#Not based off anything directly from the fic just was thinking about it while drawing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ofduskanddreams · 1 year ago

Text

Pierce The Clouds

for @elucienweekofficial day 2: magic

A/N: I say this is "from the vault" because it's based on part of an old (no longer public) fic that I plan to rewrite if I ever have the time. I wasn't planning on posting anything today, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head so here we are :)

READ ON AO3 | RATED: E | CANON-TYPICAL VIOLENCE | 8.3k WORDS

When Lucien encounters trouble in the mortal lands, the bond draws Elain's shuttered power to the surface. Everyone knows that getting between a Fae and their injured mate is a death wish, but no one, not even Elain, knows just how far her magic is willing to go.

Lucien

He winnowed directly from the entrance of the Hewn City into his apartment in Velaris. He kicked off his shoes and fell back onto his bed, ignoring the slight cloud of dust that puffed up from the duvet on impact.

Two minutes, he told himself. Two minutes to close his eyes and soak in the blissful silence.

Lucien didn’t want to think about that meeting, it all made him too uneasy. Eris had mentioned nothing about a plan to kill Beron, he’d simply thanked Rhys again for hosting him for Winter Solstice again and made a snide comment about how unfortunate it was that Cassian—“that Illyrian brute” as Eris called him—didn’t let him within twenty feet of Nesta this year.

Rhys, looking as bored as ever, had signed his approval on a trade agreement between the Nightmares and Eris’s territory in Autumn: ore for agricultural products. Lucien and Rhys spoke mind-to-mind about how it was suspiciously mutually beneficial, but on paper, he could make no objections.

Dealing with Eris always left him unsettled, and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Growing up with his brothers, it was second nature to expect every good deed to have an equally bad counterpart. But with Eris, the shoe hadn’t dropped. Yet. That was the most unnerving thing, what would be the cost of centuries of Eris’s so-called generosity towards him?

With a groan, Lucien forced himself to get up and change. He grabbed the second bag in the line of pre-packed leather duffels lining the wall near the door. It was a system he had developed while working as Tamlin’s emissary. A bag of necessities and appropriate clothing for each of Prythian’s courts, spelled with simple enchantments to keep everything fresh and wrinkle-free. The bag in his hand, for the human lands, was newer than the others yet still worn and marked by a small white leather tag.

Rhys had suggested that Lucien take Eris’s news that all was quiet with Beron and Koschei to Vassa sooner rather than later. The knowing look in Rhys’s eyes made it clear he was offering Lucien an out from family dinner should he want it.

With a wave of his hand, Lucien put out the fire in his fireplace and winnowed to the woods outside the wards he’d placed on Vassa’s manor. The near evening light lacked any sparkle as it filtered through the dull green canopy above him. He was grateful to Rhys; he didn’t want to think about trying to face Elain right now, unsettled as he was. It was hard enough to play that politely distanced courtier for her on a good day.

Lucien was a patient male, he prided himself on his self-control but even he had his limits. Elain wasn’t happy. He felt it through their dulled bond, and his instincts screamed at him to do something about it but he couldn’t. Being around her made it even more obvious and equally more difficult to ignore. Elain acted like she was happy, and was probably unaware that he knew her true feelings. It wasn’t his place to say anything so he’d been distancing himself. It seemed to be what she wanted.

Lucien walked through the manor’s gates and immediately came face-to-face with a flustered Jurian.

Jurian braced a hand on his shoulder as he caught his breath. “Impeccable…timing,” Jurian wheezed.

Lucien’s metal eye whirred in its socket, examining. The wards were fine. Nothing was on fire. There were no screams or clashing blades ringing through the air.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Jurian.

“I was just about to send for you,” Jurian began, leading him towards the manor doors. “A few minutes ago, I had a runner come saying that there was a fight on the border. Apparently some of Nolan’s men got into it with a unit of your Prythian Guard.”

“Fuck,” Lucien exhaled, dread simmering in his veins. “Any injuries? Casualties?”

Jurian shook his head as they entered the manor hall. “The poor kid only said one injury before passing out on my office floor.”

“We don’t know if they were human or Fae?” Lucien inquired, dropping his bag and taking out the spare dagger he kept there. He sheathed it next to the short sword he always carried on his right hip.

“No,” Jurian sighed. “Since it could be either, I think it’s best if we both go.”

Lucien nodded in grim agreement.

It took them half an hour’s hard riding to reach the second garrison of the Prythian Guard. The Guard had been one of Lucien’s better ideas, endorsed by Rhys to address Tamlin’s non-existent border security. It was a peacekeeping force made up of Fae representing every court to monitor the border where the wall once stood.

It would have been easy for Lucien to winnow himself and Jurian, but riding in alongside the former human general sent a better message in this situation that and outcomes, could easily escalate into a greater conflict. Riding was also a thrill Lucien had enjoyed for as long as he could remember. He didn’t understand why most High Fae avoided it.

The sun was setting when Lucien dismounted at the wooden gate and nodded to Jurian. He would continue on to Nolan’s outpost and figure out what he could. With both sides of the story, maybe the two of them could piece together what actually happened.

The guard standing watch—Winter Court if his fair hair, skin, and frosty eyes were a sign—opened the gate for Lucien with a deferential nod.

“They’re all in the main hall,” he said, taking the reins from Lucien.

As he crossed the dirt courtyard, Lucien tried his best not to jump to morbid conclusions. The likelihood of this sparking another human-fae war was slim. If he was being honest, he’d poured so much of himself into maintaining peace since the war with Hybern ended that any breach of it felt like a personal attack. He was glad that his magic was still drained from all the winnowing he’d done in the last day and a half. If it hadn’t been, sparks would fly from his fingertips.

The sight that met Lucien in the chamber was far from encouraging. The assembled grave-faced guards stepped aside in a wave of pewter gray to reveal a male laying on a table. For a sickening heartbeat the male’s golden hair looked like Tamlin’s, but as Lucien stepped closer, he saw gray hairs mingled with gold and speckled with blood.

Lucien had to grip the table to keep from falling to his knees, because the male taking wet, ragged breaths was Valin.

“Lucien,” a voice addressed him.

Lucien looked up from the table to find Bron, one of Tamlin’s former sentries standing beside him, the crest of a commander on his gray uniform.

“What happened?” Lucien seethed behind gritted teeth.

“Valin had his unit on their regular patrol when they came across a bunch of Nolan’s men, drunk. They were aggressive, trying to cross the border and hoping for revenge from the sound of it. The unit followed protocol and was working to disarm the group with minimal injury when Valin took a scatter-ash arrow to the chest. Under Valin’s orders, they didn’t retaliate and half of them escorted Nolan’s men back to their outpost while the rest brough Valin here.”

“I should have known the prospect of ordering people around would have drawn Valin out of retirement.” Lucien and Bron exchanged sad smiles. Valin was Andras’s older brother, had been the captain of Tamlin’s sentries since his father had ruled Spring. He retired a few decades after Lucien arrived in the court, to start a family when he found his mate. But they’d stayed friends, Lucien had visited often and written when he couldn’t.

“Talia should be here soon, I sent a winnower to her as soon as I saw him,” Bron spoke quietly.

“He won’t make it?”

Bron closed his eyes and shook his head. “Scatter-ash, it’s Nolan’s latest invention. The arrow heads and lower shafts are made of ash chips somehow melded together so they break into pieces if the arrow hits bone or is removed.”

Lucien’s elbows hit the table as he rested his head in his hands. The sound of running footsteps made him snap upright, just in time to see Talia burst through the doors. She froze, nostrils flaring as she scented her mate’s blood.

“Everybody back to your posts,” Lucien ordered softly, and the room cleared save for himself, Talia and Bron.

In the blink of an eye, Talia was standing beside her mate clutching his hand to her chest. Her translucent wings shivered as tears fell silently down her face.

The room was quiet, save for Valin’s jagged breaths that were slowing by the minute. Lucien and Bron stood together in mute vigil for their fallen friend and mentor as the sun sank beneath the horizon, coloring the room a somber shadow-blue. Lucien would never forget the moment Valin’s heart stopped and his soul crossed the Veil. Talia froze before she began shaking. Then she fell to her knees, hands clasped over her heart and screamed.

That scream of unearthly sorrow and rage and grief hit Lucien like a serrated blade to the gut. He saw Bron stagger as well under the weight of Talia’s pain as half of her soul was ripped out and cast to the void. Lucien had only read about what could happen following the death of one’s mate. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing Elain on that table, dead. The thought of that golden light in his chest winking out threatened the stability of Lucien’s knees.

The wail turned to a choked-off sob. He wished he could go to her, but there was no comfort he could give that would ease the force of her grief. Eventually the sobbing stopped and Talia slowly turned to them.

“Who?” she growled, rage blazing in her eyes.

“Talia, an off-duty human guard shot him,” Lucien spoke carefully with his hands outstretched, palms up in a gesture of peace. “I will meet with Lord Nolan in the morning and demand he turn over the man responsible. His judgment will be yours to give.”

Lucien looked to the side at Bron who gave an imperceptible nod before he stepped forward slowly.

Bron approached her as one might a spooked horse. All Fae knew there were few things as dangerous as a mate seeking retribution—instinct could spark a bloodlust in the most peaceful of souls. Once Lucien felt relatively sure that Talia would allow Bron to help her prepare her mate’s body for the pyre without killing him, he slipped out of the room and down a narrow hall to the guest officer’s quarters.

He wasn’t able to shake the smothering, bone-rending sadness he felt. He couldn’t bear the thought of what Talia must be going through; couldn’t stop his mind from reliving the night Jesminda’s life was stolen by his folly.

Lucien collapsed onto the small bed in the dark, cold room. He couldn’t staunch that gut-wrenching grief he’d buried so deep. He closed his eyes but immediately saw the light leaving Jes’s walnut eyes. When he heard the wet slice of a blade meeting bone, of her head hitting the stone, Lucien’s eyes flew open. He was drowning in grief too long ignored.

He jolted when there was a sharp tug behind his ribs, hard enough that his breath hitched.

Then there was a bright warmth blooming.

Lucien sat up, but no—he hadn’t accidentally started a fire. It happened rarely, when the nightmares were at their worst and he would wake to the acrid scent of burning fabrics.

An image of small hands buried in a white mane flying flashed in front of his mind's eye.

And then he was a youngling hiding in the kitchens while his mother baked apple crumble and he stole as many bites as he could.

Lucien lay back and let his head hit the pillow as he was surrounded by the colors of autumn, shrouded in a blanket of sunset and he felt peace.

It was Elain; he realized with no small amount of wonder. Elain must have sensed him.

All the hollow sadness was suddenly filled with a nervous amount of hope dashed with embarrassment. He was careful to keep his emotions to himself, had never slipped up like this before. Cauldron, she must have felt everything. The hope was a soft glow, Elain had never touched their bond before.

Jurian met him at the Garrison at dawn. From what he heard at Nolan’s outpost, it was exactly as Bron described. Nolan’s men claimed the fault lay with the Fae, but Jurian believed the guard had done everything by the parameters of the treaty.

Jurian agreed with Lucien’s plan to deliver Valin’s assailant to Talia. Then again, Jurian was one of the few humans with firsthand experience of what mates were capable of when truly motivated.

Lucien didn’t waste time setting out for the Nolan’s manor, assured that Jurian would inform Vassa of everything that had occurred. His magic was still somewhat drained so Lucien opted to ride again.

Recalling the memory from the previous night, Lucien smiled to himself. If Elain enjoyed riding, maybe he could ask her to accompany him some time.

Lucien dismounted when the manor’s gates were in sight, leaving the horse to graze on dew-dampened grass. He’d only come to Nolan’s manor on foot before, better to lessen the chances of aggravating anyone. The guards posted on the gate were two Lucien didn’t recognize. He stopped some twenty paces back, their loaded crossbows trained on him.

“Stay right where you are, Fae filth,” the shorter of the two guards called out. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.”

Lucien held both of his hands up, showing that he would make no move for his weapon.

“My name is Lucien Vanserra. I am an emissary, I mean no harm.” He choked on his family name but that was how the humans did it and he was here for the sake of peace. “I’ve been here several times before,” Lucien took a careful step forward. His gaze flicked between the short one and the one whose eyes were wide with fear. “Your commander knows me, he can verify my identity.”

“How do we know this isn’t just some magic trick?” the short one sneered.

Lucien took a calming breath, “I am here under the terms of the treaty between our peoples, that includes not using glamours to deceive you.” He took another careful step forward.

Only to be knocked back by a blinding pain near his heart. His ears rang, but he could hear the cadence of conversation.

“You idiot. Set the lord’s hounds on him, leave no evidence.”

Then there was a riot of barking. For half a second Lucien found himself back in Eris’s kennels, the hounds greeting him. But these were not those hounds.

Lucien felt several sets of teeth sink into his limbs. He couldn’t just stay here and die. That wasn’t right. It would hurt her. Elain.

Elain, the name clanged through him.

He needed a chance with Elain, with his mate.

Lucien reached deeply for whatever threads of dwindling magic he could grab and threw himself into the darkness, thinking of the first place that sprang into his mind.

He didn’t remember how he crawled up the steps and through the off-kilter door, but his eyes opened to stare down at the familiar black-and-white checkered marble floors. His eyes closed at the sound of talons clicking against the cracked stone that shifted to familiar footsteps as every thought eddied out of his head and the world bled black.

Tamlin

He scented Lucien long before he saw the male. Tamlin cursed the spark of hope that warmed him at the thought that Lucien might give him another chance. But then he neared the manor and scented Lucien's blood and red stained his vision. He ran.

There was too much blood—the wounds weren’t closing. Cauldron, were those bite marks? Tamlin’s heart was beating too quickly, his hands crimson-slicked as he gently turned Lucien onto his back to reveal the splintered shaft of an ash arrow embedded not a finger’s width from his heart. Tamlin quickly dragged a talon across his ankle; it stung and bled a drop before closing—not a nightmare then.

Fuck.

Tamlin forced himself to breathe. To think. He would lose no one else. There were no healers here anymore. No one was here. So he had to go where healers were. Where there were people who were better for Lucien than he was.

Never again, he told himself. I won’t lose him again.

Tamlin summoned the strength he often tried to forget and, with enough force that the ground rumbled, he spoke from his mind, projecting it far north.

Rhysand. I’m bringing Lucien to you. I mean no harm. He’s dying, he needs a Healer.

Tamlin gathered Lucien into his arms and winnowed. Lucien was the only thing he had left to lose.

Time seemed to slow as the darkness pressed upon him. The first rule of winnowing is to have a clear picture of your destination. Lucien had told him about Velaris before Tamlin had banned him from his court in anger. Centuries before that, lifetimes ago really, the heir of Night and the son of Spring had gotten drunk together. The memory of Rhys’s description was faded but better than nothing, so Tamlin held that image close.

Another image flashed before him, star-tinged—from Rhysand. A wrought-iron fence before the small yard of a home on a quiet street.

Then he was there, shoving aside that gate and bounding up the steps. The door opened for him and Tamlin barely noted the towering Illyrian wings he brushed past as he moved to lay Lucien down on the table. A gray-haired female stepped towards Lucien’s prone form and Tamlin bit back a snarl, at the same time the High Lord of Night’s hand came down on his shoulder.

Madja’s our best healer, she’ll do all she can, Rhysand spoke into his mind.

“It's a new kind of ash arrow. It breaks into shards when disturbed,” Tamlin explained, his long unused voice rasping. “He winnowed from the mortal lands to my manor with that much ash in him. I would have said it’s not possible, but he did it.”

Madja nodded to him and turned back to Lucien. “Sons of fire don’t burn out easily, this one still has a chance.”

Tamlin sagged with relief, then quickly straightened his spine. He’d already let these males see too much of him.

“Here,” Cassian grunted and shoved a glass of whiskey into Tamlin’s faintly trembling hands.

The reality of his situation came into sharp focus as the instinctive drive to protect his closest friend faded. He was in the Night Court. He didn’t exactly ask to come. They had every valid reason to hate him, especially Rhys and Feyre. Cauldron, they were the same reasons he hated himself. He could see Rhysand and Cassian exchanging a look that meant they were mind-speaking. Cassian… Rhysand’s General.

The gears turned. He was a High Lord who winnowed uninvited into another court’s territory. An action any laws of Prythian could construe as an act of war that. Tamlin swallowed the rest of his drink painfully.

There was only one way to guarantee this didn’t turn that direction.

So, Tamlin set down his glass and crossed the room to where Rhys stood. Pride be damned, he had already lost everything at this point. Tamlin took a deep breath and placed his right fist over his heart, speaking the ancient words: “I, Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, thank you for offering me aid in my time of need. As payment for this debt I will grant you, Rhysand, High Lord of Night, a boon. Please accept my gratitude.”

Faint clinks made by ash splinters landing in a metal basin punctuated the silence. Tamlin kept his eyes downcast at the red patterned rug until Rhysand held out a tattooed hand.

Tamlin clasped it with his own.

“I accept,” Rhysand responded, his expression guarded.

A shockwave of magic radiated through Velaris as the bargain inked itself across the High Lords’ wrists, setting the glasses rattling.

Then, the door to the townhouse swung open with such force that the little window in it shattered.

Elain Archeron burst into the room. Her half-feral eyes stopped on Lucien, then flitted to Tamlin as he stood and turned towards her. Her brown eyes turned to silver as she took in the blood staining Tamlin’s clothes.

Her rage was an aura shimmering at the edges of her. She winnowed across the room in a blink, appearing in front of Tamlin and slamming him back into the wall. Her forearm pushed into his throat. She growled, each word dripping with the promise of blood: “What. Happened. To. My. Mate.”

Elain

This wasn’t right. Elain looked around at the bare-boned trees shivering dark against a faded sky.

She was in Velaris. She was staring at a rosebush. There were clippers in her hand.

But when Elain looked down, there were no clippers, and the air was colder and dulled. It took a moment for recognition to set in—she recognized these woods, that far-off stone wall with its grotesque iron gate.

She shouldn’t be here.

Couldn’t be.

That was Lord Nolan’s manor, but she was in Velaris. Feyre and Nyx and Cerridwen were playing on the other side of the gardens. She was listening to them moments ago.

But this world was silent.

She realized it was a vision when her feet began moving against her will.

Suddenly, she stood before the gates staring at two guards in Graysen’s father’s colors. But the vision shattered, cracking and falling like the shards of a mirror.

And then Elain was curled up on the grass of her garden with a searing white pain in her chest. Feyre was screaming.

The world was shaking—no, that was her, shaking. Being shook.

“...lain. Elain, please open your eyes,” Feyre’s voice pleaded.

Elain slowly obeyed, squinting and blinking and trying to adjust to the brightness of the sun above her. It was hard to do anything with the memory of that pain echoing across her skin.

“I…” Elain’s voice cracked, her mind still reeling. “I had a vision, I’m fine,” she said weakly as she let Feyre help her sit up.

Elain realized her mistake when she saw how wide Feyre’s eyes had grown.

“You had… a vision?” Feyre parsed out the words on her tongue, piecing together her elder sister’s lies of the past year and a half. “Elain,” Feyre said with an equal amount of shame and reproach. She took a deep breath, then said more gently, “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

Was this the moment when the world crashed down around her feet? This lie, her secret, no doubt already reaching the minds of the inner circle via Rhys. Because this changed everything. That was part of the reason Elain had hidden it.

Elain nodded and let Feyre tug her to her feet.

She wasn’t dumb, though it made life easier when people thought she was. While the others thought she only read books on flowers or the romances Nesta pawned off on her, Elain had done her research. She knew Clotho had a personal weakness for lemon tarts and that the female was happy to offer her the sanctuary of the Library beneath the House of the Wind regardless of the unseemly times of day she showed up.

Elain knew how rare Seers were. She knew how they were coveted by High Lords and Kings, wooed and worshiped until they were locked up or literally chained to a wall in one case. It was a terrible power, she’d never understood….

Why, in those frozen depths of the Cauldron, when the Mother had examined her soul and somehow found her ‘worthy,’ had she cursed Elain with this ‘gift’ that often drove its bearers to madness?

Yes, the Mother’s gift included many other things Elain didn’t understand, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be a Seer, didn’t want to live with the constant threat of her mind being violated by the past or future. She didn’t want to deal with the burden of trying to unravel all those damned riddles her sight enjoyed laying at her feet.

Swallowing her anxiety down, Elain let Feyre lead her into the house and press a cup of tea into her hands. But that pain was still throbbing—enough to make her feel lightheaded. Elain couldn’t shake off the small voice screaming “something is wrong.”

And then it clicked into place. Lucien. She’d been sensing him through the bond more recently. That must have been his pain. Which meant something had gone terribly wrong… Nolan’s manor. That vision had been of Lucien, or at least what had happened to him.

“Elain, what can I do?” Feyre’s question broke the clamor of her thoughts.

Mate. Protect him. Save him. That inner voice commanded with so much dominance Elain almost leapt off of the settee despite herself.

She couldn’t deny what she saw, what she was feeling. But something stopped her from voicing all of it to her sister.

“I… I think I would like to lie down for a while, if that’s alright,” she answered Feyre in that soft small voice everyone thought was her only one.

Elain lost herself in thought while she allowed Feyre to lead her up to her room. She didn’t understand this thing writhing within her, this bond. Lucien was a stranger. Yet, even as a stranger Elain didn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone—she wanted to help, to soothe, to heal. Those had always been her core intentions. Even before she nearly drowned in the Cauldron and somehow emerged with the gifts of the Mother that made those instincts stronger.

She hadn’t realized it until that fateful day, nearly a year ago when Nesta had sacrificed her magic to save Nyx, Feyre and Rhys. That was when that shimmering well of power sparked. While Nesta had laid herself across Feyre’s ashen form, Elain had dived into that inner abyss—had begged the Mother to let Nesta stay, to see that Nesta’s heart wasn’t owned by the Cauldron’s icy void, that Nesta was just trying to protect everyone, that Nesta deserved to live.

Thankfully, the Mother had listened. Elain had mentioned nothing about that day. She scarcely dared think about it. Nesta would have died if the Mother hadn’t intervened. It was only the second time Elain had ever let that power fill her veins, to sever the Cauldron’s grip of Nesta’s soul—to keep it from killing her. The first had been during the war when she’d somehow winnowed and found her hand clenched tight around Truth-Teller, buried in the King of Hybern’s neck.

Feyre drew the curtains shut while Elain sat on the edge of her bed.

Please leave, Elain hoped as Feyre turned towards her in the dim faelight.

“Do you want to be alone?” her sister asked.

“I think I’ll sleep for a while.” Elain pasted on an encouraging smile.

Save him. Save him. Don’t let it fade. The voice chanted.

As soon as the door shut behind Feyre, Elain moved: out to the balcony, down the trellis of ivy. She knew the way with her eyes closed. She’d spent many sleepless nights watching the Sidra drift by or scanning dusty tomes for answers that didn’t exist.

Elain’s slippered feet hit the frostbitten earth, the voice growing louder. She was tired of fighting it so, for the third time, Elain gave up. She let that shimmering light rise to the surface, allowed that voice to guide her steps. When she reached inside for that golden ribbon she knew would lead her to Lucien, she fell to her knees in the dead grass.

No.

There wasn’t a ribbon. There were only ragged threads. Elain focused her hearing, no matter where he went she could hear it. His heartbeat was there, but it was too slow.

No.

Save him. Save him. Protect. Defend.

Elain let that unknown power force her shaking legs to stand. She could question all of this when she knew Lucien was safe. She’d already broken character, let Feyre see the truth. Pretense was irrelevant now. It was the least she could do after all, for the male whom had saved her countless times without knowing it.

She took a step forward, letting that power fill her vision as darkness pressed in on all sides and then she was standing outside of the townhouse. She’d winnowed again, somehow. Elain would worry about that another time.

The air smelled strange. She could scent Lucien, closely mingled with another of stale flowers and rain and… blood. Icy dread sluiced through her veins at the realization it was Lucien’s blood. All Elain saw was red and light. She felt a pulse of magic, heard a faint shatter of glass.

Mate. Save him. Protect him.

There was Madja, staring blankly at her, bent over Lucien’s body—he was unconscious and covered in drying blood.

“Mate. Protect,” was the last thing Elain remembered hearing before her power consumed her completely.

Elain woke to the sound of hushed voices. She was lying on a hard surface.

“Was knocking her out really necessary?” Nesta quietly snarled.

“I didn’t ‘knock her out,’ I put her to sleep,” Rhys’s voice was calm yet equally hushed. “She wasn’t herself, Nesta. I didn’t want her to hurt anyone or hurt herself.”

“I thought she didn’t have magic anymore,” Cassian said.

“Well, I knew something was still there,” Amren sounded smug.

Elain cracked an eye open, just enough to get a blurry image of the scene. Feyre was slowly shaking her head, looking at the floor. They were still in the townhouse. Her head felt like someone had split her skull with a hammer and chisel.

“I found her unconscious in the garden this afternoon. I couldn’t get into her mind but when she woke up, she said she’d had a vision. I don’t know if it’s happened before, or if she’s aware of this power,” Feyre murmured.

“How long will she be asleep?” Nesta asked, concerned.

“She’s already awake,” a deep voice like honey rumbled from directly behind her, though it sounded strained.

Elain bolted upright, scrambled off the table and nearly head-butted the wall as the room swayed beneath her feet. Her fingertips dug into the molded oak paneling but then Nesta’s hands gripped her shoulders and steadied her. One of those hands moved to her cheek as Nesta turned her face to examine it. Elain shook off Nesta’s hand and turned back to look at the wide dining table where Lucien lay, his hair a sanguine red against a blue pillow.

She took a shaky step toward him before she stopped herself, ignoring that voice demanding she run to him and make sure he’s okay.

“Lucien,” she breathed. Her throat felt raw, like she had been screaming. She swallowed, painfully. “Are… are you going to be alright?”

“Right as rain, Lady,” he said with a smirk that twisted into a grimace as he coughed

Liar.

“He’ll be perfectly healed in a few days,” Madja explained from a chair by the fire. “He’s lucky he got here when he did, a few more minutes and some of those splinters would have reached his heart.”

“How do you feel, Elain?” Nesta asked softly, holding Elain’s elbow.

“I’m fine Nesta.” Elain’s words were clipped. She hated this feeling, that dark gap in her memory.

Lucien coughed again, “She’s about thirty seconds from passing out if her heartbeat—cough—doesn’t slow and she has one of the worst burnout headaches I’ve ever felt.” His voice grew progressively quieter as he spoke.

Elain rapidly snapped up her mental shields, but the exertion made her stumble.

Nesta gently shoved her down into an overstuffed armchair and forced a cup of water into her hand, gray eyes gleaming like daggers as she demanded Elain to drink.

Madja shuffled over and placed a wrinkled hand on Elain’s shoulder, the pounding in her head subsided but didn’t disappear.

Feyre sat down on the ottoman in front of her chair. “Elain, can you tell me what happened? Do you remember?”

Elain looked around the room. Lucien was now half sitting, propped up on a bunch of pillows. Nesta stood behind her chair, Cassian close to her side. Amren perched on an arm of the sofa where Rhys and Madja sat, behind Feyre. Azriel stood near the arched opening to the dining room, his shadows blending into the darkness behind him. What did she remember? What did she want to remember?

Elain knew she should handle this carefully, that she could play it right and keep things mostly the way they were before. But her head was so foggy, everything about her felt sluggish. What she remembered after she left her room were flashes, nothing coherent. Elain remembered the pain on Feyre’s face in the garden, when she’d suspected Elain had been lying.

Pain. She was in pain. Lucien was in pain. There was too much of it. Elain was tired. So very, very tired of pain. Elain took a deep breath and spoke.

“Earlier, I had a… vision.” She tucked her hand beneath her thighs to stop herself from wringing her fingers. “I saw the gates of Lord Nolan’s manor.” She forced her gaze to meet Lucien’s, “I felt those guards shoot you.”

Her eyes closed as her voice cracked. She couldn’t look at him without that voice chanting all the things she should do to those guards. Elain took a deep breath, “I felt your pain, that’s how I knew it was you. I feel nothing in my visions.” Unless they are about you, she finished in her head.

“I remember Feyre taking me up to my room. I remember leaving as soon as she left. I… I just couldn’t let anyone be in that kind of pain when I knew there was something I could do to help. When I tried to find you the bond—it was fading. I panicked, I could sense you were close to death.” Elain swiped an errant tear from her cheek. She shouldn’t be crying over a stranger.

“That thing, that voice panicked and I could feel a sort of light, a power inside me and it wanted to get out. I could barely think straight so I let it—it felt like my best chance to find him. After that, it's just fragments. I remember standing outside of the townhouse. I remember it smelled wrong, like rain and dying flowers and Lucien’s blood.”

Elain noticed Feyre’s nostrils flare, then her whole body went rigid and her face paled. She stiffly nodded for Elain to continue but her eyes glazed over slightly.

“That’s really all I can remember.” Elain looked to the dancing flames behind the grate.

The silence in the room was broken when Rhys spoke a name, “Mor?”

Morrigan winced as she stepped out of Azriel’s shadows. “That's all she remembers,” she said Rhys.

Fuck. They used Mor? Was their distrust in her truly so immense? It hurt, more than Elain expected it would. Not that she could really blame them. Lucien looked shocked, but it seemed the others were aware. Mor, at least, had the decency to look apologetic.

Feyre moved off of the ottoman to sit on Rhys’s lap. Her color was better, whatever they’d spoken about mind-to-mind had worked. Rhys cleared his throat, “Well, let me show you all what I remember.”

Elain was grateful she was sitting down or she might have fainted as Rhys’s experience of events played through everyone’s minds, stopping on an image of her pinning Tamlin against the wall by his throat.

“Fascinating,” Amren mused. She cocked her head, those unholy steel eyes flitting between Elain and Nesta, analyzing them as if they were one of her many puzzles.

Elain’s mind was still trying to catch up with everything Rhys had revealed when she felt a sharp spike of self-loathing. She looked over to Lucien who wore a haunted expression.

“Stop that!” Elain hissed at him.

Lucien’s russet and gold gaze turned sharply on her and Elain clapped a hand over her mouth, felt her eyes widen.

“Sorry I just… none of this was your fault Lucien,” she stammered, warmth rising to her cheeks.

“No, that’s not… never mind. You’re right,” his words were stilted.

Elain noticed the others glancing between them, their faces betraying an odd mix of confusion and amusement.

Before she had time to respond, Nesta snickered “You—you really…. Honestly, I’m jealous.”

Elain was confused.

Nesta sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Just—the next time you nail Tamlin’s balls to the wall—wait for me.”

Feyre snorted softly.

Slowly, Elain turned to Rhys. “I…. Oh Gods… I attacked a High Lord… did I start a war?”

She held no sympathy for Tamlin, but Prythian was still recovering from the last war.

Rhys shook his head with a gentle smile. He asked Lucien, “Are you feeling well enough to head to the River House?”

Lucien nodded once.

“Right then, we will continue this discussion after we’ve all had something to eat,” Rhys concluded.

Cassian mumbled “about damn time,” as he and Nesta made their way outside.

Amren held her hand out expectantly to Azriel who rolled his eyes before winnowing away with the tiny ancient one in tow.

Rhys slung and arm around Lucien’s broad shoulders as he helped him stand. Elain was momentarily stunned because Lucien was taller than Rhys when she saw them side by side. No, that was a dumb thing to realize and why now…. Elain blinked a few times to clear her head.

Feyre and Mor were looking at her, waiting. Elain looked back at Lucien and Rhys, the latter now looking at her in silent question.

She slowly rose to her feet, pleasantly surprised to find her legs steady. Elain took a step towards Feyre but the disquiet in her gut increased and she hesitated.

“I’ll go with Lucien and Rhys,” she found herself saying. The nervous energy settled a bit more with each step towards them.

She didn’t even attempt to decipher the meaning in Rhys’s knowing gaze. Elain took his arm, and they winnowed to the lawn of the River House. Cassian was waiting for them by the door, taking over as Lucien’s support and disappearing into the house. Elain made to follow them but Rhys gently stopped her.

“What?” Elain cocked her head at the High Lord of Night. For that definitely was not the expression of her smartass brother-in-law.

“I will allow you into this house if you swear to do no harm to my mate, my son, or any other members of my inner circle or guests of my household.” Rhys’s voice was the deep cold of a midwinter’s night.

Elain took a step back, eyes stinging. Did Rhys really think she would hurt her sisters, hurt Nyx?

His expression softened slightly, “The vow is a formality, Elain. I don’t think you would intentionally harm anyone but you… you weren’t yourself this morning. It will give you peace of mind as well, a guarantee that no one you care about would get hurt if you lost control again.”

That would be true, she supposed.

A part of her bristled at the ultimatum, that Rhys—the champion of choices—didn’t give her one. Another part of her was grateful, she didn’t trust herself. Hadn’t since she’d come out of the Cauldron. She’d buried her powers so deep because they scared her—that potential loss of control was absolutely terrifying.

“I swear to do no harm to my sisters, my nephew, or any members of the inner circle or guests of your household,” Elain repeated as she held out her hand.

Elain didn’t realize she was freezing until Rhys’s hand wrapped around hers, the warmth and the zing of magic pulsing through the air gave her goosebumps. She looked at their clasped hands and saw a tiny star tattooed on the inside of her right wrist. It was… cute.

Elain paid little attention to anything during dinner. Thankfully, everyone seemed happy to carry on their conversations without her. She wasn’t surprised, they normally were. She downed her first glass of wine and spent an hour picking at her food. Elain was grateful to be sitting next to Mor. In quiet solidarity, Mor kept pace with Elain. When the meal ended the two of them had finished a bottle.

She followed the others through to the sitting room, every sense softer—and she was delightfully warm. The events of the day felt less world-shattering. Elain’s mind was still drifting when Rhys called for everyone’s attention. Only then did the room come into focus. Amren, Feyre, and Nesta were giving her odd looks. She glanced down to see if she’d accidentally spilled wine on her dress only to meet Lucien’s russet-gold stare, not a foot below her.

Elain wished the floors would open up and swallow her. Apparently while her mind had wandered, her feet had carried her to stand halfway behind the chair where Lucien sat near the fire.

Good. He is still healing, watch over him, the voice said.

Elain almost jumped at the sound, it hadn't spoken in hours.

To move away now, after everyone else had settled would be even more awkward, so Elain stayed.

It’s just the bond. Just my instincts — it means nothing. They all know that, she talked herself down before she could feel too flustered.

“Alright Amren,” Rhys said coolly, holding his palm out in an invitation to speak.

Elain’s heart jumped into her throat. She felt like a child again, waiting for her mother’s tongue-lashing.

Would they ship her away like Nesta, or worse? At least Nesta hadn’t tricked everyone. She’d lied, but the lies were obvious. Elain had manipulated her family’s goodwill against them, for her own selfish comfort. She knew her powers could make a profound difference in the world… if she could bear to face them.

She wasn’t like her sisters. She wasn’t a warrior; she didn’t want to lead people; she didn’t even want to be here half of the time. Elain missed being human, she missed the life Hybern and the Cauldron had stolen from her. She didn’t want this power in her veins so she’d done her best to ignore its existence.

Amren looked at Elain, her bobbed hair swaying as her head again tilted to the side, assessing. “This isn’t the first time. Is it, girl?”

“No,” Elain hated how meek her voice sounded.

“Well?” Amren motioned for her to elaborate.

Elain took a deep breath that did nothing to steady her so she gripped the back of the chair, low enough that no one could see how weak she was. Feyre had no trouble commanding a room of faeries who hated her, but Elain was not her sister.

“I… um.” Elain stuttered.

Lucien shifted in front of her, crossing his arms and her breath hitched when she felt warm fingers brush against hers. The contact grounded her.

She swallowed and spoke. “The first time was during the war. I was pacing in camp when I saw Nesta’s blast. Felt it. I could sense something beneath my skin, like I was burning from the inside.”

“I knew something bad was happening, could feel it in my bones. And then I heard a voice, your voice.” Elain looked at her little sister. “You begged me to save them.”

“I begged the Cauldron to save them,” Feyre explained. “How did you hear that?”

“The Cauldron and its power answer to ultimately to her, at least in this world. She knew you needed help,” Elain replied.

“Her?” Feyre asked.

“This world?” Rhys spoke at the same moment as his mate.

Elain blushed, she definitely said too much.

“Don’t get distracted, girl,” Amren chided.

Elain nodded and continued, “Well, I don’t know what I did. I just… let go. Let the light burn. And the next thing I can remember is my hand covered in blood holding Truth-Teller’s hilt in that King’s neck. I don’t know how I got there. I panicked when I realized what was happening—what I did. And well, Nesta took over then.”

Lucien’s fingers twitched against hers, the slight touch doing more to comfort her than was logical.

“The second time was different, internal. It was when Nyx was born,” Elain explained. Everyone in the room sat up a little straighter at that.

“What I saw,” Cassian blurted out, “that was you? You stopped the Cauldron from taking all of Nesta’s power.”

“Not exactly me, but yes. I… well, it’s hard to explain since I don’t really understand it.” Elain paused, she really didn’t know if this would make any sense.

“Just tell us as best as you can,” Lucien spoke for the first time since they’d gathered.

“Well Nesta, remember the terms of your bargain? I’d seen what would happen, only I didn’t realize what the vision meant until you first said ‘I give it all back.’ The vision was a phrase: one life for three, moonlit death, what a bargain.”

Elain saw Cassian stiffen as the meaning of the words hit him, he drew his wing closer around Nesta.

“Nesta, when you told the Cauldron you would ‘give it all back,’ you bargained away your life. I couldn’t let that happen so I reached out—reached down maybe, into the power. It’s kind of like a well right, so I dove to the bottom—to the heart, the source.”

“The source?” Amren prompted skeptically.

“The Mother,” Elain replied.

Amren’s gray eyes went wide.

“The Mother,” Elain continued, her voice more confident now, “is the only thing who can truly influence the Cauldron. She gave the Cauldron purpose when she created this world, the Cauldron loves her because of it.”

“What does the Mother have to do with Nesta’s bargain? How do you have a connection to her?” Feyre asked.

“Well,” Elain swallowed, trying to ignore terror brought on by the memories of that day in Hybern. She hadn’t realized her eyes had squeezed shut until another faint brush of Lucien’s fingers made her open them.

“When I went into the Cauldron,” Elain stared into the fire, “I was drifting for a long time until the Mother’s hand took hold of me. She said something about being pure of heart and told me the Cauldron would bless me with great gifts. And that she would always walk beside me.

“When I met her again, trying to save Nesta’s life from that bargain, I offered her anything she wanted as long as she made the Cauldron alter your bargain to let you live, to let you all live. She made me vow I would never seek to rid myself of my powers. I don’t know how much you all know about Seers, but it’s usually a cursed gift. They lose their sanity or become slaves and prisoners, often both. The Mother knew I didn’t want that. She knew it would be harder to keep the gifts than trade them for you. And well, here we are.”

The typically loud group of Fae were silent.

“If you don’t believe me, that bargain is inked in gold on my spine,” Elain shrugged, trying to lighten the mood, her gaze still fixed on the fire. She could have sworn she saw a forest in the flames, a fox running between the trees. Then again, she’d had a lot of wine.

This world was bizarre, magic didn’t follow logic or reason. Compared to some stories she’d heard from this group—this might not even be the strangest. She felt light. Freer than she had felt for many years.

“Elain—” Nesta’s cracking voice drew Elain’s gaze. “You saved me. Twice. You saved Cassian’s life, too.”

“Considering how many times you’ve saved me over the years, Nesta, it was the least I could do to pay you back.”

Elain took a deep breath and addressed the room, breaking contact with Lucien and stepping away from the chair. “I’m sorry for keeping this all to myself. What I’ve told you all tonight is just a fraction. I was terrified—am terrified by all of this. It was too overwhelming, so I shut it all out. I know it was selfish. I’m sorry that I lied to you all, that I abused your kindness to shield myself from having to deal with any of it.”

Elain kept her eyes on the floor, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure.

Nesta’s arms wrapped around her, squeezing. Feyre’s arms wound around both of them a second later. Warm tears tracked down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t talk to me about any of this,” Feyre mumbled into Elain’s shoulder. “I hate that you’ve been dealing with this by yourself.”

“If anyone was selfish, it was me,” Nesta sniffed. “You were right that time at the River House. I was too consumed by my shit to realize you were going through it too, that you needed someone just as much as I did.”

Elain pulled away when it got hard to breathe, wiping the tears from her eyes and grinning at her sisters. Rhys cleared his throat. Elain saw Cassian wipe away a few tears of his own. She didn’t know why but she turned back toward Lucien.

He was smiling at her, his russet eye held a mix of wonder and pride. It was like Elain had spent the last three years under the clouds. Finally explaining part of what had been haunting her had revealed scraps of blue sky, but that one look from Lucien banished the rest. Like that smile was the sweetest ray of sunlight to ever shine. And maybe it would be okay.

tagging: @ablogofbipanic @damedechance @octobers-veryown @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @vulpes-fennec @krem-does-stuff @areyoudreaminof @spell-cleavers @fieldofdaisiies @foundress0fnothing @kingofsummer93

#elucienweek2023 #elucien #elucien fanfiction #elucien fanfic #pro elucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elain x lucien #lucien x elain

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chloeangelic · 1 year ago

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Why does it seem like everything you've put out lately is just trying to rip off netherfeildren? Like the art, the plots, the aesthetics... Especially weird since you used to seem to always hype them up

I went back and forth on responding to this but I’ve decided to because I don’t appreciate having my integrity questioned. I kind of expected that I'd get something like this because there are some thematic similarities between Seeking and SWITBOSH. However, I won’t respond publicly to anything else like this cause I think we’re all very over The Discourse, and tbh it’s a massive fucking insult to accuse me of ripping someone off when I’ve spent seven months writing ca 200k words of fic and developing my own unique style of writing. If you can’t see the difference between two writers, just because they write emotional depth and full sentences, then please read an actual book and not just brainrot fic. I’m gonna properly address everything under the cut - anon domming is back on the menu today.

That being said, because this feels weird and uncomfortable for me and likely for Vic, I’m turning off anons for the time being and I’m taking a posting break to decide whether I want to continue posting here at all or continue posting purely on AO3. I post there anyways under the same name. If you still have a bone to pick with me or my writing, please message me directly. Please do NOT pester Vic about this, I know very well that she does not enjoy The Discourse or any sort of drama. Everyone is sick of the copying discourse - please have some trust in writers’ self awareness.

Firstly, the words “recently” and “plots” should be defined here - I personally don’t see how stepdaddy Joel, pornstar Tim, sex addict Dieter, baby daddy Javi or any of Love Me back is similar to her works at all. The Seeking teaser I posted yesterday was similar to her Pink teasers purely because it had text on a photo - my text wasn’t even from the fic, it was a quote that represented the series as a whole and the quote that finally made the series crystallize in my head. It’s the quote I want people to have in the back of their mind when they go into reading it - it’s from the song that I consider the series theme. Our formatting is not the same. Yes, I have quotes at the beginning of the chapters - my friend sent me a bunch of poems and a couple, I felt were relevant to the story so I wanted to add them somehow. Several writers do this. I stopped putting in previews above the cut cause it was making it difficult for me to write the beginning of the chapters. My masterlist art is the same as, like.. Everyone’s else’s masterlist post - the norm on here is to have an artwork from Pinterest, the title slapped on top and the writer’s name. I literally just loved Pascalisbaby’s masterlist art so much I decided to do it too.

When you say plots, I’m assuming you’re drawing parallels between Seeking what is desirable and Someone’s Wife in the Boat of Someone’s Husband because cheater!Joel (or maybe even Pink cause DDLG, but I’m literally in a DDLG-type dynamic irl and I decided to incorporate it into a fic for once - there were CLEAR ddlg undertones in Love Me Back, it just wasn’t explicit. I also wrote several chapters of Seeking before Pink even came out, and I wrote a cheating + father in law oneshot this summer).

The MC in Seeking is based on myself and my own life, moving away from my parents in order to live with my boyfriend at the time very far away, who ended up being extremely absent and shitty. MC+Jeremiah relationship is based on Adam and Hermine from EXIT, Jeremiah is based on Tony Soprano, Gwen is based on Janice Soprano + a story I heard from my cousin about how his wife let him do all the childcare while she went on a women’s retreat. They are not in a marriage of convenience, the MC doesn’t feel bad about the affair at all, she never pushes him away, and Gwen has no plans on leaving. Sarah and Ellie are both 16 and living with Joel in Seeking. The MC does not have similarities to Sarah like she does in Love Me Back (which was also literally based on my own life) or Someone’s.

MC is a teacher who cheats with Joel - so is the MC in my post outbreak series I wrote many months ago. They're drawn to each other immediately cause I hate slow burn fics and I didn't feel like writing two chapters of him fucking someone else this time around. She goes out intending to cheat, and he thinks it'll sustain him for the next several years. The first thing I thought up in this entire series was Jeremiah - I had his character crystallized in my head for weeks before I planned anything else.

Of course Joel is unhappy in his marriage - neither Vic or myself would write a Joel who cheats for fun, that’s just not something either of us finds interesting. It actually started as a Sopranos AU, but I decided against going that route cause I don’t know enough about white collar crime. Also, if you are familiar with my writing you’ll know I love writing infidelity - it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’m writing a series with this as the central theme. The central question for Seeking is when is it okay to cheat? That’s what the entire fic is about. It’s not about him finding the love of his life after marrying someone else (like the summary of Someone’s), it’s about two instances of cheating and how we justify those two scenarios. Of course it has a happy ending - I’ve used up my non-happy ending quota for the year.

I’m not sure what you mean by aesthetics - Vic actually edits really nice graphics for all of her Mando chapters. She spends a bunch of time on those, and you’re doing a disservice to her by overlooking how unique her artwork is and how much effort it takes. She also made really cool teasers for Pink. I’m way too lazy for any of that, I just slam a moodboard together. I started doing 3 slot moodboards cause the 6-7 slot ones were a hassle. The fact that only art pieces are used in this series is half coincidence, half me being sick of trying to fit Pedro pics into the moodboards when the colors are often wrong.

I literally texted with her when I planned this series, saying I was afraid people would accuse it of being a ripoff of Someone’s, purely due to the Joel infidelity + uninterested wife factor, and she did not think the overall plot was similar enough to be of concern. I still hype her up, she just doesn’t post as often now so I don’t reblog as often, that’s pretty simple. I’ve also asked Iris, my editor, SEVERAL TIMES if it reads too similar to Someone’s or anything Vic has written - she is extremely familiar with both of our works and she did not think so. What exactly am I supposed to do when I’ve gotten the green light from everyone?

This specific anon didn’t mention the actual writing, though, which is funny and it makes sense because I don’t write like Vic and I don’t try to. Her vocabulary is way larger than mine, the diction and syntax are not similar at all. She actually uses metaphors, I use them very rarely and only when it’s super dramatic. My writing isn’t poetic, it’s not flowery, it’s not formal - it’s literally just how I think inside my own head. When I read my own writing, I imagine Charles Gross doing a dramatic reading. I learn like one new word every month and eventually I’ll add it to my writing when it’s something I’m confident using irl. She has a lot of depth to her fics, I also try to write with emotional depth - I’m sorry if that’s unfamiliar in a landscape of dbf porn with no plot and 5 word sentences (I’m shading my own first series here). Seeking reads more similar to the first series I ever wrote, which I never posted, than anything else I’ve written. Half of Seeking is also straight up daydreaming sequences cause that’s literally how I think - the MC lives a boring life and daydreams, so do I.

I’ve learned a ton from reading Vic’s stuff - I don’t read that much irl cause I rarely find English novels captivating, but her writing has really made an impression on me. I talk constantly about how much her writing makes me cry, and it really does. Reading her stuff has absolutely influenced me to be more confident about weaving in actions and little plot points that are more vulnerable and personal to myself, and that adds a lot of depth it otherwise wouldn’t. I’m very inspired by her, of course I am - but I know the difference between being inspired and trying to leech.

I’m sorry my writing style has developed. I’m sorry I no longer write like I did in April, with matter-of-factly short sentences and little emotional depth. I have short series and long series because some plots deserve more emotional depth and some don’t need it. I wouldn’t bother writing anymore if all I did was shady lawyer Joel or Father Joel and I never improved.

If you don’t enjoy my writing, please just unfollow. I’ve seen other fics on this platform that read similar to mine, some that have exactly the same plot points/origin stories, and at no point have I thought they were ripping me off. At some point, this specific fandom needs to realize that it’s possible for two writers to have similar ideas without it being one person copying the other. My personal opinion is that if you copy someone’s plot, you won’t be able to execute it well because you don’t have the ideas necessary to actually flesh it out. If you’re familiar with my writing, you know damn well I’m capable of coming up with my own ideas and plots. I feel zero need to rip other people's in order to gain traction - I have enough followers and idgaf how many notes anything gets. Please don’t overestimate my ability to give a fuck about my popularity in this fandom.

Anyways, thanks for making me want to vomit, anon, you truly made me feel like shit today and I hope you have a great night! I’m not sure how much I’ll be checking tumblr for a while so feel free to message me on discord under the same name.

#chloe answers

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softguarnere · 1 year ago

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hello! :) i'm working on a bob fanfiction right now, and i wanted to know if you had any tips for aspiring bob fanfic writers (or if you had talked about this before?) i'm especially curious what you have to say about balancing the historical accuracy of the story vs deviations from history, as well as how to weave an oc into the original plot of the show while still keeping the content fresh and (somewhat) original

oh! and also how you go about doing your research (if you do any)

your writing is a huge inspiration to me, so thanks so much!! i hope you have a good day :D

Hi Anon! I answered something similar here if you want to check that out

Aside from just going for it and having fun with it, I do have some thoughts (everybody act shocked), but I'll try to keep it concise 🤗

Balancing historical accuracy with fiction

First and foremost, I feel like it's helpful to point out that Stephen Ambrose made some mistakes in BOB. Not trying to disparage his name or anything, just to be clear! Several of the men (Speirs, Shifty) pointed out mistakes he made about them in the book.

Why am I mentioning this? Because I'm a historian and I'm annoying about it lol Because the historical narrative we're drawing our inspiration for fics from isn't a narrative that everyone agrees on -- then again, good luck finding one that people do, but I digress -- I think it gives some wiggle room for bending the story a bit to make it work for the narrative that we as writers are trying to create

Similarly, I feel like it's important to invoke the disclaimer that many of us put on our fics: these stories about fictional representations from a show (though it is based on real people and events)

In the end, we're all taking liberties with the narrative for the sake of our writing. Most people in the fandom probably won't bite your head off if you use plotlines that are alternate histories because most of us are doing them, too -- and a lot of writers here have some very cool ideas and plots with alternate histories that are really good reads!

At the end of the day, don't feel pressured to stick directly to the historical narrative. After all, we're writers -- having imagination is what we do

Weaving an OC into a well-known narrative

Oh boy. I'm not sure if there's a great way to answer this. Personally, I knew who my OC was, what her background, wants desires, etc. were, and then I just sort of . . . set her free into the story? There are moments directly from the show where I wove her in and made her a part of that scene, and then there are interactions and plotlines that I came up with myself.

Honestly, it probably depends on your plot and your character. No one really wants to read a re-write of BOB -- after all, that's why we're all out here writing fics with our own ideas and stories. However, if you feel that a certain scene would further your plot/advance your character, and that you can weave them into it, then go for it! It's all about how you write and what feels right to you for your story.

Research

Have I abused some of my historian privileges during my time in this fandom? Perhaps 👀 But if you don't have university archival access, never fear! There are still lots of good ways to research

In terms of background, I found that reading the memoirs and biographies of the Easy Company men was really helpful when figuring out how to write them. It was also good for learning stories and experiences that did not make it into BOB. Watching interviews with them on YouTube and watching interviews with the actors was also extremely helpful for things like speech cadence, mannerisms, etc.

Definitely branch out, though! I was lucky in that I had to do some projects about WW2 around the time that I joined the fandom, so researching different aspects of the period was helpful for me when I started writing. Don't feel like you have to rush out and read every WW2 book or watch every documentary, but it can definitely help with learning different perspectives and experiences, as well as providing context.

If you ever want book recommendations, feel free to reach out! Especially if you need book recs about paratroopers in general, because I have a whole shelf space dedicated to those haha

Lastly, thank you so much for the lovely compliment, Anon -- and thank you for trusting me enough to reach out! 🥹 Feel free to reach out if you ever want to chat, and I look forward to reading what you write in the future 💕

(Other BOB writers feel free to add on!)

#'just go for it' I sound like the Nike catchphrase and I am sorry for that - but also not really because that is my writing philosophy #band of brothers #writing advice #asks #anonymous

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cartoon-buffoon · 4 months ago

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I usually don't reblog my own posts but in hopes to prove that fanfiction is a genuine type of writing and because I think a LOT about the stories I wish to tell here's an explanation/some extra details about this fic that I have kept in my mind because I love subtle world building and the implications rather than the downright explanations (why am I explaining this fic then? Because I can, shush). Anyways time for tonight's episode of:

BEHIND THE SCENES WITH TB!

Now for starters the inspirations for this fic is a clusterfuck of several different things I've pulled from. First and foremost and I suppose the main inspirations I explicitly mentioned were a song and a story. The story this is based on is my personal favorite fictional story EVER and the story that inspired me to write in the first place which is "The Inevitable End Of All But Me" by SCP illustrated [link to video here] . This story features the really hard to kill reptile SCP-682 effectively alone in a desolate cold world after humanity and all life has died, you could see the influence on this fic. With that outta the way the other inspiration was the FNF sonic.exe Lord X song "Trichael", which is a song of the sinister deity Lord X (which is a new version of the classic sonic.exe) who's body or vessel is at the end of its lifespan and the song is him accepting his death as he's basically a walking corpse. The link is [here] if you wanna listen to it (lyrics start half-way through) but I'll recount the main lyrics that makes me draw a connection CC to Lord X as characters:

"[I tore off my face

I don't want it back

do not let me see it

it will fade to black]

I'm waiting,

Still breathing,"

No longer worth deceiving

This flesh decaying but my,

heart's,

still,

bea-ting"

These verses has rewired my brain and gave me a hard cemented HC into my mind that whatever CC was/is under the mask he doesn't like that version of himself. His body is a lot more than a way to latch onto the world, it's a form he loves and cherishes which is why he chooses to remain as it. The idea of Lord X also inspired the dialogue/implied origins of CC in this fic which is a segway into my next topic—

THE THREE SURVIVORS/SYMBOLISM

The choice of CC, Long Horse, and The Man With The Upside Down Face (who will be abbreviated as UDF from here on out) was a sort of representation of past, present, and future. CC is the cause of the disaster showcasing what did happen with his body decaying, Long Horse is the representation of what is currently happening with humanity dead the patron saints all have no purpose and their crumbling which is exactly what happens to Long Horse. UDF finally is representative of the aftermath, unlike CC and Long Horse, UDF is untouched for one of two reasons, he shows no signs of rot despite it clearly stating his time is also up because he is the representation of everything will go back to how it is. Both for CC and the earth which will have nature reclaim it with a line directly stating this.

Now as for the individual characters themselves Long Horse and his presence was one I DEFINITELY wanted to be there for CC. In most fan projects and fan stuff CC and Long Horse are tied together with Long Horse (who will be abbreviated as LH from here on out) usually being a warning to CC's victims. Now while the same is true for this fic as it's explicitly stated that LH ruined some of CC's meals by warning them, I paint LH as a benevolent creature who's intentionally passive. It is dying with CC and while it did strive to protect humans UDF rightfully states that LH feels pity for CC, which it does. It doesn't hold any resentment or hatred as it just can't, it knows CC is something that holds no real morals or reason, it's not a human and doesn't really know what it feels like to have the same feelings as a mortal. That's kinda where the pity comes from, it feels bad for CC because it's a creature that was so caught up in its bloodlust it never for a second considered anything else.

On the opposite end of the spectrum there's UDF who comes out with the cold hard truth and although he doesn't hate CC he rightfully blames him. UDF I paint as a sort of grim reaper, it was there for the death of all the others and it intentionally tries to rile CC up just for a last meal because it feeds off that energy when something dies. An aspect of UDF I wrote in and personally love is the fact that it knows it's a force of nature far beyond the other creatures which is why It has nicknames for all of them and refuses to call them by their actual names. It calls CC "Smiley", LH as "Skelly", it refers to Big Charlie, Lil Nugget, and the Lamb as "The Big Fella and his spawn", The God of Roadkill as "Roady", the bridge worms as "maggots", Chicken God as "Beak-face", and finally Siren Head as "that ol' siren". It uses these nicknames because it sees itself as above them all and looks down at them, it's entire existence being just evil incarnate. It's also why he uses CC's name in a mocking fashion + why when LH injuries him his tone changes, he was humbled up and gets kinda pissy about that because something he considers below him hurt him. I also imagine UDF as a sort of omnipresent force which is why he's also not worried about his own demise either, like yeah his material existence is coming to an end yet he doesn't really care at all and is sort of happy he could witness such chaos be sown in the first place. All he wants to do is make sure CC knows what he did, although as I said he DID want to piss CC off that doesn't take away that all of his words held weight. He didn't sugarcoat or lie about anything and just stated the truth.

Now for the final character and one I attempted to keep as canon-accurate as possible: CC! CC's entire thing is its a cold hearted killer that shows no remorse for its actions. Which is why in this fic it doesn't really change, in fact this fic itself was created as an explanation as to why CC doesn't go on mass killing sprees and prefers to slowly take away the population for its own amusement. If it did just stroll around slaughter absolutely everything it would be board faster, it's why the section of CC contemplating his existence was so fun to write/read back on. At the end of the day he truly shows no remorse and he would learn NOTHING from an experience where he was faced with the thought of death, in fact arguably he's even worse now. I kinda wanted this to reflected during his actual death yet I feel like I didn't do a good enough job, one thing I did make sure to add was when he sees LH he still thinks about taking this opportunity to end LH then and there but he chooses not too because their all already dying. It's this part of the character that I absolutely love because even during death he's still the same Cartoon Cat, he thinks about different possibilities out of curiosity yet when he's given a second chance he IMMEDIATELY goes back to killing. It's in his blood and apart of him, did you really think he'd learn a moral? Nope! And that's why I absolutely loved to write this. Anyways moving on to:

WHATS NOT STATED/EXTRAS

For starters one thing that I guess is a heavy part is the existence of the void/abyss, the place where CC and likewise UDF come from. Now while CC and UDF's origins canonically are left up to be a mystery on a purpose (and IMO it makes them even more scarier) I decided to give a sort of implication where they come from. This was inspired by Lord X as well but the concept of the void to me is an abstract place of darkness, a place outside of time and space that's primordial. I still wanted to keep an air of mystery surrounding it though which is why both CC and UDF—despite coming from there—have no idea what the abyss truly is like. I love cosmic horror so something is scary to me that even the creatures birthed from it have no idea wtf it is as they only have a vague idea of what it is. Their basic understanding is demonstrated with UDF saying to CC "I look forward to seeing you in the abyss... If we don't forget ourselves that is", and why when CC dies and is suddenly thrust into an abyss he doubts it's THE abyss. As they understand it, the abyss and where they spawn from is a place of absolute nothingness, it's a place where the very memories and sense of who they were/are on earth is stripped away and they're reduced to the primordial nothingness that they spawned from. At least that's what they ASSUME, neither knows for sure and UDF hopes to see CC in the void just so he could laugh at it and it's why when CC is in the abyss he doesn't believe he's in the abyss he came from because it just doesn't feel right. The abyss and the void itself is kinda like the concept of a god, people have vastly different takes of who/what is god but they all have a vague idea or share similar beliefs, with all that being said it's possible they are all wrong because no one truly knows for sure.

Okay abyss covered, the other thing I wanna explain a bit is the death of the other cryptids/creations of Mr. Henderson. Although a passing comment with little importance idk but I find the death's of all the other cryptids either sad or actually somewhat happy. For starters the bridge worms are creatures that are kinda biological and not really supernatural, they are a species that lies in dark places and area to hunt animals and humans and it's fake face is a stunted and kinda useless form of mimicry. The bridge worm is kinda what a cryptid should be, a fucked up creature that has an air of mystery surrounding it but for the most part is pretty comprehensible on paper. With that being said it's death is explanatory, the bridge worm as a species all just died off without food, simple but logical. On the more positive side beak-face aka the chicken god/chicken ghost actually killed itself in order to save its poultry servants. It literally ripped off it's halo killing itself in the process so the surviving chickens could go somewhere else. While it is sad it died it the death of all humans meant the chickens didn't need a guardian anymore so he decided to sacrifice himself and take all the world's population of chickens (or at least the ones CC didn't consume in his massacre) to a better world for them. In a similar vain the death of all man meant the god of roadkill's purpose was also useless which is why his death is pretty simple. It walked off to an animal graveyard and passed, it fulfilled its job until the very end and because of that it got to finally take a well deserved rest surrounded by animals which it cared for. Something different happens with Big Charlie, Lil Nugget, and The Lamb (and void nugget I guess too) and I intentionally used the word "faded" there. I remember Mr. Henderson saying Big Charlie, Lil Nugget, and The Lamb is kinda like the holy Trinity of his universe being the father, the song, and the holy Spirit which is why they all "faded". I wanted to imply they all kinda ascended and went to a better place, idk I find the idea of big Charlie and all the Lil Nuggets and Lambs all huddling together before slowly fading into what I would hope is heaven is a sweet mental image, Charlie's life started off in a meat plant so to have it's "children" all there together in one big embrace before becoming something more is what I think he deserves. Stepping away from that though there's finally Siren Head who I like to think is equally part flesh as he is metal. With nothing to feast on I came up with the gnarly mental image of Siren Head's body physically rusting, the meat on its scrawny form peeling off until finally it stood stiff, it's skelton fully exposed being leaving a normal looking siren as a pile of meat lay at its feet. As you can tell the smallest of lines comes with the craziest amount of ideas from me on the writing standpoint and if I don't share these NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW OF MY IDEAS!

Anyways lemme check my last few notes and do a speed round of stuff.

—LH is stated to be a pacifist yet I imagine him to hold a great deal of power, his power demonstrated by him actually hurting UDF

—The world didn't reset but rather CC is in an entirely new world, the old one still existed and died off

—CC's rebirth in a new world is because of it latching onto the inherent nostalgia of others. As long as people exist who look back on how things used to be fondly it will forever be the same ol' Cartoon Cat no matter the world.

—The title of the fic + the ending is based on the picture Mr. Henderson made of CC T-posing in an empty street, the picture being named "reruns". The same man from that picture is the one in the fic who unfortunately stumbled across CC.

—This is a fuck up on my part but the ending should not have been in a mall because as the reruns picture clearly shows CC is in the middle of an empty street, NOT A MALL

Okay with that outta the way time for tonight's final segment:

CUT CONTENT!

Like all of my works many ideas don't fall through or gets changed in rewrites, I'll list some and briefly touch on why I didn't go through with it or altered it.

—originally this fic was going to be a lot closer to its inspiration with the world actually completely dying, didn't use this because I wanted to seperate it from The Inevitable End Of All But Me.

—the other cryptids were planned to be there for CC during the finale. Ultimately I felt like LH and UDF being there had more of an impact than just some cryptid apocalypse party on a roof, LH's outburst being the main deciding factor in this decision as the idea was too perfect not to use.

—LH was supposed to speak a lot more and in fact have an entire monologue expressing his sympathy and pity towards CC, once again this was inspired by the SCP-682 story and the new humans' eulogy for a murderer in that story taking on a double meaning and being indirectly for 682. Felt like LH being silent held more of an impact.

—likewise CC was also supposed to speak but once again, silence is sometimes better than dialogue in storytelling.

—CD or the Cartoon Dog was originally supposed to replace LH during the original idea of having all of Mr. Henderson's creations present, this was quickly scrapped

—CC was supposed to use the last bit of his powers to reset the world and creating it anew than dying and going to another. Felt like CC's "death" held more weight so this didn't go through

—The ending line was supposed to be different because of some dream metaphors I wanted to add in, with these metaphors the ending line would of been "this was all one bad dream, a bad dream everyone but him would wake up from". This was supposed to show that ultimately CC is trapped in an eternal loop of killing with his purpose forever being to end the world, ultimately this felt like I was trying to make CC a sympathetic villain when he's not. The ending was gonna be the kinda same though with CC not being discouraged by the eternal loop and in fact embracing his instincts so that part remained

—the cryptids death were supposed to get an entire paragraph dedicated to how they all died, cut this for the sake of length/time although this ramble details the detail of their death's so I suppose this wasn't completely scrapped as you get it here

—there was supposed to be a UDF and CC fight scene but once again LH's outburst stole the show and this had to be scrapped to make way for it, that and also length constraints

—extra detail of the man during the ending's death. It was supposed to show CC actually doing the savoring of the kill by having the man crying and begging while CC tore off bits of flesh and ate it. Ultimately removed due to length constraints.

Alright that's all I can think of, sorry for this super giant fucking ramble about this shitty fic. I'm in no way a good writer so if you think a lot of these ideas are too deep for a CC fanfic then—yeah you're right, I overthink too much. If you have anymore inquires about anything feel free to ask but until then thanks for reading if you came this far and until next time:

STAY TOONED!

Here's a Cartoon Cat' fanfic idk if I'll post on my AO3 so semi-exclusive story, btw this is inspired by my favorite stories of all time and a song. If you can somehow guess which story and which song you get a gold star for doing a goods.

TW for: gore and body horror

Reruns

Throughout all of time it had gone long undisturbed. What lurked behind a friendly cartoon cat's smile was a nothing more than sinister force that loved to indulge in the fear and havoc it could wreck. With powers beyond mortal comprehension it had no competition, it reigned supreme at the top of the food chain with not one to challenge it. Using these powers it was at first content with the simple disappearances that it would make, people here and there who went down dark alleys, abandoned crossroads, desolate malls, old warehouses, all of them suddenly vanishing without a trace. Picking people off, dragging them away screaming, and torturing them while it ripped them apart was fun but eventually that grew boring for the faux feline. It craved more, more and more which it consumed and caused chaos. Soon entire neighborhoods vanished, bloodstains and body parts laying in homes where the residents should be. From neighborhoods it advanced to entire towns, thousands gone just like that. Towns turned to cities, cities turned to counties, counties to states, states to regions, by the time an entire area suddenly went dead a mass hysteria infected the world. Mortals assumed the apocalypse was upon them and they'd be right, once its presence was known it need not hide anymore.

That was the fun part for it, once everybody knew of the Cartoon Cat as something more than just urban legend or myth it grew bold. Dashing through streets and populated areas it grew hands and arms out of its back in order to snatch man, women, child, animal, all that crossed its path in order to shove them down its gullet. At one point it even ceased to feed, it opted to just bite down on the skulls of its prey popping their heads sending skull fragments and blood across the pavement only to discard the rest of the bodies like trash. It didn't need food anymore, it merely killed for the sport and thrill of it, thrill of seeing the vain attempts to run or fight, it's absolute favorite was when it couldn't spot anybody out in the open. That's where the real game began. With the mortals getting smart they hid to the best of their abilities, trying not to be found and maybe outlast this entity posing as a black cat that made mincemeat out of the people they knew. One by one over the span of only a few years all their hopes and dreams were crushed though, each who hid was found with the Cartoon Cat spending extra time to make their deaths as painful as possible, a sort of reward for making the game just so entertaining. Like all things though the game had to come to an end, with no more mortals or animals the world fell into ruin. With the mortal's death soon the other cryptids who stalked the earth died out, without life to feed from they starved and perished. With no mortals left, no games to play, no fear to strike into people, the same too was happening to the Cartoon Cat. It was the very things it killed that kept it intact, its demented existence was kept alive by those who acknowledged its existence.

At the end of all there was naught to do but be consumed by the hollow rot and bloodlust that he used to consume the mortals.

It sat on where it originally called home, the abandoned mall which it used to lurk. With all humans gone nature had reclaimed it as well as most of the rest of earth. Vines creeped up the side and trees sprouted from the foundation, gazing at a setting sun the Cartoon Cat couldn't help but find irony in the one thing having the last laugh and outliving it was the very ground it walked on. The ground it smeared with the blood of billions. Alas it wasn't completely alone though, after all while most cryptids did rely on a food source there were creatures like it who either held a purpose or relied on belief to keep them alive. While not all of them were extra dimensional the mortals roughly classified those they deemed otherworldly or alien as "Patron Saints", while The Cartoon Cat itself was deprived of such a title for being "too evil" that didn't stop them from grouping it in with the rest. It was one of those who it was grouped in with which showed up as its time was nearing the end. The patron saint of guiding lost souls and a bearer of warning decided to pay the thing who ruined the lives of the mortals it tried to warn a visit, the Long Horse as it was aptly named. Its neverending infinite neck climbed up the building and it held its head up beside The Cartoon Cat, staring at it with its empty sockets.

This sure was a surprise to the cat, it was acquainted with the skull headed creature but it could hardly call it a friend. The Long Horse spent a good deal of its existence warning the mortals of The Cartoon Cat, but now there was no one left to warn. They were polar opposites but in the end it didn't really matter, nothing mattered considering they were both dying. The feline glanced at the creature out of the corner of its eye and saw this clear as day. Fractures and cracks had accumulated onto its skull, its spine that held up its skull looked brittle like the smallest bit of force could break the bone. The cat contemplated doing this, ending the thing that would ruin its meals here and now, but there would be no satisfaction in it, no fight to justify the kill, besides time would soon rapture them itself.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything"

The age old proverb of misery coming in 3s proved right. An uninvited guest made his presence known as he walked up to the two other cryptids, the individual in question being the patron saint of havoc and disaster. Negativity itself embodied into the form of a sharply dressed man with his face twisted upside down. His tone was smug and while the two showed signs of rot the man with the upside down face showed no signs of being affected, although his time on earth as it stood was too coming to an end. Despite this his tone was smug, seeing the two once powerful creatures weak before him made him absolutely giddy.

"Pardon my lateness I was checking up on the others, safe to say it's just us three left: the maggots lurking in underpasses all shriveled up and died, beak-face offed himself by ripping out his halo to open a gateway for his followers to only-he-knows, roady passed away in some animal graveyard, the big fella and his spawn huddled up before they faded, heck even that ol' siren's flesh rusted right off his bone" the man's twisted smile grew wider, the taste of their death's fresh on his tongue "oh you should of been there! I'm sure you would of loved to see it"

The Cartoon Cat remained silent, still staring out at the sunset. It didn't have words to spare, certainly none to that upside down headed bottom feeding leech.

This silence provoked the man to take another step forward, his shoes clacking against the mall's roof "oh come on, do you really got nothing for me smiley? Don't tell me you're scared of death now" the man's eyes fixated on the cat, trying to garner any sort of reaction as he spoke "I guess that's why they call you a pussycat for a reason"

If it was a reaction the man wanted it would be a reaction he would get. Even in its rotting state the Cartoon Cat held enough power to wipe that smile off the man's face. Turning to face him it bared stained teeth, its gums leaking blood from its maw.

It was at this point the Long Horse intervened, stretching in-between the two it acted as a barrier as both of its sockets on the side of its skull bore into the two cryptids.

"Oh come on skelly, don't you see this entire thing is his fault, what's he got to cry over?" The man with the upside down face brought a hand up to his mouth, trying to cover his mouth as he snickered "oh it just drives me WILD how much I can feel your pity for smiley over there! Even as you're about to die you hold no anger or rage towards the very thing that brought us all to our doom, it's comical really..."

The Cartoon Cat's flesh began to droop off its form as it stood and turned to face the man with his face upside down. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air and it hunched over, ready to strike at the patron saint who was trying to get a last meal out of both their emotions.

"Look at you" The man continued "Standing there with your sickly looking self, I do got to hand it to you though, I'm surprised your body hasn't caved in on itself yet, you using the last bit of power you have to stay awake?"

The Long Horse extended itself further into the air, its spine creaking and cracking in a way no bone should. Although it remained silent a strong gust of wind blew across the area making the man's tie flutter. It was a warning.

"hehehe...." The warning was met with laughter, the man was absolutely reveling in the moment and ignored Long Horse, looking over across towards the decaying cryptid "I thought you were stronger than this, are you really having the pacifist stand up for you? This is a new low for you truly-"

The wind picked up, the breeze growing stronger with each word the man said.

"Maybe if you used your brain instead of your stomach you'd realize this would be the end goal of your little massacre, but you didn't ever think of that did you? Instead all you thought about was satisfying that unquenchable thirst to kill but now you left yourself, and everyone high and dry, a desert without an oasis"

Gusts of air tried to drown out what the man with the upside down face was saying, but he knew all too well the cat could hear him. He continued, his tone more condescending by the second.

"Acting as if you deserve anything else other than this, you've reaped what you've sowed and that's the souls of all you saw, I may be throwing stones in a glass house here yet it takes one to know one which is why I can safely say you're nothing but a sad little speck from the void who wanted to hide behind some fake face in order to turn this world into your little playground"

"ENOUGH"

The Long Horse's voice echoed throughout the air, traveling on the wind as it fell onto the man and cat's ears. The deep, hoarse tone made the mall shake and the man go silent, although a pacifist and a creature of benevolence it had grown fed up with the mockery. What came around went around, karma physically manifesting as blood the man puked up.

Falling to his knees the man spoke through grit teeth, his smile morphing into a scowl "I see the truth isn't very welcome here, fine then" he stood up and fixed his tie "I'll be off now since I'm clearly unwanted, I hope that little stunt of yours was worth it skelly seeing as you don't got much life left in you" walking away the man couldn't help but get the last laugh in, taking a quick glance back at the rotting feline he uttered his words of departure "after everything is said and done I look forward to seeing you in the abyss... if we don't forget ourselves that is, until next time Cartoon Cat". The man's words were laced with venom, mocking the name that the cryptid chose for itself.

With that he was gone, vanishing into thin air leaving the only other two cryptids alive behind.

The two soon becoming one, The Long Horse's borrowed time was all spent up hurting the man with the upside down face. The cracks on it deepened and its spine turned to dust, its skull landing right in the hands of the Cartoon Cat.

The Cartoon Cat stared at the patron saint that lay in its palms, the horse's body and connection to the earth severed. It didn't know whether the creature was still alive or if the skull was merely the remains of that wish used to plague it, either way it couldn't help but embrace the skull. The cat's body was and time was coming to an end, the form it took destabilizing. Ovular pupils struggled to maintain their shape, they dilated growing wider and wider until the sclera was consumed by the pupil, eyes now pure white. With blurred vision the Cartoon Cat couldn't see the body it had made for itself, but maybe that was for the better because it sure could feel it. Blood and pus oozed out of every orifice on its body, mouth, eyes, even the pores that lined its body soon secreted a foul smelling combination of liquid that signified its decay. The skin it had started to sag off molded bones, its face particularly coming undone revealing the hideous visage of what truly lurked behind the mask. Not one would be left to view it though, instead all that there would be was silence. While it still had time left and the sounds of death dripped off his form it's mind began to ponder what it could of done differently.

It was too late now but it still wondered out of curiosity, perhaps the curiosity could have saved it if it ever considered the different options. Maybe it could have existed as a purely fear based entity, instead of downright killing mortals it could have given them a good scare, feed off that fear. Another idea was instead of killing humans directly it could have taken a page of that leech's book and be an omen that would cause disasters, toppling over skyscrapers or collapsing bridges, killing people that way. Maybe malice wasn't the road, maybe it could have avoided its current predicament if it was a bit more kind to the mortals it so eagerly killed. It could have been one of the few cryptids revered as something good, a savior to humanity, a patron saint which lived up to its name. Helping mortals advance, defending them against other entities that wished to feed off them. It could have gained just as much if not more attention by being kind to the mortals, instead of latching onto their nostalgia and using its form to harm it could have been a proper cartoon cat using their positive emotions rather than the negative ones to maintain on earth. All those ideas passed through its mind but it couldn't help but feel that no matter what it did the ending would be the same, even if given a second chance to repent it's body would still be melting into a putrid pile of meat. As its senses dulled and it could no longer feel the Long Horse's skull in its hands it knew death had come for it, or at least for its body that it inhabited.

Death or the death of its body was cold, not frigid but cold nonetheless, the feeling was almost familiar in a way. Despite its body finally rotting and its eyes closing for what would be the final time somehow it maintained its senses. It could still smell, hear, see, feel, taste, but all of them were numbed to the point it couldn't pick up on anything exact. What it could see though was an ever expanding black that stretched out for miles, a complete and utter void with nothing but itself alone in it, alone with a deafening silence. It wondered if this is truly where it came from, it had been so many years since it fashioned that form for itself that it had forgotten what the abyss was like, was this where it originated from? It doubted it strongly, although an abyss would be an apt description of what it saw it knew whatever it was in wasn't that. It still clung onto the memories of who it was instead of having all that stripped away, it was in a weird in-between. A limbo, a line where neither death nor life treaded, where time meant nothing and space was but a mere concept. Of course the only other thing was the silence, the silence which allowed it to be alone with its thoughts for what would be an eternity.

Or at least, that's what it assumed.

No, by some miracle it seemed this wouldn't be all that existence had in store for it. A voice broke through the silence and drew its attention, what would have been death was interrupted by the unsure words of man. A man who sounded confused and scared, an all to mortal emotion.

"Hello? Anybody here?"

Its eyes opened back up to find not its body rotten and diseased but instead perfectly intact. Yellow eyes glowed in the dark allowing it to see everything in clear view, the scenery was that of its mall before nature took over, before its global massacre. Down the hall shined what one could only assume was a flashlight of someone intruding on the space it took shelter in. It didn't know how, why, but it nonetheless knew that in some way it was brought back to either before its giant mistake or to a new world entirely. That didn't matter though, what mattered was doing something different this time around. Standing up and letting its long body graze the ceiling it emerged from its corner and towards the mortal. All those ideas that had ran through its head while it died were quickly forgotten, one idea prevailing among them.

"Huh? What's that?"

A grin formed across its face going from ear to ear. The end would be the same now matter what it did, so as it stepped into the light it knew what it would do instead.

"Wha-... What the fuck..."

With a newfound appreciation for the mortals it hunted it would take time this run around. After all this run wouldn't be that different, bones would break, skin ripped clean off, tears of those who begged for mercy would fall on the ground.

"Oh god... OH GOD!"

As it lunged forward ready to make the mortal suffer it knew the exact process this time around. It would savor each and every kill it came across, prolonging and allowing the mortals to eventually kill themselves off while it would take a singular one each time it pleased, drawing out their suffering as much as possible. It would savor the kill instead of letting greed force its hand to slaughter everything. After all, it was just one big rerun…

A rerun of its favorite episode.

#rambles from toon #this is stupid #cartoon cat #fanfic #talking about a fanfic #fanfic ramble #long horse #I'm sorry if this is dumb #also if you can't tell i got ADHD so this is disjointed as fuck #forgive me if this entire ramble is incomprehensible

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yangsrose · 2 years ago

Text

bubble gum - park jisung

genre: angst, unrequited love

song that fic is based on: bubble gum - clairo

word count: 1910 words

warnings: HEAVY angst, main character death, mentions of being sick, jisung has the hanahaki disease

authors notes: this has been in my drafts for so long but i've finally finished it! i hope you like it :D

Sorry I didn't kiss you

But it's obvious I wanted to

Bubble gum down my throat and it's a curse

But my luck couldn't get any worse

Jisung watched as you subconsciously wrinkled your nose while in deep concentration. The sides of his lips tilted upwards against his own will, and he began to subconsciously smile as he watched you finally manage to get your drawing perfected. His heart skipped a beat as you excitedly turned to him and showed him the drawing, which consisted of a lone person standing in a field of pink flowers. The picture almost seemed realistic, making him feel as if it was his hair blowing in the wind and not the hair of the person in the picture.

“What does it mean?” He asked, not quite understanding why you would draw that out of all the things.

“Pink camellias symbolise a longing for someone, usually in the sense of love. The person standing alone in the field shows the way that they’re longing for someone, but are too afraid to confess their feelings towards them.” As you were saying all of this, Jisung noticed how you were staring directly at him, as if you had known a secret that you were supposed to know about him.

As you spoke, the overwhelming feeling of getting sick overtook Jisung and he tried to fight off the feeling as best as he could, but inevitably failed as he excused himself and practically ran off the bathroom, feeling his throat get dry and scratchy. Right as he made his way to the small toilet, he felt a small yet concerning amount of flower petals spew out of his mouth, causing his eyes to go wide as he saw the bright pink petals that were now floating in the water.

“Pink Camellias. How ironic” Jisung thought as he dryly chuckled, a weariness from the nausea taking over him.

Jisung, just like everyone else, had heard about the Hanahaki disease. He had never expected it to happen to him however, thinking that it would only happen to people who were madly in love with someone else. Yet here he was, falling for his best friend and realising that he did not have any chance with you just solely based on the flowers that arose from inside him. He heard you lightly tap on the door and ask him if he was okay, to which he responded that he must have eaten something weird to have a reaction like that. You softly asked him if you could come inside, to which he harshly said no, he was fine and didn’t need any assistance. Hearing you walk away broke his heart even more and he felt another slew of petals come up his throat. He swallowed hard and got up to rinse his mouth, making eye contact with himself in the mirror in the process.

His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his nose turning slightly red as well. Jisung looked as if he had been crying for days, and he hated it. A helpless feeling took over him, and his sudden urge to cry overwhelmed him. Out of all the people, why you?

You look so nice in your shirt

It's sad because it just hurts

I'd do anything for you

But would you do that for me, too?

Jisung watched as you tried to find a matching outfit for the date that you had later that day, fretting over the colour combinations that didn’t seem to look right. Jisung had to admit, you looked exceptionally cute in your oversized t-shirt and shorts, while basically throwing your entire wardrobe out of your closet while trying to find clothes to wear for the date that you were planning on going on. Just the thought of you going on a date with someone was enough to make him feel sick again, the familiar feeling of flower petals coming up in his throat.

So far it had been a month since he began to throw up flower petals, each time producing more petals and inducing more pain that he could manage. Even though Jisung hated the feeling that he would get whenever he was with you, the pain seemed to subside as you would occasionally flash him a wide smile, coming all too fast however, as he smiled back. Pain would shoot up, staring at his heart and going throughout his esophagus and ending at his mouth, where bubblegum pink petals would inevitably end up coming out.

“How about this shirt?” Jisung shifted his focus to you holding up a flannel, and he nodded in approval of the selection. You pulled it over your tshirt and stuck a silly pose, showing off your outfit to Jisung. He laughed lightly, but stopped because of the sharp pain that went up his chest.

Jisung wasn’t afraid of many things, but falling in love with you was one of the most scary things that he had ever done. But despite all the warning signs going off in his brain, he decided to ignore them and chose to spend more time with you, knowing that the more time that he spent with you, he was closer to his demise. Rather than stopping him, that seemed to fuel his case to spend more time with you. He soon came to realise that it wasn’t you he was scared off, rather, he was scared of the feelings that he would have when he was with you. Pain had never felt better when it was mixed with love.

'Cause I swallowed the bubble gum

Oh, and these seven years will be pretty dumb

Oh, pink flowers grow from my skin

Oh, Pepto Bismol veins and I grin

The pain was unbearable. Jisung had been living with this pain for the past few years, but today it seemed like his heart was about to rip out of his chest. He hoped it wouldn’t, since he had spent a lot of money on the suit that he was currently wearing.

The seven years filled with strewn flower petals were laced in anguish as Jisung tried, and failed every time, to get rid of any feelings for you. And yet here he was, seven years later, fixing his suit as he willed his stomach to stay settled as he got ready for your wedding. Even though Jisung hated to admit it, he had to say that Jeno was a huge step up from your past exes. Upon seeing him for the first time, Jisung was quite intimidated with his strong aura and prepared himself to face your heart aches once again. As time passed however, Jisung began to realise the softness that Jeno held for you under his ough facade.

Now here he was, ready to be a groomsman at Jeno’s and your wedding. He realised that he should have said something, anything for that matter, but all Jisung did these past years was sit on the sidelines and watch as you met new people, fell in love with them, and ended up finding your soulmate in the process.

He had managed to make it through the whole ceremony without rushing to the bathroom, an accomplishment that he was very proud of considering the fact that he could taste the sickeningly sweet bubble gum flavoured petals rising up in his throat throughout the vows.

During the reception however, Jisung felt the familiar sickening feeling rise up his throat and he quickly excused himself, pushing past the crowd that was slowly forming around the appetisers. Jisung ran into the nearest bathroom and saw the all too familiar bright pink flower petals float to the top, mixed with a bright red liquid. Jisung’s panic and tears only increased as he saw the mix of colours through blurry vision, realising that the problem had gotten far too worse for him to ignore. After spending a painstaking amount of time hunched over the toilet, Jisung finally mustered up the strength to get up and rinse his mouth out in the sink. He took deep breaths to stop the tears that threatened to rise again before exiting the stall.

The last thing he expected to see however, was Jeno himself staring at Jisung with the most concerned expression on his face. Seeing Jeno made Jisung feel sick all over again, except this time out of nervousness due to Jeno seeing him in that state. What if he realised Jisung’s feelings and came to confront him about it?

“Are you okay?” Jeno asked, cautiously stepping closer to Jisung as if he was a fragile object that would break if he got too close.

“I’m okay. I think I ate something weird last night which made me sick” Jisung said, nervously laughing as a means of reassuring Jeno that he was fine. Jeno smiled back at Jisung, seemingly buying the lie that he had told.

“I think I’ll head home now. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stay for the entire wedding.”

“Don’t worry! I’ll tell y/n that you weren’t feeling too well. I’m glad that you came for the ceremony though. Y/n was really happy that you were here today.” Jeno said, a fond smile overtaking his features as he mentioned your name. The pain shot up Jisung’s body and he weakly smiled while hugging Jeno and bidding him goodbye, basically ripping him in half as he felt his own heart quite literally rip in half as well. Jisung quietly left the venue and walked over to his car, sending you a text regarding his sudden absence. He knew you wouldn’t see it until much later, but he didn’t want you to worry and think that he left without saying goodbye to you.

The drive back home was painful for him. Not only had it sunk in that he had basically given away his best friend and only lover, but he also felt it suddenly hard to breathe. His throat constricted and he was constantly gasping for breath on the way back to his apartment. After what had seemed like forever, he finally made it back home and ran into the bathroom, throwing up more flower petals. This time however, the red splotches only increased in amount. Jisung slowly got up from the ground and staggered over to his bed, feeling dizzy and uncoordinated. He fell onto his bed ratherly harshly, and soon fell into a deep sleep.

Jisung didn’t dream much, but that night he dreamed of running in a flower field, only realising after a while that it was the same flower field that he saw you paint a few years ago. Pink camellias surrounded him everywhere, tickling his legs and brushing over him with their soft petals.

“Jisung!” he heard you call out to him, and he whipped around, frantically trying to look for you. He saw you running towards him, and began running towards you. But as he got closer to you, he was sent even further back from where he started. Every breath began to feel like a struggle as he tried to get to where you were, and suddenly, he lost sight of you. Frantically looking around, he panicked at the way that there was no sign of you ever being there. Jisung called your name multiple times until suddenly, he wasn’t in the field of camellias anymore either. Spiralling into a black abyss, the last thing Jisung heard was the sound of you calling his name.

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figurativepieceoftrash · 2 years ago

Note

wip game - 3. Sympathy for the Devil

I know you sent this forever ago but I only just now saw it while combing my inbox, sorry! Just gonna answer it now bc I'm bored, but fair warning, I REALLY wanna go off about this one so... this is gonna be a lot. Also this is a psych horror fic so. Keep that in mind

The final fight is over and Izuku won without the heroes suffering any (plot relevant) casualties. He himself sustained very few injuries, none of which were serious, and was able to save Shigaraki and convince him to attend rehabilitation along with a considerable number of the lov

Not long before Izuku killed afo in their one on one battle, he was told about dfo (bc of course it's a dfo fic lol), and believes that afo might've thrown the fight based on his own ease of victory and excellent physical condition post-fight

Even more strange, afo reached out to grab Izuku’s hand before he died, but doesn't seem to have done anything to harm him via the action

Izuku is concerned, but doesn't say anything to the vestiges bc of how happy they appear in the immediate aftermath. When he does finally talk to recovery girl, she finds nothing wrong, and ascribes his lingering anxiety to trauma, instructing him to relax and enjoy the downtime he's fought for

He asks the vestiges if afo did anything freaky quirk-wise, but they all answer that they can't detect anything off. Oddly enough though, Izuku begins to have very strange reoccuring dreams that seem to be taking place in the mindscape wherein strange, obscured figures approach him with silent urgency. The vestiges deny any involvement in these, however, and similarly suggest that Izuku is suffering from a form of ptsd

Izuku decides not to tell anyone ab dfo bc it doesn't seem to be especially relevant following his father's death, and less admittedly doesn't want to draw connections between the two of them. Afo was actually a very good father to Izuku in the trademark absent dfo sense, with regular phonecalls, checks, etc. Making their way to the Midoriyas prior to afo's imprisonment. This means that Izuku is still quite a bit conflicted over killing his father and hasn't fully processed the realization yet

He suspects that his father might've truly cared for him and thrown the fight for his safety, but won't fully admit this to himself, as he doesn't like how it reflects on his actions

Izuku receives constant compliments, thanks, and congratulations from both his peers and professional heroes, though each only serves to exacerbate his anxiety regarding his fight with afo. While everyone else seems to be incredibly happy and thriving, he's constantly plagued by nightmares, stress, insomnia, and an uneven temper

When speaking to class 1a the first day of school, he lets slip a very cynical and unheroic sentiment regarding current events. Although he sees nothing wrong with his words, his friends have very strong reactions, and he naturally draws connections between the sentiments he just expressed and afo's latent ones after he realizes how uncharacteristic they were

He finds himself thinking similar thoughts throughout the day and grows gradually more concerned. Eventually, he asks the vestiges, specifically Yoichi, for advice, and is told that his newfound cynicism is a natural response to the trauma he's suffered. Izuku rejects this explanation, but not aloud, hoping to deny any potential similarities to his father

There's a lot of sanity questioning, identity questioning, regret, etc. I do like my usual themes

Obviously, this being one of my fics as well as an efition to my psychological horror catalog, things get worse. I feel like the twist is obvious already, but if it isn't and you're cool with spoilers, afo passed his quirk and vestige on to Izuku directly prior to his death, and is doing something very similar to him to what he did to Tomura, who he only faked losing control of. He obviously has no reservations about sacrificing his original body so... all according to plan and all that :)

#ask game #wip #my writing #my fic

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trashytummiez · 3 years ago

Text

Anxious Tummy Virus

After @fungusfangs posted a cute sequence featuring Tamaki sick with a stomach virus I had to make this fic ;3

Warning: contains anxiety belly kink burps fluff hiccups indigestion nausea vomiting tummy rubs

Tamaki was always so anxious whenever he and Fatgum went patrolling. He could always feel so many eyes on him. It never failed to twist the poor anxious boys stomach into knots every time.

No villains or criminals could be seen but they always had to be vigilant. Which was why both were constantly eating whenever patrolling. Fatgum stuffed his face with whatever he could get to power up his fat if the situation called for it. And if it didn't then at least he got to enjoy some yummy treats along the way. Tamaki needed the food to power his food-based quirk.

That and his stomach was rumbling loudly behind this pouch-heavy vest. It was loud enough to make poor Tamaki blush and pray that no one could hear it.

But it also made him feel a little sick. His anxiety made his tummy really weak sometimes and it would get gurgly pretty often. But it didn't usually make him feel so oddly nauseous and weak. He couldn't explain why that wasn't the case tonight.

Oblivious to this Fatgum finished munching a bunch of food and handed down something to Tamaki. "Here ya go! Try some crab onigiri!" The fat-based hero suggested as he munched.

"...T-Thanks," Tamaki groaned and slowly took the onigiri whilst trembling slightly. Usually he trembled from anxiety but right now he was trembling from not feeling very well.

Fatgum patted his young sidekick on the back and laughed heartily. "Figured ya must be hungrier than usual today! Yer stomach's growlin' like crazy!"

Tamaki held the onigiri up with both hands and trembled shakily. This time though it was totally embarrassment and anxiety induced.

"...I didn't realize it was loud enough to draw attention..." he whimpered. "...So embarrassing..."

"Don't sweat it kid! Ya need yer energy after all right?" Fatgum assured the pointy-eared boy.

Tamaki nodded like a sad dejected little boy and nibbled on his onigiri whilst still trembling adorably. It tasted great which led to him taking another bigger bite immediately after.

Still his stomach felt oddly sour in a way it didn't usually feel.

Close to forty five minutes passed along with several snack stops along the way of their patrol.

Without warning a big hearty sounding burp erupted from the patrolling pair. Only the source was unexpected.

"Whoa! Nice one kid!" Fatgum snickered and nudged Tamaki who was covering his mouth and blushing furiously. "Ya know usually it's Red Riot lettin' the big ones out like that! Heh musta really needed that huh!"

But before Tamaki could whimper out another word of how badly embarrassed he felt, an especially loud thick sounding gurgle bellowed from Tamaki's belly. It churned so heavily and forcefully that it made Tamaki freeze in place like a petrified statue. Tamaki hiccuped then whimpered as his body trembled anew.

"Oh no..." he uttered quietly and fearfully while his tummy gave another sick groan. He winced and went slightly teary eyed from the discomfort. "No no no no no no no no no..." he repeatedly dreadfully.

"...Uh...Amajiki...?" Fatgum asked. His own big grin turned to a big concerned frown. He was about to ask if Tamaki was okay when suddenly the poor boys stomach hitched aggressively with a thick churning noise.

Tamaki gave another really thick closed mouth burp that ended with him suddenly spewing bile from past his lips. He went wide-eyed and desperately tried to cover his mouth with both hands but it was too late. Tamaki gave a loud gross sounding burp that sent a heaping load of vomit spewing from his mouth and splattering horribly onto the floor.

"Ohhh crap..." Fatgum remarked suddenly in concern. He wasn't at all grossed out at the sight of Tamaki leaning forward and puking heavily. The giant blubbery hero leaned down and very gently rubbed Tamaki's cape concealed back. "S'okay kid. Just let it out..." he assured him.

Not that Tamaki had any other choice.

The poor boy panted heavily then lurched with another stream of puke expelling from his mouth heavily onto the floor. Some passing civilians saw the sight and looked mortified. Others looked concerned as poor Tamaki continued spewing the contents of his stomach disgustingly onto the pavement.

When he finally stopped throwing up Tamaki was standing wearily as bile dripped from his fangs. The poor boy was trembling with tears streaming down his cheeks.

"...m'so sorry..." he slurred groggily but Fatgum gently shushed him and kept rubbing his back.

"S'alright kid. Don't sweat it yeah?"

Fortunately there were a few passing civilians with quirks that were able to make short work of the sick while Tamaki got washed up in a nearby restaurant.

He was so mortified that he tearfully hid his face directly into Fatgum's giant blubbery tummy like a child too scared to go to the dentist.

Fatgum frowned sympathetically as he gently ruffled the top of poor Tamaki's purplish blue hair and held up a soda for him.

"Why didn't ya tell me you were feelin' sick kid?" Fatgum asked then almost guiltily said, "...I had ya eatin' soooo much today too...!"

Tamaki muffled a thick burp in his mouth that was muffled even further by Fatgum's belly fat smothering his face then he sniffled tearfully. "I thought it was just another anxiety stomachache..." he whimpered and hiccuped sharply. He sniffled again and hiccuped again. "Ohhhh-urrrp-unnngh..." he couldn't help but burp in between his groaning both with humiliation and how badly his stomach still hurt.

It gurgled thickly but fortunately not as bad as it had been before he threw up.

But it was still enough to make him tear up some more as he buried his face even deeper into Fatgum's flabby belly and cried out. "I wanna go hooooome...!" Funnily enough his whaling was muffled by thick fatness.

Fatgum frowned anew and gently rubbed Tamaki's back. "Yeaaah you definitely shouldn't be on patrol with a stomach bug kid. Can't let ya risk fightin' bad guys with yer own gut givin' ya grief."

He scooped Tamaki up like a scared puppy and walked him out of sight away from all the people. As he carried him off Fatgum used a few of his fingers and gently placed them atop Tamaki's stomach. They alone were about as large as Tamaki's hand and he used them to gingerly and carefully rub Tamaki's turbulent tummy for him while using his thumb and index finger to hold a can of soda still.

Tamaki groaned at the feeling relaxing in Fatgum's arms. But he still blushed and looked away biting his lip anxiously with a soft whimper.

"...I'm sorry for being so weak all the time," Tamaki said with a sadder sniffle.

But Fatgum scowled and lightly poked the boys chest. "Hey you ain't weak kid. If I were a bettin' man I'd bet the farm on you against any opponent ten billion times outta ten."

"...That number doesn't make sense..."

"It means yer one'uh the strongest heroes in the biz Suneater. Havin' shot nerves don't make ya weak." Fatgum's expression softened and he more gently stoked Tamaki's gurgling belly. "...Ya shouldn't keep puttin' yerself down like that kid. Especially over somethin' that ain't even yer fault."

Tamaki nodded softly and looked down. "...I'm sorry."

Fatgum rolled his eyes but in a good natured way. "...Always friggin' apologizin'. Geez. Anyway..."

He carefully lowered Tamaki to the ground when the two were alone behind a building. The boy groaned softly and hugged his stomach with one hand. Then Fatgum handed him the soda he was still carrying.

"Drink up lil buddy. This oughta help yer guts stop stirrin' as much."

Tamaki frowned as he took the soda. "...B-But soda makes me-"

"-Yeah yeah. Why d'ya think I took ya away from all those people? It's just us kid. Don't worry 'bout it."

Tamaki glanced at the soda then looked around. They really did seem to be alone. But still he looked nervous. However when he looked up and saw an assuring smile from his sensei he sighed and gave in.

He cracked his can open and carefully took a sip. It was nice and crisp going down his throat and the way the soda felt bubbling in his stomach gave him some slight relief from the more acidic churning he was enduring.

So he swigged more soda down starting to chug it a little more feverishly. His throat bobbed as the fizzy liquids poured down his gullet and settled into his bubbling stomach. Tamaki inwardly whimpered knowing what was coming but took in more of the drink anyway while breathing through his nostrils.

After getting a good amount of the can down he pulled it aside and panted with one hand gently rubbing his tummy. A second later Tamaki's hand tightened around the middle of his stomach and then his mouth parted with a huge throaty burp. It was much louder than Tamaki himself ever was and left him panting and whimpering.

Fatgum laughed and patted the boy on the back dislodging another burp in the process that made Tamaki blush even harder. "Good one kid! Startin' to feel a lil better?"

"...Define better..." Tamaki whined. Even alone he trembled anxiously at being so loud and gross if even just around Fatgum. The soda helped to settle his tummy while the carbonation helped work some much needed gas out of his system. But the fact that soda always made him so burpy didn't do anything for his anxiety.

Still if he had to choose between burping obnoxiously and throwing up violently it was a pretty obvious choice.

So he downed more of his beverage all while nursing his tummy. When he pulled the can away again he tried to hold the burps in by giving thick closed mouth burps. But some were so strong that they forced their way past his lips and just ended up even louder.

Poor little Tamaki couldn't catch a break.

If nothing else the soda and pressure release was definitely helping make his stomach feel better. Eager to be done with it Tamaki downed the rest of his beverage and tossed the can into a nearby bin. a second later his hands flew to his stomach and Tamaki released an enormous burp so strong that it sounded like it almost came out of Fatgum.

"Almost" because Fatgum's burps could literally make the ground shake if he got a good one out.

Fatgum whistled and nudged Tamaki in the shoulder. "Damn kid! Yer gettin' some good ones out tonight ain'tcha!"

This was anything but good. But the relief Tamaki was feeling made it worth it.

Tamaki slumped back against a nearby wall and rubbed his belly up and down with both hands until he coaxed out another lengthy burp that dragged on for a few seconds and left him panting. And blushing of course.

"...Hrraaaah...okay...I...I think that's all of it," Tamaki said gently patting his stomach. "...I just wanna go hooOOOOOOoorh-me..." But his pale face soon went red as Red Riot's hair when he accidentally burped the word 'home' out at the end of his last sentence.

Fatgum laughed hysterically making his giant tummy jiggle like a mountain of jello.

"...Yeaaaaah let's getcha home kid. At this point I'm more worried ya might blush yerself t'death before this stomach bug gives ya any more grief."

For as powerful as Tamaki was? If his quirk were powered by embarrassment and anxiety he'd be unstoppable...

#kink fic #tamaki #fatgum #stuffing #tummyache #tummy rub #nausea #emeto #emetophilia #vomiting #burping #hiccups #fluff #anxiety #cute #embarrassment

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brushstrokesapocalyptic · 3 years ago

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it’s time for the “overanalyzing one-off lines” show!

so the very first thing magnus says when he sees pit in chapter 2 of kid icarus: uprising is as follows:

“Well, I didn’t expect to see an angel here. Hope this doesn’t mean I’ve kicked the bucket.”

now, i’m not sure if you’re aware, but that’s a really weird thing for someone to say, and it’s even more weird that no one comments on it. pit and palutena go on talking about unrelated things, as if that’s a totally normal and expected thing for magnus to say.

now, if you’re like me, you probably also didn’t really react to this line the first few times you saw it. it’s the second chapter, kiu has a lot of slightly-odd lines which turn out to be foreshadowing. me, personally? my first thought was “oh, i guess angels are probably associated with escorting the dead to the afterlife,“ and then i moved on.

they’re not, though. that’s what reapers do. and there’s no way humans have these two races mixed up. just fucking look at them.

do they look anything alike to you??? no. they don’t. which raises the question of why, exactly, magnus said that.

now, we don’t know a lot about angels as a whole. pit (and by extension dark pit) is emphatically not the gold standard of angeldom. we can assume he looks fairly ordinary for an angel, seeing as no one has trouble identifying him as such. beyond that, though, a lot of what we know about angels comes from what pit isn’t. for starters, he can’t fly. and there’s something else, too, but i’ll get to that later.

before that, though, i’m gonna go through the various unsubstantiated comments made by people with a dubious level of authority on the subject. (incidentally, i sourced these screenshots from the wiki— much more convenient than trying to dig through youtube for every single random conversation.)

without any further ado! let’s get into it!

Angels as Messengers

Gaol: Aw, Palutena’s little messenger boy. And Magnus, it’s always a pleasure. (src)

in the specific context of overanalyzing magnus’s first line, this is an important sentence to pick out. magnus and gaol are both humans, both with presumably a fairly similar history as mercenaries up until gaol got stuffed in a suit of armor. but while magnus makes a weird comment about death, gaol calls pit a messenger.

and pit agrees with her!

Viridi: I wish I had an angel to do my bidding. It’s like having an intern.

Pit: I’m not an intern. I’m a messenger of the gods!

Viridi: Poor Pit. Don't you know that the definition of angel is "errand spirit"? (src)

this particular conversation is the most insight we get into angels as a whole, i think. viridi thinks of angels as like divine interns, there to do little tasks for gods, and palutena doesn’t exactly disagree with her. pit says they’re specifically messengers, which lines up with biblical mythology. i could see the traditional role of angels in the world of KI being exactly that, showing up to tell the humans what the gods have to say because the gods themselves are too busy being petty jerks to do it themselves.

The Angel’s Code of Conduct

Magnus: You go in fully dressed? Don't you at least want to change into a...swimming tunic or something?

Pit: Oh, no no no! The angel's code of conduct says that we must always be ready for duty.

Magnus: I guess you wouldn't be an angel if you didn't do things by the book. (src)

Pit: Hey! You know the angel's code of conduct! I need to be prepared at all times! (src)

another random little thing is the angel’s code of conduct. without a larger sample size, we can’t know if it’s a real thing or just an excuse to save on laundry, but apparently it’s against the rules to not be on call at all times. in pit’s case, the duty he has to be ready for is doing palutena’s dirty work, but it can easily mean just about anything— including, of course, being a messenger.

No Warrior

Chariot Master: But you are no warrior, angel. Tell me, why do you fight?

Pit: I fight for Lady Palutena. And I fight for the people under her protection!

Chariot Master: That's not reason enough for an angel. (src)

remember how i said there was something else weird about pit? the chariot master seems to think angels aren’t very prone to battle— or perhaps even that they’re actively opposed to it. this lines up well with the idea that they’re supposed to be messengers, peaceful go-betweens for gods and mortals. this does not line up well with pit, the adorable weapon of mass destruction.

and it also does absolutely nothing to explain the question driving the whole existence of this post.

you know what does kinda lean towards an explanation?

No Other Angels

Pit: Do all gods have their own angels, like you have me?

Palutena: No, I don't think that's necessarily the case. (src)

i said before that the Intern Pit conversation had the most illuminating information on angels. this is what i was actually referring to. on its own, it’s pretty innocuous, but it’s just as weird as the magnus line. shouldn’t pit know about other angels, seeing as he is one himself? but he doesn’t know if there are other angels.

the only angels we ever see are him and his clone. no one ever directly references the existence of other angels, they only make general statements about what angels as a whole are like— statements which clearly don’t apply to pit, meaning they’re not just extrapolating based on the one angel that definitely does exist.

the one time someone does comment on the hypothetical existence of other angels, palutena gives a vague answer to the tune of “no,” the topic is changed, and no one brings it up again.

let’s go over everything i’ve established about angels up to this point. they can fly, they’re peaceful messengers of the gods, and pit is the only one that seems to exist as of the start of KIU.

it should be pretty obvious at this point what answer i’m dancing around, if it wasn’t obvious from the start. pit is the only angel around because all the other ones are dead. the reason why magnus said what he did is that his thought process went something like this:

See an angel.

Think “Aren’t angels extinct? Is that a ghost? Am I a ghost? I sure hope not.“

Make a quip about that.

Move on with his life, because he isn’t dead and evidently neither is this guy.

i’m not gonna pretend i went into this post with the intent of any other conclusion to that mystery. anyone who’s bothered glancing over a plot summary for the original kid icarus can draw that conclusion. it’s certainly what i did, reinforced by fics by people who had the same thought!

the truth, however, is that this was all a trick to get you to read my analysis of the theoretical nature of angels as a race. now that you’re invested, i’m going to dramatically throw aside my cape and reveal my TRUE FORM: telling people that fandom consensus is wrong, and my ideas are cooler and better than everyone else’s and you should all throw roses at my feet and bow before your king.

(or just, y’know, take it as the subjective analysis that it is. whatever floats your boat.)

Hot Takes

the original kid icarus does not actually tell you about angels going extinct. here’s the wiki article with the full text of the backstory, just for convenience, so you know what i’m on about for the rest of this post.

so, the part of the story that i think gets misinterpreted is this part about palutena’s army.

Medusa led a surprise attack on Palutena's army which could barely fend off the attack. Palutena's army suffered major losses and was heavily defeated in the final battle.

specifically, i think a lot of people interpret said army as having been made up at least partly of angels. sure, in the actual game it consists entirely of centurions, but you have to take old NES games with a grain of salt. i know i don’t buy for a second that pit was part of palutena’s guard before the original game (he was just too goddamn young), there’s nothing wrong with reinterpreting things.

recall everything i established about angels already, though. this is the hot official lore, from the game everyone knows and loves. angels are messengers, and if the chariot master is to be believed, never warriors. pit is an outlier. palutena’s army consists of centurions, not angels. if medusa wiped them out, it wasn’t because they were fighting for palutena.

(and honestly, i don’t think angels are necessarily associated with palutena exclusively. sure, she’s got the wing imagery, and she’s got the one known surviving angel working for her, at least up until pittoo is born. but angels are messengers of the gods, not messengers of palutena. again, pit is an outlier.)

which all brings us to the real question of this post.

what the FUCK happened to all the other angels? why is there only pit? why does magnus act surprised to see a messenger of the gods, and make a quip about being dead, if not because angels are otherwise extinct?! WHO KILLED THEM, AND WHY?!

thus concludes the “over analyzing one-off lines“ show. see you next, uh, maybe at some point if i feel like it!

(also another thought i had but couldn’t find room to fit it in properly: the gods don’t really act like angels are all extinct, but i feel like that can be explained through the sheer scale of a god’s lifespan. if we assume they were wiped out sometime around the original kid icarus (even if not as palutena’s army) then that’s a whole twenty-five years. that’s a long time for us humans, but for a god, that might as well be last tuesday. “yeah, i know what angels are like. sure wish i could have one. too bad palutena’s got a monopoly on the one single angel that medusa didn’t manage to wreck.”)

#kid icarus #kid icarus uprising #the things i think of at five am #i am just yelling and spewing thoughts and theories and headcanons #if anyone has their own thoughts to add go right ahead i am dying to know whether or not i'm actually breaking new ground with all this #or if there's some vital lore i missed #or anything like that #i am OPEN for CONVERSATION

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Note

Same universe as the one where LXC kills JGY on a boat to not-Japan. JRS-centric as he grows up in the Nie clan and deals with his reputation as an inbred son of a traitorous bastard.

so I don't think I've ever written a fic in which LXC kills JGY on a boat, and definitely not one where JRS is a character? I mean, I've written a lot of fics, so possibly I did and I forgot, but I'm pretty sure about this one.

That being said, I don't think I've gotten any Jin Rusong prompts before so I'm reinterpreting this to be a prompt for a fic about JRS growing up in the Nie clan. Fic below!

ao3

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Nie Huaisang reminded himself. Risk is proportionate with reward. Your spine should be made of steel, just as your saber is.

He licked his lips, thought of his brother who had loved him, and threw himself forward with tears in his eyes.

“Oh, gongzi!” he blubbered. “Can you help me? I’ve gotten completelylost, I don’t even know where to begin –”

Xue Yang blinked at him, the lids of his eyes moving slowly like a reptile.

“Maybe you know where my san-ge is? Lianfeng-zun?”

The feeling of immediate threat lessened. It seemed he’d gambled right, and the rabid dog that was Xue Yang could still be controlled by reference to Jin Guangyao.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could just give me some guidance on where to find him,” Nie Huaisang said, lowering his voice confidentially. “I’d be sure to pay you back! If there’s anything you want –”

“Do you have any snacks?” Xue Yang asked.

Nie Huaisang, who had come prepared based on the rumors he’d painstakingly collected, produced some dragons’ beard candy.

“Not bad,” Xue Yang said. “Okay, sure.”

Nie Huaisang smiled, and even meant it.

“Hey, good-for-nothing,” Xue Yang said, and Nie Huaisang turned to look at his least favorite but nevertheless highly useful source of information in Lanling Jin. The fact that Xue Yang had no idea that he was functioning as such just made it more satisfactory. “You like kids, right?”

Nie Huaisang blinked. “Yes?” he hazarded, not so much because he actually did – he’d never had strong feelings about children one way or the other, though perhaps he was being presumptuous in thinking that the reference did not involve goats – but because that seemed to be the answer Xue Yang was looking for.

Xue Yang wrinkled his nose in distaste, though not, Nie Huaisang thought, at him.

“Theoretically,” he said, and he wouldn’t know ‘theoretical’ if it hit him in the face, “if there were, I don’t know, a whole bunch of them hanging around somewhere without parents, you’d be able to do something about that, right? Especially if they had a talent for cultivation?”

It took only a moment to piece together what must have happened to lead to such a question, given the ruthlessness of the cultivation world and of Jin Guangyao in particular, and Nie Huaisang marveled briefly at the idea that Xue Yang might draw a moral line in the sand over something. Presumably he felt some kinship to the children, being similarly utterly infantile, amoral, and fond of sweet things.

“Oh sure!” he said, playing up the brainless idiot who didn’t know to ask questions. “My sect is always recruiting, you know. We took some losses in the war and, well, I feel like adult cultivators aren’t really all that interestedin joining ever since I took over…”

“Because you’re a waste of space,” Xue Yang said, and Nie Huaisang pouted at him. “Whatever, the important thing is that you have space for kids. Orphans. Think, like, a whole orphanage getting shut down or whatever – anyway, not important. You’d take them back to Qinghe, right?”

“Oh, that would be so wonderful!” Nie Huaisang clapped. “That would suit everyone, wouldn’t it? They don’t have to worry about the children, and we get new disciples. I should tell san-ge – no, on second thought, he might be too busy –”

“Definitely too busy,” Xue Yang said quickly. “Wouldn’t it be nice to accomplish something yourself? You could casually show him that your numbers went up at the end of the month instead so he gives you the credit, without explaining that it’s kids making up the increase.”

“That’s a great idea! He’ll be much more impressed by that, I should definitely do that. Where is the orphanage?”

“…uh, in the forest. The back forest.”

You couldn’t come up with a better lie?

“You already brought them here?” Nie Huaisang asked, batting his eyelashes. “You’re so nice, Xue-xiong! I’ll go tell my second in command to go deal with it right away!”

It was in the fifth round of kids getting picked up – small cultivation clans being massacred and there was nothing Nie Huaisang could do about it, because there was either no evidence or else Jin Guangyao had come up with some motive to justify his actions and, inevitably, Lan Xichen would be there behind him, soothing over tempers and providing explanations because he believed him, every time – that something unusual happened.

“Sect Leader Nie,” one of his most trusted subordinates murmured into his ear. “There’s a problem.”

Nie Huaisang found a reason to leave the party early, a reason to go to the rendezvous point, and, once there, found the reason for the problem.

“Oh, hey there,” he said with a smile fixed onto his face by sheer force of willpower, crouching down to make himself seem less intimidating. Not that he was ever particularly intimidating, though given the rage coursing through his veins right now, he thought he might be able to pull it off if he tried. “What a lucky chance! It’s so funny, finding you here, Songsong. How are you?”

Jin Rusong wiped his eyes and looked tearily at him, recognized that the person asking was his Little Uncle Nie, and threw himself into Nie Huaisang’s arms with a howl.

This was pretty typical – Jin Rusong wasn’t much of a crier, but when he did he definitely took Nie Huaisang as his model, something all the other adults in the cultivation world had a tendency to give Nie Huaisang dirty looks over.

The only problem here, of course, was that Jin Rusong was dead.

Or, rather…he was supposed to be dead.

And if Jin Rusong was here – here, in the rendezvous point where Xue Yang put those of his prospective victims that happened to be a little too young for even him to stomach killing, at least without the personal grudge that had driven him to slaughter the Chang clan in its entirety – that meant only one thing.

Jin Guangyao had ordered his own son to be murdered.

Through demonic cultivation, no less, which was a pretty nasty way to go. There was a reason everyone implicitly countenanced Jiang Cheng’s vendetta against demonic cultivators no matter where they were, even when he ignored all territory lines and forgot to not ask for permission – the things a demonic cultivator gone bad could do were just so much worse than what anyone else could that they couldn’t risk any delay in dealing with the problem.

Well, shit, Nie Huaisang thought, even as he comforted Jin Rusong, petting the toddler’s back to try to get him to calm down. What do I do now?

“There has to be a reason,” Nie Huaisang insisted. “He’s not rabid. Songsong was his son!”

“Sect Leader Nie, we can’t find anything that might explain it.”

“Look harder. I don’t care how minor it is, I want to know everythingto do with Songsong. Every little detail – every person who saw him – every medical report, every compliment, every good grade –”

“He placed last in one of his classes,” one of his spies volunteered.

“What?”

“He placed last in one of his classes. About two months before his ‘assassination’, and shortly before his father started collecting evidence against the other sects that were in his way, which he later used to ‘prove’ that they had been involved in the alleged murder.”

“He wouldn’t kill his son for failing a class,” one of the others objected. “The kid’s barely more than a baby. What’s he expecting, genius from birth?”

“He’s a genius himself. Why not?”

“If everyone inherited everything directly from their parents, he’d be a whore.”

“He’d be a Jin. They’ve all got that nose, every one of them…”

“I heard he’s having the other Jin bastards killed. All of them, even the women…”

Something snapped in Nie Huaisang’s hands.

They all turned to look at him.

“Investigate Qin Su,” he said, looking down at the mess of wood and paper that had once been a fan. “Come to think of it, she has a Jin nose, too.”

“I don’t want to go!”

“I don’t want you to go, either,” Nie Huaisang said, feeling tired and also much more in sympathy with his poor older brother than he’d ever been while Nie Mingjue had been alive. “But you disobeyed me, and that means we don’t have a choice. You have to go.”

Nie Songsong looked down at the ground, his lip quivering. “I didn’t mean to…”

“You did,” Nie Huaisang said. “You have to own your decisions, Songsong. You can’t take them back once they’re done, no matter what the consequences. Not even if you feel bad, but definitely not because you feel bad for having to pay for what you did.”

“But…”

“No, Songsong. You cannot be in the Unclean Realm when – when he’s here.”

Nie Songsong hung his head.

“He’s not your father anymore,” Nie Huaisang said. “You know that, right?”

Nie Songsong nodded.

Nie Huaisang sighed and held out his hands, and his arms were full of a teary-eyed child a moment later.

“He loved you once,” Nie Huaisang murmured into his child’s hair. “I love you now. I wish I could give you more than that – I wish I could give you an answer, tell you why he didn’t love you enough to keep from doing what he did. But I can’t. All I can do…”

Is what I’m already doing.

“You’re enough, er-ge,” Nie Songsong whispered back. “You’re enough. I promise.”

“When will I get to go night-hunting?”

“You go night-hunting all the time,” Nie Huaisang grumbled. “You’re a fraction my age, and already my height, my weight, yet you wield a saber like my brother was around to raise you properly. You’re ruining my reputation, you know; now no one will believe that my incompetence comes from how short I am…”

“Not night-hunting with the rest of the sect, er-ge,” Nie Songsong said, rolling his eyes. “With other juniors!”

“Not long now,” Nie Huaisang said, looking down at the paper beneath his hands. It was all finally coming together. “Not long now. Just give er-ge a little more time to finish taking care of matters for da-ge, and you’ll be able to go night-hunting with anyone you like.”

“Er-ge! Are you all right? You look so pale…”

“I’m sorry,” Nie Huaisang whispered. “Songsong – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry –”

“What happened? Are you injured?” Nie Songsong demanded, already starting to pat him over, looking for wounds. “Er-ge, what’s wrong –”

“Your mother’s dead.”

Nie Songsong’s hands stilled.

“I told her about your heritage,” Nie Huaisang said, his lips numb. He’d never tried to hide it from Nie Songsong, although he’d introduced the subject very gradually and only once he thought that he’d be able to handle the revelation. “About your father – your grandfather. What they did. I wanted her to be angry at him, to turn against him, to distract him…instead, she killed herself.”

“Er-ge…”

“I shouldn’t have told her. If I knew –”

“Er-ge.”

“I should have brought her in earlier – told her about you surviving – I kept her from you for years –”

“Er-ge!”

Nie Huaisang looked at the child he had raised as a little brother the way his older brother had raised him, a father in everything but name, and who he had the constant feeling of having failed.

He wondered, as he always did, whether his brother had felt the same about him.

“Er-ge, it’s all right,” his little brother, his adopted son, said, and took his hands in his. “It’s all right. You tried, remember? Time after time, you tried to talk to her, but every single time you concluded that she would’ve told her husband instead of trusting you. She would’ve ruined everything. If she did that, I’d be dead all over again, and you with me.”

That had been what Nie Huaisang had concluded. That was why he’d never told her.

But…

“She’s your mother.”

“And you’re my er-ge. As long as you don’t die on me, too, it’ll be all right. Okay? It’ll be all right. It’ll be worth it in the end.”

Nie Huaisang shook his head. He’d already done so much, caused so much chaos and strife, and yet this moment – this was the step too far.

This was the first time he realized that he wasn’t sure he believed that it would be worth it anymore.

But by now…what else was left to do? There were no ways out of the plan he’d made himself; he’d designed it that way on purpose, because he’d known that if there was a way out, that snake would find a way to slither through it. He just hadn’t thought that he would be the one looking for it.

It didn’t matter.

He had to keep going.

His older brother deserved it, even if the younger one didn’t.

“I represent the Nie sect,” the young man – just about their age, though shorter than either of them – said with a smile. He seemed kind, gentle and polite, easy-going, but Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui looked at each other, and then at Jin Ling, who just scowled. “Can I come in?”

“Were you even invited?” Jin Ling asked in bitten off words. He was still bitter about some of the things that had happened in the Guayin Temple a month before, and of all them the one he was most bitter about was his second uncle’s retreat into seclusion – they were all upset about that.

“But it’s a discussion conference,” the young man said, blinking in confusion. “We’re a Great Sect. Why wouldn’t we be invited?”

In the face of such profound ignorance, there really wasn’t very much they could say, and eventually Lan Sizhui stepped forward with a smile, welcoming the young man – Nie Songsong, he introduced himself – into the Cloud Recesses.

Everything seemed fine for a little while. Lan Sizhui was able to talk to the people in charge of arranging juniors into finding another place for Nie Songsong to stay, although it would be a little delayed – Nie Songsong assured them that there was no issue – and as recompense they even showed him, at his request, a few of the main landmarks.

And then they turned around and their guest had disappeared.

“I knew he was up to no good!” Jin Ling exclaimed.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Lan Sizhui told him.

“I’m with Jin Ling,” Lan Jingyi said. “He seemed so nice and understated – just like you know –”

“Don’t talk about my little uncle,” Jin Ling hissed at him. “I know it’s true, but just – don’t, okay?”

“We should find where he went,” Lan Sizhui decided.

It took them a while, but in the end they found him in the most unexpected place: in the rooms their sect leader had chosen for his seclusion, sitting on the bed with Lan Xichen’s head on his shoulder, sobbing as if his heart had been broken.

“What are you doing?” Lan Sizhui exclaimed, unnerved even out of his own habitual politeness.

“I came to greet my uncle,” Nie Songsong said, his manner just as gentle and polite as it had been from the beginning, although it was now evident that he was as stubborn as a rock and not easy-going at all.

“Your uncle?” Lan Jingyi gaped. “How can he be your uncle?”

“You’re Sect Leader Nie’s son!” Jin Ling accused.

“I’m Sect Leader Nie’s little brother by adoption,” Nie Songsong corrected. “It’s through my father that he’s my uncle – and you my cousin, I suppose.”

“Your – father?”

“Oh, yes. My birth name, you see,” Nie Songsong said, “was Jin Rusong.”

“Why did you choose to reveal yourself?” Lan Sizhui asked. “Given that everyone knows – well –”

Nie Songsong finished the character he was writing and put down his brush. “Wondering if you should let it be known that you were born with the surname Wen?”

Lan Sizhui jerked in surprise, then flushed. “How did you – that didn’t come out in Guanyin Temple.”

“No, I knew it before,” Nie Songsong said. “My er-ge is very clever, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose I do...why do you call him brother? Shouldn’t he be uncle, or – or –”

“Uncle is probably right,” Nie Songsong said. “But he raised me like a son, just as his brother did for him.”

Lan Sizhui looked down at his hands.

“Why did he publicly reveal your background, knowing that you were still around?” he asked again. “Everyone will know. Who your father was, all those terrible things he did, his relationship with your mother –”

“Why shouldn’t he? He did do all those things, and he did have that relationship with my mother.”

“But what about you? What about your reputation –”

“Are you planning on sweeping Wen Ruohan’s grave?”

Lan Sizhui stared at him.

“He’s your grandfather, isn’t he?” Nie Songsong looked calmly back at him. “Who he was, all those terrible things he did –”

“That’s nothing to do with me!”

“And the crimes of my father are nothing to do with me. My er-ge gave me his surname, just as Hanguang-jun gave you his, and for the same reason – to cut us off from the sins of our original family.”

“I suppose that’s true. But – no one knew about you, just as no one knew about me until I told them, and I only told them because they were my friends. Why’d you tell us? Aren’t you worried we’d tell more people?”

“Of course I am,” Nie Songsong said. “I hope you don’t, of course, but you would’ve found out regardless – second uncle wasn’t exactly subtle in his grief. And I had to tell him.”

“Why? To bring him out of seclusion?” Lan Sizhui hesitated. “Do you care so much for him?”

“Of course not. The last time I met him, I was a small child, and my father was just about to order me murdered; that’s not much of a basis to build a relationship. But having him lock himself away like that, as if he were in mourning…it hurt er-ge. And I won’t let anything hurt my er-ge. Anything, or anyone.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“I understand,” Lan Sizhui said.

“I’m glad you do,” Nie Songsong said, and then smiled. “I would’ve had to escalate to threats next, and I’m given to understand that I’m too short to really pull them off properly.”

Lan Sizhui snorted. “I think we’ve all learned that that’snot true.”

“Should we talk about this?” Jin Ling asked, arms crossed over his chest and glaring.

“What do you want to talk about?” Nie Songsong replied.

“How about the fact that your father tried to kill me?”

“Sure. Can we talk about the fact that you got all of his affection for years and years after he tried to kill me?”

Jin Ling blanched.

“I wonder if he would’ve gotten me a dog, too,” Nie Songsong mused. “I was too young for that when he ordered his demonic cultivator to feed me to fierce corpses and have my body ravaged until it was barely recognizable…but sure, let’s talk about how he tried to kill you.”

“I was talking about Sect Leader Nie!”

“Well, then, you should have been more specific. Sect Leader Nie’s my brother, not my father.”

“He’s a whole generation older than you!”

“My little uncle, then.”

Jin Ling flinched. “That’s worse. Go back to calling him your brother.”

Nie Songsong shrugged. “Would it help if we fought?”

“…what?”

“It makes me feel better, sometimes. Besides, I may be short, but I’m pretty good with the saber. I bet I could match your sword…maybe not your arrows. But I’ve always wanted to try.”

Jin Ling looked at him suspiciously for a long moment.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Sure. Why not?”

“I really hate that you’re kind of cool,” Lan Jingyi told him.

“I am so cool,” Nie Songsong said, and passed him another jar of wine. “Want to see my spring book collection?”

“…yes please.”

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Lan Xichen said to Nie Huaisang, who shrugged. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t trust me to help.”

“It’s only what I should have done,” Nie Huaisang said, not for the first time. He’d said it so often these past few days that it felt like a new refrain, an alternative to the old I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. He preferred the original. “I was his little uncle, remember? I held him on his first month party. How could I do any less?”

He did not say that Lan Xichen, who could be classified as Jin Rusong’s older uncle, had done much less, but from Lan Xichen’s expression, he’d taken it that way anyway.

“You never…” Lan Xichen hesitated. “Did you ever have any – concerns?”

“That he’d turn out an idiot? No. I figured he’d be in good company, with me.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Oh, you meant whether I was worried that he’d grow up longing for his blood family over his adopted family and turn against me in favor of his real father?” Nie Huaisang asked mildly. “No, not really. The memory of your father ordering you to be mauled by fierce corpses and to make sure your face is destroyed so that there’s a reason to refuse to let your mother see the body, as it would only upset her, is a fairly effective panacea against things like that.”

“No,” Lan Xichen said, though he looked sick all over again at the reminder of how considerate Jin Guangyao could be when it came to those he thought of as people, and how monstrous he was towards those he didn’t. “No, just – your brother always took such a hard line against the Wen sect…”

“Because they were raised with the philosophy that they were superior to the rest of us and my brother purposefully made himself into the symbol of their fallibility, thereby making himself and all the rest of us the primary target for their traumatic realization that they’re just as weak and vulnerable as everyone else,” Nie Huaisang said, rolling his eyes. “Our Nie sect cultivators were always especially targeted whenever we were captured – our survival rate as prisoners of war was less than half all the other sects, and it wasn’t just because we were usually more injured when we got caught. Even the civilians surnamed Wen would pull out knives and try to stab us in the back if they had half a chance! We were in a blood feud with them, er-ge. You don’t put down blood feuds just like that, not even if you want to. That’s not how it works.”

Lan Xichen nodded slowly, thoughtful.

“Anyway, Songsong is mine now,” Nie Huaisang said. “Just as Lan Sizhui is your brother’s, and Jin Ling Jiang Cheng’s. Can’t we all just agree to not care about the rest?”

“I suppose we have to,” Lan Xichen said, bowing his head. “Huaisang…did you ever think about what happens now? I mean – what should we do next?”

“I don’t know,” Nie Huaisang said, and smiled humorlessly when Lan Xichen looked at him. “I’m not joking. I didn’t know what to do when I got Songsong for the first time, er-ge, and I don’t know what to do now, either. I just wanted to see justice done for my da-ge, and I did, and for the rest – I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” Lan Xichen said. “I don’t know, either.”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Nie Huaisang thought. Spine as steel as your saber.

“Would you like to come visit the Unclean Realm sometime?” he asked, pretending to be casual. “Perhaps we can figure out what we don’t know together. If you like.”

“…perhaps I will,” Lan Xichen said.

#mdzs #nie huaisang #xue yang #lan xichen #jin rusong #jin ling #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #my fic #my fics #nothing ventured nothing gained

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dizzydancingdreamer · 4 years ago

Text

I Need You | The Mikaelson Boys

Hey lovelies! Here’s another Mikaelson Brother’s fic. This time it’s a firefighter AU. I don’t know why I was so inspired but oh well, here it is anyway. Please do ignore the blatant plot holes and dropped plot points. I wrote this purely for the fluff so the rest doesn’t matter too much! I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Until next time, all my love!

Description: The brothers are firefighters and they come back to the station after a long day only to find an unconscious woman in their fire station. It turns out she’s their mate and she's seconds from death. From there it’s pure fluff/smut. Honestly the plot of this is weak, I just wanted something majorly fluffy.

Pairing: Female!Reader x The Mikaelson Boys

Warnings: THIS IS AN 18+ ONLY FIC!!! It’s not a full blown smut but it does get heated. It’s hella light smut. Honestly the warning should read something more like “inappropriate actions for on duty firefighters towards a civilian at the workplace”. Take into mind that I do not condone this behaviour outside of my fics but that they are soulmates and it’s all consensual! The other warning is angst. This is super graphic at the beginning but after that it gets better.

Word count: 7.3k

Tags: Angst, smut, fluff

P.S. This is only in the boys’ perspectives for like five nanoseconds, after that it’s completely in the reader’s

Tag list: @activist-af @corishirogane3

(Pictures not mine, mood board is!)

“Remind me, Elijah,” Klaus runs a hand through his hair, shaking some of the soot from his blonde hair, “why we decided to do this again?”

Elijah huffs indignantly, also shaking out his hair and shrugging the heavy coat off his shoulders. His hoodie underneath is soaked through with sweat and it follows the same path. Klaus already stands in just a t-shirt, the navy material glued to his skin.

“Don’t you remember, brother?” Kol hops out of the truck from behind the wheel, his bare chest exposed, spare the straps keeping the bottom half of his turnout gear on, a cheerful grin on his lips, “He wanted us to give back to the community. I believe his exact words were firefighters or soldiers.”

It’s true, Elijah had wanted them to do something meaningful with their lives. Well, with a fraction of their lives. He wanted them to be a family again and what better way to do that than to take on a career built on teamwork. Honestly, he had expected them to last maybe six months before quitting but now they were three years deep and he couldn’t see them going anywhere for a while. Somehow station 32 in small town Virginia had become a home base for them.

Elijah leans against the brick of the old fire station, closing his eyes for a moment, “just be happy I didn’t suggest doing both.”

“What makes you think I would follow you to war,” Klaus laughs but it’s hollow, the strain of the day settling over his bones.

They haven’t had a day this strenuous in months, sixteen calls in one day and it’s only eight. Human or not, that’s a lot of heavy lifting. Klaus would do anything for some sleep. He sags against the wall next to his brother. Despite the sleep tugging at his body he can’t seem to relax. Something is keeping his spine rigid, something he can’t quite place his mind on. Oh well.

Elijah chuckles, his eyes still shut, “you followed me here didn’t you? Face it, you needed this as much as I did.”

Klaus doesn’t speak, he just hums his agreement, something entirely unlike him but brought on from the exhaustion. His shoulders remain tight, his muscles stiff. The air feels like it's buzzing lightly, charged with something he doesn’t have enough energy to think about.

Kol laughs through his own fatigue, stretching his arms behind him, ignoring the way his bones click slightly, “I, for one, need a shower. I smell like flames and I hate it. I suggest you two do the same,” he turns from his slumped brothers, “I can smell you from here.”

Elijah pulls himself from the wall, rolling his shoulders and peeling his eyes open, “come on, Niklaus, you can take a nap for a few hours. I doubt the rest of the night will be eventful, half the town should be asleep by now.”

“I hope you’re right.”

The two brothers catch up with Kol easily, grabbing their discarded gear on the way and heading towards the locker room. Kol is the first to step through the door, adamant on jumping in the shower before his brothers take all the hot water like they usually do, when he stops suddenly, all of his senses on high alert. Something is wrong, terribly so. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, catching the faintest hint of sweetness, like vanilla and oranges, mingled with something sharper. Something too familiar.

“Kol, what are you-” Elijah doesn’t get to finish his thought.

“Blood,” Klaus pushes past both of them, his eyebrows furrowed, “I smell blood. Someone’s here.”

Kol nods and steps further into the room, directly followed by Klaus and Elijah. As they push forward, towards the showers, the scent of fresh blood intensifies. So does the vanilla citrus perfume, magnifying and tangling around each brother. The room is electrified because of it, drawing them quicker to the heart of the locker room. The distinct sound of three heartbeats fills the room, each one louder than the last. Thump, thump, thump.

When they turn the corner they freeze, each heart skipping a beat in the same moment. There, in the middle of the showers, is an unconscious woman. A naked, unconscious woman slumped over in a pool of her own blood. Her body is battered, more blue and black than any other color. Who knew a vampire's blood could turn as cold as theirs is right now?

“Fuck,” Kol’s voice is the first to break the tension, dropping to his knees with a dull thud, his heart strings snapping violently in his chest, “fuck!”

Klaus is in front of her in a flash, his teeth ripping into his wrist without a second thought. Kol turns his head away, squeezing his eyes shut. There’s no way he can watch this. The sweet smell wraps around him, taunting him almost. The overwhelming sense of loss wraps around him like a noose, his throat closing harshly. Why now, why like this?

“Is that,” Elijah, too, sinks to the ground, his hands splayed against the concrete, his eyes glued to the horrific sight in front of him, “is that who I think it is?”

His muscles tighten, an indescribable pain rippling through his entire body. He feels like he’s drowning. No, like he’s burning alive. Fuck, it feels like both at the same time. He wants to scream but no sounds are surfacing. This can’t be happening!

Kol’s voice is sharp and cracked, too many emotions to decipher leaking into his words, “yeah, it’s her. It’s our mate.”

Klaus presses his bleeding wrist to her mouth hard, tears streaming freely down his face. He couldn’t care less about how he looks, not right now. Not when it feels like someone is ripping his heart straight from his chest.

“Come on, love. Wake up. I need you! Wake up!”

* * * * * *

“Wake up. I need you! Wake up!”

You tear your eyes open suddenly, bright lights flooding your senses. You gasp as you regain consciousness, something that you realize too late is a mistake. Your mouth is filled with a thick, hot substance, one much too metallic and familiar for your liking, that you inhale by accident. It fills your lungs quickly, your chest burning, and you roll over, hacking up mouthfuls of the disgusting fluid. It feels like your entire body is engulfed in flames. Like you’re dying twice.

The concrete is freezing against your fiery arms and, when it finally blurs into focus, you realize it’s also covered in a deep red liquid. You run your tongue over your mouth, the tang making your eyes widen. Your heart stutters as you finally come to an understanding. Blood. The floor is covered in blood. Your blood. This time you vomit, and almost scream when you see it matches the liquid around you.

“Shit,” a voice sounds from behind you as a pair of hands slides over your back, startling you further into the sticky redness, “holy shit you’re awake. Oh thank god!”

You flinch away from the hands, turning too quickly to face whoever it is behind you. Mistake number two. The walls start spinning around you and you have to grasp the wet stone beneath you and close your eyes for a moment. When you finally open them again you’re met with a pair of warm, brown eyes. Your heart stutters again, but you don’t have time to wonder why you don’t feel as afraid this time.

“Who are you? What the hell is going on?” you run your eyes over him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “I don’t- where am I?”

Each of your senses are on high alert, your heart beating so loud you’re afraid it’s going to jump out of your chest, as you allow yourself to finally take in your surroundings. You're in a shower room of sorts, with rows of lockers on your one side and the tiled rows of shower stalls on the other. The smell of fresh blood hits you full force and you almost vomit again. You suck in a deep breath, ignoring the burning in your lungs as you try to force the feeling away. Your eyes catch some writing on the wall; Station 32. You look back to the man in front of you, zeroing in on his navy t-shirt with the same logo.

What the hell are you doing at a fire station?

He shifts closer to you and you stiffen. A pained expression laces across his face and your chest stings, worse than it did when you were coughing up the blood. He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again there’s a sheen of tears. You swallow thickly, your own tears forming at the sight of his. What on earth is happening?

He sits back on his knees and runs a red hand through his blonde hair, maring the light strands with blood. You tense further at the sight. For some reason you want to stop him from spreading more of the blood over him. He’s already kneeling in a puddle of it, and his arms are soaked, painted in a cruel crimson. Even his t-shirt is drenched. You grind your teeth together, your jaw clenching harshly. He places both his hands on the floor and takes another few inches towards you.

His movements are slow as if not to startle you, “hey, it’s alright. You’re safe now. I’m Klaus, I’m a firefighter here. You’re at station 32, Lexington, Virginia.”

His voice is heavy with emotion, making what you can only assume is a strong british accent even stronger. Your heart tugs harshly when he speaks, begging you to move closer to him. You wrap your arms around yourself, ignoring the increasingly sticky feeling over your entire body. You can’t stop a few tears from slipping down your cheeks.

“How did I get here?”

A new voice, one just as accented and gravelly, pulls your attention from Klaus, “we aren’t sure, darling. We just got back ourselves. Gave us quite a shock, actually. How much do you remember?”

Your eyes wander around the blonde and land on two more men, two brunettes. You lock eyes with each of them, your heat racing once more. You suck in a breath at the wave of emotions that hit you. Sadness, confusion, longing, comfort. Love. It all hits you at once and you have to close your eyes before the room starts spinning again. When you open them again, they’re closer. Far enough to keep you from tensing, settled next to Klaus.

You tuck your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very exposed. One of the men, the one with dark brown hair cut close to his head and concerned brown eyes, notices and wastes no time pulling the t-shirt from his chest and settling it on your knees. It’s warm and a touch damp but you don’t mind, gratefully shuffling it over your head and passing him a grateful nod. It lands mid thigh, circling you in a heady wood scent. Your cheeks flame as you try not to lean down and smell it directly. When you look back at him his eyes are glinting.

“I’m not sure,” you press your palms against your eyes and immediately regret it, the stickiness now smeared on your cheeks and eyelids, “I don’t remember much. Only bits and pieces from this morning but nothing after that. Wait, is that normal? God, why can’t I remember anything!”

All of a sudden you’re panicking and the room begins shrinking, at least it feels like it is. You can’t breathe, your lungs constricting painfully. There isn’t enough oxygen in the room. Was there ever enough? You’re racking your mind for any little thing that you can remember but it’s pointless, you’re going too fast and your mind can’t make sense of anything you’re seeing. You see a sink, one covered in blood. You see teeth. No, you see fangs. You smell the forest, one heavy with pine trees. None of it makes sense!

You claw maniacally at your chest, trying to suck in enough air to clear the fog in your head. Nothing is helping, your body is on fire and sticky and you just want to scream until it all makes sense. The shirt feels three sizes too small and you want to tear it over your head. Just before you can, though, you’re pulled onto someone's lap, someone who smells like pure water, and you can finally suck in a proper breath. The flames that were lapping your skin slowly start to fade, giving over to a cool sensation that soothes your achy bones.

“Deep breaths, love,” Klaus’ voice washes over you like a lullaby, his hands rubbing down your back, “that’s good, just like that. We’re going to figure this out but for now you just have to breathe. You’re safe now, I promise you that. We can start with an easy one, what’s your name?”

You sink into his chest more easily than you would like to admit. His arms circle you tighter, his head resting on yours in an entirely unprofessional way but you don’t care. You’ve never felt this kind of need before. You’re afraid that if you leave his arms now then the flames will come back.

“Y/n,” you murmur into his shoulder, “my name is y/n.”

A pair of hands rub over your shoulders, drawing you into them slightly on instinct, “darling, I know you’re scared but we need to see if you’re seriously hurt. We found you in a lot of blood,” whoever is speaking his voice is rough and he has to stop to clear his throat, muttering a curse under his breath, “do you think you can let us check you over?”

When he brings up the blood, it’s all you can smell again, and you scramble from Klaus’ arms, narrowly making it before you’re vomiting again. This time you don’t puke up any blood, thank god. Just bile, which isn’t much better. The metallic scent is all around you and it’s all you can do to hang your head and suck in as much air as possible. You feel so dizzy it physically hurts.

“Shit, Elijah we gotta get this cleaned up. It’s only making it worse. C’mere love,” you’re pulled into the warm chest of a man you’ve yet to interact with.

You lock eyes with the last man, losing your breath at his honey brown eyes. He smiles softly and you feel your cheeks go hot. You bring your hands to your lips quickly, all too aware of how close you are to this man and the fact that you were just throwing up and are soaked through with blood. You blink back a few tears, embarrassment streaming through you. You glance down at his chest which is now covered in your blood. The man furrows his brows, shaking his head lightly. You can almost hear his thoughts; don’t worry.

Elijah, the man who gave you his shirt, nods at Klaus, standing quickly, “you two take her to the captain’s bathroom, it’s nicer anyway and more private. I’m not expecting anyone else tonight but I’d rather them not see her like this,” he turns, locking eyes with you, his rough tone softening drastically, “baby, are you okay if they help you clean this blood off? They’re not going to hurt you, we just need to get you cleaned up and warm to make sure you don’t go back into shock.”

The word baby rings through your head, hitting you directly in the chest. Tendrils of warmth unfurl through your body and you find yourself nodding to everything he says. Elijah sags, relief taking over his body. It doesn’t last long though, the tension filling his frame as he looks back around the room.

“Kol,” the man under you tenses, “take her upstairs now. Niklaus, do you mind helping me with this? It’s-” Elijah looks at you again for a moment before he has to look away, “It’s going to take two people.”

Klaus stares at you longingly, the pained look back in his eyes. It makes you want to pull him into your arms, blood or no blood, and hold him. You tense at the thought. Where did that come from?

He looks at you a moment longer before crawling over to and running one of his stained hands over your cheek. He leans down and kisses the top of your head, rubbing his cheek against your matted hair. Sparks dance down your spine at the simple touch, lighting your body like a christmas tree. Too many emotions surface again, confusion and longing being the top contenders.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can, love,” he whispers to you before standing himself and addressing Elijah, “yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Elijah nods at Klaus, his shoulders sagging slightly, probably out of relief again. Looking around one last time it’s obvious the job is going to take some major man-power. Thankfully the blood is contained mostly to the showers, but even so it’s coating almost every surface from there on. Looking at it makes you chest heavy again but before you can lose it Kol stands, pulling you up with him.

He holds you easily, bringing you level with Klaus and Elijah. Elijah strides over to you, taking your face in his hands. Your heart pounds mercilessly at his touch. It takes all your willpower not to jump into his arms and curl around his bare chest. You try not to stare at his taut muscles. Now is definitely not the time to let lust join the myriad of emotions running through you. Even as you force your eyes away, though, your body ignites and you have to stop yourself from clenching your thighs around Kol. Fucking hell, what is going on?

Kol’s arms tense suddenly and when you peak back at him, his eyes are shades darker. You swallow thickly, trying not to think too much about the heated look in his eyes. Or how much you don’t want him to stop looking at you like that. You peer back at Elijah, who holds a similar expression. You have to suck in a breath, the room temperature instantly raising ten degrees.

Elijah leans his forehead against yours, his thumbs grazing your cheekbones gently, “Kol’s going to take you upstairs now, okay baby? He’ll take care of you, help you wash some of this off. You’re in control here, alright? No one else is going to hurt you.”

You nod lightly, your forehead rubbing against his, “okay, Eli.”

He sucks in a sharp breath and presses a hard kiss to your head before releasing you. Kol shuffles you further up his body, drawing your attention to him. He grins at you but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Before you can process what you’re doing, you’re cupping his cheek in your hand. His skin is soft and so warm. He sighs quietly, sinking his cheek into your touch, his eyes losing some of the tension.

“Let’s go get cleaned up, darling.”

You lower your hand, choosing now to wrap your arms around his shoulders instead. His muscles under your fingertips are glorious, warm and firm. When you rest your face against his shoulder, you breathe in the faintest hints of nutmeg and flames. It’s absolutely intoxicating. His shoulder is hot against your cheek and you finally give into your cravings to curl your body around his, wrapping your legs tightly around his torso and clinging to him for dear life. He holds you against him with everything he has, taking the steps two at a time.

You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes until you feel him enter a separate room, one much smaller than the locker room you were previously in. You’re greeted with a spectacular sight; a spacious bathroom with a wall of showerheads and the biggest clawfoot tub you’ve ever seen. You almost jump from his arms at how badly you want to get in it.

He sets you down on a vast countertop, the cool marble biting into your bottom. You shiver lightly, a warm blush spreading down your neck and chest. He places his arms on either side of you, staring at you with a mixture of tenderness and caution. You have to will yourself to keep looking into his eyes and not at the way his arms flex from how he’s leaning. God, where did all these wanton feelings come from?

“Okay, darling, where are we going from here? What do you need me to do?” his accent is fuller due to the acoustics in the bathroom and you nearly keel over from how hard it slams through your body, tugging at every nerve south of your belly button.

“Um,” you clear your throat lightly, swallowing the sudden scratchiness, “do you think there’s a toothbrush anywhere around here?”

Kol grins knowingly, leaning down and opening a drawer next to your thigh. The heat rolling off his body rushes into your legs and when he resurfaces with a new toothbrush and a cheeky smile you’re practically panting.

“Thanks.”

You brush your teeth quickly, making sure to scrub the remnants of the past thirty minutes or so from your mouth. It instantly makes you feel a little better, knowing you can speak to Kol without your breath being a biohazard. You set the toothbrush down, looking back to him appreciatively.

Kol cups your chin gently, spreading heat like butter through your bones,“Do you think you can stand? If you can, I can wait outside while you get cleaned up. You can take as much time as you need, darling. I’ll be right outside the door.”

Your heart pounds quickly at his suggestion, your throat closing painfully. You don’t want him to leave you alone, even if he is just outside the door. You don’t know how to ask him to stay, though, and you don’t want to cross any boundaries. You’re so damn conflicted that your chest aches.

“Okay.”

He nods, his eyes a touch less bright than they were a few moments ago, and he backs away hesitantly. You use all your energy to push yourself off the counter, using it to keep yourself upright when your feet touch the floor. Your legs feel like jelly and you wonder for a moment if you have any bones. You shake your head lightly, scolding yourself. Don’t be stupid, y/n, of course you have bones. However, when you go to take a step towards the bathtub you almost revoke the sentiment. Your legs crumple around you, bringing you to a pile on the floor.

“Fuck,” Kol is next to you in no time at all, his hands rushing over your legs, most likely checking for damage, “I knew that was going to happen I don’t know why I let you do that, darling. I was trying to give you space. Are you okay? Elijah and Klaus are going to kill me.”

He mutters the last part under his breath but you still catch it, “it’s not your fault, I was trying not to bother you. I thought I could make it to the tub, at least, and then figure the rest out from there. I, uh,” you scrub your hands over your face, covering your eyes with your palms, “I didn’t want to be a burden, more than I already am I mean.”

A few more tears slip past your guard, tracking lines through the dried blood on your cheeks. You swallow a sob before it can make any noise, your shoulders shaking slightly from the cold tiles underneath you. You’re utterly exhausted. You wish you could just click your heels and go home. The only problem is that something tells you that you’d only end up here again if you could do that.

“No,” Kol’s voice is low and strained, “no, darling, don’t say that. This isn’t your fault,” he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his hot, nutmeg chest, “you’re not a burden to me. Or Elijah or Klaus. You’re a surprise and not an unwelcome one. If you need me to stay, hell, if you want me to stay I will. I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, okay?”

You peer up at him, clinging to his toned chest like you’re afraid it’ll vanish from underneath you, “please get this blood off of me, Kol. I can’t do it, I can’t even hold myself up. I need you.”

His eyes darken again, the honeyed brown turning a darker chocolate color, “you have me, darling, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” he leans down and brushes his nose against yours, “never ever.”

A tiny giggle bubbles in your chest and it feels like freedom. It feels like falling asleep on the beach and hiking through the mountains and every good thing you’ve ever experienced. Kol’s eyes light up and he bites back a grin before doing it again, pulling a flood of giggles from you. Soon you're throwing your arms around him, laughing your head off for no reason at all, him joining you in the madness. You can’t stop and you don’t want to. You need this, you need him. It frightens you how intensely you feel connected to him already but you push the fear away for the time being.

“Okay, okay,” Kol scoops you against him and stands, “enough of that, love, time for a bath.”

That effectively puts an end to your giggling, your body igniting at the thought of taking a bath with this second coming of adonis. You swallow the lump in your throat, this time caused by the rippling of his taut muscles against you. The t-shirt you’re wearing feels see through suddenly, the thin layer between your core and his stomach doing little to quell the heat seeping from the crack between your thighs.

You dig your fingers into his shoulders a little harder than you mean to, pulling a soft grunt from him, one that you can feel in your own chest, “bath. Okay.”

Your cheeks flame at your idiotic response. Bath. Okay. What the hell was that?

He walks to the tub and sets you gently on the floor of it, the porcelain ice against your flesh. He turns, his back facing you as he pulls his suspenders off. You admire the fluid movement of his muscles as he steps out of his stained turnout gear, leaving him in a pair of grey sweatpants. His back is toned like a greek god’s and you would like nothing more in this moment than to know what it feels like to dig your nails into it. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to air the wanton out of your system. Don’t be a hussy, y/n. He turns back to you and your face flushes when he catches your lingering stare.

He hooks his fingers in his sweatpants and your breath catches in your throat. He lifts his eyebrow, silently asking if it’s okay for him to continue. Your mouth feels dry, your head is spinning. Slowly you nod, your eyes glued to his. He smirks lighty, an action so doused in sex that almost has you pulling Elijah’s t-shirt from your body and falling at his feet. You hold your breath as he pulls the sweatpants from his body and your heart almost falls out of your chest when they reveal a pair of grey plaid boxers. What were you expecting? Your subconscious taunts you mercilessly.

He steps into the bathtub behind you, kneeling and grabbing the showerhead on the way down. The heat rolling off of him seems to have increased, wrapping around you and daring you to melt into him. You want to, so badly you do, but you remain upright, your hands on the side of the tub, leaving rusty smudges on the crisp, white edges.

Kol leans forward, his mouth right next to your ear sending shivers straight to your core when he speaks, “darling, I’m going to need to take this off,” his fingers tease the tops of your thighs, curling around the hem of the t-shirt, “may I do that?”

He presses his face against your neck, laying a few soft kisses to the skin under your jaw. You roll your head back onto his shoulder, savouring his affection and warmth for a moment without overthinking it.

You nod against his skin, “yes, Kol.”

You can feel the breath he takes against your back and then, when he releases it, against your neck. He takes his time, his fingers gently skimming your sides as he gathers the fabric up and over your head. You raise your arms to make it easier for him, gasping gently as cool air rolls over your exposed breasts. He tosses Elijah’s t-shirt to the side, running his hands down your back and planting another kiss to your uncovered shoulder.

You know you should feel ashamed for being this naked with a man you just met but you physically can’t bring yourself to feel any of it. All you know is that you’re comfortable and that his hands on your skin feel like genuine magic.

“Okay, I’m going to turn the water on now,” he rubs his nose down the back of your neck, “let me know if it’s too hot or anything.”

Your eyes prickle at how sweet he is, how gentle he is with you. He definitely doesn’t look like the gentle type, all tall, dark, and broody, but the way he’s acting proves otherwise. You nod your head, leaning your chin on the edge of the tub. He starts the water, a plume of steam instantly clouding the bathroom. The first stream to hit you is heavenly and you can’t help but close your eyes.

“Is that okay, darling?”

You hum quietly, “it’s perfect.”

You let the water lull you into a daze, picturing the stream turning red as the water rolls off you and down the drain. It’s mesmerizing, the warmth of the water combined with Kol’s heady scent. When he touches you, though, it’s like a crescendo of feeling. His fingers run over your back, no doubt washing away the events of this evening, but all you can think about is how perfect his hands feel against your bare skin.

Everywhere he touches blazes to life. You feel like putty in his hands, willing to mold however he needs you to. When his fingers glide down your sides your body reacts without warning, your back arching against his chest. You can feel his chest rumble under your back more than you can hear it. His large hands span your back easily, spreading over your ribcage, his thumbs gently grazing your breasts. You suck in a harsh breath, clenching your teeth to keep his name in your mouth. It’s begging to be said though. Said, screamed, praised. Anything. Fuck it.

“Kol,” you breathe, reaching back to grasp at his forearms for stability, “more.”

The growl that rips from his chest is unexpected but it lights every fibre of your being alive. He pulls you hard against his solid chest, falling against the back of the tub and shifting you so you’re perfectly centered on his lap. A flare of pleasure flashes up your spine when you land on something hot and hard. You hiss at the thin layer of clothing between you and Kol.

His lips find your ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and sending even more heat pooling in your core, “as you wish, darling.”

Your hands fall away as his hands cover your breasts, his thumbs skillfully sliding over your hard nipples. This time you don’t whisper his name, you moan it. Loudly. Every time he rolls your nipples between his fingers, you see stars. You see the whole damn galaxy. His lips find your shoulder, biting down gently but hard enough to pull a string of incoherent praise from your lips.

His chest rumbles with every noise you make and the ball of heat between your legs grows brighter. You rock your hips against his, trying to build some much needed friction. The noise you pull from him is the epitome of heaven and it hits you right in the chest. It compels you to keep grinding your core against him harder, taking every sound he offers up and matching it with one of your own. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, rolling your head onto his shoulder as the anticipation sings through your body.

Your senses are flooded, your hearing muffled by the running water and your blood pumping through your ears, which is probably why you don’t hear the door open and someone step into the bathroom. It’s only when a pair of lips attaches to the base of your neck do you peel your eyes open. You meet Klaus’ stare with a gasp, just as Kol pinches your nipples harder than all the times before.

Your orgasm hits you like a truck, tearing through your nerves without warning and rendering you to pieces. All the while Klaus takes your arm, placing tantalizing, open mouth kisses down your skin. When you finally come down from the climax, your muscles are layered with a sweet exhaustion. Kol nuzzles against your back, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Fuck, darling,” he nips at your shoulder and your skin zings lightly, “you have no idea how much I needed that.”

Your eyes meet Klaus’ and your cheeks flame from the intensity of his stare, “I didn’t do anything, you did it all.”

You want to look away from Klaus, you want to feel some inkling of shame, but you can’t. All you want is to do is hook your arm around his neck and bring him closer to you. Your body craves his and it’s all you can do to not melt into his palm when he cups your cheek.

“That’s the point, love,” Klaus runs his thumb over your skin, “he just wanted to touch you.”

Kol hums his agreement into your flesh, his lips still glued to you.

“Do you want to touch me?” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, your eyes widening as soon as you register what you just said.

In less than a second, the brown eyes staring into your turn a dark coal color. The skin around Klaus’ eyes turns a deep purple. Your breath hitches at this side of him, a deep longing settling in your chest the longer you stare into his eyes. He's ethereal and entirely unhuman but you can’t even think about that. You want him so bad it stings. He has to shut his eyes for a few moments and when he opens them again his eyes are back to normal, if not a touch darker.

When he speaks his voice is gravelly, “I need to.”

You swallow hard, forcing the words out before you have time to lose your nerve, “come here then.”

Klaus’ eyes widen before he stands abruptly, shoving his own jogging pants down his legs before stepping into the other side of the tub. Kol lets you go as Klaus settles against the porcelain. As soon as he’s comfortable he wraps his hands around your hips, pulling you onto his lap and against his chest. Your legs end up on either side of him, much like how you were with Kol, your core pressed against the hardest part of him.

His crisp scent folds around you and sucks you deeper against him until your chest to chest, your breasts pressing into his firm chest. His arms settle around your back, his palms splayed over your spine. Your flesh buzzes from the contact, goosebumps rising when he traces lazy circles with his fingertips. You meet his eyes again and involuntarily clench your thighs around his hips. He’s looking at you like you’re the only girl he’s ever laid eyes on. Like he’s in the presence of a goddess and that he would gladly lay his life down for you.

Your eyes draw down to the tattoo on his chest, an image of birds in flight, and you run your fingers over it gently. He sucks in a breath when you touch him, closing his eyes and leaning back against the edge of the tub. Something about his reaction spurs you on. If that’s what your fingers can do, what can your mouth do? You lean down, gently attaching your lips to his collarbone and tugging his skin into your mouth.

He jolts up when you bite down lightly, jostling you further onto his lap and sending waves of heat rolling over your body, “fuck,” his hand wraps around the back of your neck, pushing you impossibly closer to him, “love, you have no idea how good that feels.”

You pull back slightly, your mouth still against his skin as your eyes bore into his, “show me.”

His chest rumbles under your lips before he pulls your head back gently and slams his lips against your throat. He sucks your skin into his mouth and, for the second time tonight, you see stars. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, lacing your fingers through his blonde hair. You tug him closer to you, crossing your ankles behind his back. You want every inch of his skin pressed against yours.

He bites down, his teeth scraping pleasure into every nerve, and you pull at his soft hair, praises falling mindlessly from your lips, “Klaus.”

A second pair of hands glides over your back, “darling, let me wash your hair. I can feel Elijah getting restless. Unless you want three men in this tub with you, I need to finish getting you cleaned up.”

Your heart pounds at the thought of Elijah in the bath with you, his large body pressed against yours. You can practically smell his pine scent in the air, clinging to your skin. You bite your lip. You want to moan his name and he isn’t even in the room. You shake the thought from your mind, leaning into Kol’s hands.

Klaus kisses up your neck, peppering your jaw and cheeks with pecks before pulling you to lay against his chest. You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion that’s been building flood your system. Kol soaks your hair, the warm water pouring down your shoulders as you press your face into Klaus’ neck. His hands draw lazily up and down your sides as Kol massages shampoo against your scalp. You mewl at his touch and cling to Klaus. You could stay in the moment forever, it’s absolutely blissful.

Just as Kol is rinsing the shampoo from your hair, the door to the bathroom opens revealing a shirtless Elijah. He’s clad in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. In his hand is a large towel. His eyes zero in on you from across the room and, though you can’t see them clearly, you can tell they’re dark. Your head goes fuzzy as your eyes draw down his sculpted chest, lingering on his rippled stomach. You meet his eyes again and give into your instincts, reaching your arms out for him.

“Eli,” you call out to him, “I need you.”

You stand on wobbly feet, bearing everything to him. You don’t care, you just want to be in his arms. You haven’t had a chance to touch him yet and your body is screaming at you to get as close to him as humanly possible. Even more than humanly possible. Elijah closes the space between the two of you in seconds, wrapping the towel around you before pulling you into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, your arms circling his neck.

He leans down, rubbing his nose against yours, “I need you too, baby.”

You slip your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands mindlessly. He leans into your touch and your heart soars. He hikes you further up your body, leaning his face against your shoulder. You run your hands over his shoulders, sighing when the tension leaves his muscles.

“I’m going to go sleep for a few hours,” Elijah mumbles into your shoulder but his words aren’t aimed at you, “do you think the two of you will be okay until then.”

Klaus waves his hand dismissively and Kol nods, still draped lazily over the edge of the tub, “yeah, yeah, go, we’ll be fine brother.”

Wait, what?

Did you hear that right? Brother. Your entire body sets on fire. They’re all related. Well, there’s the shame you were missing at least. You push against Elijah’s chest, forcing him to meet your eyes. When he sees your expression his brows pull together, his brown eyes filled with concern.

“Baby-”

“You’re all brothers?” you breathe, your face burning, “brothers? What on earth is going on?”

He stares into your eyes for a moment before laughing, turning with you in his arms and starting towards the door. You lock eyes with Klaus and Kol over Elijah’s shoulder. They, too, are laughing without a care. Kol tosses you a wink just as Elijah carries you into the hallway.

You circle your arms around his shoulders again, “Lijah this is crazy. Explain. Please.”

He pulls you through another door, exposing you to a comfortable looking bed. Just looking at it sends sleep pooling in your limbs. He sets you in the middle of it before climbing on after you. He pushes you backwards and you fall into a pile of pillows, the towel long forgotten as he crawls on top of you. Your body flares with something hot as he holds himself on his forearms, his hot chest grazing yours with every breath he takes. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer to you despite your still unanswered questions.

“Lijah,” you whine as his lips find your neck, arching into his touch like two magnets connecting, “I need answers.”

Elijah’s teeth scrape at your neck, pulling soft moans from your lips. You’re so tired but the want that swirls in your core demands anything but sleep. You grip his shoulders, digging your fingers into his firm muscles. You pull his hips closer to yours, rolling against him desperately. You press your head into the pillows, exposing as much of your neck as you can to him.

He pulls away and you have to swallow your protests. When you finally open your eyes, you’re met with the same dark eyes you saw from Klaus, only now they’re accented by a pair of sharp looking fangs. You suck in a deep breath, reaching up to cup Elijah’s jaw.

“I know, baby,” he rubs his face into your hand, “I’ll give you all the answers you need and more but first I need you. I have waited a thousand years for you and now that I have you I don’t think I’ll be able to let you go yet. Please, baby, let me have you.”

His words wrap around you, every part of your being, and sink into your core. A wave of longing hits you again, and something else that you’re not ready to explore. It makes your heart warm and your body crave every inch of his. You already knew your answer before he asked. You’ve known since you woke up to the three of them.

Maybe you even knew before that.

You pull his face to yours, capturing his lips with your own, “you already have me. I’m yours.”

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mrs-hollandstan · 4 years ago

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hello! could you do an angsty fic based on the song yes to heaven by lana del rey where reader is pining after peter but he just doesn’t realize please?

This is actually really cute and I kinda dreaded writing it at first haha

If you dance, I'll dance

Peter was your best friend. Since kindergarten. You were there always, and you, like Ned (and now MJ) knew his deepest secret. And even though he knew you like the back of his hand, he didn't know your deepest secret.

Tonight was Prom. The biggest night of your life, or what was supposed to be and maybe it would be, but you knew that you hadn't been asked to Prom by anyone which meant going "alone" even though you had a group of friends you'd be with, but you knew that he had asked her and that was somehow worse than not having a date yourself.

You'd watched him go for Liz, and you supported him, and you were glad when she went away. You thought he'd remain your little, single, best friend, but then his attraction shifted to MJ and it was like a punch through your heart. You had been heart-eyes for him for so long and he never noticed and you knew that even if he did, it would never come to fruition because he was your best friend. You were his and that was a big no no. You could dream though right.

And if you don't, I'll dance anyway

You had a beautiful dress and pretty heels and your hair and makeup were done to the best of your cousin's ability. You knew that you weren't ugly (you weren't the prettiest in school but who wants that, they're bitches anyways) and you knew that at least a few pairs of eyes would be on you. Even if those weren't Peter's, it'd be okay. You could fill that void with… Flash Thompson or something.

You found the group near the back, Peter and MJ facing each other as they danced together, but not touching, and Ned makes a noise, drawing your eyes to him. Betty leans against him,

"Wow Y/N, you look…"

"Killer." Betty finishes for him, admiring you just as much as her on-again, off-again boyfriend had. Damn, everyone really had someone huh?

"Oh yeah, you look nice Y/N." Peter speaks up in that overly innocent voice of his, eyes never leaving your face before he diverts his attention back to MJ who doesn't even give you a glance. When had he ever not called you by a nickname? Was that something he started doing when she showed up, calling you by your formal first name?

Give peace a chance

You fall into the routine. Distracting yourself with the less obsessed with each other couples and the singles in your group, dancing and mingling, sipping punch and snacking on crackers and chips and dip. It was nice. For once you didn't feel like you had to distract yourself from them. It was natural. Grooving along as a few slow songs replace the upbeat ones you were grooving to and joining the loners on the benches brought back that overwhelming dull feeling you had whenever you watched Peter with his girlfriend. The way he swayed, arms wrapped around her waist, forehead pressed to hers. What it's like to be Ned and Betty, unphased by the fact that your best friend is so helplessly in love with someone else while all you can do is suffer in silence being in love with them. You swallow back the tears and the lump in your throat at the thought of Peter marrying her, having kids with her, and you being alone forever. You have to look away. Downing a few more glasses of punch, Betty and Ned strike up a conversation, letting you forget about the searing jealousy within you. And it's back to the dancing soon enough.

Peter and MJ are comfortable enough that her back presses to his chest and he wraps his arms around her and they sway, singing together. Her smile is bright and so is his and it kills you.

Let the fear you have fall away

She turns to him, a faint squeak sounding along the polished floor since she's worn tennis shoes and his smile widens when she says something to him.

You've been in love with Peter since Kindergarten, you're pretty sure. He's always been adorable and of course you've always tried to chalk it down to him just being like a brother to you, but it's so much more. You've never realized how much you really do love him. He's been by your side, he's helped you through personal and work related issues, he's confided in you when it came down to Spider-Man and the emotional toll it was taking on him. He leaned on you and you let him, and you held back the tears until he couldn't hurt you or comfort you. He was oblivious and you seemed fine with it but if he knew, you knew he'd hate himself and he'd beg for your forgiveness, but he surely would never make you what she is to him. Their relationship is too powerful and he doesn't like you like that. It would never happen. Maybe it's because he's never had to save you. You've never put yourself in harm's way.

I've got my eye on you

As you watch, with his strong arms wrapped around her, he leans in the same way she does and they kiss, so softly you can practically see how in love they are. You've never seen them kiss and you could really have gone without it.

You glance away but the heartbreak is already setting in. Your breaths are short, chest tight, eyes stinging as you fight the tears.

What hurts the most is that you'll never be her for him. He has someone he loves while you obsess over him. You have no one now, and he has everything he's ever wanted. Sure, you're happy for him, but it still kills you.

Turning, Betty reaches out to hold your wrist, eyebrows knitting together at the look on your face,

"Hey, what's the matter?" You shake your head,

"N-nothing. I need… I need fresh air."

"I'll go with-"

"No!" The outburst draws all kinds of eyes to you including MJ's and Peter's, his eyebrows knitting together. Betty jumps as if she's been stung and her eyes widen just a little, Peter straightening up as a tear slides down the side of your nose, "I just… I need to be alone."

I've got my eye on you

You dart away from the group, your heels clicking along the polished wood floor until you're pushing into the halls. The music is muffled behind the closed doors, allowing you to drop down to the floor and sob. The cracking in your chest is so damn painful. It feels like any moment, your heart will disconnect itself and leave your body to avoid the pain.

The tears splash off the floor and you'd hate to see how your makeup looks but you don't think you're going back in there. You can't will yourself to convince people you're fine. Especially not your group of friends. As you're picking yourself up from the floor, the doors behind you burst open and Peter emerges, reaching out for your arm. He doesn't realize it when you pull it out of his reach,

"What happened? Are you hurt?" You shake your head, brushing your tears from under your eyes,

"I'm fine."

"You don't really expect me to believe that do you? You're crying at prom, in the middle of the hallway." He states like its the most obvious thing. You swallow,

"I just need air."

"Okay… I'll go with you."

"No, I need to be alone."

"I've known you my whole life and I know you hate being alone." If he thinks he knows you so well, why doesn't he realize he's the one causing you so much pain?

"There's a lot I don't like Peter."

"What do you mean? Y/N, what's going on with you?" He asks.

Say yes to heaven

Turning to him, you stare into those cool brown eyes, eyes that have always calmed you and you can't help it. Your lip quivers,

"You don't always have to understand what's going on with Peter. I can handle myself."

"You know I believe you, but you don't have to hide it. You can tell me anything. I'm your best friend and I would kill for you." If only that were true. I mean… you'd never wish death on her but… it'd be easier. It'd lessen your panic. You shake your head,

"It's fine Peter. Just… go back inside." You turn to start away from him but he has so much that tells him your every move. Not only, as a normal human, can he read you like an open book, but with this new superhuman power thing, he senses when something is wrong. His face shows it,

"I'm not leaving you. Especially with all that… suicide, drunk driving crazy crap going on that surrounds prom. You're storming out of there for no reason, crying and I… you shouldn't be alone."

"Peter-"

"No, talk to me! I'm your best friend and I am not going to let you die and have to tell your parents, your family, our friends that I didn't do anything to protect you." He yells. He really thinks this is a call for help, and it is, but not that way. You scoff, wondering how boys are so oblivious, glancing at him as you lean against the handrail behind you.

Say yes to me

"You really wanna know?" You ask him softly. He nods, moving in closer,

"Of course. I hate seeing you in so much pain." He tells you. Your smile is sinister because he's so damn stupid. Closing your eyes and rubbing a hand across your face, you sigh,

"I like you." Is all you state at first. He frowns, eyes glancing down at the floor. He's confused because he likes you too but he would never think you like him that way unless it was directly stated, "I've liked you since we were kids. And yeah, I'm so, so, so happy for you for having a girlfriend that loves you and you love her, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt for me. You'll never love me like that and that's fine but… I can't just watch you guys be in love. It fucking kills me." You explain to him. His mouth hangs open in shock and you cross your arms,

"I can't pretend to be fine around you guys. You and Ned got girlfriends and all and yeah, maybe I could get a boyfriend and it would hurt less but you know I love your personality and I always have and I don't know that anyone will ever come close to that. So now I'm alone and I'm not going to take you from her to pity me so I don't really… have a best friend anymore. If I want to be around you I guess I can just come find you and be a third wheel." You tell him.

Say yes to heaven

You watch his eyes change. He's panicking a little,

"Are you saying… you don't wanna be friends anymore?"

"It's not that we can't, it's that I… I don't know if I have it in me to put up this facade. I'm not telling you to give her up, I'm just saying… I think… now that we're about to split up for college… maybe it's time to start doing it now. I- it hurts too bad and I just… I can't."

"Y/N, please don't do this. You've been my best friend for decades. Why can't we just… I mean… I can figure out how to split my time between the two of you."

"No you can't. That's not fair to her and I'm not going to do that to you two. It's just better if I move on. I'll probably go to California for college anyways. It's for the best to separate ourselves now." You conclude. You don't know what will hurt worse, but after a while, you'll hurt less moving on without him. He takes another step forward,

"Y/N, c'mon, you can't do this."

"I won't ruin your life and I won't hurt myself because I have a selfish little crush on you I would've never acted on." You tell him. You stand and stare at each other before you stand and brush your tears from beneath your eyes, sighing,

"You're destined for greatness Peter Parker and it would've happened eventually. Now just gives me a reason to start." You tell him, voice shaky. His face softens,

"I don't wanna lose you." He says, his voice just as shaky. You shrug, crossing your arms and preparing yourself to walk away from your best friend for the last time. You sigh,

"I'm not going back in there. This is kinda… it. I have to go home."

"At least let me take you."

Say yes to me

"No! You have a girlfriend in there and I'm not going to let you! Goddammit Peter, I have to get away from you, don't you get that? I can't be what I need to and it hurts too much. Just… fuck off." The look on his face is pure pain. He hates that you're abandoning him. And maybe you should be forced to settle as just his friend, but you can't. You can't sit back and watch them be happy together. The pain is unbearable. They're better off without you and your selfish jealousy. He's better off without you,

"Y/N, don't do this. You're just as important as MJ, I can't go without talking to you. Please." You hold up a hand as he nears you again. You stare into each other's eyes, tears in both sets. You shake your head,

"I'll never be more to you than her. Maybe when we were kids but… we're different now."

"Y/N-" You shake your head again, swallowing the lump. You know he feels the same way you do. The pure dread of giving up your best friend because the love you feel for him is just too strong, "please." He whispers. It breaks your heart further as you meet his eyes again and sniffle,

"Goodbye Peter." You say. And you turn your back, and walk away from your ex-best friend. And it stings. But hopefully it will keep your heart in your body staying away from him. God you hope so.

#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader smut #peter parker #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x reader #peter parker blurb #peter parker blurbs #My writing

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writing-in-april · 4 years ago

Text

The Melody Lives On

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Seeing Spencer after so long apart makes past feelings come to the surface again.

A/N: Hey heyy 🥰 this is my third fic for my 1250 follower celebration!! It was based on a request that @imagining-in-the-margins passed along to me- if you want to see a photo of the original request it’ll be on the follower celebration Masterlist! It’s got vague references to the prison arc and is also inspired by Grey’s Anatomy 🥰 Thank you to @lexieshuntingsstuff for getting me back to realizing how much I love Grey’s 😊 Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy, and requests are open!

Warnings: Nothing I guess- unless vague references to the prison arc bother you

Main Masterlist Word Count: 2.2k

“Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. ” Came through the intercom. I was sitting in the hospital cafeteria munching on crackers while reading a book that I honestly wasn’t paying that much attention to because of how dead tired I was. I couldn’t stifle the groan that escaped me, I didn’t want my first break in what seemed like forever to be cut short.

Besides the fact that my bones and muscles ached I willed my body to move out of my chair despite it’s very prominent protests. There was a line of attending that led outside the conference room, I guess I had been the only one they had forgotten to get the memo out too.

Karev then came up behind me with just as much of a quizzical look on his face as mine and the rest of the attendings- I guess no one knew why we were here.

The only hint that the rest of us got to what was going on inside was when Arizona left the room and said it was some sort of FBI interrogation before she scurried off back towards peds.

As the line dwindled down to just me and Karev with Meredith in the room my mind started to wander to the person that I knew that happened to be in the FBI. Well- I guess I didn’t know him anymore, it had been a decade plus since I had seen him.

Of course said person that I happened to be thinking about happened to be in the room.

As soon as I saw his fluffy hair memories came flooding back. He looked so different now, more mature. But, I could clearly tell who it was; it was Spencer.

We had met just as I had been starting my first year of college. At first I had assumed he was the same, a freshman. Then I had learned that he was actually already on his second PHD- which had been in mathematics if my memory serves me well.

I had admittedly gawked at him at first like so many had done to him as well when they found out about his vast valleys of intellect that seemed to go on forever. When I had asked him to tutor me in my own mathematics course it was for the sole reason of bumping up the grade I had let slip. That was until I had gotten to know the sweet boy who was almost a man, though his baby face definitely did try to fight that fact. Guilt had immediately cropped up within me once I realized how much of a fool I was to not want to get to know him deeper than just the ‘child prodigy’ that everyone knew him as. He was one of the nicest people I had ever had the pleasure to come across, plus his bountiful knowledge made conversations with him extremely riveting to say the least. I remember apologizing to him profusely that first night, that was the first time I had gotten the chance to see the true extent of how sweet his kind eyes could be.

What had first been a simple somewhat feigned friendship to get a good tutor turned into the closest friendship that I had ever had. That close friendship had eventually turned into a romantic relationship one that in my opinion rivaled any of the great classic love stories.

Unfortunately, fate is rarely kind to lovers and what had once been sweet turned sour. It wasn’t any one of our faults, I knew that. But, my blossoming career as a surgeon led me to get an internship in Seattle while Spencer was led to the front steps of the FBI.

Every time I thought back on it I bitterly laughed at the irony of us both being led to Washington, though they were different ones that were on the other sides of the country. I had no animosity towards Spencer and the last time I saw him neither did he. But, the memories stung painfully when looking back on them. They stung even worse when I was faced with the sight of the man who had stolen my heart more than a decade ago and had yet to give it back.

His hair had grown out since I had last seen him, it now curled more around his ears and was much fluffier. The color of his soft curls would make anyone obsessed, mousy brown that shined a little bit of a burnt caramel when the tops of his curls hit the light. He had taken to letting his curls run wild which I had always liked to see when he would wash his hair of the gel he used to religiously put in.

A new addition along with his curls was the scruff he had begun to let grow out a little. When I knew him growing out his scruff a little would’ve been a completely foreign concept to young Spencer. I remember him always complaining about how scratchy it felt when he even let it grow out a little. The scruff also used to seem jarring on his younger face, looking out of place on his boyish face. Now his face definitely suited the scruff.

He had changed a lot indeed, but underneath it all I could still see the Spencer I knew. His eyes held a darkness now that matched well with the fluffy curls and scruff. The darkness that deepened his eyes was attractive for sure, but I wondered what had made the sweet boy become so dark. There was a part of me that wanted to know this Spencer as well, even with the darkness, despite the fact that I hadn’t really known him in so long.

His eyes had been piercing right into my own as I took the sight of him in. Those dark eyes felt like they were reaching right into my soul and hooking their claws in deep to draw me right back into him. Though I can’t say I minded much, being drawn back into Spencer’s warmth sounded like something we may both need.

“Dr.?” One of the men that was in the room with Spencer spoke up to get my attention. They must have been talking while the both of us had zoned out looking at each other.

The older man that spoke to me looked like he may have been a bit too old to work for the FBI. If I didn’t know that Spencer worked for them I would’ve thought Arizona had been pulling our legs when she told us what this was for because Instead of acknowledging the other man I turned back to face Spencer and spoke softly,”It’s good to see you, Spencer.”

“You too.” His voice croaked and was hoarse when he replied. His coworkers looked extremely confused with what was happening, especially the woman with blonde hair that was eyeing me up and down. Though in her position I didn’t blame her, I’m assuming nothing had ever been shared with his coworkers ever since he had joined the FBI about someone that had been in his life all those years ago.

The group of us stood at an awkward standstill for a minute, I was unsure if I was supposed to say anything. I fidgeted a bit uncomfortable with a bunch of eyes fixated directly on me before Spencer decided to speak up to break the tension, “Um- well Y/N- there was a suspect that came here a few weeks ago to possibly find some people that would um- be suitable victims for him.”

I pushed my reminiscing thoughts of Spencer out of my mind just so I could properly answer their questions before hopefully snagging a minute away with him to talk. I wouldn’t lie, seeing him after all these years made my feelings flicker in a way I hadn’t felt in so long. And, it was really nice to hear him say my first name again. He was really the only one to ever make those butterflies in my stomach swell and sparks fly. I had even resigned myself to never feel those wonderful feelings of blossoming love again.

But, perhaps fate had decided to give us a second chance, realizing it had been too cruel to us by pulling us apart.

When the questions ended, which unfortunately I had really been no help to them- the only people that would’ve been able to help with the victims were probably Meredith or maybe Bailey who had been in contact with the poor people who had ended up as victims.

I moved to shuffle out of the room, though I purposefully lingered in hopes of Spencer pulling me aside to speak privately. I didn’t want to do it myself, he was on an important job after all.

My heart skipped a beat when I felt his fingers tentatively wrap his fingers around my wrist. Even from just a soft touch it was evident that his hands were not the same hands that I remembered. They were the same shape, his fingers were just as long and nimble and his palms were just as all encompassing, but there was something different in the way they felt. They felt rougher, covered in more calluses then I would think possible on him. The hands I remembered were baby soft as if they had been untouched by the world. Maybe the calluses were just from him handling the gun I saw strapped to his side, or maybe it was the same thing that had made the rest of him harder.

Even though he was an obviously harder- more damaged man compared to the one I knew I still wanted those callused hands to stroke my cheek again.

The yearning to be with him again had already flickered into a roaring fire just from seeing him with my eyes again and with one soft touch. I didn’t care in the slightest how much the world had changed him. The world had battered and bruised him, probably quite literally from my guess. I wanted to get to know this Spencer, even with the bruises he still filled my stomach full of butterflies and sparked my feelings into a roaring fire exactly like he had done so before.

I turned to face him, a little nervous that he’d tell me that he never wanted to see me again despite the fact that I knew he’d never say that to me no matter how much of a changed man he was.

“Do you want to get a coffee while I’m in town, maybe so we can- um catch up after your shift?” His voice was so soft, almost meek, giving me a little taste of what Spencer had been like and who he still was at his core.

“Yeah I’d like that, Spencer, just have one more surgery and then I’m yours.” His two coworkers that he had come with were giving us both looks like they’d be interrogating Spencer on the ride back. Yeah he definitely had never said anything about me judging by their looks I now cared to look at. I couldn’t blame him, the memories had been painful to look back on myself. But, seeing him now made them tinge with a little bit of sweetness instead of growing more bitter with time.

I pulled out my phone that was in my white jacket pocket and asked, “what’s your number?”

I had his old number memorized by heart easily even after all these years. It was as if I had taken a small portion of Spencer’s eidetic memory just so I could hold onto a number that after over ten years is surely not usable. He gave me his new number with a distinctly D.C area code with a sweet smile on his face. As I left the room to scoot over to the surgery I was due to perform I was sparkling with anticipation- I could almost taste the coffee already.

As I started my last surgery of my long shift, someone turned on the music playlist that I always had on a loop during my surgeries. A song that reminded me of Spencer was the first one that came on the shuffle. It wasn’t one that reminded me of the Spencer I once knew, but the new version of Spencer I had just met.

I focused in on the task at hand just as I always did. Cutting with pristine precision, I worked quickly but diligently. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, but I wouldn’t skimp on my work. In the back of my mind I was still giddy like the schoolgirl I had been when I had first met Spencer. I couldn’t wait to get that coffee with him- I wondered if he still liked a gallon of sugar with it. Our first song had ended, but the melody lived on- maybe the melody was strong enough to start another.

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All Works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler x reader #mgg #mgg x reader #matthew gray gubler fluff #1250 follower celebration #1250 followers

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thedeadflag · 3 years ago

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I’m so confused! I know it’s not your responsibility to educate me but in your post bringing awareness to the negative aspects of g!p fanfic you say

“Why do these g!p characters rarely if ever involve experiences reflective of trans/intersex women? Why are they so utterly cis and perisex-washed? Why do nearly all writers have zero idea that tucking is a thing? “

Doesn’t that answer your original question? The reason they don’t reflect those groups of ppl is bc g!p isn’t trying to represent those groups of people or else it WOULD be transphobic to limit them to one specific fetish right? it just refers to a canonically female character with the addition of a penis (I don’t argue the name “g!p” should be changed bc that’s a no brainer why that could be offensive). But the fanfic in general, how could it be harmful? I’ve noticed in my time reading it as a non binary person it’s given me great gender euphoria reading a reader insert where reader has a penis while being a femme representing person just bc that’s a reflection of my personal experience. I don’t see anywhere where g!p fanfic ever references or tries to emulate the experiences of trans or intersex people so how could it be offensive?

Sorry this is way too long I’m just very confused

I'm going to try and lay this out as politely as I can. It's after 3:30 in the morning here, so this could be a bit disjointed and rambling. More under the cut:

In real life, ~99.999999% of women with penises are trans women. Which puts us in a tricky situation of (A) being the only women with penises around for media involving women with penises to reflect back on, and (B) being in the lovely position of precious few people actually having had meaningful real life exposure to trans women, meaning (C.) all those stigmas and all that misinformation are going to purely affect us and it’s going to be uncritically gobbled up by the masses, since they don’t have any meaningful information to fill in the blanks with instead.

When we peer into the depths of femslash fandoms and see all these folks who aren't trans women writing about women with penises, and using cis women’s bodies as platforms for these penises, it’s the simplest thing.

I mean, some of those folks might actually be struggling and confused about why they’re into it, what the real appeal is, why they get off on it, why they might have some feelings about wanting a penis of their own…

…but from our vantage point, it’s really easy to gauge 99.99% of the time. We can generally see valid, legitimate yearning to have a penis pretty damn easily in a piece of art/writing, and we can also see when people who create this media are just hung up on a boatload of baggage and fetishization.

And 99.9% of the time, the creators are just hung up on a boatload of baggage and fetishization, and see trans women’s bodies as a perfect vehicle to tap into that, generally due to deeply held cissexist views that link us and our bodies and genitals directly to cis men, to maleness. As if penises are rooted in maleness and masculinity (which is absolutely not true).

And I have sympathy for NB folks (certainly TME ones who have reached out to me in the past about this) who might be struggling with that, but just because they’re non-binary, it doesn’t mean they get to appropriate our bodies and reproduce transmisogyny and trans fetishization in their attempts at feeling better. Shit doesn't work like that.

Because again, the only women with penises in this world, essentially, are trans women. Meaning any woman with a penis in media is a trans woman, implicitly or explicitly. Meaning that when people who aren’t us want to write us, intent doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter if it’s just the writer’s fantasy, it’s still going to attach a variety of messages directly onto us.

And more often than not, due to cissexism, those messages are linking us to maleness, to toxic masculinity, etc..

While I do want to believe they're a fairly small minority, a lot of NB folks in fandom spaces like g!p characters in part because they see penises as male and the rest of the body as female and think that duality is interesting and would be comfortable, and is a nice balance of “both worlds” or a nice position “between male and female”, but that’s a wholly cissexist, transmisogynistic view to have, and it’s one that absolutely cannot be supported without directing sexual violence against trans women and invalidating our entire existence. Certainly not all NB folks into g!p like it for that reason, but holy shit a fair bit of them do and it’s weird and wrong and fetishistic.

g!p emerged from the idea that women can't have penises, and drew on the transmisogyny and cissexism of tr*nny porn to structure that frame of desire and the core patterns and trends within these works. It's always been trans women's bodies being used as a vehicle, whether or not the writers of these fics are explicitly aware of it, because the trope itself still holds true to its original patterns and cissexism. It's not the name that's the problem, it's the content; changing the name would be a surface level change that wouldn't affect anything.

g!p objectifies women with penises (trans women). A woman with a penis is more than just a woman with a penis, but the use of the term and trope is literally to (A) remind people that women don't have penises, otherwise the g!p term wouldn't be needed if people actually accepted women with penises as women, and that (B) this is a story centered on a scenario where there's a woman with a penis, with key focus on that genitalia specifically. it's the drawing point, it's the lure, it's what everything is centered on. It is a means for folks to write lesbian sex while also writing about penis in vagina and getting off to it. It's also no surprise that the penises so clearly emulate cis men's penises in these works, that is by design.

As I’ve said many times before, if you’re only writing trans women’s bodies to showcase cis men’s penises, you’re not respecting the womanhood of trans women, and this ultimately has nothing inherent to do with penis-owning women, it has to do with (cis) men and their penises, because trans women are just being used as a vehicle to emulate them. When NB folks do the same thing, and imagining themselves as those g!p characters, they are ultimately embodying cis men, their maleness, and often toxic masculinity, in a way that feels safe and distanced enough for them, a shell that they often code as cisnormative due to their own unprocessed cissexism.

And trans women don’t deserve that.

You seem caught in the idea that if something doesn't directly perfectly reflect trans women, that it can't be linked to us., which ignores the long long history of media being used to misrepresent marginalized peoples and cast us in insulting, dehumanizing lights. You show a lack of understanding of the g!p trope and the long history of its usage across a few other names, even if the content and patterns remained the same. It shows a lack of understanding of tr*nny porn and transmisogynistic stigmas, which the trope draws heavily from.

I think we can all recognize that most 'lesbian' prn that's made does not represent actual lesbians, it's overwhelmingly catered to the male gaze. We can also recognize that this category of porn has led to a lot of harassment towards lesbians from cis men who at the very least want to believe lesbians are just like they are in the porn he watches, that lesbians just need the right man. Lesbians are being used as a vehicle for a fantasy that was created externally to them, and doesn't represent their realities.

It's the same kind of situation here. The way g!p fics play out overwhelmingly doesn't reflect trans women's realities, but they are inherently linked to us regardless, as we're the vehicles for those fantasies, as unrealistic and harmful as they may be.

g!p characters are built in our fetishized image that’s based on a deeply cissexist misunderstanding of us, of the gender binary, and of bodies in general.

I mean, when 99% of cis folks don’t understand how trans women tend to be sexually intimate… when they don’t understand what dysphoria is and how it works and how it can affect us physically and emotionally…when they don’t understand almost any of our lived experiences…then they’re not going to be able to accurately portray us even if they wanted to.

And I’ve read enough g!p fics where authors wrote those as a means of trying to add trans rep, but because they didn’t understand us at all, it wasn’t remotely representative, and it was ultimately fetishistic, even if there was an undercurrent of sympathy and a lack of following certain common g!p patterns there that differentiated it from the norm.

If g!p fics were at all about reducing dysphoria or finding euphoria, then it wouldn’t be explicitly tied up in the performance of very specific sex acts, very specific forms of misogyny and toxic masculinity, very specific forms of sexual violence and exertion of sexual power, etc.

But it is.

So the notion that creating g!p fics helps NB folks? Nope. It CAN certainly prevent/delay those folks from facing a whole boatload of shit they’ve internalized, and coddle them at the expense of trans women.

Because if it was really about bodies and dysphoria/euphoria, there would be a considerable push (allying with out own) to end our fetishization and to represent us in and out of sexual contexts with accuracy, respect, and care. Because they wouldn’t care what sex acts were performed and what smut beats were hit, they’d just want to see someone with a body like their ideal being loved, being sexual, connecting, being authentic, etc. Which very much is not the case in the overwhelming majority of g!p fics. That's what we want, and it's not what g!p writers want, it's nothing they give a shit about.

Like, a ways back I started doing random pulls of g!p fics from various fandoms and assessing them for certain elements to provide some quantitative clarity. I started on The 100 here, and did OuaT here. Never finished the 100 one since the results leveled out and stayed pretty consistent as the sample size grew, so I didn't really see the point in continuing any further after about 140 fics when the data wasn't really changing much at all.

Lastly, media influences people. I've read countless posts and comments from people who use fanfiction as a sex ed guide, in essence. Which is ridiculous, but I also know sex ed curricula often isn't very accurate or extensive in a lot of areas, so people take what they can get. Representation in media can be powerful, and when it overwhelmingly misrepresents people, that's also powerful. Just because fandom is a bit smaller than televised media, it doesn't make that impact any lesser, certainly not for those whose primary media intake is within fandom.

Virtually all trans representation in f/f fanfiction is misrepresentative of us. That has a cost in how people understand us, how people react to us, and how people treat us. Not just online, but in physical spaces, and in intimate settings.

I invite you to read that post you referenced again, or perhaps this longer one which is a response to a trans guy who seemed to feel something similar to you with this trope.

All I can do is lay it out there and try to explain this. It's up to you how you handle this. All I know is whenever there's a big surge in g!p in a fandom, trans women generally leave it en masse, because it's a very clear and consistent message that we're not valued, respected, and that people value getting off on us over finding community with us.

#g!p #creative responsibility #trans fetishization #trans representation #intersex fetishization #intersex representation #genitals tw #genital mention tw #intersexism #transmisogyny #fandom meta #long post #cissexism #t slur tw #media representation #media literacy

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