly found yourself strapped to the giant, very uncomfortable looking chair that stood right in the middle of the room.

For the first time in ages did your eyes meet your husband’s as he stood right in front of you. Face blank of emotion and hands clasped together as they were resting against behind his back. He stood still, admiring your face and internally wincing when he saw the drying blood staining the side of your face and your busted lip.

“Take care of the others. She belongs to me.”

His words had you cackling in surprise, well knowing how true his statement rang. If Seonghwa was one thing that you could attest to, then it was possessive!

You were left alone with him. Neither of you wanting to falter first.

You silently raised your eyebrow at his still form, his apparent calmness grating on your nerves. Seonghwa felt the same, but knowing you well enough he also knew that if he didn´t break his silence then he would stand there until the galaxy ceased to exist.

“You never told me.”

It was a statement, not a question and you knew that very well. Instead of straight out answering you tilted your head and smiled.

“Should I have? Would you have accepted it?” you asked in return, knowing very well that Seonghwa wouldn´t be able to answer this. Seonghwa relaxed ever so slightly at the sound of your voice. There was no trace of anger or hatred for his actions traceable which left him a tad bit more at peace with the situation.

“You know I can´t answer that.” He sighed.

“No, I guess you can´t… But tell me this,” you began before falling silent. Smile falling a bit as reality began to settle into your bones. “What happens now?”

Seonghwa swallowed, the calm and collected facade now not just crumbling but completely falling. You could clearly see the fear and sadness behind those dark beautiful eyes you had fallen for all this time ago.

“Don´t say it, please don´t say it.” He begged, voice shaking the slightest bit as he took enough steps to stand right in front of you. You felt his gloved fingers gently touching your strapped down ones.

“Hwa… what else is there to say? I work for those you swore to hunt down, there is no other way but for you to-“

“No! I won´t let it come to that!” He didn’t let you speak. Hearing what you were going to say would shatter his resolve completely.

You scoffed gently in amusement. “You have no choice! Ren will kill you if you don´t at least get me to spill some information and you and I both know, that won´t happen. So tell me, what other choice do we have?”

The Commander of the First Order, your ever loving husband yelled, hand running through his neatly kempt back hair. “A different one then me fucking killing you y/n! My star please…”

“I´ll always be your star. But this is not something either of us can change. You either torture me until my heart hives out, or you shoot me right here and now. But please don´t let me wait for my demise in this horrible corner you call Interrogation Room.”

Frustrated Seonghwa turned around and rammed his fist into the hard surface of the wall. You flinched at the sound it made, worrying for his hand more then he seemed to be doing.

“Seonghwa, baby listen to me!” you said and gave him a said smile when he faced you again. A salty tear that you hadn´t notice was ready to be freed rolled down the side of your face. Seonghwa shook his head and came back cup your face in his hands, thumb wiping away the tear while pressing his forehead against yours.

He couldn´t care less if the cameras picked up on what was going on or if his Ren or even Snoke got their hands on the material. All he care about was being as close to you as possible in your position.

“You´ll be okay.” You whispered and received a whimper from the usually cold man in response.

“No I won´t. Not when I do this! I could never live with myself if I did.”

You leaned forward as far as you could, laying your lips on his for a gentle yet heartbreakingly desperate kiss. The tears were coming without anything stopping them at this point, mixing with his own.

“I love you, Park Seonghwa. I did ever since I almost shot you back when we were nothing but teenagers on Niamos,” both of you laughed at the reminder of how you had gotten close. “And I promise that I will do so until all the stars die.”

“My star I can´t-“ he took a deep breath and kissed you once more before backing up to catch himself again. “And I won´t.”

“Hwa!”

“No, I can´t lose you and much less kill you myself! I will find a way, just give me time.” With those last words he wipped the wetness from his cheeks and turned to leave. An anger you had never once felt before took over.

“NO! DON´T YOU DARE YOU FUCKING COWARD! GET BACK HERE AND FINISH IT!” The whoosh of the doors sliding shut could be heard through your screams, leaving you to calm down. “Please baby… just finish us…”

Back on the bridge surrounded by officers and troopers of every kind, Seonghwa fought hard on what to do now. It had been almost 4 rotations since you and your companions had been brought in and just as long since he had visited your cell. He had given the order that no one was to enter it without his explicit permission, reasoning that this was a new technique he wanted to try. Only to give food and a medic droid had been send in as of now.

“Let them stir in their misery.” He had said as if he needed to answer to any of them.

He knew that many questioned him for this, yet none of them dared to say anything out loud in fear of being on the receiving end of the commanders anger.

His train of thought came to an abrupt halt as the Admiral suddenly stood at his side.

“What?” he hissed and enjoyed the reaction he received.

“Lo- Lord Ren wishes to speak to you.” The man stammered and bowed at his waist.

A sigh left Seonghwa’s mouth and he followed even if a bit unwilling.

He stepped closer to the Holo projector, the blue light flickering as the connection shook.

“Commander. Have you made any progress with the prisoners?” The masked man inquired gruffly, causing Seonghwa to shake his head.

“No, none of them have spoken so far. We are still waiting for them to feel a sense of … safety… if you will.”

“You are supposed to break THEM! NOT MAKE THEM FEEL SAFE! This is not a cruise ship you are commanding!” Ren lost his temper and if it were anyone else Seonghwa would have been scared.

“Yes, Lord Ren. I am very aware and will let you know when we have made progress. It will be soon, I guarantee you.”

The Sith apprentice, while not happy accepted the answer, aware that he wasn´t able to do much while being in a different part of the galaxy.

“I hope so, commander. Or this will have consequences…” The threat hanging in the air was clear but the Commander paid it no mind. Whatever Ren had planned for him if this failed could not be worse then what would happen if he didn´t find a way to get you of this ship.

The hologram vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Seonghwa leaned heavily on the projector table when the droid who has been asked to check on you waddled over to hand him the datapad.

“If. You. Have. Any. More. Questions. Please. Don´t. Hesitate. To. Ask.” He stammered mechanically.

Seonghwa took the Datapad and ushered the droid away to read.

None of the located injuries where ones that particulary surprised him. A few bruises, a twisted ankle and a broken finger. Nothing that couldn´t be fixed easily.

The last sentence on the report however left him frozen.

Additional form of life detected.

Could this mean-

FUCK!

He read over it again, hoping that he might have been reading this wrong.

Additional form of life detected.

The words didn´t change, no matter how many times he read over them and something inside him snapped.

Fuck the war. Fuck the First Order and Fuck Ren and Snoke!

This didn´t just change the situation, it changed his entire view on what he stood and worked for. All of a sudden he didn´t care if the Resistance was destroyed or if the First Order won this war over the galaxies.

All that mattered to him was to get you and his unborn child to safety, even if it meant his own death.

And so he began to form his plan.

With hurried steps he marched of the bridge towards where you were being held captive. The troopers hurriedly jumped out of his way and left after hearing the hissed, “Dismissed. And let them prepare my ship!” being thrown their way.

The doors opened with a hiss and closed again behind him.

“Is it time for your daily taunts already?” you drawled out of boredom, eyes shut in resignation.

Guilt clawed at Seonghwa’s insides upon seeing the state you were in. His orders had very obviously been ignored, the black eye and the additional blood that had dried into the fabric of your tunics were a dead giveaway of that.

His eyes fall onto your stomach, the slight swell that he had not noticed in the hectic of the events just a few rotations prior, now very evident if one knew what to look for.

“Oh, my Star… I´m so sorry dear.” He sighed and opened the clasps holding you in place. Hearing his voice again your eyes flew open.

“What- Seonghwa? What are you doing?” you questioned and couldn´t stop the anger from bleeding into your words.

“There is no time to explain! We have to get to the hangar. Quick, there is no time!” he rushed to say and pulled you upright when you swayed a little to much for Seonghwa´s liking.

Gapping at the nothing saying explanation of his you struggled against him. Seonghwa tugged gently on your arm, causing you to fall forward and into his chest.

“We are getting out of here. You and I,” he said, staring straight into your Soul. “And our child.”

Eyes wide open you looked at him.

“You-“

“Know, yes. And there is nothing that will stop me from getting us out of here, so come. Follow me.”

When you had found your footing again, Seonghwa let go of your shocked form and pulled out his blaster from his weapon belt and opened the door. Gesturing for you to step out in front of him.

You felt the blaster being pressed into your back as he led you through the dark corridors towards the hangar. It seemed you were walking for ages past soldiers and droids that were going their own way until you walked into the hangar bay.

“I hate to ask this baby, but what do we do if your genius plan fails and we get caught?” you murmured under your breath so only your husband could hear.

He huffed a laugh. “We will find out when it comes to that.”

“Because that makes me feel so much better.” You rolled your eyes.

-------

“Commander, Sir! Your Ship has been prepared and is ready for departure. However we need identification that you are permissioned to leave with the prisoner!”

Both you and Seonghwa froze when you were stopped. So far everything had run smoothly so you shouldn´t be surprised that luck was now turning against you.

“I was directly ordered by Lord Ren to bring this prisoner to him and now let me trough.”

The two troopers guarding his ship looked at each other for a moment before turning back to you.

“I´m sorry commander but we need to see identification and validation of that order before we can let you board.”

You took a step closer to Seonghwa, slowly reaching for the gun still stuck to his waist. The moment you had it your hands on it you ducked and Seonghwa shoot the two straight in the head. The smell of burning armor filled your nose and you frowned as your stomach churned in protest.

An alarm started blaring through the hangar and the light turned red.

“GET IN AND PREPARE FOR TAKE OFF!” Seonghwa yelled and shot the storm troopers that were trying to stop them before you were gone.

You ran into the cockpit and sat down in front of the control panel to start the engine. The ship shook but Seonghwa managed to sat down at your side just after you took off, followed by 2 TIE/in Fighters that did everything to shoot you right out of the sky.

“Do something!” you yelled at your husband who was busy trying to defend them. Seonghwa, knowing how you could be under stress chose to ignore this and only muttered a quiet “What do you think I’m doing here?” to himself.

The first exploded into nothing more but ruble as it was hit by blaster bolts followed by the second and you suddenly were in hyperspace.

Seonghwa shut of the tracker that would allow the First Order to follow them where ever they went.

“Will we talk about this, my star?” he asked after silence had settle over the two of you.

“Not right now.” You said flatly, knowing that if you did now, you would probably tried to kill him yourself.

“And where are we going?”

“D’Qar.”

Seonghwa realized that he wouldn´t get anything more from you. He knew that you were mad at him for not listening to your request back in that cell but what was he supposed to do? Had he listened and followed through, then could have also simply asked the next trooper to shoot him right there and then.

“You know why I couldn’t do it.”

“Because you’re a coward?”

Now Seonghwa could admit that from anyone else, these words would have probably unleashed a storm of fury. From you? He knew that it was a defense mechanism to protect your pride and he had to conceal a smile. Even after all this time and all this fighting that shook up the galaxy once more, you still were the same fiery personality he fell for.

His face fell when he thought about what he had almost lost. The Commander could forgive you for fighting against his own cause, he could forgive you for fighting for what you believed in and like he said, he couldn’t even be surprised by it. You had always stood for those weaker than him and this was your own way of fighting for them; trying to save those who couldn’t save themselves from this war the first order had brought on.

However he couldn’t help but think-

“Would you really have sacrificed our child for them? To keep their secrets?”

Your stoic face faltered and in even tho he was only able to see your profile, he recognized the horror glimmering in your widened eyes when the realization set in what you had almost done.

It wasn’t just that you had tried to give your self up for the Resistance and what the Jedi fought for. It was the fact that you had also begged him to kill you, full well knowing that you carried the prove of your love under your heart.

Your hand fell onto your stomach which, now that he was aware of the circumstance, did look rounder than last time he had seen you when he had departed again.

“Don’t fret now, my star. Nothing happened to you and our little moon I promise you now, nothing will threaten you ever again as long as I am there to prevent it.” Even if his words were calm, that did not mean he felt as calm on the inside. You knew he was seething on the inside for your failure and protecting what he didn’t even know existed, even if you had not realized what it would have meant for the life growing inside your belly.

Seonghwa reached for your hand, the once still gently brushing over the swell of your stomach. He didn’t pull it away, no he simply added his own gentle ministration to it and you tears suddenly fell freely and without restraint.

Without having to think the man put the ship on autopilot to pull his silently crying wife into his arms. You went without much of a fight, craving the touch of your husband who you hadn’t seen since the baby was conceived. You had missed him terribly, driving those close to you nearly insane in the process.

It hadn’t been easy being pregnant and fighting your aches all alone when you didn’t feel like you could share, more like didn’t want to share the sweet news with anyone but the man wiping the salty liquid away from your cheeks and whispering soothing words into the shell of your ear.

“I’m sorry, Hwa! So sorry! How could I even suggest- how could I not think—?” you wept out between heavy sobs.

“It’s done now, and we shall not think of it again. We are alright. You, me and this little moon of ours and nothing, nothing will ever change this again. How could I let them? Knowing what is waiting for me far away from the battle field…” he smiled, his own tears glistening in his eyes now that the adrenaline slowly settled.

You leaned your forehead against his, noses brushing against each other lightly. You reveled in it like a Loth-Cat getting chin scratches.

Seonghwa closed the gap between your lips, sealing them with yours and it was like coming home before the moment was over far to fast in your opinion.

“So, D’Qar huh? Is that where you have been hiding?” he whispered with a smug grin which in turned earned him a slap to the back of his not so sleek any more ponytail.

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burning-academia-if · 2 months ago

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Bonus Short Story: Lars

Word count: 5k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a boy who grew teeth to replace his missing wings.

CW: brief depictions of body horror, blood, gore, and mentions and discussions about drug use

A/N: I've been hoarding this since last year lol Now that chapter 3 is out, I can finally share this with you all! Hope you enjoy

There was blood in the snow. It was thick and dark and redder than any shade he'd ever seen. His body sunk into the earth, and the cold sunk into him. The Dead Thing stood over him, more alive than his parents now. More alive then he would be soon. Its faulty impression of wings flared out behind it, void face mimicking oblivion.

'Precious child, take your wings.'

Its hand reached out, cupping his cheek, forcing his head to raise. His blond hair fell back, unfocused eyes losing their color of clear blue. The wound on his back wouldn't stop bleeding. This was not a type of bleeding he knew, like the kind acquired from climbing trees or running through parks. His parents must have spilled out every drop, with the state they'd been left in.

His eyes slipped closed, body sagging. Its fingers trailed down his face, stopping at his throat. Its hands were colder than the snow. He'd never know anything else beyond his eighth winter.

Impact.

His body fell back, sinking into the snow. He cried out just as the thing let out an inhuman screech. There were voices shouting, hands reaching for him, tending to his wounds. More yelling. Hard words. More screaming. Magic polluted the air. The pain wouldn't leave him. It'd never leave him.

No one wanted him. He couldn't say he'd been surprised. Even so young, at the tender age of eight, he'd felt the way eyes would pierce into him, looking right at his neck. He tried to shrug it off, keep his head down, ignore the prickle on his skin. He'd keep quiet and live with his aunt and not pay attention to any of her and her husband's whispering. He'd try to stay out of his cousins' way.

He just wasn't made for anything except violence.

The scar on his back rose all the way to the left side of his neck. His shirt couldn't hide all of it, leaving it open for staring. The kids at school had asked about it with a flighty curiosity, but had mostly left it alone. So he grew up, and the scar grew with him. It was sensitive to the touch, pins and needles every time he brushed his own hands against it.

When someone else did it, quietly and suddenly, without permission, his brain lit up. He wasn't sure what he'd done until teachers were pulling him off another student, teeth barred and body shaking. The boy had laid strewn on the floor, wailing and covering his face. There was blood dripping to the floor, likely from a hit to the nose.

Lars hadn't realized what he'd done until his guardians were called in. He'd sat in the chair in the principal's office, turned away from the other kid who held an ice pack to his face, and glowered at the mediocre paintings hanging on the walls. He hadn't meant for this to happen, but it had. Whatever eggshells he'd been walking on shattered after two years.

His aunt arrived, looking flushed in the face from emotions. She didn't look at him. He didn't look at her. She apologized profusely, grabbed him by the arm hard, and when he jerked away, she pulled harder.

"Ten years old, and already causing problems. You really are just like my brother." Lars said nothing to her, too focused on getting her to let go.

He yanked and stalled and when she was ready to snap again he hissed. "Stop touching me."

She ignored him, and dragged him to the car. Directed him inside, and said they were going to have to talk about this later. He knew what that meant. He could already picture the conversation. He curled up in the backseat, rubbing where she touched and suddenly felt the need for a shower. Or maybe, even, a chance to rip off all his skin.

Middle school was when Lars stopped caring. Keeping his head down hadn't made them pleasant, and after his first mistake, he decided to do it on purpose. Fights were a rush, blood in his ears, nose, mouth. Fist connecting with skin, harsh words spilling out. It got to the tipping point by eight grade.

Aunt Lydia had made calls to every other family member she could think of. She couldn't raise him, not when he'd gotten expelled from a second school. Lars had thought 'fuck her', and snagged a cigarette from her purse when she hadn't been looking. He'd snuck out while she'd been begging on the phone yet again for someone else to take him in.

He went to the always barren park by the house. Lars wasn't sure what had happened here before, but he figured half of why it was empty was because of how prevalent death was. There was always the same ghost curled up by a lamppost and shivering. Lars wasn't sure, but he figured they died here from an overdose. He set the cigarette down on one of the tables, a habit he'd developed in the past year.

The ghost raised his head.

Lars said, "I need something from you again."

And the ghost answered.

"What are you doing here--don't just walk into this house."

Lars could hear the commotion from where he was holed up in his room. He kicked off the bed, threw the door open, and peeked out. A man he'd never seen before stood at the door. Dirty blonde hair, scraggly beard, the biggest shit-eating grin Lars had ever seen someone possess.

"What do you mean? I was invited. You have a rowdy teen boy problem and I'm here to take him off your hands." Lars narrowed his eyes as the man strolled in. Aunt Lydia was at a loss for words with that. He'd never seen her hold her tongue so quickly.

The man spotted him instantly. "Jesus Christ, you really do look just like my brother."

An uncle, then. Lars stepped out fully, slamming the door shut as if it'd make a point. "How do you know me?"

"Dear sis Lydia told me about you, of course."

"Bull fucking shit she did." Lars took a step towards him, and a flood of magic hit him as quickly as it flowed out of him. Immediately, Lars threw out a hand, bracing himself on the wall. His aunt shouted, asking what this freak of a man was doing.

Lars slipped to his knees, looking down at shaking hands. The whole world was slowly turning red. The red of blood. His own blood. What a curse, for his magic to look like this. The man kneeled down, reaching out and used magic to guide Lars' face up. He kept a distance away, to avoid any sense of touch.

His eyes were seeing right through him, "The name's Harvey Angel. I'm your uncle on your dad's side."

"What do you want?"

Uncle Harvey shrugged, "We'll talk about that later. For now, I'd suggest you start packing those bags."

"He's never shown a hint of magic." Lydia paced in the kitchen, furiously trying to get a hold of her husband. Harvey leaned back in the chair in was, tilting as far as he could go.

"I can imagine. How long since he's been doing drugs?"

She halted mid-stride. "What?"

"He's pretty young, right? Fourteen? I can't imagine he's been doing it that long. There's a program near my place that deals with youth addiction in case he needs it but--"

"Hold on." She snapped, hand slamming down on the table. "I've never seen him acting or looking like he was high."

"Well, you've never been the sort to see people." And teenagers were good at hiding things, besides. There were a lot of things he could assume immediately upon walking through the front door. The first was a strange and languid undercurrent of magic. It was always how magic felt with most kinds of drug use. He'd wanted to be sure, so he'd reached in and pulled the magic out of Lars before he'd known what was happening.

"You don't understand how much of a handful he is. He's worse than you and...well, he's worse than all of us when we were that age. And now this sudden revelation on top of it makes it all the worse. I never wanted to see you again, but at least you can finally take that fuck up off my hands."

Harvey said nothing, his eyes looking up towards where he heard the rummaging around of items. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with the boy. The last thing he was meant to be was a father figure, but his brother hadn't been either. At the very least, he owed it to him to try. So he'd try.

"First things first." Lars glanced around the room, sitting cross legged on the bed. By the sound of its creeks, he was sure it'd been around longer since he'd been alive. His apparent uncle sat across from him on top of the still unpacked boxes of the few things he had. Lars looked more like him than his aunt, he realized. The narrowness of the face and the easy bruising around the eyes mirrored his own. Had his dad looked the same? Lars couldn't remember.

"What?"

"What have you been using?"

Lars scowled, "If you kidnapped me just to send me to a rehab I don't fucking need--"

"Don't be smart. Answer the question."

He bit his inner cheek, but didn't see the point in hiding it, "Just pot."

"You swear?"

"What, do you want check my arm for track marks?" The warning flash in his uncle's eyes didn't match the ease of his smile. Lars took a deep breath. "I swear. I know plenty of death magicians' die from addiction."

The sharpness in his eyes eased a fraction, "You did your research. But knowing doesn't stop shit from affecting you."

"I don't know you well enough to get this lecture." Lars pressed his hands into the mattress, half tempted to get up and leave. But there was something still bothering him. "You didn't flinch when I mentioned death magicians."

"I knew you were one the second I pulled your magic at of you. Death magicians have a distinct aura around them. If you did it to me, you'd find the same." The easy admission made Lars look at the man in front of him again. He knew nothing about him, and he couldn't gleam anything from him either. "You started smoking so you wouldn't have to see the dead all the time, right?"

Lars nodded. He didn't like to admit it. There was nothing wrong with the dead, nothing that screamed danger when he looked at them. Yet, his whole back would grow warm and slick and the phantom pain of his scar would rush through him whenever he caught their gaze. He wasn't afraid, he just found the whole ordeal annoying.

"Well, you obviously know you're not the first. If it gets too much, let me know. I can show you some tricks. Eventually, you'll get used to the high and it won't stave the dead off like it does right now. That is, if you start to feel like trusting me."

"Why would I trust you? You're just another family member in a long line of them who took me in. By next year, I bet I'll be somewhere else. If I wasn't a magician, I would have been tossed to the system by now."

He meant this, and the returned smile was enough to ignite his blood, "Naw, I think I'll like you Lars. We'll see how things go, won't we?"

"I guess we will."

In that first year, Lars learned a lot of things about Uncle Harvey. He wasn't a master liar, and he didn't give a shit as to who he was lying to. On his fifteenth birthday, when he'd been forced to redo his magic aptitude test, Uncle Harvey had woven a whole tale of how Lars had been a late bloomer. Drugs? There were no drugs, Harvey's sister had just resented Lars with her whole soul that she'd made an excuse to get rid of him. They could even run a drug test.

By the end of the whole bullshit spiel, Lars had almost believed the man himself.

He also was the Death magician he'd claimed to been. During the first semester of his freshman year of high school, Uncle Harvey had picked him up one time for a reason Lars no longer remembered. When Lars had gotten to his car, Harvey had been eyeing one of the windows.

"What is it?" Lars had thrown his bag in the backseat before sitting on the passenger side.

Uncle Harvey had merely shrugged, "There are some schools more haunted than hospitals, I think. Maybe it has to do with how it's easier to accept death when you know it's coming, than in a place where you don't."

When Lars had glanced back, he'd seen a face he'd grown familiar with. A girl, a few years older, with her hair teased up in a baby blue blouse. Whatever had killed her wasn't something that had left wounds on the outside. Her eyes were always closed, her head always resting against the window.

He'd looked away.

The last thing Lars realized, during the summer before his sophomore year, was that his uncle was serious. Clearly, Uncle Harvey had no idea how the hell to be a parent. He forgot about dinner and coming home at night, or he'd show up at school, still half asleep, after the few fights Lars had gotten in to, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn't be damned despite the other fuming parent.

Yet, he could read Lars like a book. Everything he refused to say, Harvey just knew. After his first official high school fight, he'd handed Lars an axe and told him to go chop some wood to get the energy out. Lars had looked at him like he was insane yet ended up going at it until his fingers were raw. When Lars had felt the hint of a cold, the cabinets were suddenly stocked with medicine. When the unquiet of the dead reached for him, his uncle would drag him away, telling him looking only gave them power.

Then it was summer again, and Lars was still living with this man who had no plans to kick him out. He'd sat in the living room one morning, the foggy blue haze of six am filtered through open windows and smudged glass, and watched his uncle sit at an old piano. He'd watched the way his fingers glided over the keys and narrowed his eyes.

"I want to know."

"How to play piano?" His uncle hadn't looked up. "Your dad used to be quite the composer, you know."

"No, I don't know. I hardly remember him. But that wasn't what I was talking about. Teach me about Death magic." He paused, the notes gliding over him. He didn't remember his father well, but if he reached deep inside, he could almost recall sitting on a piano stool beside a vague male form playing a quiet melody. "And maybe the piano, too. If you can."

The man glanced back, more teeth than grin, "Finally convinced I don't hate you?"

"No, but close enough." Uncle Harvey's grin turned real at that as he barked out a laugh.

"Good, but don't expect me to go easy on you." Lars scoffed, and that was that.

Years went by. Harvey kept close eye on his nephew, who he hadn't expected to have real feelings for. But underneath all the bite, he could see fragments of his brother. The three of them had never gotten along when they were younger, and the second they could they'd all scattered to the wind, never to speak to each other again. Now, though, Harvey wondered if that man had been all bad. Perhaps it was his death which made him fonder of old memories than he should be.

Lars took quickly to music. His free time was spent more on practicing the piano and reading up on music theory than it was on homework. Harvey found he could only be so hard on him, since he figured the boy would have coasted along with his grades regardless of if he took up hobbies or not.

And as far as he could tell, leaning into his magic had done him far more good than bad. Harvey had seen many try to reach into that well and it caused them to spiral so much faster than if they'd merely run from their cursed magic. Death Magicians barely made it to fifty. It was a legacy filled with suicide and addiction and illness. And the Board of Magicians had never cared enough to offer their assistance.

The relief that Lars had hit his eighteenth birthday alive and sober enough, was enough to let him breathe. He did care for Lars. He hadn't cried at his brother's funeral, but if he ever had to attend Lars'? He thought he would.

"How does graduating feel?" Harvey asked, as he drove Lars to the ceremony.

Lars cut him a glance from the passenger seat, "Like I don't have to deal with bullshit anymore."

Harvey had to stop his grin, "Oh yeah? Then why'd you apply for college?"

There was a moment's pause, "Change of scenery. And anyway, I want to take music seriously."

"The Board won't let a Death Magician do whatever they please, you know."

"They can eat shit and die for all I care. I'm leaving, and they can try to drag me back if they want." Years had not softened him, but Harvey liked that. Liked that he could ask Lars anything and he'd always answer with his honest feelings, even if he did say it tinged with cruelty.

It made Harvey wish he had appreciated it in his brother. He wished he could go back in time and try again. Maybe if the three siblings had tried, things would have been different. But that was time he couldn't get back. He hoped taking in Lars would make up for those wounds he'd caused.

"Don't completely ghost me when you're gone." Harvey hadn't meant to say it.

Lars paused, the fire in his eyes cooling, "Sure."

In the language of Lars, that was a promise.

College went. Lars had taken up more instruments than his professors had cared for, and yet proved himself decent enough in all of them, and pretty good at two of them. His main strength was composing, and he sank into it with fever.

His uncle had managed to find some of his dad's pieces and Lars had studied them as though it would hold the answers of what the hell had happened that night all those years ago. Instead, he learned more about his dad's taste in music. Angry pieces with fast tempos, excessive use of staccatos, an endless aversion to the standard 4/4 time signature.

If art reflected the artist, than him and his dad might have been similar. He'd never bothered to ask his uncle about his parents, because he hadn't cared. He didn't want to know the dead, but he did want to know about the attack. The scar on his back felt like an endless mockery. He would find the monster, and slaughter it with his own hands.

But for now, he buried himself in a world away. No magicians, no magic, only the faint lingering of death and ghosts. The break was something he'd sought for so long. A world that just consisted of himself and no one else. He'd sink into creation and the rest of him would cease to exist. If he kept working, he'd cease thinking. He'd cease to be.

Nothing lasts forever, of course.

After one of his morning classes, he'd found a man waiting for him by the door.

"Lars Angel?" Lars paused, assessing eyes darting to who had stopped him. He was unfamiliar, middle aged with only a hint of aging, slicked back hair and a suit that costed a pretty penny. His pale skin had a glow to it, his smile barely suppressed anger. It wasn't directed at him. But that didn't matter as much as the magic which radiated off him in droves.

It made Lars snap, "Who the hell are you?"

The smile became sharp, the anger redirected towards him, "I'm the headmaster of Vales Grove University. You may call me Mr. Windsor. I have something I need to discuss with you, as per the request of West Myer's Board of Magicians."

"I'm not interested in using my magic for them."

"We'll discuss it further, in private." Lars locked eyes with Mr. Windsor, and the two stayed like that, immobile. Lars wasn't going to be the one who looked away, and apparently neither was Mr. Windsor. "Please don't delay. It will be easier for both of us if you come along. Especially seeing as this has to do with the incident twelve years ago."

Twelve years, back when he was eight. Back when his parents died. Lars' voice emptied out of all emotions, "Understood."

Despite himself, he followed Mr. Windsor down the halls.

"Death magicians are rare, you know." Mr. Windsor stirred cream into a cup of coffee. Lars cast a glance around the pseudo-quaint cafe, feeling magic roll over him in waves. He'd never been in a space with so many other magicians before. "They also bring up a lot of concern for us."

"So you're here to spy."

"I meant the harm in which they cause onto themselves." Mr. Windsor frowned, and Lars gave him a blank stare.

"I've been doing pretty good, thanks. But this isn't a wellness check. Cut the bullshit. You want something from me." Lars tapped his fingers against the wood of the table, chipped nails echoing despite the constant drone of radio jazz.

The flicker in the man's eyes showed his patience was already starting to wear thin. Lars wondered what kind of big shot he was that a hint of resistance blew his fuse, "You're right. West Myers' Board is dealing with a major issue in relation to both West Myers' itself and Juniper Valley. The assistance of Death Magicians would be a major help."

"Juniper Valley has always had something wrong with it." Granted, Lars hadn't realized that until he'd left the place. All at once, the tendrils of decay unraveled around his body. The constant presence of the dead had been a brief question in his mind. One he'd circled back to in relation to the slaughter of his parents. But he hadn't fully considered it. Not since he hadn't really thought he'd ever return.

"There are many place in this world, with different manifestations of magic and death. You'll find places of endless summers in regions that don't make sense, you'll find find towns were time has been stolen, and for Juniper Valley, death has always been its domain. It is not wrong, merely different."

A hard smile flashed on Lars face, "Yet, you seem the type of man to attack anything different as wrong. But being the Headmaster of Vales Grove, you can't actually say that, can you? Not without dealing with the consequences that come from holding that opinion."

The false pleasantness finally cracked away, and his smile became as biting as Lars, "You're exactly like your father."

Lars didn't take the bait, "Back on topic. You want me back because I'm a Death Magician?"

"Specifically, Vales Grove University has a grad program for Student Wardens--"

"I'm not going to be a dog for the Board, and I'm not going to be a dog for the university." Lars moved to stand, already finished with the conversation.

Mr. Windsor took a sip of his coffee, "Whatever is causing issues for the Board is related to the monsters which killed your parents."

"Is that so?" He glanced over, and Mr. Windsor nodded.

"I think someone liked the irony. 'Angels' killing the Angels' family. I supposed they missed a few, what with you and your uncle."

"And my aunt."

"Your aunt? Ah, yes. She wasn't blood related to your father. I suppose that had something to do with her safety." This was new information. Mr. Windsor kept watching his face, waiting for Lars to misspeak. Lars wondered when it'd click that he didn't have any emotional investment in his family.

It was what all soul magicians did with heart magicians. Appeal to their emotions, because it's where they draw their magic from. Lars was pretty sure some of their theories on magic were faulty, considering the absence of empathy he'd had his whole life.

"Uncle Harvey never mentioned he'd been attacked."

"Your uncle has a history of keeping to himself. Besides, he's always been one to handle himself. He killed the thing himself before help arrived."

"So these 'angels' can be killed, then? What are they, exactly?"

"They're the remnants of people who've tried to cheat death." Mr. Windsor took the last sip of his coffee. "Specifically, magicians who've tried to."

"So that's why I've never heard about it before. How hard did y'all work to keep that under lock and key?" Lars frowned at the desk, deep in thought. "What did they want with my family?"

"Neither I nor the Board knows. But if you help us, you'll have access to all the information you need to find out." Mr. Windsor's voice shifted to something almost sarcastic, "We have a well funded music program, if that's a major concern as well."

"Sure. I'll think about it." Lars stood, stretching, "But know I'm not that broken up about the death of strangers."

"Wait--" Lars didn't wait. He slipped out of the cafe, squinting up at the too bright sun. He had time until he graduated, and he'd prefer to leave people like that brewing in the uncertainty. He knew his answer. Knew he needed to know the mystery of what had happened all those years ago. But for now, the Board could go fuck itself.

"You don't have to agree."

"I wasn't aware of that, Uncle Harvey." Lars pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder, fingers dancing fast across a variety of documents he'd managed to find. It was just after three in the morning, and thankfully neither of the two them slept. A family trait, Lars guessed.

"Cut the sarcasm. Why are you considering Vales Grove? I know it has nothing to do with their grad program and besides, you hate authority. Becoming a Student Warden and bowing your head to the school is less preferable then walking over a stack of needles barefoot."

He managed to find the page, smoothing out the collection of old articles in front of him. Instead of answering, he pulled back, snapped a photo, and sent it over. Lars could hear when Harvey saw it by the series of swears, "I started considering it when I found out my ancestors fucked over the school's founders over a hundred years ago."

"They did. I didn't tell you because it didn't matter on the grounds you weren't ever going to attend."

"Never say never." Lars stared at the endless notes in front of him. "Next time we meet up, you're gonna teach me about my family tree."

He hung up the phone before Harvey could say anything else.

"For people who hate death, your school reeks of it." Lars lounged in the over sized chair in Headmaster Windsor's office. Languidly, he took in the endless certifications and diplomas decorating the wall behind where the man sat. "Anyway, I have a few conditions to my attendance."

"You're incredibly bold to be demanding anything of us."

"Why?" A slow grin spread across Lars' face. "Did you think you and those above you had the power to force me to attend?"

Headmaster Windsor closed his eyes, the mask of patience sliding into place easier than it had when the two had first met. "You're speaking nonsense. Regardless, what are your demands?"

"I want free access to every location and all information available on this campus." He leaned forward before the Headmaster could protest. "This is running off of what you said prior. You promised I could find information on my family, and I know we have strong ties to this school."

"The Board won't be pleased."

"That's a problem you deal with. I couldn't care less about pissing them off. Second, I want to be left alone. I'll join the Student Wardens, however I don't want to be dragged into their duties unless necessary."

"There would be little point in you being here if you refuse to help."

"Let me be clearer. Issues with wraiths and other things that go bump in the night? Fine, I'm there. Ghosts, however? They're about as dangerous as an untuned piano. Grating, sure. But it's not going to kill anyone."

Headmaster Windsor pressed his lips together. "I'll consider it. I'm assuming there's more?"

Lars paused, the desire to press his fingers to his neck, just over his scar, pressing into him. Him and his uncle hashed out everything about what they knew about West Myers, Juniper Valley, and Vales Grove University. From the tragedy of its now closed sister school, Pacific Suncrest, to the his parents' slaughter, to the murder of Luck Magicians which occurred the same year as his parents' death. There were endless things he wanted, some he couldn't access at this school. There was one which he wanted more than all the others.

Lars spoke with the weight of a thousand suns. "I want a list of anyone suspected to have links with the Walking Graves. If you refuse to grant me this information, I refuse to attend."

There'd been a long moment, before Headmaster Windsor had given him his answer.

#ch: lars #BA: bonus content #really glad to have written this and go 'wow Lars really has just been Like That his entire life huh?'#askdfajl #also wow we only have Rhea's backstory left may I not sit on that one for another year (aka pls life let me write chapter 4 quicker-)

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igotatasteforoldermendelrey · 1 month ago

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Moth to a flame.

Picture from ovrstim on Pinterest.

A/N : I was listening to the weeknd and I had this idea. This one shot is inspired by his song Moth to a flame, I recommend you to listen to it while reading this, it might make the experience better.

+16

English is not my first language you might find mistakes in there!

Ship : Bucky x reader

Summary : like a moth to a flame, you couldn’t fight your attraction towards Bucky, even with a boyfriend standing between you.

Warnings : kinda toxic Bucky and toxic reader, mention of past sexual encounters (not detailed), Sam is the good guy, happy ending.

Please let me know if I forgot something!

I do not consent to any of my work to be translated or posted anywhere else without my permission.

Banners made on Pinterest.

Like a moth to a flame

I'll pull you in, I'll pull you back to what you need initially

You were lying in your bed, fresh air coming from the open window. There was a weight on your stomach coming from the arm laying on you. It was your boyfriend’s, Sam, who was laying next to you on his stomach, soundly asleep.

Like always, you just had a bad night, not because you couldn’t sleep. No that would be fine by you if that meant you didn’t have to dream about another man. You knew it was wrong. Sam was nothing but a gentleman. He loved you and took care of you. But he wasn’t him…

It's just one call away

And you'll leave him, you're loyal to me

Him? James Buchanan Barnes. You had met him through your job, he was the CEO of Barnes Industry, a major corporation specialised in the production of military hardware. Being a corporate lawyer you were invited to any major meetings regarding new contracts. That’s where you met him. It arrived late to a meeting, not even apologising for his interruption. He just smirked at the poor accountant that was explaining the numbers and went to sit next to you.

Are meetings always this boring here? He asked you without taking of his eyes of the board, faking attention.

No. They’re normally even more when John is the one presenting. His ego take all the room, no more place for intelligence. You replied, doodling on your notebook.

Nice spider. He noted, nodding towards your notebook.

Thanks.

Things went quickly and two days later you were pressed against the door of his luxurious apartment. He was kissing your neck, helping you getting off of your over all.

It was just for one night. Then it turned to four, and more. Basically every times you were in the same room you ended up in his bed, on his kitchen counter or on his couch.

It was addicting. You were both single, no strings attached and he was fantastic in this field. Except this absence of strings didn’t last long, and quickly it became apparent that you were starting to get too attached to the man. You put an end to it before it took too much space.

That’s when you met Sam, a nice man working at a veteran non profit organisation. He was kind, generous and handsome. However, Bucky was always lurking in a corner of your mind, not too far away from your thoughts.

But this time I let you be

'Cause he seems like he's good for you

And he makes you feel like you should

And all your friends say he's the one

His love for you is true

Last time you saw him, he looked so good in his Armani suits. He asked how you were doing, how the contracts were going and all. You had to tell him you were in a relationship, he seemed surprised but had the respect of asking you the basics questions about Sam.

After that, he never tried to call you again, staying professional with you and smiling at you when you crossed in the hallway.

Every Thursday night, your office organised this sort of happy hour when everyone will meet at the bar around the corner to discuss other things than work. You didn’t really like going, not really appreciating your colleagues. You went only because you knew Bucky went. Looking is not cheating your intoxicated mind was repeating like a mantra.

Most of the time, your colleagues would try to pry informations about Sam out of you, venting how he was the perfect boyfriend. You agreed with them. Of course Sam was perfect. He might just not be perfect for you such as you might not be perfect for him.

He loved you and you loved him. Sort of. It was more of a constant buzz instead of the life altering love you heard about.

But does he know you call me when he sleeps?

But does he know the pictures that you keep?

But does he know the reasons that you cry?

Or tell me, does he know where your heart lies?

Where it truly lies

One night you fucked up. You couldn’t sleep, too stressed about a deadline your team was not going to make. Sam tried to help you, to relax you but he couldn’t. He didn’t know a lot about your work, didn’t really know how big of an asshole your boss was. He went to sleep after you assured him you were going to be okay.

You called him. Not a text or a vocals. You straight up called him and he immediately picked up, asking if you were okay.

You cried on the phone, couldn’t fight the tears of anxiety you held in the whole day. He texted you a selfie with his burned pasta to make you laugh. The pictures are still on your phone.

It happened once and you swore it would never happen again. But you still occasionally received pictures of his failed attempts at cooking and you always replied, your heart beating faster every time your received a notification from him.

You should be with him, I let you go from time

You should stay with him

Bucky tried to resist the temptation of texting you. He knew you were in a relationship. He should keep his distance. But the toxic part of him couldn’t let you go, too attached to your smile, to your personality and to your body. He knew it was wrong. But every time he drank a little too much, the pictures he would send were a little more orchestrated, a pan not so forgotten on the fire, a burned dishes and voila.

Bucky was aware that Sam was a good guy. He only has heard great things about the man but his jealousy wouldn’t keep down. Always reminding him of you.

Right here with me, babe

Where it truly lies

You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore. Sam deserved to be happy, in a relationship with someone that loves him as he deserves. So one night you told him about the way you felt. About the fact that even though he was perfect, it didn’t feel right on your side. As if you were keeping him from something better, keeping yourself from something better.

He took the blow like a champ, telling you that he had noted that you seemed always in your thoughts, never fully relaxed. Sam then assured you he felt the same, that none of you put an end to it earlier because your relationship was constant, a confort, something that you knew.

You parted ways without hard feelings, promising you will kept each other updated. An empty promise.

My bed, babe

Where it truly lies

In my arms, babe

Where it truly lies

As soon as Sam left you were already taking your bag and your shoes, ready to go where you needed. You only sent him a text to warn him to which he didn’t respond, knowing you were already on the way.

You didn’t even have the time to say hi that he was already on you, pressing you against the door.

You stayed the night for the first time without already thinking about your departure, sleeping soundly in his arms, noticing how his hold on your body was a little bit tighter than usual.

Like a moth to a flame, you couldn’t fight it, like a magnet you were pulled to him, an invisible attraction that made it impossible to escape.

#moth to a flame #marvel mcu #marvel #fanfic #fluff #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #the weeknd #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #captain america #sebastian stan #x reader #reader insert

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cass-sturn · 3 months ago

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It was sunny the next day. The rain had finally cleared, leaving everything fresh and glistening like the town had been rinsed clean overnight.

I hadn't planned on doing much, but maybe I could clean the house since it was getting messy and get rid of some boxes. The house is pretty much done; just some painting and hanging pictures up, that's all that was left. But when Chris asked if I wanted to go for a drive, I said yes without even thinking.

He didn't mention where we would be going; he just told me to grab a hoodie and hop in.

We ended up at the overlook. The one I'd heard about but never seen for myself. It sat high above town, a stretch of cliff with a view that could steal your breath. You could see everything from up here, Brookdale's rooftops, the hills beyond it.

Chris was quiet as we sat in the car, legs stretched out on the dash, the sun bleeding in through the sunroof.

"You doing okay?" I asked after a while.

He didn't answer right away. Just started ahead like he was thinking about something he couldn't put into words.

Then, finally: "Ashley showed up last night."

My stomach dropped.

"Oh."

He nodded, still not looking at me. "She wanted to talk. Said she didn't understand why things changed so fast. Why I changed."

I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. We'd never offically said we were dating. But it still hit like someone had flipped a switch in my chest.

Chris looked down, running a hand through his hair. "I told her it wasn't about her. That it was about me needing something different. Something real."

I blinked. "And what did she say?"

"She cried. Said I was throwing everything away." He looked at me then. "But Y/N... the truth is, I already had. The second you showed up."

I swallowed hard. "Chris..."

"I'm not saying this is to put pressure on you. When I was with her, she would always start arguments. I lost my confidence being with you. Everything I said or did was wrong. She made me feel so insecure. I couldn't take it anymore. You came into my life and showed me what it was like to be cared for and be heard. I need you to know that whatever this is between us? It matters to me. A lot."

My heart pounded. The wind picked up, brushing hair across my face. I didn't know what I was supposed to say. I didn't know what this was. But i Knew I wanted more.

Something was shifting, changing.

He took a breath, nervous now. “So I was wondering if… if you’d want to go out with me. On a real date. Not just porch talks and coffee runs and drives, pretending like we’re not already halfway in.”

I smiled. I couldn't help it.

"I thought you'd never ask."

His smile cracked wide and warm across his face, and something settled in my chest like a missing piece finally clicking into place.

"So that's a yes?" he asked.

"That's a yes," I said, "But you're picking the place."

"Oh, pressure's on now," he said, grinning as we both laughed.

Hey! I'm really glad you like my writing. I put a lot of time and effort into creating it, so please be respectful and don’t copy or use it as your own. Feel free to use it for inspiration, but copying without permission isn’t okay. Thanks for understanding!

Just you wait! Confident Chris is coming in the next chapter with flirting and ughhhh, it's gonna be so good!!

Sorry for the delay on uploading. I've been taking some time to figure my life out, but I hope you enjoyed this one.

With so much love, Cass!

Taglist:

@sturnsblogs @ilovesturn @ofeliasturnz @bigbombaclatttt @mattsturnsbows @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @courta13 @dummyslut00 @grace124140509 @sturnzzlovee @sturns-mermaid

Comment on this to be added to my taglist.

dividers from: @saradika-graphics

#chris #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt

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50calmadeuce · 3 months ago

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Ch. 34: The Cabin (R)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

Warning: This chapter has to do with a person being captured by another person. If this is a trigger for you, please don’t read.

A week later, you sat in your office working from home. You had to take some online credits for your Veterinary license. You turned to your left and looked at your wedding pictures. You and Christian’s wedding picture now stood behind yours and Jake’s.

You gazed at the two pictures for a moment, the contrast between them striking. Christian’s wedding photo was filled with youthful joy, a different chapter of your life—one full of love and promise, but ultimately, marked by loss. Now, Jake’s photo was next to it, a new beginning, one that filled your heart with warmth and excitement, but also uncertainty.

It was surreal, how quickly everything had shifted. You never imagined that your path would lead here, but with Jake, you found yourself looking forward to the future instead of lingering on the past.

You lucked out when your photographer captured a great shot of Jake in his dress whites. Honestly, who wouldn’t want a picture of Jake dressed up? That photo was displayed on the right side of your computer, next to the one of Christian in his Apache helicopter.

You couldn’t help but smile every time you glanced at the picture of Jake in his dress whites. There was something about him in uniform, standing so tall and proud, that made your heart flutter. It was more than just the uniform—it was the man beneath it, the one who’d managed to wrap himself so completely into your life in such a short time. His presence in your life had brought with it a sense of security and warmth that you never knew you needed.

On the other side, Christian’s picture in the cockpit of his Apache helicopter evoked a different kind of feeling—one of reverence for his dedication and the memory of all that he had been. The contrast between the two photos spoke volumes: two men who had shaped your life in their own unique ways, but both with a deep commitment to serving something greater than themselves. You felt an overwhelming sense of peace, knowing that, even though life had taken unexpected turns, you had found love again in the most unexpected of places.

You continued sipping your coffee and reading an online chapter when your phone dinged. You glanced at it:

Possible elk kill. Need you to confirm. Sending location.

You sighed. Guess your certification would have to wait. You stood up and headed to your bedroom to get dressed.

An hour later, you drove down a gravel road that seemed to have been untouched for quite some time. According to the GPS, you were headed in the right direction.

Suddenly, a slightly overgrown clearing appeared, revealing a dilapidated log cabin, and a familiar truck came into view.

It was Scott’s.

You parked your truck next to his and turned off the engine, glancing around at the terrain and the cabin. The only thing that stood out was the smoke rising from the chimney.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you carefully leaned forward to check if your boot knife was secure in your right boot. Satisfied, you took the keys out of the ignition, cautiously opened the truck door, and stepped out, closing it quietly behind you.

“Scott?” you called out.

To your right, startled birds flew out of a tree, making you turn to the noise, placing your hand over your Glock, getting ready to use it if needed.

Then the door of the cabin opens, and Scott walks out. You relax only slightly.

“Y/N. The elk, or what’s left of it, is this way.” He walks down the steps and then starts walking to his left, your right. The same way the birds flying out of the tree came from.

You watch him and he stops. “This way.”

You look at him questionably. Something was telling you something wasn’t right, so you slowly start to follow him, and he continued walking.

“Whose property is this?” You ask as you catch up to him but keep some distance.

“Some family in New York. They saw the elk on their camera.”

You stop in your tracks, looking at Scott, a growing sense of unease creeping up your spine. "I didn’t see any cameras when I pulled in."

Scott pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. For a brief moment, his expression tightens, and then he gives you a casual smile. "Probably just missed them. They're pretty well hidden."

You nod, but something still doesn’t sit right. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you take another look around the clearing, eyes scanning the perimeter. There’s no sign of cameras, no obvious surveillance equipment, just the woods stretching out around the cabin. The smell of fresh elk blood is in the air, but it doesn’t feel like you’re out here for a simple confirmation of a kill.

You slowly take a step forward, keeping an eye on Scott. “And why did you call me out here? For a confirmation?”

Scott glances at you over his shoulder again, his pace slowing. “Just making sure we’re on the same page. I thought you’d want to take a look yourself. That’s all.”

But something about his tone feels off. Something's wrong here, and you can feel it in your gut.

Your heart rate picks up, and you fight to keep your voice steady. "Just making sure, huh?" You take a careful step forward, but your instincts are screaming for you to step back, to turn and leave before whatever this is goes any further.

Scott doesn’t turn around, but you can tell he's aware of the shift in your demeanor. His shoulders tense, his jaw tightens, and that easy smile of his falters for a brief moment before he turns and faces you fully, the mask of casual confidence slipping just enough to reveal something more calculating beneath.

“Listen,” he says, voice low but sharp, “we’re all just trying to keep things under control. I wouldn’t have called you out here if I didn’t think it was important.”

You lock eyes with him, every muscle in your body now on high alert. "Important for who, Scott?" you ask, a quiet challenge in your voice.

He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by a sudden rustling in the brush nearby. Your body stiffens, every muscle instinctively coiling like a spring, ready to react. You glance in the direction of the noise, but before you can process it fully, Scott moves between you and the sound, his posture shifting into something more protective... or perhaps more calculated.

"Stay close," he mutters, his voice tense. You don't need to be told twice. You step back, your hand instinctively moving to the gun at your hip. Something isn't right, and now you can feel the weight of that unease pressing down on you.

Scott seems to be waiting for something, his eyes darting around, scanning the perimeter as if anticipating something. You swallow, trying to steady your breathing. What the hell is going on?

"I’m sorry, Y/N," he said.

Before you had a chance to react, Scott sprayed something into your face, and everything went dark.

Tags: @smoothdogsgirl @alwayshave-faith @devil-angel-winchester @khouse712 @illisea @hookslove1592 @tgmreader @juliemaruaderfan @djs8891

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

STORM-FLYING PETRELS (VI)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VII ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.9k

WARNINGS: Panic attack, talks about death, guns, anxiety, insomnia & paranoia, angst, alcohol, littering in some heartfelt moments, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your nightmares were getting worse. It was undoubtedly true.

The violent way you’d gasp into awakeness, tears, and sobs stuck on your lips as the large walls of your bedroom left you feeling more alone and isolated than anything. The barriers wouldn’t tighten—they would push out farther until all that remained was you and the bed, solitary and abandoned to darkness. Faces danced as the ghosts out in the hallways did at twilight, faces dripping blood and eyes reflective like a cat’s.

Your father, the people in the park, the man you’d killed.

Your mother, now, too. She stands next to Samson Row like a picture of perfection with a winning smile.

Gripping the damp rag in your hand tighter, you think over the moments after Gaz had told you about your matriarch landing in the States. It was almost comedic, now, the way you’d gone still and blank; bandaged hand loose over the paper with that telling red ink. Eyes boring into the way the Brit’s hand had tightened over his phone.

Not moments prior you’d been mulling over the reality that your father had hidden things from you—how this strange moniker of ‘Chiyou’ rang to something inside of your head—and then another problem hits you. Over and over again it’s like you can’t catch a single break without it all falling to pieces.

Even now, the stupid coffee stain on the dining room table is making your knuckles go thin from how hard you’re pressing. Your body was shivering, cold seeping into your bones even through your jacket. It was only an hour after the events in your dad’s office.

Your teeth grit together, dragging the enamel into a scrape of pure anxiety.

“I didn’t really take you for the stress cleaning type, Love.” Gaz watches you tightly, lips pulled back in concern from across the room. “Why don’t we just sit down and figure this out, yeah?”

“Or you can get the mop and start cleaning the floors.” You grunt, rubbing your shoulder into your cheek.

In the time you’d been washing down the kitchen like a mad woman, you’d gone through four cups of coffee, and the jitters were plainly seen in your form as you jerkily ran back and forth. You'd call it pathetic if you were in the right state of mind.

“Better yet,” you talk like you’re drunk, “get the duster and—”

Your legs had left the table to go and grab the roll of towels on the island, but the world swirls halfway through your rapid pace. There’s a moment when you’re sure the house is tipping on its side, the foundations caving in from under you.

You make a sound in the back of your throat when your legs buckle.

But before you slam to the ground, strong arms wrap around your middle and you can’t even breathe enough to push them off.

“Whoa! Okay, alright,” Gaz holds you, body firm and warm in a way you never could be. “Christ,” He whispers, face stiff. “Easy.”

Half bend over, you stare at the floor as the Brit brings you down slowly to your knees. He crouches in front of you and swiftly places his fingers on your pulse; skin sliding along your neck. You want to gag but have to make your head stop spinning first.

In a moment of shaking lungs, you take down a deep breath. Like a vale, black fabric sits at the edge of your vision.

“Love, I’m going to need you to focus on me, yeah?” Gaz speaks slowly, his tone tight but still shining with worry. “Just listen to me.”

Your eyes burn and your chest is held down by bricks. Kyle’s grip goes to the back of your shoulders as he shifts you over, turning you like a toddler to rest your back against the island. Gasping lowly, your body fights against all normal senses—quivering and sweating at nothing. Your mind was pulsing with…everything.

Devoid of any other option in a state of inner panic, you focus on the feeling of Gaz’s hands rubbing up and down your arms. It’s a few long minutes of borderline hyperventilating until the dim light of the kitchen slowly invades your eyes.

The steady drip of tears makes itself known seconds later. Had you been crying?

“That’s it,” the Brit whispers, tilting his head to you and offering a small, tense, smile. Kyle’s lower face blinks into reality as your clenched hands loosen. Stings of pain echo up your injured palm. “It’s alright, we’re just in the kitchen…” He thins his lips and stops his hand movements; gradually taking his limbs back as you catch your breath.

You clench your jaw against the sting of growing embarrassment.

“Sweetheart…?”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” your voice is shaky and cuts out in places. Kyle looks away and closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head calmly.

“Don’t need to ask for it,” he grumbles, caution stuck in his throat but being honest. “Take a deep breath.”

You nearly want to spite him and hold your lungs still, but you push aside your stubborn nature and do as he says. Groaning under your breath, your hands go up to your eyes, rubbing into the sockets. After a long moment where you can feel Gaz’s gaze stuck on you as his feet shuffle, you lower your hands and sigh long.

“She can’t see the house like this.” You whisper, genuinely distraught. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Kyle’s eyes tighten, and he finds himself not knowing what to say to you. His heart constricts.

Sniffling, you rub at your cheeks, beginning to shove off the floor until firm hands once more snap to your shoulders. They keep you back against the island as you growl and attempt to jerk out of them.

“Would you quit it?” In reality, you don’t want to be here anymore—not in the kitchen, no, near Gaz. Shame makes your stomach roll with nausea. You need to go back to your room; the closed curtains and the dark corners.

Every action that was made near him was laced with agony; a knife stabbed through your chest. Even if his intentions weren’t sinister. You just need to be alone.

“Well, would you bloody sit down, then?” He’s serious about this, his grip not hurting but still tight. Gaz puts one hand atop his head and resituates his hat with a digging of his dark eyes. You glare at his neck with hatred. “I’m askin’ you to take a second, Love. Just let yourself calm down a bit. You’re running yourself ragged over this, yeah? Fuckin’ hell, look at what just happened!”

“It’s nothing!” You snap but know that it’s not the truth. Gaz aggressively shakes his head and looks away with disappointment in his eyes.

He knows it’s not your fault, and in fairness, he’s not disappointed in you at all. He’s disappointed he didn’t have a larger backbone about getting you involved in this. The day you both first met weighs on him every time he looks at you; every time he walks through his decaying house. The remnants of what’s left.

The details in the office are brightly lit in his brain.

Kyle takes a large breath and lets his tension drop instantly. There is an overwhelming amount of mixed concern and confusion that always makes itself known when he’s around you.

Grunting, the Brit shifts on the floor and rests his back on the island right next to you on the floor. He bends one of his knees and rests his elbow over it, scratching at his chin with his fingers before resting his arm completely—letting it hang. You blink over in silent shock, mildly uncomfortable from how close he was.

Strained silence falls as your hand slips into your jacket pocket; fiddling with the coin in its clutches. Your heart still pounds, eyes finicky as they dart from Gaz to the far wall and floor.

Kyle clears his throat as your wounded arm burns.

“How about we make a deal, yeah?” Your fingers pause with their rolling of the coin, but you don’t look over. Gaz tilts his head in your direction and stares at the side of your face—not trying to make you uncomfortable, just wanting to gauge your reaction. He takes a deep breath and, when you don’t reply, continues. “I help you clean, and when I say we take a break, I have to answer one question of your choice.”

That piques your interest, ears twitching up.

In your head you immediately snap back to the events in his room; the warmth of Kyle’s hands as he held and stitched you up with his story about his scars. You don’t know why you can’t stop thinking about it at every other moment.

You hum an acknowledgment, flinching when the chemicals start to turn your hand numb. Gaz lightly shushes you, squeezing your wrist.

Your wrist rolls as you move it in a circle to push back tingles.

Pressing your coin into your palm, you think over Gaz’s proposal as he waits for an answer expectantly. He thinks to himself that if you agree, then he’s one step closer to getting on your good side for the remainder of this protection stint. The Brit prays you just hear him out.

He doesn’t want to admit how much your light-headedness has put a strain on his heart. How fast his eyes had snapped back and his feet darted forward.

“You said your mother was a florist?” You don’t verbally agree or disagree with Gaz’s question, but the inquiry you say into the echoey kitchen is enough to know. It was strange, though, that you were asking a question that you already knew the answer to. As well as with how it was a personal one. But the Sergeant, nonetheless, holds back the pull of his large smile and nods.

“Affirmative. Little place down the street from my childhood home.” You stare at the far wall, and after a second your head slowly angles back so that your head rests on the island behind you.

It must be a sight, the two of you on the floor of a dusty and barren kitchen. You can’t find the strength right now to get up and stalk away. Kyle rubs the back of his neck and is surprised by your follow-up.

“What’s she like?” His brown eyes widen a smidge as he looks at your blanks and placid face. Voice small like a bird.

“Uh,” the Sergeant falters, but recovers quickly, “she’s…nice, good, even. I’ve not spoken to her for a bit, but she’s…” Gaz halts for a moment, blinking, “...she’s just about everything you could ask for and more. Taught me well.” He ends his sentence with a dismissing huff.

You feel your gut tighten, but hum in response.

Kyle wonders if it’s his curiosity or his determination that makes him speak next, “What about yours, then?” Your body tightens back up immediately and he scrambles. “N-not in a personal way, just…you speak fondly of them, your parents, I mean.”

Most of the time.

Licking your lips, you wonder if it’s really necessary to answer. But it had been so long since you’d had someone to speak to. Kyle had been slowly worming his way into the remnants of your everyday routine like a parasite; finding its home in the body of your family's estate.

There were a large number of negative emotions attached to this Brit, yet still, once you’d opened the gates of your mouth, there was little chance of stopping. He’d taken a screwdriver and was working away since he’d saved you that day in the park.

“They loved each other.” You settle with, hearing Gaz sigh in relief to see you weren’t going to snap and stalk off. “My mother was always with my father—they did everything together. She was more strict than him; wanted me to go into something with more prospects than follow Dad into a history degree. But…” You think, coin-face leaving indents into your flesh. Whatever damage had been done to your injured palm had slowed its heated pulse. “...Seady,” Kyle listens intently. “She was steady. Like a rock.”

Something akin to pain bleeds into your face and the man keeps himself from putting a hand on your shoulder in comfort.

“I guess she just couldn’t handle it when he died. Needed to get away.” While you had dug your heels in and stayed stationary, she’d gone off and taken a shift overseas. To forget or to find something more, you never asked. When she was gone, you really couldn’t say much changed.

After all, that entire first year was a blur of black and red.

You take a shallow breath and pull your hands from your pockets. “Can’t say I blame her. Just… nervous about seeing her again.”

This was more than Kyle expected. His brows were slightly higher on his face, eyelids curved. He clears his throat slightly, looking away quickly. Guilt, as it seems to do a lot recently, builds on his shoulders like a castle of stone.

He never should have agreed to that damned interrogation, but how was he to know that Row would pull the trigger for no reason?

Hell, was that even an excuse?

“...I’m sorry, Love,” he says, and your breath stops with mounting pressure inside of your throat.

Your head slowly turns his way and you stare at the space where his stubble is taunt under his nose.

“What…?” He barely hears the words.

Kyle’s head fully turns your way but you don’t balk back when his brown orbs graze the side of your vision—so nearly looking into them but still so far. Eyes are wide and nearly frightened in expression by the words that had just entered your eardrums.

Kyle speaks up, “I said I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I never should have bloody played along with the bastard plan. It wasn’t right. I’m not asking you to forgive me, I just…need you to know that, y’know?”

Face burning, you open and close your mouth; vision darting from random points on the Sergeant’s face until you snap your head away in a flurry of tight lips and shaking shoulders. You burn holes into the far wall but look more anxious than anything.

Your lungs get tight and your nose feels like you’re breathing in needles, but you refuse to cry in front of this man again. No matter how much the words were like a bucket of cold water to your scalp.

You can never forgive him for what he helped do—for the gun and the bag over your head; the death and trauma—but you’d never even expected an apology. It…it meant something, but what that was, you weren’t quite sure.

All you do is shrug brokenly.

“I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” Kyle tries to comfort you. “It’s been what? Around three years since you’ve seen her? Well,” he chuckles lightly, “I’m sure the first thing she’ll do is give you a bloody huge hug. Lift you off the ground and all.”

You scoff, finding your breath. “She was never a hugger, Garrick.”

“People change, wanna wager on it?” Your brows turn into a line. “A ten.”

“No.”

“Ah, c’mon!”

“No!” You growl at a smirking Sergeant as he tilts his head back and laughs, hat-brim sticking out from his head. He raises his hand in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Point taken, then.” Rolling your eyes, you huff and rub at your eyes aggressively. While some of your nerves had left, the sheen of it still lived in the lines on your forehead. The air wafts back into that strange tension and delicate sanctity.

“My own father,” Gaz starts slowly, measuring words. “Was in the service. A soldier.” His arm moves up and he shifts it so it hovers above your lap. His wristwatch glints and after a dim hesitance, you carefully reach out a hand to touch the material; tiling it towards you. Your eyes slide over it as Kyle’s face softens, his tone easy. “I took after him, too. Tough luck I never managed to grow a green thumb, probably would have saved me some soiled clothes.”

You puff air from your nose.

“Can’t see you retiring to the garden anytime soon, unfortunately.” Gaz smiles and takes his arm back tactfully.

“Hm,” the man settles back and sighs. “No, probably not, Ma’am. Just hope I don’t end up like he did.”

At your angled head and glimmering eyes, he continues, “Fell in the line of duty when I was ‘bout as tall as a table. My Mum never wanted me to go chasing after his memory—we don’t talk much because of it.”

It was the way you could mirror yourself into Kyle’s own childhood that really struck you, but as your brain went a mile a minute you rolled it back into focus. You can think about that later, but right now you just wanted to try and understand the way you were feeling.

“Why are you telling me this, Kyle?” You whisper. The Brit’s hand comes up to rub at his neck.

“Because I feel like you need someone to talk to,” he hums. “Even if you don’t like ‘em.”

The tease is evident in his tone.

You don’t like that he splays your emotions out like this—knows that something’s wrong even if it’s entirely obvious. He talks about it, and that's entirely foreign to you. Three years of solitude with no one to utter to but your professors and Hector. Only one of those you could consider somewhat of a friend, really. Hector listened when you ranted and seemed to at least care about you to a moderate degree. He had two girls after all, and although you’d never met them, you knew they were good kids. Loved.

Hector was all you had, and you told him nearly everything.

And now…well…now Kyle wants you to talk? Part of you wanted to chuck a coffee mug at his head.

You shake your head, walls going back up.

“Keep your end of the bargain, Garrick. Go get the mop.” Brown eyes sadly watch after you as your arms shove you up. Standing, you rub at your eyes and snatch the paper towels from the island counter like they had personally wronged you.

Kyle hums under his breath and shakes his head, fixes his cap, and pushes up to follow.

—

You speak again far later, and despite his comments about not becoming the cook of the mansion, you can’t fight him in the fact that his food was good. And you both had to eat, regardless.

Sitting in the back library, you place the plate of Gnocchi with creamed spinach down with a clack as you push aside the bottle of disinfectant spray. The white sheet that had been around the furniture was ripped back some minutes ago to show a luxurious chaise lounge of navy tufted fabric and a small side table. Your mother’s favorite pieces in the house, ironically. Gaz is already eating, standing near the fireplace in the center of the wide and extravagant room.

He looks around every so often at the scores of books and ladders that extend to the ceiling. Everything about this house, he thinks to himself, is the definition of old money.

“All we need to pull this together,” Kyle licks at the side of his mouth and smiles as he says, “Is a nice bottle of Fiano, eh?” He laughs, “Don’t suppose you have a wine cellar, Ma’am? I’d say you deserve it after a day like today.”

Your form pauses momentarily when bringing the fork to your lips, but you continue with a blink and say, easily, “Cellar? Yeah, but don’t plan on anything being down there. It’s all gone.”

Gaz tilts his head, bringing his own fork to his lips and chewing. “That’s a right shame. Would have paired nicely.”

You place your utensil down in exasperation and glare at his throat. “You are the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

Kyle’s expression goes mock offended. “Hey!” He humphs, “If you keep letting me cook then I’m going to do my bloody best!”

“There’s incriminating evidence in my father’s office and you’re worried about wine?”

“I’m not worried,” Gaz points the fork at you as you shake your head and get to eating. “I said it would pull it together. There’s a damn difference, Love.”

You can’t believe this is the man that’s living in your home. Helping you clean; keeping you from being shot—talking about wine. It’s a miracle you haven't killed him at this point.

“Tough luck,” you grumble, chewing. “There’s none left. Suffer alone.”

“Well, that’s just uncalled for, that is,” Gaz utters, getting the last piece of flooded potato and sticking it in his mouth. The smirk in his words is evident. But the weight of your previous words stands, and you get into the next topic swiftly.

“I need to go into my father's old office in the museum, Garrick.” The man’s arm stills from where he tilts his plate to get some of the spinach onto his fork. His shoulders tighten immediately.

“Negative,” the Brit’s voice echoes. “Not happening, Ma’am. We’ll get someone else on it.”

No one else knows my father. There’s a part of you that knows that no one else can figure this out as you can.

Red ink, copied signatures, that blasted moniker. It’s a literal trail of bodies that you need to piece together for this to make the painting you’re working on—brushstroke by brushstroke.

In your heart you know there’s more going on. Your father wasn’t what people are telling you, even if he knew things that sullied his image. This wasn’t right.

“Gaz,” you try not to let your anger show at this—growing tired of the constant fights. “This isn’t something that I can compromise on.” Kyles stares and sets his jaw.

“I’m not letting you leave his mansion, Ma’am. For yourself and for others.” He takes a breath. “Let my mates handle it; Laswell’s already got a unit together. They’re rechecking the docks and the museum by your counsel soon. Spoke to her just after I got news of your mum coming back.”

Soon wasn’t soon enough. You don’t know why, but unease hits your stomach. The house had always felt like it had ears on it, but when you were talking about stuff like this it seemed alive. The curtains sway with the AC, the wood creaks more. It’s horrible.

Or maybe it was just because Gaz was living here. But it just felt like….eyes.

“Kyle,” you try to stay the venom from your tongue. Anyone can tell you’re strained. “I’m asking nicely, here.”

“And you said you would listen to me, Love.” The Brit rubs at his forehead. “I’m not doing this to be difficult, truly.” A long sigh exits, a tired but honest one. He wishes you’d look him in the eyes so he can make you understand he only wants what’s best for you. The way you’d been after the shooting…Gaz’s hands remember the tightness of elastic as he stitched you back up—you’re vacant gaze. He can’t have that happen again. “I’m keeping you alive if you could only stay here. This house is secure, and if we go into a potentially target-rich environment, I have no say in what could happen to you, yeah?”

You knew this, of course you did, but so much had been discovered in so little time.

“Sergeant, I—”

“No, Ma’am. That’s an order. We’re staying here and that’s final.” It seemed whatever strange feelings from the kitchen and office are far gone now. Kyle’s face is like stone, and you stare at his scars with returning resentment. Could he not see how much this meant to you? No, how could he? All he does is follow his fucking orders.

Your teeth snap around the food on the end of your utensil, sliding off the metal as you think. Letting fire flare in your gaze, you glare at the plate and say nothing else. Angry, but not defeated.

Kyle and you go back into a highly uncomfortable silence. Closing his eyes, the man twitches his nose as his legs shift from under him. Suddenly the brick of the fireplace is grating to feel against his athletic shit.

He grunts and shovels his last bit into his mouth as you stand—food only half-eaten.

Brown eyes stare as you stalk out of the room, hand clenched around your plate. When you’re out of sight, Gaz lets out, “Christ…just fucking brilliant.”

But he wasn’t about to tell you that you could leave; you can sulk all you want, but that’s not changing his opinion.

You stomp through the immediate hallway like a child, playing your part perfectly. Once you are far enough away, your feet speed up to a light jog and carry you to the front door. You open it and place the entire thing on the front step; a backend form darts out from the bushes and hisses.

You harshly whisper into slitted eyes, “Oh, step off, you temperamental demon.” The door shuts and you race up to your room—bounding up the foyer stairs two at a time, knowing exactly where to place your weight to make sure the steps won't creak.

Entering the blackened room, you close the door and lock it with deft fingers. Looking at the clock, you engrain the time of seven-fifteen to memory and resolve to be back by midnight. Gaz makes his first round at eight, but he won’t bother you if you’re pissed as you intended to make it seem. From then it’s twelve and then at four.

If you can get back in before he does that middle-of-the-night search, you’d be golden.

You rush to your curtains, peeling them back and blinking at the water spots on the glass behind them. Shaking your head, you unlatch the lock and look down at the two-story drop into bushes as you push aside the window with a slow squeal of hinges.

“I’m getting answers,” you whisper stubbornly. No Sergeant would stop that. Backing up from the frame, you feel the chilled breeze and pull your jacket tighter against the nighttime air.

Licking your lips, your eyes slide to the curtain wrack and your brain sparks with mischief. But before you do anything reckless or admittingly dumb, you turn with a serious expression to the nightstand that you stare at, morning after morning.

A moment of a rapid pulse passes in tight silence before you walk over.

With a small quiver in your finger, you place your hand on the brass handle like it could snap at you with merciless teeth. It stays there as you dig your eyes into the wood, searing it with purpose, that cold, lifeless metal in your tensed grip. With a grit of your teeth, you let it drop numbly, shaking your head. You grab your wallet and phone instead, stuffing them into your pocket, and shuffling away.

“Don’t need it,” your low voice reasons aloud, a hidden object swiftly leaving your consciousness.

Dragging your desk chair over to the tall curtains, you grasp a hold of the metal rod that holds them with trapped breath, reaching on your tiptoes carefully. Puffing out breaths, you unhook it after the third try with a mute chuckle. A smirk takes residence on your face.

Getting down on unsteady feet, you accidentally knock the hard material directly into the wall with a loud slam as your legs shift too quickly.

You freeze in an instant, ears strained and eyes wide. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you stand holding the rod, those navy curtains a swell of the deep sea at your feet.

Body ready to bolt, you take thin breaths before you realize nothing else is moving in the house. Letting out a long and slow breath, you move backward.

Setting the rod across the opening of the window frame parallel, it stands in as an anchor as you feel your backside connect with the bottom wall. Focusing, you lift one leg and twist your spine to leave you straddling the frame with nervous pulses in your veins. Ducking your head, you move your grip to the curtains and grab them tightly, muscles straining.

In a moment of courage, you say, “C’mon, I can do this…” and place one foot on the outside frame. The wood groans and sinks in, but you don’t let it scare you off. This had to be done. With a deep breath, you lean back with tightly closed eyes.

Except you don’t fall.

Lids pulling back, you stare at where your feet dig into the frame and how your hands hold the curtains—held themselves by the rod on the inside of your room that spans far more than the window's size. Your entire body is at an angle, hair swishing behind you due to gravity.

“Holy hell,” You can’t help but utter, chuckling.

Moving one foot back, you place it firmly to the side of your house as you scale backward down to the ground with sliding hands. The long curtain rod holds tight.

In mere minutes, your feet hit down and you stumble before letting the curtain slowly go—far above hearing the slight ping of the thing hitting the floor at the loss of tension. With a smile on your lips, you dart away into the back garden before Gaz can even question the noise coming from your room.

All that’s left are the curtains whipping in the breeze.

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mrsfrederickchilton · 6 months ago

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FREDERICK. Chapter 4

Dear Readers,

Unfortunately, English is not my native language. Therefore, I apologize very much for possible mistakes and inaccuracies. I use my knowledge and two different online translators. I will be grateful if you point out possible mistakes to me, do not hesitate to do so. I am very grateful to you for reading. If you leave any comments, I will be very happy. There is nothing better for an author than feedback from readers.

Chapter 4

You searched the Internet, but you couldn't find enough information about Dr. Chilton's childhood, except that his mother died of cancer when he was ten years old. The rest is a mystery, but according to what the world has in the person of Dr. Chilton now, you could surmise that he didn't have a good relationship with his father and that Dr. Chilton spent his childhood and adolescence trying unsuccessfully to impress him, to gain his approval, his and others', and that continues to this day. It seems he's still looking for approval and recognition in adulthood, and still does not receive it. At least not enough for him.

It's very sad.

And it's very easy to manipulate.

He adored attention, craved it, and when he got it, he literally basked in it. You knew it, and it was in keeping with his character. That’s why he never missed any social gatherings, even the smallest ones, if only he was invited. His name was usually towards the bottom of the list, meaning he was far from the most important or desirable guest at the event, but not everyone could rule him out completely. Judging by the photos you found on social media, Dr. Chilton most often ended the evening alone in a corner or at a table, whereas most of the people in the pictures were casually chatting in groups or couples. Even if he got any attention, he was left alone by the end of the evening. It must be a huge blow to the ego, you thought with some malice as you looked at one photo after another. However, he was always dressed decently, obviously in expensive suits, perhaps even custom-made ones – he definitely had a thing about his appearance and presentability to others.

I should take note.

You've spent a lot of time over and over again searching for and reading out scraps of information about Dr. Chilton, other people's comments about him, and the discussions he participated in. By the end, you were blinded by his name and nauseated by his photos. A typical narcissistic personality, he had described someone. Perhaps he should have said that about himself.

When you showed up in his office again, you acted as if he hadn't told you that he would never give you permission to visit. As if you hadn't slammed the elite oak door, running out into the hallway, barely holding back your sobs. As if you had simply returned to a familiar TV series with the same type of plots of numerous episodes. You acted exactly the same as all the times before. But today, you choose the ending of the series.

"Your persistence is commendable," Dr. Chilton smiled when he saw you again.

You flushed: praise from his lips was simply disgusting.

"Unless it's an obsession," he added.

Exactly that.

You sat down in the chair, and everything rolled along according to the familiar scenario. Only this time you allowed yourself to be more emotional. That despair, that pain that you invariably pushed to the very bottom of your broken soul so that Dr. Chilton would not have even more reasons to rejoice... today you brought them to the surface.

He could not help but notice them.

“You understand that this will not happen,” he said more softly than usual. Almost without the usual gloating.

Almost.

You left the office, carefully closing the door. Not completely, leaving a small gap so that Dr. Chilton could better hear what was happening in the hallway. You knelt down and let the darkness surround you. It was enough to imagine that you would never see the love of your life again. Never touch his hand. Never inhale his scent. Never feel his warmth.

Never.

You cried very convincingly — a part of you was crying for real.

You cried quite heartbreakingly — a crippled soul sounds special.

Dr. Chilton ran out into the hallway and froze. No matter how he felt about you, something stirred in his heart. It was rare to see beautiful women crying so bitterly at the door of his office.

"Hush, hush," he said in confusion, leaning towards you and trying to lift you off your knees.

"I can't," you said through your tears, waving him away, "I can't do this anymore. Can't. I can't take it anymore! Don't touch me!"

Dr. Chilton looked at your flushed face and shaking hands, then returned to the office and came out with a glass of water. You pushed the proffered glass away, almost spilling it and at the same time realizing that you couldn’t calm down. The floodgate that you only wanted to open a bit has burst open, and everything that had been building up inside you for months was pouring out. You couldn’t stop it, even if you wanted to. Of course, it was to your advantage – Dr. Chilton was watching your real hysteria with amazement. But you would like to control it.

Now it was the other way around.

"Everything is fine," you heard the voice of Dr. Chilton.

"No," you barely managed to say, "no, nothing is fine."

But he was not addressing you – he was addressing two orderlies who had appeared nearby, apparently interested in what was happening.

What a circus.

They left, but the wave that washed over you did not. You began to drown.

Dr. Chilton sensed something was wrong and, after hesitating, put the glass on the floor and terribly awkwardly hugged you and patted you on the back uncertainly. This only made you feel worse, you started struggling, and he let you go.

"Still, try to drink," Dr. Chilton handed you the glass again with a note of concern, as if he simply did not know any other way to help.

He is not such a good doctor.

You crawled to the wall, pressing your back against it. Drink it yourself, you wanted to say, but all that came out was:

"Dri… Dri…"

How stupid. To fall into your own trap.

You felt yourself suffocating, like you were falling into an abyss, and you started shaking for real. You were gasping for air, the tears were no longer flowing, only your heart was pounding somewhere separate from you, in the thick darkness, so fast that you wanted it to stop. And it stopped.

Everything suddenly stopped.

You froze, and so did everything around you. You were cut out like a picture from a magazine, and this magazine was medical, and everything around you was so hospital, and you didn’t understand what had happened until you had to blink really hard to keep the water from running into your eyes. It still spilled down your collar and into the neckline of your blouse.

Because Dr. Chilton had thrown a glass of water right in your face.

"What are you…"

"I`m sorry, I had to stop the hysteria somehow."

Is he completely out of his mind?!

"Seriously?!" you were shaking off the water in a rage, glaring at him.

"Anyway it helped."

Truth.

"That doesn’t look like medical methods," you muttered.

Dr. Chilton shrugged and offered you his hand to stand up. You stood up awkwardly, clinging to him. You smeared tears, snot, and water across your face with the back of your hand and stared defiantly at the psychiatrist. The love of your life was taller, and you almost always looked up at him. Pressed against his chest, where the heart that loved you so much beat. You and Dr. Chilton looked each other straight in the eyes.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," he finally said, gently pushing you into the office.

“I’m fine,” you said.

Lie.

“I see.”

In the office Dr. Chilton got you a small white terry towel from the bottom drawer of the dresser in the corner, and you patted your face and neck, and applied it to your wet blouse.

“I’m fine,” you repeated stubbornly, but this time not so confidently, and he smiled:

“Okay. Then what was it?”

“I just…” you deliberately stopped. “I’m just tired,” you finished quietly and unsteadily.

“I understand,” he said softly.

“You drove me crazy,” you said bluntly, and oddly enough, he seemed to like it.

“If you really think so, you need to talk to someone seriously about it.”

“And with whom?”

Dr. Chilton smiled, as if you’d asked the stupidest question in the world.

You chuckled:

“Don’t even dream about it.”

“Not necessarily me,” Dr. Chilton shrugged.

Lie.

“But you really should talk to someone.”

“I’m fine now,” you said again. “I don’t want to discuss it. I just need to rest.”

Lie.

“But you didn’t look tired,” Dr. Chilton answered seriously. And a little worried. That little bit pissed you off. All it took was a little snot smeared across your face for him to start perceiving you as a living person? Hypocritical bastard.

“And what did I look like, in your opinion?” you asked sarcastically.

“Broken.”

Truth.

You turned around and looked out the window. It was already dark, and the orange glow of the streetlights illuminated the wet asphalt.

"And that's why you splashed water in my face?" you snorted, not taking your eyes off the window. You didn't want to look at Dr. Chilton.

Broken. That's exactly what you were trying to portray. He bought it.

Or maybe he just saw something in you that you'd never be ready to admit to yourself.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Chilton said. "Look at me."

You turned around, meeting the attentive gaze of his green eyes.

"You don't have to keep all this inside."

Really?

"It's okay, I can handle it."

You wanted to add a tremor to your voice, but it didn't work. Probably because you really believed what you were saying. Dr. Chilton kept looking at you, scanning you with his nasty doctor's gaze, and you couldn't stand it, lowered your eyes.

"I'm telling you as a doctor: it's time for you to take care of yourself."

What a concern.

"Maybe you're right," you sighed, picking at the button on the cuff of your blouse. Without taking your eyes off it, hiding your grin, concentrating on choosing your words.

"I can help you, if you want," did there really appear a note of joy in his voice?

Fuck you.

"At least I'm aware of your situation, unlike another doctor you don't know."

"And how can you help me?" You tore yourself away from the button and looked at Dr. Chilton.

"I think we should start with a conversation. You can tell me things you haven't told others."

I'm going to puke.

"An exclusive that the newspapers didn't get?" you chuckled.

Dr. Chilton smiled.

"Oh, no, no. I really want to help you."

And at the same time get everything out of me that you can for your own purposes.

"Help me?" But why?" you feigned distrust, although you didn't have to feign anything. There was no reason why you could ever trust him.

"The doctor's oath."

Oh, my. You never mentioned that before, Doctor.

By your face Doctor Chilton realized you weren't satisfied with his answer. So he added:

"And because I think you can still be helped."

You hesitated, as if considering. Then you said:

“Okay. But I’d like to ask you something…”

Dr. Chilton closed his eyes, as if what you were going to say next had already upset him.

“No visits,” he said. “I told you before. This is not what you need at all.”

“Just one,” you whispered. “And I won’t bother you anymore.”

Lie.

“Just one visit,” you repeated, “and I’ll tell you anything you want. I give up.”

I’m plasticine, mold me whatever you want. Believe it.

“I need your help.”

Lie. Truth. Damn him.

You looked him straight in the eye, hoping you looked crushed and miserable.

Dr. Chilton unconsciously began to chew on the tip of his expensive pen. What you were saying was really interesting. You hadn’t behaved like that before. There were so many opportunities to be had from this situation… He stared at you, sunken in the big leather chair, and there was everything in that look. Curiosity. Mistrust. Evaluation.

“I’ll think about it,” he said casually. “Come back tomorrow.”

What a bastard!

“Okay, Dr. Chilton,” you answered meekly, lowering your eyes.

You agreed on a time for the visit, and you left, confident that he would agree. You tried not to think about what he would want to hear. After all, it would just be words.

You agreed on a time for the visit, and Dr. Chilton spun around in his favorite chair twice in joy. No one would have such a source of information. He tried not to think about the fact that you had asked for a visit. After all, he hadn’t promised you anything.

You decided to play the broken, helpless victim. Dr. Chilton decided to play the doctor’s concern. You laid all the cards on the table but had yet to know who held the trumps.

Each of you thought to have them.

Next chapter (Chapter 5)

Masterlist

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eclipticasolaris · 8 months ago

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I let my older neighbor into the car, the recent news weighing heavily on my shoulders. She notices; the grandmotherly types always do, and asks me what’s wrong, so I tell her. She tells me she wasn’t really happy with either option, but she’s so glad that ‘that woman’ won’t be taking office.

I ask her why.

She hesitates, says she doesn’t like to talk politics, but then says that she can’t stand the thought of making it legal for abortions to happen right up until the last day of term.

I let the road take over my vision as the ringing in my ears begins to drown out the damnation of anyone who would be willing to ‘kill their baby’ and that at that late point, adoption is an option.

When we arrive at her destination, and she gets out of the car, it takes me a minute to recognize the goodbye, and all I can say in response is the one thing that my soul has been screaming into the void ever since:

That baby was wanted.

When the baby isn’t wanted, the condom is worn, the birth control is taken, the plan B is scheduled, the abortion is prompt.

THAT baby was wanted.

Pregnancy is a serious medical condition. Physical changes, new wardrobes, discomfort, illness. Medically-necessary diet restrictions. If you’re not actively willing to sacrifice your body to let another grow, then that other body is a parasite.

But that BABY was wanted.

No person has the right to force another person to offer up their body without permission. Life-saving organs cannot even be harvested from the dead unless they gave their permission while alive. If you don’t want your body to help another body live, then you don’t have to.

But that baby WAS wanted.

When an abortion happens in the late-term, six or more months out, the plan has been made to carry to term.

Pictures were posted online.

Clothes have been bought.

Names have been tossed around

A crib has been assembled.

Grandparent memorabilia has been gifted.

A baby shower has been thrown.

That baby was wanted.

But then one of the medical scans comes back with bad news, or the parents health takes a sudden sharp turn.

And then you receive the worst news you could ever hear.

Because that baby was wanted.

But they will die a painful death within hours of being born, or, far more likely, they are dying already or already dead, and if not removed, the parent will die too.

But that baby was wanted.

Countless mornings counting out vitamin and prebiotic regimens.

Coconut oil and shea butter on the belly for the itch and the stretch marks.

Ugly shoes that cradle the swollen feet.

Sleepless nights stressing over the cost of diapers and blissful afternoons thinking of first laughs and first words.

That baby was WANTED.

But it wasn’t meant to be. And the pain of going through the termination of the nearly-realized pregnancy cannot compare to the pain of unrealized dreams, of best-laid plans that will never be, and hope of the future, that disappears along with the round belly.

Because that baby was wanted.

People who are not physically capable of going through this can argue back and forth forever about all the possible exceptions, and how terrible it would be if a person terminated their pregnancy after a sudden change in their life, or out of spite for the other parent, or just because they decided they want to be pregnant but not have to deal with what comes after.

But all the hypothetical exceptions don’t change the reality for most parents that need to go forward with a late-term abortion.

I could go on for hours about how the pro-life movement misses the point, that hysteria overu ‘the babies’ distracts from the welfare of the parents.

But it wouldnt do anything for people who hear the word ‘abortion’ and think ‘murder’.

Because they will still condemn that parent, who now has a to-do list to start on.

Donate the diapers

Return the clothes

Disassemble the crib,

Pick up pain medicine for recovery,

And brace for the backlash.

The shame and condemnation of those who notice the belly went away but there’s no baby.

The raised eyebrows at the return counter, and the scorn of those who decide not to serve you because of their beliefs.

Their belief that you as the parent deserve punishment for what you did, even though you didn’t do anything but move forward.

And it’s so, so hard. Because that baby was wanted.

…

The ringing in my ears has died down. We have arrived, and my neighbor gets out of the car. She’s waiting for a reply to her polite goodbye, but there’s only one thing I can bring myself to say.

“That baby was wanted”

The polite smile of someone who doesn’t get the joke, and then she’s off to her affairs. Four words aren’t enough to change her point of view.

…..

That’s okay. I’ll still give her a ride tomorrow.

#slam poetry #election 2024 #womens rights #abortion #original poem #poems on tumblr

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damiansgrayson · 2 years ago

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Dick kills for the second time, Jason finds out about the first. (ficlet)

Amy Rohrbach is the one to give him permission when she hands him back his badge and gun. The one to say, “As a police officer…you have more options.”

Her words run through Dick’s mind as he goes to follow up with the reporter; the one who is dead only minutes later by a bullet through the head as glass flies everywhere and Desmond crashes through the window. Dick’s on his feet in minutes, already attacking, trying not to scream in rage as the words fall out. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Part demand, part secret plea.

“There isn’t one, Nightwing. Not one. That’s the best part.”

Mass murderer. Domestic terrorist. The former residents of his building on floors one through three probably died instantly when the bomb went off. But four and five... the floors fell through on them. They were crushed, trapped, they died of internal injuries and smoke inhalation. And floor six... they burned.

Roland continues, knowing he's finding weaknesses Dick refuses to give into. “Nor is there a single good reason for me to harm a hair on your head. The essential truth of your nature is that you could take every beating I could dish out. You might even enjoy them. You have absolutely no regard for your personal safety. But the people around you, well! That’s a different matter, isn’t it?

“I’ll take out the people you care about- hell even strangers you stand next to on the street. You won’t be able to shake someone’s hand without marking them for death.”

After his parents, Dick knows all too well about the mark of death.

“Do you like being alone, Dick? I’ll make sure you can’t save any of them. I’ll make sure you relive over and over your failure to save your relationship, your circus, the residents of your building, Ms Michaels- that’s how I'll take you apart. Loved one by loved one. Innocent by innocent. It will never stop. I can keep this up forever. Every loved one, every stranger.”

He's right. It never stops. Dirty cops are one thing, but then there's the attorney generals, the judges, the jails that never seem to hold. It never stops.

Punching harder, kicking stronger-- it’s all useless with someone like Blockbuster, who can take the beating without crumpling like most, but Dick continues. Rage flows through him in a messy way, the kind Bruce would say gets people killed, and he’d be right. Dick’s all but seeing red, trying to control himself and failing, trying to picture anything but the people he’d failed to save.

“And you’ll let me do it, won’t you? Just so you don’t tarnish your own moral righteousness. Just like Batman.”

One moment Roland is waxing poetic on threats; the next, he’s choking on his own blood as a wingding rips its way through his throat.

Moral righteousness be damned, Dick can't forgive himself if he lets himself become locked in a deadly battle with his own form of the Joker. He still runs to the roof and retches before collapsing to his knees. He's failed. Bruce will never look at Dick the same way again.

What else could he do?

In a fugue state, he calls Amy about the body. She comes up with some alibi. He hands back the gun and badge and disappears before she can argue.

Back in a hotel room as he gets ready to leave Bludhaven for a bit, he stops. Outside the window of the fire escape he hears someone, blinds closed and obscuring vision. Heavy step, large build. Sound of uniform. Doesn't want to be quiet. Not afraid. Dick readies himself.

“Hello Dickard."

Only one person uses the most irritating, immature forms of nicknames for him. “Go back to Gotham, Jason.”

Cursing Babs for tattling to his brother may not help the situation, but it's easier than getting a smug Jason to leave once the window is broken into and he climbs in. She trusted Jason more than others under Bruce's shadow had when he returned. Maybe it was shared hatred of the Joker- the way he'd killed Jason and killed Barbara's old life. Bodily traumatized by him in ways few of the other heroes had been.

There's a million reasons he's here, but if comfort or concern was one of them, the last person he'd tell would be Dick. “Or what, you’ll kill me?”

“Fuck off,” Dick snarls, misplacing his guilt inside of anger. If he didn't hate himself so damn much, it might feel good.

Of course the tone goes ignored, just as the words, and Jason launches into, “Remember how I told all of you that sometimes lethal force is necessary and all I got in return was lectures on morality?”

Dick ignores him.

“Remember how the second you wore the cowl you had me arrested because you ‘weren’t a hypocrite like Bruce’?” Dick hadn't so much had him arrested as hadn't stopped Gordon from doing it, but the point was moot.

“Are you done?”

“Is your fragile sense of self still intact?”

If it was anyone but him asking, Dick might have answered honestly. “It’s fine.”

“Seems too fine.” Jason says. “Guess I should have expected as much from a cop.”

The words feel like sandpaper on the gaping wound that is Dick’s guilt and before he can help it, he’s stupidly asking, “Are you saying I should have let him live?”

“That fucker?” Jason scoffs. “Of course not.”

“I’m not proud of it.” He says, as if that makes things better. As if a man wasn't dead, however monstrous, and Dick wasn't a killer, however once described righteous. “I’m not proud of it, but it’s done. It’s not like the Joker.”

Bruce wasn’t there to fix it.

Jason stills in a way Dick doesn’t catch on to until the shaky tenor in his voice gives his anger away. “What do you mean ‘not like the Joker’?”

Years have passed and somehow Dick hadn’t realized it was still secret-- had he expected Tim to say something? Alfred? Or the Joker himself? It seems stupid to not have known Jason was never told but he’s the last one to want to admit how much more of a hypocrite he was this same night. “Nothing.”

“No, what? Not like the Joker killing me?” Jason irrationally demands, always jumping to the conclusion that no one loves him properly. “This time people you actually cared about were in danger?”

“No.” Dick huffs, glaring and admitting with a flat tone, “Not like when I killed the Joker.”

“The Joker is alive.”

Dick hates the mixed feelings that come up every time he thinks on those four words. “He wasn’t for about three minutes.”

“What, hit him wrong with your escrima stick?”

“No.”

“I deserve to know. It’s him. If KGBeast-”

“Get out, Jason.”

“Not until you fess up.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Within the minute it takes for Jason to draw the gun, shoot it, and Dick to leap out of the way, his temper is already unleashing again. “What the fuck.”

“Please, if I thought you couldn’t dodge, I would shoot you. Now tell me.”

Despite knowing that he's allowing Jason's psychological manipulation to win, his anger overrides pride as he spits out, “I beat him to death with my own hands.”

Jason stands, gun lowering minutely. “Why?”

“He made it look like he had killed Tim.”

“That was enough? After all these years?” Jason challenged, unbelieving. “You’re not that stupid.”

“He took a crack about your death in the middle of it.” Dick looks away, not wanting to see Jason’s expression. "You had only been dead a few months."

Jason, for once, is more silent than he's ever been around Dick when not nose deep in a classic novel.

“Bruce revived him.” Dick said, heading off the next logical question. “He didn’t want a death on my conscience.” Another death at least, Dick laments to himself.

There's a stillness to Jason's quiet fury as he says, “Bruce belongs in Arkham with him.”

Thinking of how he himself had allowed Zucco to be riddled with bullets, or how he had manipulated lightning into frying Creighton, Dick can't help but mutter, “All of us do.”

“Would you do it again? Kill him?”

What was the Joker’s current murder count? Every death he saw in the reports was a death that Dick felt differently than before. Small, perhaps a bit broken, he confesses, “Yeah. Yeah, I probably would. But that’s not a good thing.”

Right?

Jason cracks. “I hate him, Dick." He knows it's Bruce. "He doesn’t give a shit about anyone other than the clown who leaves carnage in his wake, doesn't care how many people die, or get paralyzed- we're just toy soldiers. He's a fucking monster for bringing him back to life. You know that, right? Why do you all act like I'm the crazy one to suggest we put him seven hundred feet under?”

“You’re not crazy.”

“Then why is he still alive?”

Thinking of mitigating potential damage, even if he has no place doing so, Dick asks, “Are you still asking about the Joker?”

Surprisingly, Jason doesn’t shoot Dick for the remark. He wouldn’t have blamed him if anger arose, but instead the man shakes his head, looking out the window for a moment. “It’s not that easy.”

“You don't actually want Bruce dead,” he says. “Sometimes I worry you need the reminder.”

Jason scoffs. “Hypocrite.”

“I know.” Dick sighs. After a moment, he goes back to the original question about the Joker. “I don’t have a new answer for you."

“Don’t let Bruce stop you next time.”

He deflects. “Don’t shoot up the manor on your way home.”

“No promises.”

“Alfred will shoot back,” Dick points out, although it's not like either would actually harm the other.

“You going to hide out?”

Dick can't face their mentor. His adopted father, rather. Alfred might calm Bruce down, Babs might do a good job of distracting him, but the confrontation will happen regardless and Dick's too broken to let it happen now, however much of a coward it makes him. “I’m riding out to Donna’s in a bit.”

“At least Diana believes true justice can cost a life.” Triton, Maxwell Lord, Ares… names from the League files that Bruce keeps on its members. Diana tries peace before all else, though. Jason's spent too much time around Artemis if he thinks otherwise.

Thinking about Wonder Woman only makes him think of Superman, though. There's no League member close to Bruce on the list of people he wants to fail less, and just the thought makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He has to refocus. It's done.

Jason’s demeanor toward Dick has shifted, and while there’s some chaos and upset brewing around Bruce, he’s at least postponed his anger at Dick. “If no one else tells you but me; you did the right thing.”

"This isn't some bonding moment, Jason!" Dick growls, yelling again. "I'm not this person!"

Jason rolls his eyes. "Delude yourself all you want. Just answer one question."

Dick waits, even if he knows better.

"If you hadn't been taught by Bruce, would you still be holding onto that no kill rule-," Ever one to cross a line to make a point; Jason finishes, "-Or would Zucco have died by your own hands too?"

"I know better than to be jury, judge, and executioner by now." Dick says. At least I should.

"Bludhaven isn't different enough from Gotham for you to actually believe the American justice system works. Even if it did, jails here don't hold either. How many people do you think he would have killed next?"

Unsure who he’s arguing for anymore, he replies, "I can't prove that he would have."

"You're not that naive, no matter how much you want to be Superman's fanboy."

Dick waits a minute, and Jason doesn’t fill the silence, before finally admitting, "I couldn't let myself become Bruce. I couldn't create my own joker."

"Stop, you're going to make me have to respect you."

Quiet fills the space again.

“Just promise me you’ll go back to Gotham and stay out of the Nightwing costume.” It wouldn't be the first costume of his that Jason has taken, after all.

“Oh, come on, this would be the perfect time for him to start using guns." Jason’s grinning.

As much as Dick wouldn’t mind punching him, he only rolls his eyes. “Have fun finding a place to fit them."

“I’m sure there’s room where you keep the fake butt padding, but fine. I can’t fit in your tiny suit anyway, some of us have muscles.”

“Some of us didn’t cheat by using the Lazarus pit."

“Whatever you have to tell yourself."

“See you around."

#dick grayson #jason todd #dick & jason #dc fic #if i don't get some of this out i'll go insane it's been weeks and i keep staring at it #but i'm not ready to publish it to ao3 when it's so bare #anyway

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davidmariottecomics · 2 years ago

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Copyrights and Wrongs, Part 1

Hello there!

Feels like it's been a bit since we last spoke, and I'm sorry for that. Two weekends ago, Becca and I were out of town (I'll share a little bit of that later) and then last weekend, I was just dealing with being really depressed and uninspired and I didn't want to just not write my blog, I didn't really want to do anything. I'm doing a bit better and am about to have a lot to talk about, probably for a few weeks (at least 2-3), so buckle up and get ready! This blog's a special one because appropriate for the time of year, it has HOMEWORK!!!

Also, as a head's up, this first part's going to be a bit shorter as Becca is at Cartoon-a Palooza starting this afternoon! More on that below too!

What is Copyright?

Copyright is both exactly what the name says and a much deeper, more complex thing. In a nutshell, it is the right to copy a creation. If you draw a piece of art, if you write a poem, if you design a machine or a building, if you compose music for a song, if you write a blog even (hehe!), under U.S. law, you are the owner of that work and other people can't use it without your permission.

In more concrete terms, copyright is a form of intellectual property law that defines ownership and use of art under some pretty specific terms. The three biggest ones being: originality, creativity, and fixation. Originality asks if a work is original and unique. What that means is if you and your friend see a cool dog, and you both draw a picture of it, as long as your friend didn't just copy your exact picture, you both now have an original piece of work. Maybe the most commonly thought of example against originality is plagarism, where someone takes another person's written work and tries to pass it off as their own. Creativity is maybe the most nebulous term involved in determining copyright and often overlaps against originality, but should broadly be thought of as the work's intent and execution. Let's say you put together a Pintrest board of inspiration. It isn't meant to be a unique creation or piece of art unto itself, it's just a bit of reference. But if you printed all of the images from that Pintrest board out and collaged them into a piece of art, that would qualify as a creative effort. Finally, fixation refers to whether or not you actually made the thing in a trackable way. If I sing my cats a silly little song to announce their breakfast, but I never write that song down and it isn't ever recorded, it isn't fixed and there isn't proof that you've made the thing. However, if I shoot a TikTok of me singing that song to my cats, hey, I've got that record and I'm set.

That's a very basic overview and, like I said, copyright is complicated. Being a set of laws revolving around ownership in a capitalist system, there're whole sections of the legal industry dedicated to arguing out and testing and defining the limits of copyright. The other really basic stuff you need to understand about copyright for the rest of this conversation are what you can do as a copyright holder, how long copyright lasts, and what "fair use" is.

Here it is from the horse's mouth--the U.S. Copyright office--but the rights a copyright holder has come down to reproduction, continuation, and distribution. You can make more of your work, either through copies or by creating more new work covered in part by your initial creation, and you can display it or sell it or perform it or otherwise make it available. As part of sale, you can also sell the copyright itself--transferring the ownership to someone else. A lot of comics is done with this step happening before the work is started as "work for hire." This basically says that if you're creating an image for a company that owns the copyright to, say, a character like Batman or property like Transformers, you understand that their copyright to the initial work of art supersedes that of the work you now produce for them, and in exchange, they're going to pay you for your creation and any rights that might otherwise be claimable with it. Not to say it too many times, but it's a complicated system and one that has a lot of very reasonable and righteous criticism lobbed at it. There's often a bit of a rub between copyright as protecting creators and copyright as protecting companies.

Companies, for example, famously have been responsible for the expansion of copyright after the death of the author. Current U.S. law dictates copyright for modern creation lasts until the death of the author, plus 70 years. After that, works enter what we call the public domain (more on that in a sec). But just to really put that into perspective: Stephen King is still alive! And there is a distinct chance that his books won't be available until the 2100s under current copyright law. Or, rather, most of his books. If I did my math right, I believe Carrie will be available in 2069 because it actually pre-dates the current code! And this is further complicated by various other things--like work-for-hire creations and anonymous creations have different term limits, and we're reaching an interesting point where some original works are becoming public domain, but their derivative works are still copyrighted (like, say, Mickey Mouse. Steamboat Willie, the first Mickey short, will hit the public domain in 2024, but ALL OTHER MICKEY STUFF will still be under Disney).

Which brings us back to public domain and fair use. To briefly tackle public domain first, it is the idea that after a copyright expires, that work is available to anyone to use as they please! You wanna tell a Dracula story? Do it! You wanna stage a Shakespeare play or adapt it into another medium? Do it! You wanna turn the Odyssey into a rock opera? Do it! Public domain says no rules, just right! Do it! It's a good idea to check what is in the public domain (Wikipedia linked as a starter) at any given point, just to see what may be available to you. This is going to be important in coming weeks. But everything in the public domain is fair use.

As are certain other things--if you're an Adobe subscriber and use photoshop, the software is copyrighted, but you've got fair use to use it, if you see a movie, the movie is copyrighted, but you've paid your money and have fair use to view it. There are certain limitations for research, education, and transformational uses too. I can't get into all the specifics, because they're varied and incredibly nuanced, but as a few examples: if Mad Magazine does a parody of X-Men called "Ecch-Men" or whatever (a thing they've definitely done), that's fair use--it's understood to be parody/satire and not the original work. If a textbook is publishing a historically significant photo, that may be under fair use. Posting a quote from a book on social media and in a locker room with or without proper attribution may be fair use (this is a real example).

Okay, that's a lot to take in and we haven't even gotten to stuff like trademark, patent, or infringement. But hopefully that's enough of a primer that you'll feel confident in the coming weeks of conversation.

Homework Time

Toldja there'd be homework! So here's what we're going to be talking about over the next few weeks that you might wanna get yourself primed on too!

First off - The Copyright office is conducting a study on generative AI and taking into account public opinion and information on it related specifically to copyright. Public comments are open until October 18th. I already submitted one--that I may reproduce in part or in full here--but if you are (rightfully) concerned about "A.I." as it currently exists and the many ways in which it is already violating copyright law, definitely take the time to share a comment!

Secondly - You may've seen the news in the past 24 hours that Bill Willingham is releasing Fables into the public domain. I'm linking to the A.V. Club's article because well... you all know how I feel about Substack (and you may know how I feel about Willingham himself, which is to say, he sucks!). Next week, this'll be our first topic of discussion to see what that actually means. And please remember, I'm not an expert in copyright law, but I do wanna discuss it!

Finally - No homework on this one, but the other thing we'll be talking about is digging a little bit deeper into work for hire and the complicated relationship between comics, artists, and licensed and unlicensed works.

See ya next week!

What I enjoyed this week(s): Blank Check (Podcast), Dungeons & Daddies (Podcast), Craig of the Creek (Cartoon), Honkai Star Rail (Video game), One Piece (Manga), One Piece (Live Action--I know there are some strong feelings on this take, but maybe we'll talk about that in a future blog), Birds of Prey #1 (Thompson, Romero, Bellaire - Comic), Blue Beetle #1 (Trujillo, Gutierrez, Quintanta - Comic), Shazam (Waid, Mora, Sanchez - Comic), Fire & Ice: Welcome to Smallville #1 (Starer, Bustos, Bonvillain - Comic), The Archive Undying by Emma Mieko Candon (Book), Chainsaw Man (Manga), the Original McDonald's Museum.

New Releases this week (9/13/2023): Sonic the Hedgehog #64 (Editor) Sonic the Hedgehog's 900th Adventure (Editor)

Announcements: Becca is at Cartoon-a Palooza in Temecula on 9/15 & 9/16. It's a cool free all-ages little con, so come on out and see them! That's today and tomorrow at time of posting! They've got new stuff!

Becca (and their letterer pal, Duke) has also got a new comic out! It's a short NSFW comic in Midnight Ouevres, the adult part of the Stellar Inflorescence Genshin Impact free zine!

Wanna support me? Consider joining my Patreon!

I have a webstore! And I did, in fact, get a couple extra copies of Beast Wars Vol. 3! But check it out! Limited quantities on everything!

I've still got a few things on my eBay, if you're looking for stuff!

Pic of the Week: Becca and I were in Vegas a couple weekends ago, saw Weezer. It was fun. But on the way back, we stopped by the Original McDonald's Museum in San Bernadino! It's a fascinating little place, in the building that was built where the first McDonald's was before it was torn down and rebuilt to be a little theater. It's also not recognized by the McDonald's corporation because this is the location the founders kept for themselves when they ultimately sold the rest of the company to Ray Kroc. Anyway, so it's a funky little place with a lot of history and is full of toys and packaging and photos and outfits and this big Grimace suit with Becca!

#comics #copyright #fables #public domain explained #intellectual property law #Original McDonalds Museum #Cartoon-a Palooza

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