#They say once every century that the old man reveals personal things about his deep dark life

[nimhrudd]

They talk about their Barnaby's!!

I wanna say real quick that if I add something that doesn't match what the creator of the OC said, then I will either try to change it, or we can shrug and say that this is an alternate universe with alternate alternate Wally's...

Man. That's a lotta alternates.

Man.

...

Also i know I'm not the greatest artist in the world, but I'm happy to be drawing about OCs and a fandom I love.

[janshu]

Once In A Millennia...P1.

Summary: A thousand years ago you were married to the Sukuna, a mortal man with the power of a god. Bound to him, his "death" leads you to wander the world alone, against all odds. However...his spirit remains and was resurrected by an unknown boy...

Word Count: 1k-ish.

Warnings: Gn!reader, mentions of a past life & family arranging a marriage.

The days had begun to blur into one incoherent mess.

That wasn't too out of the ordinary. You couldn't be expected to remember every moment of every day, not when you had several lifetime's floating around between your synapses. The mundane and monotonous would naturally be forgotten to make room for the impactful and important memories. The one's you hold onto like your life depends on it and maybe in some way it did, life was mysterious in its ways.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that you had seen everything. Every advancement in every field from science to medicine, going from horse-drawn-buggies to vehicles and letters to text messages. Safe to say that nothing was a surprise anymore. What was life's great surprise now? In a thousand years you had seen and experienced everything, from the divine to the depraved.

Life had begun easy. Being only the child of simple country folk who took pride in their work, worshipping the gods in their own special way, you were given more freedom than most in your childhood. Father and Mother had let you wander the secret places of the village until the sun set and dinner was ready, fed and ready for bed you'd lay down on the comfortable cot they had purchased with the earnings from that season's harvest to let you dream the night away. Until he came, that fateful day where your parents made the decision to sacrifice you to the warlord baring down on their home and land. The ultimatum that sealed your fate was simple: you or them and being the pragmatic people they were chose themselves to save.

Now hundreds of years later you weren't sure you should curse or bless them for their decision because that choice set you on the path to where you are now, browsing the morning market like the days of old with the luxuries of the modern age.

That's when you were made aware of it. The creeping cold of being watched, of being found. The inescapable reality of a person exhaling their hot breath against the back of your neck at an angle your neck simply could not turn towards. The feel of a large palm bearing its weight against the curve of your spine with the addition of three more to various hand-holds across the expanse of your body.

"Have you been well, my sweet spouse? The years haven't been kind to you, have they?"

The deep chuckle of a man thoroughly sadistic in the uncaring manner of which they dispatch those he deems maggots, a man changed, a curse upon the world.

Your husband: Sukuna Ryōmen.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten. Wouldn't it be a pity if you've forgotten your husband?"

And when you understandably twist your head around to venture a guess why he of all beings was behind you at a random stall? There was no one. Not the copious amounts of people shopping for their meal ingredients, not even the shopkeepers or the one that was impatiently waiting for you to purchase that fruit and strangely enough: no husband in sight.

An odd hallucination perhaps?

You were being followed, very conspicuously might I add. Clearly they thought themselves to be a master spy by the way they hid behind dumpsters, peeked around poles and made themselves the most obvious person in the ocean of people. Pure lunacy or a power move you weren't sure of yet, the garment they wore a dead giveaway to their intentions. The deep navy uniforms of the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College. A sorcerer and not a good one if their sneaking skills alluded to their abilities.

Far more inconspicuously you took a look at the figure with the reflection of a shop's window pane. A young man, average, pink undercut and overall nondescript but there was something familiar about his aura. A sinister darkness that was foreign in his kind features. That couldn't be natural. Sepia shaded orbs trained on your figure with a burning intensity that would set your soul on fire with its pinpoint directness. The more important matter was why a sorcerer was following you. To your knowledge they believed Sukuna was a myth and your marriage to him had been forgotten in the past seven hundred years so was it superstition that led him to follow you? Or did you have a curse attached to you and he was doing his job?

Odd, to say the least.

"Excuse me? Uhh, hello? Uhm..'scuse me."

A hand clamped down on your shoulder from the opposite direction you had been watching the sorcerer. Turning back around what did you find? The very same magic user you had been spying. How did he move so quickly? That was a split moment and he was behind you. How did he manage that?

"Yes?" You responded, face rather devoid of emotions while taking a closer inspection at the sorcerer. Upon closer look he was indeed a boy, in the middle of his teen years at the most yet experience had aged his soul considerably. The windows of his eyes closer to that of a wizened old monk rather than a bright-eyed pubescent teenager. The oddest feature that stood out were the dark tattoo's across the bottom edges of his eye sockets, rather distinguished against the otherwise blank face. Fashion statements got stranger and stranger with each passing century.

The boy appeared to have a goal in mind as his eyes searched your face, your eyes and the windows to your soul. Whatever he was looking for either wasn't there or he kept the discovery to himself because after his hand was removed he sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. "Oops, sorry! Thought you were someone else."

"No harm done, honest mistake."

Without another word the sorcerer boy turned on his heel and retreated in the direction he came from. How he had managed to double back and come from your blind spot was still a mystery, there must've been more than meets the eye on that boy.

Yuji Itadori returned to the First Year dorm hall and slid the door closed behind him as he entered. It was late, much later than when he was expected to be in bed and resting. If anyone had noticed his absence then he'd be in a world of pain. What could be worse than the punishment's Gojo could think up? Well, there was one thing. That tattooed psychopath using his body as a vessel. Whoever that person was had set him off. The control he originally thought he had on the cursed spirit had hung by a thread, a battle on who got to control his body raging on. It was a stalemate, mostly. He had control over the vast majority of his facilities but that uppy bastard had gotten his hand in the metaphorical doorway and pried himself into the driver's sleg. Taking over his legs and waltzing up to them and without a plan. They were lucky he had regained himself right as he touched them, what would've happened if he hadn't? There were moments he went on and on about slaughtering women and children like maggots but was the sight of them enough to cause a sudden bloody rampage? Apparently so.

The transition to phase into the mindscape that kept Sukuna contained was seamless. As if he had walked to another section of a home, could be considered as easy as breathing but whenever he was there it was not because he went willingly. He was summoned.

On the pinnacle of the mountain of bones, perched upon on the throne, Yuji noticed there was a crazed grin on the very man's face. Revealing the pearly whites amidst his bloody gums, eyes wide as he leaned forward. Not looking at his host, quite the opposite but something beyond him. Shoulders cloaked in a white robe rose and fell in time with his maniacal giggles, gleeful and relieved. It would be perturbing if he wasn't used to the grating sound by now. The reason why he was laughing was the disconcerting subject.

"Ahh, there you are, dearest spouse. How long will it take until you return to me?"

[ashintheairlikesnow]

For Vampire Chris! What if he and Jake went to a museum and came across some of Tooley's paintings? And Chris has a panic attack! We would finally get some Jake comfort. And maybe Chris would reveal more horrible things that Tooley had done to him.

CW: Discussion of death, blood, vampire whumpee, caretaker and whumpee

The sun sets early in the winter, and it's the only reason they can make this work.

Chris is barely awake even so, sipping from a coffee cup Jake filled with the contents of one of his blood packs, hoping he doesn't trip and spill and lead to Jake having some very awkward, panicked explanations to make to anyone nearby.

He'd slept in the truck Jake borrowed from Nat most of the way over here, curled in the passenger seat. He looks for all the world like any high schooler who stayed up too late the night before, dragged out by his family, forced to go learn when all he wants is rest.

Chris is draped in a hooded sweatshirt pulled on over his head, hair mussed from sleeping in the closet in the little nest-bed he made for himself in there. It sticks out like stray from beneath the hood he's pulled up, coppery strands occasionally covering his eyes and making him shove them out of the way with a snort that has no right to be as adorable as it is, considering the monster who makes the sound.

Not a monster, no. Not really.

Or his monster, anyway, the same way his mother is his mother. Jake is starting to understand the little vampire - more than three times his own age - has chosen him for family now.

The sweater he wears is kind of a joke, actually. Jake bought it weeks ago from a website that puts the covers of books on clothes, and it's an old cover image from Dracula.

Jake thought it was funny, anyway. Nat was less amused. Chris only smiled and said something about being happy the hairy palms thing isn't true.

The air is chilly, and Jake shivers a little as they head in from the parking lot across a small sidewalk next to a park and toward the museum itself, but of course Chris doesn't even notice. He seems to be enjoying it, the way it blows around his hair as they make their way slowly up the steps and past the row of Grecian-style columns that mark the entrance.

Jake has to visit for one of his classes, an extra-credit something-or-other, and Chris had asked to go along with him.

Jake had been hesitant, but seeing the way the vampire's green eyes sparkle as he moves around in public like any other person, well... he feels like he made the right choice to bring him along now.

"Finish up your drink, you can't take anything in once we pay and get past the lobby," Jake says, and Chris nods, gulping the last of the blood as fast as he can as they push through wide double-doors. Jake tries not to imagine how it must feel, swallowing thick congealing cooled blood. Someone's life, someone's heartbeat, down your throat...

Really, is he that much different? Jake has eaten a dozen cows' worth of beef in his life.

Does Chris see them all as just livestock? He doesn't act like it, but then, there are people who treat pigs or cows like pets and not like food...

His stomach flips a little and he forces himself to look around, up at the chandelier at the high ceiling, the heavy wooden desk they have to walk to off to the side to get their tickets. To stop trying to understand if Chris is a sort of stray they've adopted, or if he's a higher-level predator living with prey.

Once Chris drops the cup into a trash can, Jake throwing a couple wadded-up tissues on top so no one can accidentally see the smear of red around the edge of the lid, they buy their tickets, and wind their way through and past the little velvet ropes that mark off the entrance.

The museum opens before them into a grand hall, with paintings the size of two-story buildings on either side, permanent installations in the museum. Commissioned for its opening, sometime back in the 70's.

Jake picks up a brochure so they know which way to go - LGBTQ+ Art in Pre-War America is the temporary exhibit he's here to see, traveling work that is usually housed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

"Oh, nice, it's on the first floor. Looks like you go through a couple of 'specialty' rooms, just showing off stuff from the in-house collection. Sounds cool, right?"

Chris, looking from side to side at the gigantic paintings that hang on the walls in the opening hall, hums softly, a tuneless constant sound. He doesn't answer Jake's question. He hums often, and Jake barely notices any longer, but there's something edged to it, now. As if just being around the paintings is making him nervous.

"Okay, little man, let's go over here." He touches Chris's arm, lightly, through the thick fabric of his sweater. The vampire looks over at him, smiling with his lips pressed together to hide his teeth from any potential prying eyes.

He follows easily, but he sticks closer to Jake than he normally does, and his eyes are constantly roving. They move through an exhibit of Pre-Colombian pottery first, on their way to the room in the back where the temporary showcase is.

Jake watches Chris's fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to learn by feeling the bumps and ridges in the ancient clay, and how he holds back as best he can. His urge to lift the clear protective plastic boxes right off the pottery so he can get at it is nearly physically painful.

Jake pretends not to see it when Chris's fingers trail along a column, settling for the white-painted rectangle the pottery is balanced on, taking in the rough texture smoothed by the matte paint.

"Did you ever meet anyone like you that was old enough to have made stuff like this?" Jake asks, stopping in front of a water jug in the shape of a man playing a flute with a dog at his feet. The dog wears a carved smile marked with disturbingly human-looking teeth. The paint it must have been covered in is worn by time, leaving the reddish-brown of the clay behind, with the faintest streaks of white still in the crevices.

"No," Chris replies, tilting his head, making direct eye contact with the statue in a way he never quite can do with any real person. Not comfortably, anyway. Jake has seen him force it and shudder afterwards, overwhelmed. When he'd asked about it, Chris had said he never liked looking at anyone's eyes, even before, when he was alive. It's too much, was all he would say. It's always too much. "None, um, none of us live that long."

"Why not?" They're alone in the room. It's the only reason Jake feels safe asking.

Chris's tongue runs over the sharpening bumps of his growing-in fangs, pressing against them, easing the itch and the ache of their return. After a second, he pulls a plastic bat on a cord from inside his sweater and puts the bat into his mouth, chewing on it idly, jaw working. "I, I, I don't know. That's just what what what my, my, my pack told me."

"I thought vampires lived in covens."

"No." Chris doesn't elaborate on this one. He can be weirdly secretive about how he lived before he came to Nat's, before he was pulled out of a basement, a living drug for a wealthy asshole.

Secretive, or just forgetting whatever wasn't essential.

He moves away to another pedestal, a shard broken off of a larger vessel, marked with a deep white and intense black angular design. He hums again, and Jake takes the hint and leaves him alone.

They spend several more minutes looking over the pottery before they head through a second room full of what must just be the favorite pieces of museum employees, as there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason, and each little card with the name of the piece and its maker has a paper next to it with a note on why each employee loves this piece in particular. Chris lingers around older things, a woven tapestry from medieval England, landscapes from the 19th century. He stares for a while at a painting called The Country Path by Joseph Poole Addy, a pale watercolor of winter trees with bare branches breaking the line of sky and a woman bundled in a coat carrying a basket down an equally colorless road.

Chris's humming getting louder, and he rocks a little, forward and back, his eyes moving again and again through the lines of the painting.

Jake wonders what it is about this one specifically that catches Chris like that, and when the vampire finally moves on he checks the employee's statement. Joseph Poole Addy, Irish painter in the 19th and 20th centuries, blah blah, something something countryside... Jake frowns, and glances over at Chris, who isn't looking back. He's moved on to something else.

Jake decides to ask him later.

They make it to the exhibit they're here to see, and Jake whistles under his breath as he enters. There are vibrant, saturated paintings lining the walls, a couple of large sculptures on the floor that still are taller than he is, a few smaller ones on pedestals. The work is mostly figurative, although there's some early abstraction there, a hint of the contemporary push to take even figurative work out of simply being an echo of a real life thing.

Chris looks at a sculpture, his head cocked so far to the side it looks almost birdlike, not quite human. Jake thinks his own neck would ache for days if he tried to do that. "Must've been, um, later," He mumbles to himself.

Jake files that away in his mental list of things to talk to Chris about later.

He walks slowly along the line of paintings. The whole point of being here is that he's supposed to pick a specific piece and write a short essay about it and the artist who made it, prove he saw it in person.

The class itself is about how to encourage better outcomes for healthcare in marginalized populations - but if she's giving out extra-credit for looking at queer art, well, Jake is happy to spend an hour in a museum.

After his dismal performance on the last test, he could use whatever credit he can get. Besides, the exhibit is actually kind of cool with that in mind. Every one of these artists was in some way outside of the sort of het ideal, and Jake smiles a little as he catches the heaviness of a look between two men seated across a table from one another, looks over the clasped hands of women, sitting with everything from shoulder to hip touching, who are listed as 'friends visiting the riverbank'.

Art that celebrates, hidden in plain sight. Art that rebels by sliding details in under the surface where only those looking for them will find them.

Each piece has another little paper, although this just has details about the artist and their work, what they were known for. He can use it as a jumping-off point for his paper, anyway.

"You, you, you finished her," Chris whispers, standing in front of a sculpture of a woman with her head thrown back as if in uproarious laughter, a woman with curls expertly carved so that her hair seems to have been there before the stone it's made of somehow. "I wonder if she, um, if if if she saw it."

"What'd you say, Chris?" Jake blinks, pulled out of his own internal reverie.

"Nothing," Chris responds, and walks slowly around the statue. The woman's smile is a shining light in the room. No one could carve like that without being at least a little in love with the subject.

Jake wanders away and then comes to an abrupt stop before a large painting, probably taller than Chris is. The background is near-total darkness with only a suggestion of stone, a single beam of light shining down to illuminate the central figure.

A naked boy clothed only in scraps of torn cloth that only emphasize his nakedness everywhere else is crouched in terror. His knees are bent and his feet are on the floor, one hand holding his weight with fingers slightly curled, his spine bent and arched as if he is caught in the midst of turning to look up to find the direction of the light. His other hand is thrown out, as if trying to ward off an attack.

He bleeds from a dozen or more places, the blood curving perfectly around his form, giving it extra weight and heft that makes it seem like he'll step out of the canvas, grab Jake, and shake him.

Jake's heart starts to race as he stares.

There are bones littering the ground around the thin, wasted boy, not bleached but sort of yellowed, marked with little notches as if cut with a knife. There might still be bits of skin attached to some of them, a hint of muscle. The detail makes Jake sick, but his panic, that comes from something else entirely. Just behind the panicked boy there is a body, as if just fallen, the eyes still open in the final terrified throes of death. The body's fingers are still dug into the dirt floor as if the dead man had been trying to pull himself somewhere, to escape.

A skull watches with eerie cheer from one corner of the painting, a few teeth missing and knocked out from its garish grin.

Barely visible, a thin wash of grayish-white, there is a pale, gnarled hand near the bottom reaching out from the background as if to grab the boy's ankle and drag him into the darkness.

Count Ugolino's Last Son, oils, 1932, reads the little plaque beside the painting. Its faint brassy shine glints in the carefully calibrated light. Edward Tooley, 1907 - 1936.

Jake swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn't budge, and he swallows again. And again. He can't take his eyes off the boy's painted hair, a dirtied copper, strawberry-blond badly in need of a wash. The wide green eyes with their terror writ large and clear, painted with lovingly perfect detail.

The boy in the painting is the perfect identical twin of the vampire who is still staring at the sculpture on the other side of the room. The fear in his face is so expertly done as to seem more photographic than painted in oil. The blood that drips to the ground follows his anatomy with absolute perfection. The bones are not bleached by they so often are in paintings, no, these...

These...

Jake holds his phone up and takes a photo, and then another of the little plaque.

"Chris." His voice cracks and Jake clears his throat. His heart is still pounding. "Chris, come look at this."

"Yes, Jake," Chris answers, sounding a little faint, and then he seems to simply appear at Jake's elbow, the teenage boy who has seen two world wars and a half-dozen smaller, stupider ones.

He goes still at Jake's side when he looks up. Jake looks over, just slightly, glancing sidelong to see a look of something like... wistfulness on the vampire boy's face.

"Tooley," He breathes. His hand goes up, and out, and he would have touched the canvas if Jake hadn't reached out and grabbed on to stop him. Chris jumps a little and turns to meet Jake's gaze. His eyes are pink-tinged in the whites, as if he's holding back tears. "Is, is, is he famous?"

"I guess. He's... he's here, isn't he?"

"He always wanted to, um, to to to to be famous." Chris's eyes move over the details, but it's not with surprise, it's with easy familiarity. He's seen this painting before.

He's been this painting before.

"That's you, isn't it?" Jake asks in a hushed voice. "Like, that was really you."

Chris looks away again, a faint flush in his cheeks. He's full enough of blood for it to happen, and you'd never know he isn't alive if you didn't already. "Yes," He whispers, and wipes at the corner of his eye with one hand. "That, that, that's me."

"Were you his model?" Jake blinks, looking back over the painted twin of the vampire beside him. The fear in the boy's face, woven in with a kind of awful resignation. It's all so perfectly rendered.

"Yes. Sort, um. Sort of. He, he, he kept me in a room." Chris exhales, slowly, and his eyes shift over to the paper with the little bit of biographical information on it. Edward Tooley's early works focused on landscapes or retreads of common historical subjects, only to find greater excellence and focus when he began to paint, again and again, the same figure - a representation of the darkness of the human soul - he stated appeared to him and demanded to be portrayed... art historians believe Tooley was driven by the demons of the Great War that had taken his family from him one by one to seek out uncomfortable subjects that force viewers to see the damage humans do to one another...

Chris's nose wrinkles as he reads, his lips moving slightly with the words as he takes them in. "I never did that. Never, um, wanted to be painted. Also, um this, um. He was... wasn't... he wasn't... wasn't like the paper says."

Jake looks over, reads it himself. Gregarious, sociable, popular with the libertine art crowd... he frowns. "What part is wrong?"

"This." Chris points, this at least he can safely make contact with, and presses the pad of his finger under a sentence that reads took inspiration from the ugly side of the city hidden under its shining lights. "He, he, he he didn't care about anyone in the city. He thought everyone who, who who who who-who wasn't him was, um, was stupid."

"What did he care about?" Jake imagines telling his professor that instead of an essay, he's going to bring in a vampire who literally knew one of the artists in person. How she might react.

Probably call the cops and report an unsecured vampire loose on the streets. But maybe she'd listen to what Chris had to say first.

"Blood," Chris says, softly. His voice is getting lower and lower, until it's barely more than a whisper. "Pain. Fear. Being... being the the the the last person who, who saw someone. He, he, he, he liked to lay them out and paint them, liked me to, to, to... arrange them for him."

Jake's eyes go unwillingly back to the dead body behind the scared boy in the painting. The grasping fingers, the open eyes that look sightless, lifeless, at nothing at all. When he looks, he can see - more suggestion than made clear - that the body's throat is torn open, as if by an animal's teeth.

Now, only now that he's looking for it, does he realize there is the slightest hint of red tears on the cheeks of the painted boy, a sheen of pink on his teeth where he begs for mercy from the grasping singular hand coming out of the dark.

His stomach flips again. "Chris, are you saying-"

"His, his, his name was Ben." Chris nods at the dead body in the painting. "I asked. Before..." He gestures, a little vaguely. "That."

Jake feels a sudden, wild urge to look up missing persons cases from New York City in 1932. See if there's anyone named Ben on there. He knows without having to do so that there definitely will be.

"What happened to him... after?"

"I don't know. I, I, I was never let out when Tooley was gone. I... wonder how, how, how many of me there are." Chris looks up at the echo of his own face, his head tilting again. His lips tremble, just a little, and then part to show the hint of white teeth wet with pinkish saliva. "On walls, in houses, in... in places like, um. Like this. How many there are... is, is, is, is that what I still look like?"

Jake clears his throat again, looks down at his feet. This feels, suddenly, like he's walked in on someone looking down at his own dead body in a funeral home. Interrupting a moment so immensely private it shouldn't even exist.

"Yeah," he says, a little gruffly. "Yeah, that's it. More or less. Except I hope I scare you less than that. Also you wear a lot more clothes with us."

Chris laughs - it's a huff of sound, barely-there. Then he turns away from himself. "We, we, we can't see ourselves, in mirrors," He says, and he's got the little plastic bat back in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the carved silicone. "But I have mirrors everywhere. On these walls."

He goes suddenly terribly still. He isn't breathing.

He doesn't have to, but the realization that he isn't even pretending is a jolt of awareness of exactly how dead Chris is. He leaves the exhibit, and Jake is left to scramble after him, struggling to catch up to someone he should be able to easily outrun.

He breaks into a flat run when they get outside the double-doors, jumps the steps three at a time with grace, and runs across the grass and towards the stand of trees halfway across the park. Even Jake, who works out four days a week, is breathing hard and has a hitch in his rib by the time he catches up.

He finds Chris curled up under a tree in the evening dark, the stars starting to twinkle overhead as the sun finally allows them a clear night sky to shine in.

Jake drops to his knees, ignoring the damp that seeps into his jeans from soil that still hasn't dried since yesterday's rains, and he leans over, putting a warm hand to either side of the vampire's face.

Chris looks up, his eyes glinting like a cat's briefly in the dark, and there are trails down his cheeks, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl that is anything but angry.

No, this is grief.

This is loss.

Jake knows the feeling.

"Talk to me," Jake says softly. "Tell me what it was like, what it's been like for you. Tell me about the life you've lived before I knew you."

"It, it, it hurt," Chris whispers, and his own hands cover Jake's. They're the same temperature as the air around them, and Jake shivers a little. It's almost a chill. "Every time. I, I, I try not to kill, Jake, I try so hard, but but but he would keep me so hungry and I couldn't-... stop..."

Jake thinks about the robbers Chris killed - for him, to save him from them - and how he'd locked himself in the closet afterward. Had he cried like this, over taking lives even when in defense?

"The museum thing said this guy Tooley died in 1936. He was only, what, twenty-nine? Did... did you-"

"Yes." Chris's voice is thick but it's not quite with regret. "I was hungry. He, he he he he didn't bring food. I was so hungry... then I was, um, was alone for a while... then, then, then, then then then I was taken for, for, for the, um, the trade, for my v-venom, and..."

"Got it. I got it, Chris. It's okay," Jake says, softly. "It's going to be okay. You're with us, now. And we'll never, ever make you hurt someone that way. We'll never make you go hungry. We'll never hurt you or use you."

Chris ducks his head, rocking forward until it knocks into Jake's shoulder, and Jake slides his arms around the vampire's shoulders, listening to his soft, muffled sobs, wondering how red his shirt will be stained by the time the vampire's tears have been cried out.

The same mouth that tore out the throat of a dead body that lays in a painting on the wall is so close to his neck it would take less than an inch for him to bite down. Even without fangs, he could lock his jaw and break the skin.

The same dangerous monster that has killed likely dozens to stay alive, the same stalking predator that has been the last sight of far too many, cries in his arms. Just a teenage boy who has been lonely, and terrified, and hurt for too long.

A teenager... and a monster that hunts prey after dark. Jake tightens his arms around Chris, holds him tighter.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter how long he's been alive, not really.

He's just Chris.

That matters more.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[littlemisspascal]

Ezra’s Journal Entries #1-3

Fandom: Prospect / Pedro Pascal

Pairing: Ezra x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1,269

Summary: You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

Warnings: angsty fluff, Ezra’s dealing with the aftermath of the Green, language, 1st person POV (Ezra), dialogue in italics because that’s just how I chose to do it, no beta so all mistakes are mine

Author Note: I know I said Death and Angel would come out next, but I got such a inspiration high and the words came out so quickly I just told myself screw it and decided to share what I have. If anyone thinks this is a series worth pursuing, let me know. If you don’t, well, just be gentle please 💖

Cross-posted on AO3

Entries #4-6

Look for additional notes at the bottom.

My name is Ezra. 

I have my mama to thank for that. Time has erased her face from my memory, but her voice is ingrained into the tissue of my brain the same way these words are inked on this parchment. She was a bonafide believer that the meaning of a child’s name influenced the course of their destiny. When I was no taller than the height of her waist I learned my own name’s denotation: help.

It’s just a tick too ironic, isn’t it? To be destined to help others when I can’t help my own self. I gave the Green far too little credit. It didn’t just pilfer my arm to satisfy its ravenousness, it greedily stole my sense of purpose too. 

Every night I thank the deities you didn’t accompany me there. If the Green had taken you...

I know how worried you are about me, little love of mine. When I look at you, I find you already looking back, a sweet smile gracing your lips even as concern burns in your eyes as an eternal flame. From day one you’ve always been looking at me, seeing every disgraced flaw and scar—even the invisible ones carved into the darkest edges of my soul. Kevva knows I’ve never been capable of concealing anything from you, but fuck if I don’t wish I could sometimes.

You’re asleep now as I write this, tucked against my side in the vacant space my arm once occupied, drooling on my shirt. I love you so much it hurts. A black hole in my chest perpetually aching to be filled by your presence. And as we venture once more into the starry sea, our ship gliding past the imaginary wings of Noctua, I find myself recalling a theory you once told me many cycles ago about humans being made in the womb with stardust infused in their bones, linking them to the universe. You and I were made from the same star, you said with such conviction it stole the breath from my lungs, bound to each other for eternity by the Currents of the universe. 

And it’s undoubtedly selfish, but all I could think of in that tender moment beyond kissing you was how I didn’t want an eternity spent together with our cosmic bodies intertwined. 

I want longer.

Soon after we awoke and each consumed a slice of bush bread bought during our recent docking at Kamrea, you fiddled with the channels on the ship’s radio, hoping to hear news from your homeworld but cursing when you only heard static. Then, without an ounce of forewarning, music burst out with an almighty scream through the speakers at full volume, flooding the whole compartment with a woman’s warbling. It was the same crusted Vayok song that merc Inumon blared in my ears during my last night on the Green, every note an individual needle piercing my skull, impossible to ignore.

Reality deserted me, leaving me to sink to the depths of the abyss within my mind where all I could see was Cee’s pale, disturbed expression as she looked to me for guidance. I remembered how my tongue felt clumsy in my mouth as I tried my damnedest to negotiate our transport, thinking if I could just piece together the right sequence of words, if I could just get their lingering eyes off of her, then maybe, maybe we’d have a chance at salvation. 

The memories coalesced, overlapping and blurring and mixing out of order. Each one was drenched in spilt blood.

Then your pinky wrapped around mine. The touch was soft yet firm, the action childlike in its innocence. It was such a jarring contradiction to my mind’s violent narrative, my consciousness was hurtled back into the living quarters of our ship as a result. You didn’t say anything when you saw I returned to you. Instead, you swallowed down the questions lodged in your throat and led me by our entwined fingers back to our bed.

There’s a plant back home called a dandelion, you told me with my head resting in your lap, a far better comfort than any pillow could provide me. It’s the only plant in the galaxy you can see the sun, the moon and the stars when you look at it. That’s not why it’s my favorite though.

I asked how it had won your heart’s favor if not due to its resemblance to the celestial bodies, then immediately found myself mesmerized by the smile that lit up your face as you peered down at me. My chest cavity tightened as I was filled with the profound longing to be able to suspend time, if only so I could stretch this moment to match the length of our separation, if only so I could erase the old and replace it with the beautiful new.

Dandelions grant wishes, babe. Anything you wish for with your whole heart, it will be yours to have.

I told you I wouldn’t wish for anything—nothing else in the galaxy could compare to the prettiest, wisest soul I’d ever encountered in all my years traversing it. You saw right through that lie with the same confident ease you see through all my masks and diversions, but—for the second time in the span of an hour—you held your tongue.

This journal’s as good a place as any to admit the honest truth. So here it is: I wish with the entirety of my bloody, beating heart I could be the man you deserve, little love of mine. 

When you read, whether it be a book or the flight manual, you have the precious habit of mouthing the words. I don’t think you have the faintest notion you’re even doing it, which makes it all the more endearing to watch.

My brother had a similar habit, always nose deep in the yellowing pages of classic literature, except he had a proclivity to spoil the plot when he talked in his sleep. I remember there was one particular novel he returned to often, sometimes reading from beginning to end, other times seeking out specific segments he’d underlined in bold, black pen. It was a rather dreary tale about war and rivalry and the process of determining one’s own identity. I became so exasperated with my brother’s obsession I considered shredding it on more than one occasion, only to immediately hate myself for entertaining the thought.

It was only after his death—twelve whole cycles, in fact—that I summoned up the will to open the front cover. Seeing his name scribbled in the corner, cursive and neat and so utterly him, nearly had me tearing the book in half, overcome with a vicious rage I had never known prior nor have I encountered since. But by the almighty grace of Kevva I reigned it in, chaining it to the agony and fear imprisoned within the confines of my rib cage, and turned the page.

There was one segment underlined not once, but three times, nearly bleeding ink onto the page behind it. When I close my eyes, the words are tattooed on the backs of my eyelids, as haunting as they are comforting.

So the more things remained the same, the more they changed after all. Nothing endures. Not love, not a tree, not even a death by violence.

The author lived and died centuries before my brother’s inception, that is an inarguable fact. 

But I know those words were written for him all the same. 

Notes: 

There is an actual theory humans are made of stardust ✨

The Sater within Prospect mention the Currents as being responsible for bringing Ezra and Cee to them, so I imagine them as similar to the Fates/Moirai in Greek mythology.

Noctua is a real life, extinct constellation that is Latin for owl. I thought within this Prospect universe it could exist as a type of landmark or coordinate. Plus I love owls 🦉

Crusted is a term from Prospect Ezra uses. Equivalent of damn. I think there’s something funny about how they use creamy as a positive adjective and crusted as negative.

Vayok is the alien language Inumon speaks within the movie, so I decided to write the song she blares as being sung in the same language

Bush bread is referenced in a deleted scene by Ezra, but a google search revealed to me it’s also a real life type of bread too

In the same deleted scene Ezra references that he has a brother. I haven’t decided his name yet/if he will have one

The book and quote Ezra refers to in #3 is John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. One of the few required reading books I liked back in high school.

The quote about dandelions being the sun, moon and stars is based on the legend of how dandelions came into existence. I always thought it was beautiful.

Series Taglist: @insomniamamma

Permanent Taglist: @promiscuoussatan, @melobee, @randomness501, @absurdthirst, @captain-jebi, @artsymaddie, @happiestsparkleofall, @disgruntledspacedad, @gallowsjoker, @aerynwrites, @vintagesaph, @sylphene, @chibi-yuki, @freeshavocadoooo, @stilllivindue2spite, @pointy-sharp, @leilei-draws, @over300books, @theocatkov, @oh-no-a-whovian, @you-and-i-deserve-the-world, @lin-djarin, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @coaaster, @waywardmando, @thisshipwillsail316, @grogusmum, @asta-lily, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @tacticalsparkles​

[write-orflight]

Watch Over Me: Chapter One

**Gif Not Mine**

Prev - ��Next

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader

Rating: M

Words: 3.2K

Warnings: none for this chapter: innuendo, language

Request: OPEN/CLOSED

Summary: Steve Rogers learns about the future from a woman stuck in the past.

A.N This is my jazz club reader fic I’ve been talking about writing. This fic isn’t gonna be long but I like it so I hope yall do too. I’m not using my perm taglist because it’s different than my normal content. reply, message, or inbox to be tagged. Devil Has Lilith will be updated Saturday.

Slang used in this chapter:

Dish: An attractive Woman

Butter and egg man: The money man, the man who comes to town to blow a big wad in nightclubs.

Dip the bill: Have a drink.

Corn: Bourbon

Cake-eater: A ladies’ man

Jalopy: An old car.

Drop a dime: Make a phone call

Chapter 1: There's a somebody I'm longin' to see 

“I can’t watch this anymore!” Tony said storming into the compound’s kitchen one night.  Steve looked up from his sketchbook in confusion. “I can’t watch you sit in here another friday night. It’s tragic!” 

“Ugh, not this again, Tony.” Steve says, sighing. Nat and Bucky begin snickering next to him, knowing where the conversation was going. 

“Yes, this again. Cap, I excused it for the first couple of years because you were adjusting to the times but it’s been years! If you’re not on a mission, you don’t go out! Sometimes, when Pep is having trouble sleeping I describe your social life to her, puts her right slee--” 

“Alright, I get it!” Steve cuts him off, slapping Bucky, who was in full hysterics at this point, in the arm. “I know my personal life is--” 

“Non-existent?” Nat provides.   

“Dead?” Tony adds, laughing.  

“But it’s my personal life. I’m over 100 years old. If I looked it, you guys wouldn’t be questioning my staying home.”   

“Exactly, if you looked it, I wouldn’t. But you are not that old yet.” Tony says. “Come on, let’s just all go out once. If you don’t like it, I’ll never make you go out again. I’ll even get you a coloring book or a model ship, or whatever old people do.” 

“Fine.” Steve sighed, as the man next to him cheered. “But nothing like those places you typically go to. They’re too noisy and sweaty and--” 

“Yea I got it, old-timer. We’re not going anywhere like that.” Tony provides. “My friend recently opened a restaurant where their back room is a speakeasy, very accurately themed, you need a password and everything to get in. You’ll fit right in.” 

“Prohibition ended in the 30s.” Bucky says. “Long before Stevie could even drink.” 

“Even still, work with me a little here.” Tony says. 

“Fine.” Steve sighs.  

“Awesome. Now, you’ve got to come in costume to these things so I’ve already taken the liberty of telling my tailor to make you guys something.” 

“What if I had said no?” Steve asks. 

“Oh, Cap. You should know by now I don’t take no as an answer.” 

----------------------------------------------

  Steve shifted uncomfortably in his uniform. It was almost exactly like the one he would wear out during down times in the war though he knew it wasn’t the real one as that one was in the Smithsonian. Still, Tony’s tailor did a good job with seemingly all the costumes. Tony looked almost identical to how Steve remembered Howard back in the day. Bucky was in a uniform that looked similar to his back in the day, Glove covering his metal hand. Natatsha was in a sleek red gown, white gloves and pearls that was more modest than he’d seen her wear but still made her look drop dead gorgeous. 

Tony led them down a dark alley to what seemed to be a back door. Steve looked around confused as they entered the smokey hallway. At the end of the hallway there were two large doors and a lady with pinned up hair and a black shimmery dress, smoking with her feet propped up on the desk she was sitting at. 

“Evening gentlemen.” She croons in an english accent. “And lady. Are you lost?” 

“We have a meeting with Dr. Volstead.” Tony says, confidently. 

The woman tilts her head back giving all of you a once over. “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” She asks. 

“Yes, it is. But I prefer the rain.” Tony says.  

With that the woman stands and walks over to the large doors and knocks rhythmically 3 times. The doors open to reveal a large dance hall where couples are in full swing, laughing and drinking. A trio of girls crooned a faced paced song as a jazz band was playing behind them. For a moment, Steve did actually forget he was in the 21st century. 

“Enjoy Paradise, my friends.” The woman smiles, before shutting the doors to the outside world. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were in the kitchen, taking a much needed headache break from the facade you had been putting up for your tables all night long when your Co-worker, Dalia, came up to you. 

“Y/N, Y/N! You have to trade tables with me.” 

You looked at her with a suspicious look. “Why?” 

“Come on, It’s a 4-top anyway. I’ll even trade you the party table for it.” That made you even more suspicious. “50 bucks for it, come on.” 

“Don’t trade, Y/N/N!” Your co-worker and friend/roommate, Jade added. “Tony Stark is in your section. I bet she only wants to give you 50 for it because she knows she’ll make 500.” 

“Come on, that’s not even why.” Dalia groans. “Black Widow is also at your table and you know she’s on my ‘Celebrities I have to fuck before I die’ list.” 

“God, are the rest of the avengers here?” You ask. 

“Not all but you know who is here?” Jade asks. “Steve Rogers.” She says, in a mocking singsong tone, jabbing you. Your crush on Captain America wasn’t really a secret anymore after you confessed it drunk one night. “And he looks almost edible.”  

You hum, you didn’t really feel like taking another table but this wasn’t a normal table. You doubt you had a chance but you weren’t passing up on serving Steve Rogers. 

“I’ll make you a deal. I still want that 50 bucks and we share the table, I’ll consider splitting the tip.” You say, the idea of making your rent in a night did appease you. 

“Deal.”

“Now ladies, I have a song to do.” You say, leaving the girls behind in the kitchen. 

—————————————-

Steve, for the first time in a while it seemed, was having fun. Tony was right, he did feel like he fit right in here. He clapped with the crowd, as the three girls bowed and left the stage. The piano man stood up and took the microphone Steve could tell was only styled to look old but actually wasn’t that old. 

“One more time for the Duclaw sisters folks.” The smooth voiced man said into the microphone, inciting another round of applause from the crowd. “Our next performer is actually the last of the night.” That incited a few ‘awws’ of disappointment. “Don’t cry just yet because Old Gary never disappoints, our next performer is my personal favorite. Sings like a Canary and the Cat who caught it.” That induces a laugh from the crowd and a small chuckle from Steve. “And maybe if you’re good she’ll come on for an encore later. Ladies and Gentlemen, The Sultry Sounds of Y/N L/N.” He says, moving from the mic back to the piano as the crowd cheers. Steve watches the stage as arguably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen seems to glide out from the backstage. She’s wearing a floor length silver gown that seemed to glimmer with every step she took. Her hair came down in long fingerwaves, pinned back so you could see the sculpt of her face. Steve would be lying if he said that wasn’t his favorite part of her facade. She had on simple eyeliner, foundation, and a bold red lip he could probably see from mars. You were beautiful, in a timeless sort of way. 

“My, my.” She crooned in an sultry old new york accent that reminded Steve of the women he grew up around. “What would your wife say if she knew I was your favorite, Old Gary?” 

“She’d agree!” The man called from the piano, inducing the chuckle from the crowd. And a deep sultry one from you. 

“Well as they say, two’s just fine but three’s a party.” She winked at the old man in a way that would make Steve weak if he wasn’t already sitting. 

“You ok there, Cap?” Tony said, snapping Steve out of the mystery woman’s trance. “You disappeared for a second.” 

“I’m fine.” Steve said, fighting the flush that threatened to spread over his face. He looks out the side of his eye to Bucky, who was smirking at him knowingly. Of course, he knew. 

“You know, you saying something about being good got me thinking, Old Gary.” She said, as the man softly played behind her. “A good man is hard to find. Great men are great, bad men are good sometimes too.” She winked to the crowd. “But every girl wants a good man, someone to watch over her.” Old Gary seems to take the cue to start playing her song. 

“There's a saying old, says that love is blind. Still we're often told, ��seek and ye shall find’” She began singing and it made Steve sit up in his seat. She had the kind of voice that was almost beckoning. She was becoming his own personal siren. “So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind”  

“She’s a looker, huh?” The server, who introduced herself as Dalia, said as she sat down Bucky’s drink. “Y/N’s the main dish of this place.” 

“I think I’m more interested in you, doll.” Bucky flirted, shamelessly. 

“And I think I’m more interested in dames, Soldier.” She says, winking to Natasha who smiles coyly at her. Steve hardly pays them any mind as his focus was on you as you finished your song and thanked the crowd and waved while Old Gary helped her off stage. 

------------------------------------------ 

You were changing from your stage outfit into your floor outfit when Dalia burst into the locker room.

“Y/N/N, I actually think I might have a chance with Widow. I mean, she’s kinda been ignoring me the whole night but when I mentioned I was into girls she smiled!” Dalia ranted, excitedly as you nodded. You turned your back to her so she’d get the clue to zip you up which she does. “Also, you should’ve seen the way Steve Rogers was watching you sing. He totally wants to hit that.” That makes you perk up a bit. 

“I doubt it. I have it under good authority that he hasn’t hit anything in over 70 years. I doubt I’m what he’s been waiting for.” You laugh. “Still, it’s fun to think about.” 

Dalia tugs you out of the locker room. “Come on, let's get back out there.” 

You sighed before stepping out of the locker room and seemingly out of this century. 

You fake laughed with a guest at the bar as you grabbed your tray of drinks and made your way over to the table that had been making you nervous all night. You placed the four whiskey rocks drinks on the tables. 

“Courtesy of Dean.” You say, placing the drinks down. Stopping at Tony Stark. “Don’t know why? You seem to be the butter and egg man out tonight. 

“Butter and egg?” He asks, looking to Steve and Bucky. 

“Means money man, High roller.” Bucky explains, Steve nods. 

“Ah, well I am that.” Tony says, laughing. “I must say Miss, what was it? Y/N?” You nod confirming. “I have to say you are quite the performer.” 

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Stark. Go ahead, dip your bill.” You say pointing to the drink, Hoping they’d get the hint. They did of course, after seeing Steve and Bucky take a sip. You watch Steve grimace slightly at the taste of the liquor. 

“Everything alright, fella?” 

You watch Steve flush at the attention being tossed his way. You can’t help the confident smirk that graced your face knowing it was you that had Steve Rogers flustered. “I’m fine, I just don’t enjoy the taste.” 

You hum. “Yea, it’s the big cheese’s favorite drink and he’s known for liking it rough.” You wink, somehow making Steve flush more. That made you want to push it more. “I’ve got some corn in the back they call the Y/N because it feels really good when it’s going down.” That makes Steve choke a little and induces a hearty laugh from the group. “Can I get you a glass, Soldier?”  

“Y-Yea, I’d like that.” Steve flushes. It was almost fun at this point. 

“I’d love to try the real thing.” Bucky says, flirting right back with a smirk you knew has to make every girl in the 40s weak in the knees. You didn’t indulge him though. 

“Well, aren’t you a regular cake-eater.” You smirk. “I’ll be back with two glasses.”  

“I see the serum didn’t enhance your ability to talk to pretty girls.” Bucky laughs as you want away. Steve can’t help but become a little distracted by the sway of your hips. 

The rest of the night seemed to go like that. You bringing them drinks and flirting with the captain anyway you could just to see the pretty flush that spread across his face. But soon the time came for the superheroes to take their leave. As you sat the check in front of Tony, you brushed a hand over the Captain’s shoulder admiring the broadness of them. 

“You’ll come back and see me, Sugar?” You say, phrasing it like a question despite it not really being one. Steve nods, dumbfounded by you. You smile and wink at him before walking away. 

You’re in the kitchen eating the pizza you had ordered earlier when your manager, Dean comes out of his office for the first time that shift. 

“Y/N!” You roll your eyes when you hear him scream your name. “What do you think you’re doing?!” 

“I’m eating dinner. Something I could’ve done on my break if I ever got one.” 

“You know you’re not supposed to be eating anything that couldn’t be made in the 30s. People pay for the illusion and if they see you gorging yourself on pizza, it ruins it.” 

“No one’s looking in the fucking kitchen, Dean.” 

“Uh-huh, and another thing. You know what kind of songs you’re supposed to sing.” You roll your eyes harder. You knew this argument was coming. “That song is from the 50s and you knew it.” 

“None of those bullshit hipsters know who Ella fucking Fitzgerald is!” You yell. “Much less what years her fucking songs came out. That song killed and that’s all that fucking matters.” 

“Change your set or you’re fired.” 

That makes you laugh in his face. “Uh-huh, as if you’re going to find a singer who’ll work as cheap as me.” You say, brushing past him. “See you tomorrow.” 

----------------------------------------------------------------

Steve comes back to the bar the following week. He tells himself that it’s just for a quick drink but he knew the real reason was because he could not stop thinking about you. He also knew you were probably just being friendly because it’s your job to. He just needed you to reject him so he could go on with his life. 

He found himself in that hallway again approaching the woman he had seen last week. 

“Evening, Sir.” She says. “Are you lost?” 

“Umm.. I have a meeting with Mr. Volstead?” Steve questions, not really recalling the password fully. 

The woman hums. “Nice night, no?” She says. 

“I prefer the rain.” 

The woman sighs. “I’m sorry. I typically would let you in because I don’t really care but technically I’m not supposed to let anyone who doesn’t know the password in… even if  they are kinda famous.” She says. “The password changes every week. I’m sure if you ask Mr. Stark, he can find it for you.” 

“Oh, no worries. Sorry for wasting your time.” Steve sighs, turning back out the building. 

He’s approaching where he parked his bike when he hears a string of expletives being screamed followed with a car stuttering before not starting. He looks over to see a woman angrily get out of her car and lift the hood to see it smoking. The woman lets out another stream of expletives before kicking the tire and leaning her head on the roof of the car, defeated. For some reason, he feels compelled to go over and see how he could help. As he got closer he couldn’t believe his luck, it was you. He tapped you lightly on the shoulder and you turned with the beginnings of tears in your eyes. 

“Oh, Soldier!” You said, quickly turning around to wipe your eyes and putting the facade you typically used with customers back up. “I almost got offended when you didn’t come back to see me. Imagine a broad’s old luck.” You said, smiling flirtatiously. Steve didn’t buy that smile for a second. He could see in your eyes you were still upset. 

“Everything okay?” He asks. 

“Oh, everything’s swell! This old jalopy has seen better days, gonna drop a dime to a friend hopefully--” You cut yourself off, switching into your normal speaking voice. “Listen, I’m sorry I just can’t keep talking like this off the clock. I’ll drive myself insane. Please, don’t tell my boss. I’m already on thin ice for not ‘maintaining the illusion’.” 

Steve laughs, a weight suddenly feeling lifted off his shoulders. Suddenly you weren’t this mysterious woman who seemed to have all the right things to say and how to say them. You were human, just like him. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He says. 

“Good.”  You say, smiling briefly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve gotta call Triple A for a tow.” You say, pulling your cell phone out. Steve had to admit it looked a little weird to see you with a cellphone in your olden days attire. 

“How will you get home?” He asks. 

“I’ll probably hoof it.” You shrug. “Or take the subway.” 

“At night?!” Steve says, incredulously. “No, I can take you if you’d like.” 

You look at him, hopefully. “I don’t want to be a burden.” You say. 

“You won’t be one.” He smiles. God, that smile made you feel a little weak. 

“Okay.” You smile back. 

“Are you hungry by chance?” He asks, as the two of you walk back to his ride. “I was going to eat in the bar but I couldn’t remember the password.” He says, sheepishly. 

That makes you laugh out loud. “Those passwords are such bullshit, Dean keeps changing them to keep it ‘exclusive’ but they always end up online anyway.” You say. “Every server has their own password, to keep track of regulars coming in. If you tell them you have a rose delivery for Mae, They’ll take you to my table no questions.” 

“Mae?” Steve asks. 

“For Mae West.” You explain, That makes Steve laugh again, of course you liked Mae West. “I could eat though. There’s actually a diner right down the road from here.” 

“Perfect.” He says, straddling onto his bike. He raises an eyebrow at you when you hesitate. “Something wrong?” 

“I’ve never ridden on a bike before is all.” 

“As long as you hold on to me, you’ll be fine.” He says, smirking when he sees a flush creep over your face as he hands you his helmet. It was about time for you to be flustered by your interactions. 

“I have no problems with that.” You say, placing that helmet on your head after you straddle the bike behind him. Your hands are tight around his waist as the two of you ride out of the lot, leaving Paradise behind. 

Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink

[batsfinest]

Goddddddd Batdad taking baby Damian in as soon as he's born is SO fucking cute it makes my TEETH rot. Talia knowing how cutthroat, merciless, ruthless and overall toxic environment the Al Ghuls live into and not wanting another her, another Bruce, another child being born with a sword in their hand.

She's disowned when her role in helping Bruce leave with Damian is revealed. Bruce becomes an enemy to them and she has no father anymore, but it feels welcomed. Freeing. Her shoulders finally feel light, knowing her reputation isn't tied to her father anymore.

Talia can be her own demon.

Damian is Bruce's first love, no you cannot change my mind.

Bruce is young. 24 years feeling like centuries old on a soul he felt was leaking away before holding his son's tiny hand between his thumb and index finger. The media is slamming him because sympathy for orphans washes away once they stop being children, but Bruce hasn't been one since he was 8 and watched his mother's hollow eyes sink in a body bag.

The media calls him immature. Reckless. Impulsive. All the synonyms in the thesaraous to describe what a horrible person he is for using a baby they speculate isn't even his to clean up the gritty, smudged image he made for himself. It doesn't make him want to hide Damian from the world, because he refuses to treat his baby like a shameful secret.

He's more proud of Damian than he ever was of the cowl.

Jason is his 2nd love, dirty, sharp tongued, and brave, looking him in the eyes when he tries to steal the tires off his car. His eyes are a stormy ocean reflecting a deep, lonely sadness, the kind you feel for a lifetime and more. Its like looking in a mirror.

Of course, not unexpectedly, he takes Jason home. "I can care for him. Why wouldn't I?"

Alfred is in the middle of preparing a blanket, fluffy and inviting, much like the ones Bruce was wrapped as a baby, when his throat raises with a high note of unconvinction. "I don't see a reason why anyone right in the mind would look at the lobsters boiled in a soda bath in our kitchen and say you weren't qualified to look after a child."

"That's strike 220, Alfred. "

"221, actually, sir."

Bruce's heatless retort dies quick once he sees Jason's thin limbs holding the small figure of a baby boy, covered in a light green blanket of his own, against his chest in a protective hold. He snaps a silent photo of the sweet scene, making it his phone background, and for the first time in years, his tears feel happy.

Its a cycle that repeats. He's proud of his boys, his kids, and wants to show it, then the world pushes. Bruce ignores it. Ignores the news station spitting on him for being the father of two without a ring on his finger, the scandal magazines speculating on a secret spouse he doesn't have, the journalists cornering him on every public appearance hunting for the hottest news to sell the freshest scoop.

He ignores it, until the push comes for his boys.

" That one, the new one, - Jason or something? I don't buy the whole nurturing father shtick. Wayne is a honcho in his prime, with more money than he has any right to have, on the cover of every magazine and news report imaginable, got women throwing themselves at him, left and right, and I'm just supposed to believe he'd trap himself with that responsibility, no question? Why?

Cause I'm supposed to be moved by the fact that he took in a crack whore's son after she slipped on the bucket? No. The courtain's gonna fall soon, and I'll be laughing when it does."

The TV is clicked off, the news anchor's smug face staring him in thr eye before darkness covers it, leaving Bruce to look at his own stormy reflection, crackling with cold fire, an expression Alfred mirrors in his tight silence. They both hear Jason's feet stomp up the stairs, but neither comment on it.

That particular news station falls in shambles in less than a few hours. It surprises everyone and no one.

When it comes to push and shove, Bruce was often the punch.

The public appearances get a bit easier after that. He can enjoy an ice cream with the boys in the park without annoying paparazzi following them, without reporters breathing down his shoulder for a private interview or a persistent business partner ringing him up.

He can just laugh when Damian covers his suit with creamy strawberry because the black is so dull for a baby's eye and when Jason draws mustaches and beards on his face with his own cone, and try not to sound too harsh when trying to tell Jason him and Damian are too heavy for him to push on the swings. But his son's more stubborn than a donkey, so he manages it, somehow, and Bruce gets a bright idea. To him.

Batman has a sidekick that he takes to McDonald's after crime is fought and people in Gotham has seen more scarring shit than That. Its just another Tuesday.

Now, because I'm superbat trash, of course I'm gonna make Clark eat shit with how fast he falls for Bruce. They're at the Wayne Gala, something extremely important for a new reporter on the block who has the chance of meeting the name that starts in Gotham and walks all the way to Metropolis.

The list of things he expected to cross out in the long scripture Clark thought of for Bruce Wayne shortens by the second when he watches the man and a little dark haired boy make silly faces at a camera, joy sparkling bright and evident in his smile as he cooes at whom the jounralist assumes to be his youngest.

A crisp voice hitching with a british accent emerges from the other line, sounding positively scandalized, as if to give voice to the stares Bruce is receiving. " Bruce Thomas Wayne, you are at high society event, control yourself - Do not force me to march there to fix that nest of hair I have no doubt that little menace was the culprit of , -"

" But it was sooo boring before! This whole thing is boring, Al, " the child,- Jason, he reminds himself. At the ridiculous amount of research he went through for this so he wouldn't look like a complete fool, he should at least know Bruce hates it when his children aren't referred to by name. "Can we come home now? I'm kind of tired of watching these numbnuts break their backs just to seen as good people for donating like a dime of what they actually make."

Bruce's hair is wild, sticking in every direction. Clark loves it with a vigor he can't put Into words.

"We talked about this before Jason, no talking about the uneven distribution of resource made by capitalists before you eat your vegetables, -- Aww, Dami! Look at daddy! Hi, baby," Bruce's smile, Bruce's voice, Bruce's face. Its all so warm it puts the sun to shame, and Clark is attracted like a moth to a flame.

He's got it, he realizes with a shiver.

He's got feelings.

[baepsaesbae]

Heal Me, Kill Me Ch.4

Pairing— Kim Taehyung x reader

Genre— Vampire!Taehyung x Vampire Hunter!reader, ANGST, mild smut +18, comedy (i tried), fluff in this chapter

Warnings— Unprotected explicit sex, fingering, blood mentions, death, 

Word Count— 6.9k (nice)

Summary— You’re one of the best vampire hunters in the world. That’s to be expected when your parents are the best of the best. Your life had solely revolved around ruthlessly killing vampires, making you a cold blooded machine. However, things take a turn once you meet Kim Taehyung, your latest target.

A/N— Huge shoutout to @dee-ehn for this beautiful banner! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, please let me know what you think! Things are starting to get spicy~

The chilly crisp air that once gently kissed your cheeks had transformed into a biting cold that gnawed at your bones. Dread began to settle in as Taehyung led you by the hand, blissfully unaware of the daunting job you’ve been tasked with. You knew you should have killed him right away, but you couldn’t help yourself. You were well aware of the consequences, and now it is time to face the repercussions. 

Your jewelry was prepped and loaded with your special poison that consisted of neurotoxins from the deadliest animals. Pufferfish, scorpions, and king cobras were among the lethal mix. You had also laced your anointed silver dagger with the poison, as you would need every advantage you could get to combat Taehyung's strength.

“Would like some tea to calm your nerves, darling?” Taehyung asked sweetly.

“Yeah, that might help,” you shot him a meek smile.

Taehyung nodded and kissed the back of your hand before leaving you to make the tea. His sweet gesture made your heart sink. How could you possibly kill this man? The one and only person you’ve ever loved in your life? Well, even though he was not technically a person, no one had ever made you feel so loved before.

Taehyung quickly returned with hot tea and you gratefully let the cup warm up your hands. He pressed his cold hand against your forehead to check for any sign of illness.

“I’m fine, Taehyung,” you assured him.

“The air is getting colder. This is the opportune time for pestilence to strike,” Taehyung chided.

“Ok dad,” you rolled your eyes at him. God, you’re gonna miss this silly banter.

“I thought girls address their significant others by ‘daddy’ now?” he innocently asked, causing you to nearly spit out your drink.

“Some girls yes, but not in this instance. It’s more of a kink,” you explained.

“So was Freud correct in his reasoning?” Taehyung questioned.

“Well, yes and no. I don’t know. His theories are stupid and sexist. I hate that guy,” you concluded.

“I’m inclined to agree, he was rather odd,” Taehyung nodded wistfully.

“You act as if you actually knew him,” you scoffed, knowing damn well that he probably did meet him at some point.

“Of course not, that would be impossible. How old do you think I am?” he tried to joke with you. The subject of time and age always seemed like a touchy subject for him (and rightfully so). 

“We’ve been over this. You’re probably centuries old or some shit. You always talk like some old timey character in a cheesy period film.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not necessarily,” you smiled at him. 

You really should stop dragging this on. It’s only going to cause more pain. Well, maybe spending just one more day with him wouldn’t be too bad. Nothing you do now is going to avert the pain. You might as well make this final day count.

“Darling?” you asked after a moment of silence.

“Yes, my love?” Taehyung gazed softly at you.

“Can you cuddle me all day? And make me feel like the most loved girl in the world?”

“My darling, you are the most loved girl in the world. Nothing in this realm can ever diminish my affections for you,” Taehyung tightly embraced you.

His kind words made you shed a silent tear. You will cherish every last second you had left with him. And that you did. The rest of the day was spent bundled up together under the warm covers of his bed watching Peaky Blinders. You insisted that he finish all of the episodes that day (which was a silly notion to him, but he obliged nonetheless). 

It was late afternoon by the time the show was completely binged, and now your stomach was growling relentlessly. 

“Hungry?” Taehyung chuckled.

“I believe so,” you clenched your stomach.

“I’ll go whip up some quick sandwiches then. Would you like some tea as well?”

“I can make the tea, you just handle the food,” you ordered.

“As you wish,” Taehyung complied.

It was time. You brewed the tea as you normally would, making sure you acted as if everything was okay. Just like you did before, a quick motion was all it took to pour a lethal dose of your special concoction into Taehyung’s tea. 

There was no turning back now. Taehyung happily brought the sandwiches to the table. You smiled at him, fighting to hold back tears. At least your last memory of him would be pleasant.

“I love when you make the tea, it always tastes better than mine,” Taehyung praised you as he brought the cup to his lips. 

Your breath hitches as he takes a sip. Immediately his face contorts with disgust and he looks at you with hurt betrayal in his eyes. Your heart breaks as you hesitate for a second; your hand is gripped around the hilt of your poisoned dagger. 

With tears streaming down your face, you lunge at Taehyung. He quickly evades you, your blade narrowly missing his neck. Just a scratch of your blade would spell out his doom. Taehyung coughs out as much of the poison as he could. 

Again, you propel yourself at Taehyung, zeroing in on his neck. He grabs you by the back of your head and effortlessly flung you across the room. You crash into the wall, the impact knocking the wind out of you. In a split second, Taehyung was in front of you, pulling you up by your hair.

You tried to stab him, but your efforts were futile. He grabbed your wrist with such force that it felt as if it was about to shatter. The dagger falls to the floor and his hand moves from your wrist to your neck.

The pain in his eyes was too unbearable to look at. Tears welled at the bottom of his eyes as he opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find any words to say. 

“I could kill you right now,” is all he managed to say.

“Then do it,” you say without any hesitation.

“Go to sleep,” Taehyung demands, his words laced with the most potent magic you’ve ever encountered. In an instant, you were in a deep slumber. 

You wake up in an unknown amount of time later. Your hands and legs are tied up to a chair in the middle of Taehyung’s living room. The restraints are so tight that you couldn’t even squirm your wrists or ankles. 

Taehyung was rapidly pacing back and forth in front of you. His puffy eyes indicate the waterfall of tears he must have shed while you were knocked out. 

“Tae--” you tried to call out.

“Don’t,” Taehyung snapped at you, instantly shutting you up. 

He was using his magic now, and there’s nothing you can do to combat it. You had no choice but to sit helplessly as you waited for Taehyung to speak again.

“Why? I thought we had something real. I would have never hurt you. Did I not show you that I am harmless?” Taehyung finally said as he imposingly stood over you, “You may speak. Tell the truth.”

“I was ordered to exterminate you by the VEC. Taehyung you have to believe me when I say I love you. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I regret ever doing it,” you cried.

“Why should I ever trust you again?” he scoffed.

“If I didn’t kill you they would just keep sending more and more agents. You already encountered some before me,” you kept trying to explain.

“I tried to tell the vampire hunting couple that I have not done anyone harm in centuries. I’m sure you’re curious as to how I satisfy my peculiar craving. I pay a very handsome sum to the local hospital, and in return they supply me with endless blood donations. No one is harmed in the process. But those people refused to listen to me. I didn’t want to hurt them, but they gave me no choice,” Taehyung recounted. 

“Those people were my parents,” you said softly.

Taehyung’s harsh gaze softened. He didn’t know how to react. He reasoned that avenging your parents may have been a justifiable reason to kill him.

“I’m terribly sorry, ___. I did not want to hurt them, but they were belligerent. I did not have a single moment of peace while they were pursuing me. You must have thought I was a monster this entire time,” Taehyung’s voice cracked, and he turned to hide his face from you.

“No, Taehyung, not at all. I love you. I never really knew my parents, so as awful as it is to say, their deaths didn’t really affect me. I treated this mission like any other, but curiosity got the better of me. Taehyung, I’ve never felt more human than when I’m with you,” tears began to cascade down your cheeks. 

Taehyung remained silent and refused to look at you.

“I foolishly thought that the least I could do was give you a quick painless death. I didn’t want you to suffer,” you continued.

“___, I have never known a greater pain than this betrayal. I was willing to give you the world,” he finally turned to you, revealing that he too was crying, “And I still am. I have not been so enthralled by another for as long as I can remember. I do not know what kind of spells you used on me, but I fear that they are unbreakable.”

“Neither of us used any magic on each other before this, Tae. I wish you killed me on the spot when you first saw me,” you wailed.

“And ruin the single most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen? I couldn’t bear to think of it,” Taehyung said softly, gently caressing your wet cheek with the back of his hand. 

Taehyung picked up your chair with one hand and brought you to the dining table. 

“I’m going to untie you. Please do not try to run away or kill me again. We both know you are no match for me,” Taehyung said sternly.

You nodded quickly, eager to get the restraints off. You obediently sat still after he tore off the rope that bound you to the chair. Taehyung took his place opposite of you. Silence filled the air as tension built. Finally, Taehyung slid his poisoned tea to the middle of the table.

“Since peace does not seem to be an option, I believe it would be best for one of us to die,” he stated. 

You stare blankly at him.

“Or perhaps, we could run away together and never look back. I can forgive this little infraction if you can forgive me for my deceit. We were both keeping secrets, and in the end it only harmed both of us,” he continued. 

“We both know that can’t happen. The VEC would hunt us down relentlessly,” you disagreed. 

Before he could react, you grabbed the cup and consumed its contents in the blink of an eye.

“___! What are you doing!?” he yelled at you, leaping across the table to smack the cup from your hands. 

“I have a tracker in my bloodstream, Taehyung. They’ll always be able to find me, and we will never know peace. At least this way, you can flee and continue to live out your life,” you smiled weakly.

It won’t take long for your body to become paralyzed. After all, this was meant to kill vampires, not humans.

Taehyung cradled you in his arms, clutching you close to his chest. He wept over you as your body began to stiffen. Your cognitive abilities will remain intact until the very end. You watched as Taehyung’s heart broke for the second time that day.

“You fool. I don’t care if they keep coming after us. It would all be worth it if it means that I can have you by my side,” he cried as he cupped your cheek.

It was evident that the poison had begun running its course. You couldn’t reply nor could you move any part of your body. Only your eyes could convey your sorrow. Taehyung leaned down to plant kisses on both cheeks before gingerly placing one more on your still lips. 

He picked you up bridal style and headed for the door. He walked along the trail on which you used to skip alongside him. The chirping birds that once greeted you were eerily quiet now. The evening dusk hour made the trees cast long spooky shadows along the path. The lake comes into view, but now it looks menacing as fog rolls along the water.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this, ___,” Taehyung said somberly. 

You couldn’t say anything, but your eyes expressed your deep heartache.

“Don’t look at me like that, love. It’ll only make this harder,” Taehyung set you down gently on the edge of the dock, “I loved you, you know. I trusted you.”

Taehyung bent down to give you a final kiss. You could feel his sorrow as his cold lips pressed against yours. After parting, Taehyung began to sing. Tears began to roll down your cheeks. Of course, you were crying because you didn’t want to die, but also because you loved Taehyung’s voice so much. It was probably the one thing you’d miss most from this world. Besides Taehyung himself, of course.

“Have I lost myself? Or have I gained you?” Taehyung’s beautiful voice carried through the air.

Taehyung placed you into the lake on your back. You floated for a few seconds before your legs began to dip deeper into the water. Now completely immobile due to your poison, you had no choice but to drown peacefully.

“Please don’t say anything. Reach my hand out to cover the mouth,” Taehyung sang, his eyes never leaving you.

The water engulfed you as your head finally sank below the surface. Taehyung’s voice began to fade away as your lungs filled with water. Is this what your dreams have been warning you about? Have you already seen your own demise? None of that matters now, as the dull light from above the water gets further and further away.

Everything fades to nothingness as the water swallows you whole. Your vision, hearing, and consciousness slip away. Nothing but the frigid lake can be felt now.

Is this really how you’d go? Maybe you deserved it. You did attempt to kill the love of your life. You couldn’t help but be thankful for the time you spent with him.

Water fills your lungs, and you’re certain that your time has finally come. For being raised as a vampire hunter, you managed to stretch out your life expectancy. You closed your eyes for the last time as you sunk further towards the bottom of the lake.

Suddenly a warm light caressed your cheek. Your eyes fluttered open as you desperately gasped for air. All of your senses flood back and it’s incredibly overwhelming. There’s an unbearable white light that temporarily blinds you. Loud indiscernible sounds cause you to crumple to the ground. Soon the loud noises turn into a muffled tone that you can’t quite make you. The light begins to fade away as well.

You finally open your eyes once again, and are shocked by what you see. You’re in a lush garden, surrounded by gigantic trees and beautiful flowers. Birds can be heard chirping overhead. 

‘Is this heaven?’ you thought to yourself.

“Not quite yet, child,” a voice boomed from above. 

The sudden response made you jump. You looked around to try and find who responded, but to no avail. 

‘God…?’ you thought. 

“You flatter me, little one,” the voice chuckled. 

The voice wasn’t as loud, but was now much closer. It honestly even sounded a little familiar. You turned around to see a giant figure looming behind you. Flowing golden robes elegantly wrapped around the figure. As your eyes focused on it, you saw a familiar face smiling down at you. Wait what the hell? It looked and sounded exactly like Yoongi. 

“Let me speak before you ask any more questions,” the faux Yoongi said, “Welcome to Purgatory. You are neither dead nor alive nor undead. Your soul is temporarily in limbo. You must be a rather peculiar human. Most souls merely pop in here for an instant before their fate is decided or they are pulled back into the mortal realm. I have been instructed to converse with you,” the being explained.

“Y-yoongi?” you stammered in your confusion.

“Ah, I am not Yoongi, though I’m sure I resemble that fellow. I am perceived as any being who is held dear by those who gaze upon me. Usually I appear as a lover or a parent. Forgive my curiosity but under which category is ‘Yoongi’ to you?” the being sat beside you.

“Neither. But he’s probably the closest thing I have to a parent,” you shrugged.

“Interesting. Do you have a lover?” 

“I think I did before I fucked everything up. What happens now?” you asked. You didn’t want to ponder on why this strange being did not take the form of Taehyung. Surely you held Taehyung more dear to you than Yoongi.

“You get to choose,” the being replied, “Also, I am not a god, upper or lowercase. You can think of me as sort of a cousin to Death. I am inevitable, but much less known,” it must have sensed your eagerness to figure out what it was.

“Do you have a name?” you inquired, now looking at it in awe instead of fear. If you didn’t know any better, you would think you were sitting with the real Min Yoongi. However, this being’s powerful aura easily gave it away as an imposter. 

“Names are powerful things,” fake Yoongi tsked.

“Surely you know mine. It’s only fair for me to know yours,” you replied, “And I keep calling you Fake Yoongi in my head.”

“You may call me Lethe, as some have called me before,” it said after a long pause.

“Cool. Nice to meet you, Lethe. So what is this choosing business? Whether I live or die?”

“Of course,” Lethe said as a matter of factly.

“Wouldn’t it be obvious that I’d want to live?”

“Do you?”

That question filled you with doubt. What happens if you go back? How would you face Taehyung? Would it even be possible to talk it out and pretend like it never happened? Or would you need to go through the ordeal of attempting to kill him again?

“Those are all valid questions,” Lethe nodded.

“I forgot you can read my mind,” you said with surprise, “How long can I stay here?”

“Time does not exist here. But I suppose for your feeble mind to comprehend, I’d say about 2 more hours. At least, that’s what it’ll feel like to you. You can converse with me for the time being,” the immortal sat beside you. 

And so it went. Lethe helped you weigh out your options. Lethe taking Yoongi’s form helped you open up. This was the closest thing you’ve ever had to a real heart to heart with a parent. Perhaps Yoongi was more important to you than you thought.

Lethe had already known every detail of your life, as they do with all those who pass through their domain. It was clear that you weren’t ready to die. You were just lost on what to do when you go back.

“Time is nearly up, little one,” Lethe softly said, “Have you made your decision?”

“Yes. I want to go back to the land of the living,” you smiled.

Lethe returned your smile as they began to wave their hands above you, making you instantly sleepy.

“I’ll be happy to see you again when it’s finally my time to go,” you managed to make out before letting out a yawn and shutting your eyes. 

“That would be nice, little one. But no one ever remembers me,” Lethe said in a bittersweet tone as they sent you back to the mortal plane.

“___? ___! ___ wake up!” you heard muffled yells.

Your eyes opened slowly, but it was too dark to see anything. Your entire body ached. Bitter chills began to set in as you realized you were sopping wet, making the wintry air even more unbearable. 

You drop back into a state of unconsciousness, but you swore you still faintly heard someone calling out your name. 

“You didn’t have to come here yourself.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I lost her parents. I can’t afford to lose her too. Why the fuck didn’t you step in immediately?”

  “You ordered me to observe her, and that’s exactly what I did. She would be dead if it weren’t for me.”

“I’m gonna kill that bloodsucker myself.”

“...Yoongi…?” you weakly called out, your eyes still closed.

“___?!?” you heard the men scramble to your side.

The sheets you were wrapped in were warm. The biting cold that hurt your bones had faded away. Your body ached beyond belief, and you didn’t have the strength to sit yourself up.

“___, are you okay? I’ll get you some water,” a familiar voice said. It must be Jungkook.

“___? Are you awake?” Yoongi’s voice was much closer now.

“Yoongi?” you repeated while your eyes slowly opened to adjust to the light. 

“Oh my god. Thank god you’re okay,” Yoongi pulled you in for a tight embrace. 

“We really thought you were done for,” Jungkook handed you a glass of water. 

“I thought I was too. I really think I died for a little bit. I can’t remember exactly what happened, but all I can recall is a bright light and maybe a forest? I think Yoongi was there?” you replied in a daze.

“Well, I was the only person with you until Yoongi showed up so I’m not sure about that. Unless you mistook me for Yoongi, which I take offense to,” Jungkook half smiled before taking a serious tone, “I saw him dump you in the lake. Why didn’t he drain you first?”

“Extremely tactless of you, Jungkook,” Yoongi admonished.

“He hasn’t harmed a living person in a long time. Well, except for my parents,” you softly answered.

“Come to think of it, he didn’t drink your parents’ blood either,” Yoongi stated.

“Please don’t hurt him. Please leave him alone. He won’t hurt anyone,” you begged. 

“He hurt you, ___. For that, he needs to die,” Yoongi said sternly.

“I poisoned myself,” you admitted.

“What?” Yoongi and Jungkook said in unison. 

“I...I love him. I told him to flee and live in peace after I sacrificed myself,” you began to cry.

“Are you stupid?” Yoongi asked in disbelief, “That thing killed your parents!”

“In self defense! They wouldn’t leave him alone after he told them numerous times to back off!”

“How do you know that? How do you know he wasn’t lying?” Yoongi argued.

“I can tell! You of all people should know that a vampire hunter doesn’t survive for long unless they can detect deceit in any and every form.”

“Sir, pardon me, but I think she’s telling the truth,” Jungkook interjected.

“Unbelievable. You too, Jungkook? Are you in love with the vampire too?” Yoongi scoffed.

“No. I just believe in her. When has ___ ever deviated from a mission? She’s your top agent. I don’t think she’d let herself get swept up by seductive charms,” Jungkook reasoned on your behalf, “I spoke with her yesterday. There was no trace of magic on her. Hopefully my word as your second highest agent means something. Plus, I’ve seen her express more emotion this past week than I have her entire life.”

“Jungkook,” you gratefully smiled at him.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do then? Just let him go without any consequences? I will not let your parents’ deaths go unavenged,” Yoongi crossed his arms.

“Let me talk to him,” you requested.

“What are you gonna say?” Jungkook joined you on the bed.

“I…” you trailed off.

What can you say to him? For one, he thinks you’re dead. You can’t imagine what he must be feeling right now. Anger? Sadness? Maybe he would be temporarily happy if you returned to him. However, it wouldn’t be long until your betrayal hurts him again.

“I just want to see him,” you finally say, “I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi shook his head, “I’m not sending you back without a plan.”

It took three days before you fully regained your strength. Yoongi and Jungkook took turns taking care of you. Jungkook offered to help you bathe, but you turned him down with a glare. 

“Can HQ function properly without you?” you asked Yoongi in the kitchen.

He turned around quickly, surprised that you’re out of bed, “___! Sit down, don’t strain yourself.”

“I’m fine, Yoongi. I’ve been in bed for too long,” you shooed him away.

“I guess we can all have dinner together at the table tonight. I made fried chicken,” Yoongi said triumphantly, “Also, I haven’t had a day off in years. The VEC can handle itself for a little bit longer.”

“The chicken smells amazing, Yoongi. I’m gonna take a shower because I feel and smell disgusting.”

“You sure you don’t want my help?” Jungkook materialized out of nowhere.

“Sure, you wanna help me take a shower?” you peered up at him.

“Are you being serious?” Jungkook’s doe eyes widened.

“Yep. The only condition is that I’m going to kill you afterwards,” you deadpanned.

“Mm so you’d still want to take at least one full shower with me,” Jungkook teased.

“Shut up, bunny boy,” you rolled your eyes.

You could hear Yoongi chuckle to himself behind you. It must be a relief to see you back to normal and bickering with Jungkook as if nothing happened. 

Flashbacks of your last encounter with Taehyung filled your head as warm water cleansed your body. You didn’t know what you’d do, but you made up your mind. You needed to see him. You wanted nothing more than to be in his arms again. You longed to feel his soft lips on yours. 

Dinner was full of smiles and playful banter. The food was delicious (fried chicken was Yoongi’s speciality) and it tasted even better since you hadn’t been able to eat solid food in days. 

“So, what are we gonna do now that ___ is feeling better?” Jungkook questioned with a mouth full of food.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” you affirmed. 

“Again, what are you going to talk about?” Yoongi raised his eyebrows.

The rest of the evening was spent devising a plan. It took a lot of convincing by both you and Jungkook, but Yoongi finally gave in. It seemed like even Jungkook was hesitant about the plan, but backed you up nonetheless. Jungkook and Yoongi would be your backup in case things went south.

The next day you drove to Taehyung’s home. The drive that you once happily made now brought you dread. You had no idea how Taehyung would react. You just prayed that he wouldn’t kill you on the spot.

It was now well into the winter season. Snow covered the ground and frosted the windows of Taehyung’s weathered home. Knocking on the front door may not be the best move, but it’s what you decided to do. There was no answer. You tried to turn the knob to find that the door wasn’t locked at all. 

You snuck through the front door, cautious not to make any sounds. Something was amiss. Someone as cautious as Taehyung would never leave their front door unlocked. The house was eerily quiet.

He was nowhere to be found on the first floor. You journeyed up to the second story in the hopes of finding him. A rustling from his room was heard.

You tiptoed to his room, the door was wide open. Taehung was staring out of his bedroom window. The world seemed still for a moment. You quietly walked into the room, and realized that the room was filled with bouquets. Flowers ranging from lillies, chrysanthemums, carnations, and roses made the room smell sickly sweet. 

“Taehyung,” you called out to him.

He turned to you to reveal his tear streaked face. His eyes were red and puffy. He cast a disinterested gaze at you before he shooed you away with one hand.

“Go away. You’re not real. When will this hell end?” he sighed.

“Tae, my darling, I am real,” you approached him slowly.

“My own imagination won’t let me live down my guilt, huh? I suppose I deserve it,” he replied sadly, turning back to face the window. 

“Taehyung, I’m right here, dumbass,” you say with more conviction as you hug him from behind.

He jumped at your touch, whipping around to face you with inhuman speed. His cold hands gently cupped your face, as tears began to fall from his eyes.

“How? There’s no way you can be real. There’s no way that you’re ___,” he cried out, hugging you tightly.

“You better believe it, Taehyuung. I didn’t come back from the dead to be ignored,” you tried to joke, but your voice gave you away.

It was a bittersweet reunion. Tears freely fell, wet kisses were shared, and best of all, you were in each other’s arms again. Any fear you had regarding awkward tensions had dissipated. 

Taehyung held you in his arms as you recounted the past few days. You came clean to him about being a vampire hunter, and about how you were the VEC’s top hunter. You started to cry again as you told him about the inner turmoil you struggled with ever since you met him. Taehyung listened intently to everything you said, clutching you closely the entire time.

“The President of the VEC knows that you’re here?” he asked after you finished.

“Yes,” you answered.

“Is he going to kill me?” he seriously inquired.

“He may try, depending on the choices you make today,” you replied. 

“What choices do I have? I’ll receive any consequences you deem fit,” he kissed your forehead. 

“How do you feel about working for the VEC? It took a lot of arguing, but Yoongi agreed that if I can keep you in check, you would be allowed to work with me. However, one slip up and you’re dead. Those were his words exactly,” you explained.

“What exactly does a ‘slip up’ entail?” he questioned.

“Killing and/or eating any humans. You would only be allowed to kill vampires. The VEC would ensure that blood will always be provided to you to avoid any hunger killings,” you laced his fingers between yours, as if this was any normal casual conversation.

“My ultimatum is that I either work for the VEC to kill my own kind or to die? Is that correct?” he clarified.

“That sounds pretty harsh. But yes, those are your only options.”

“What if I kill all of you instead?”

“Okay, you have three options then.”

“But only one of them will allow me to spend my life with you,” he replied gently.

“You’ll do it? You’ll work with me at the VEC?” your eyes lit up.

“If it means I get to be with you, of course. Vampires are solitary creatures anyway. I have no remorse for my kind that resort to needless violence,” he planted a tender kiss on your lips.

“In that case, I have one more condition. This is a personal request,” you whispered.

“Anything for you, my darling,” Taehyung cooed.

“Turn me.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened, stunned by your request. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. 

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I finally found a real reason to live, and it’s you. I had just been going through the motions until I met you. Please, Taehyung. I want us to stay like this. Forever,” you pleaded.

“Do you know what you’re asking, ___? You’ll be dead, just like me. You’ll be dependent on feeding on human blood. I’ve had countless years of practice, but the hunger can sometimes become uncontrollable,” Taehyung tried to reason with you.

“I would have you to help me through all of that,” you stroked his cheek.

“What if the VEC decides to hunt us down?”

“Then we can flee together. Or we can fight them. I don’t care, as long as we’re together. You don’t have to do it right now, but just know that I want it,” you say in a defeated tone. 

“If you’re sure,” Taehyung gripped a handful of your hair and tilted your head back, “I’ll do it.”

“Then do it. Bet you won’t,” you teased to hide your nervousness.

He chuckled at your response. He peppered gentle kisses along your neck, before licking a long stripe along it. The tingling sensation made you moan. Taehyung’s hand found its way between your thighs. He slowly began to rub your clit while seductively whispering in your ear.

“I’ve been dreaming of doing this since the first time I saw you,” he growled.

You took off your pants to grant him easier access to your intimate spots. 

“Good girl,” he praised, slipping a finger into you.

You moaned as he added another one. You felt your body clenching as he brought you closer to your climax. His fingers curled perfectly and his pace quickened. He had simultaneously been kissing your neck the entire time. 

“You smell so fucking good, darling,” his deep voice resonated in your ear, “I can’t promise that this won’t hurt. But I do promise to fuck your brains out after.”

He didn’t give you time to respond. You had been holding out long enough. You reached your high as his sharp fangs bit into your neck. The initial puncture hurt, but it began to feel better as soon as Taehyung lapped up the blood. Taehyung suckled your neck as his fingers played with your clit.

“T-tae t-that’s too much,” you struggled to say.

“Don’t act as if you can’t take it, darling,” Taehyung growled in response.

He threw you on your back. He let you have a second to catch your breath, as he tore off his blood stained shirt. He dove right back into feeding from you, but now his hard crotch was grinding against your wet exposed core. 

“I have to warn you, this next part may be a bit unpleasant for you,” he stated as he licked the blood off of his lips.

This sight of a bloody Kim Taehyung was oddly erotic. Knowing that it was your blood on him strangely made it even more hot. 

Taehyung bit his own wrist. He held his bleeding wrist over your mouth.

“Drink,” he ordered.

You did as you were told, hesitantly licked his wrist. The metallic taste caused you to cringe.

“It won’t work if you don’t do it,” he scolded.

You grabbed his wrist and brought it to your mouth. You sucked on the wound hard, swallowing as much as you could. Taehyung groaned, the sight of you feeding from him turned him on more than he could imagine. You couldn’t take it anymore after a few minutes. You stopped to get some air.

“That should be good enough, darling. Well done,” Taehyung kissed your forehead.

“How will I know if it worked?” you asked.

“It takes a little while for my blood to circulate throughout your body. It’ll happen, don’t worry. For now…” his voice trailed off as his hand returned to your pussy.

“Do you want me to make you feel good again?” he teased, his fingers lightly tracing your lips.

“I thought you promised that you’d ‘fuck my brains out’?” you deviously smiled.

“I do intend to make good on that,” he returned your sly smile.

He flipped you onto your stomach, and propped your ass up. He gave it a good slap, one that stung for a few seconds afterwards and immediately turned your ass red. 

He ran his length along your pussy, coating himself with your juices. He teased you by slowly putting just the tip in before coming back out. You didn’t have the energy to be your normal cheeky self. You patiently waited for him to ease into you. His hand came around to grip your neck, forcing your head upwards.

“You’ve been such a good girl,” he growled, as he finally gave you his entire length. 

His hips bucked into you ferociously, his grip still firmly around your neck. Your neck was still sore from being bitten into, but at this point you didn’t care. You were still sensitive from your last orgasm, and Taehyung was drilling directly into your g spot. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he panted.

“Please fuck me as hard as you can. I really can’t keep up with you much longer,” you managed to say.

“Sure thing, darling,” Taehyung obliged.

He pounded into you harder with speed that you couldn’t handle. He let go of your neck, allowing you to collapse onto your chest. His hands gripped your ass instead. His strokes became sloppier, indicating that he was now close to his limit. 

With a sudden grunt, Taehyung released his load into you, his hot semen filling you up. He leaned over to you, and you thought he was going in for a kiss, but he licked your neck instead. You didn’t realize that you were still bleeding. You turn to the side to give him better access. After the bleeding stopped, he cuddled you, pressing his chest against your back.

“You have the sweetest blood I’ve ever tasted,” he kissed your ear.

“Thanks I guess? Have you ever tasted a diabetic? That might change your opinion,” you laughed.

“I can’t recall. I just know that no one has ever tasted better,” he squeezed you tighter, “Also creeping thistle.” 

“Huh?” you turned to look at him in confusion. Was he speaking in code?

“You asked what kind of flower I thought you were before. I believe I can give you my answer now,” Taehyung replied thoughtfully.

“Okay I’ll bite. What does a creeping thistle look like?” 

“You know those tall purple flowers you see on the sides of the road? Those are creeping thistles,” he answered. You paused to recall driving past them.

“Wait, those are weeds!” you cried out in disbelief, “You think I’m a pest like a weed?”

“They are weeds, yes. They are resilient, persistent, and can hurt you if you’re not careful around them,” Taehyung chuckled. 

“Those don’t really sound like compliments--”

“But they also produce beautiful purple flowers that go unappreciated. Purple is my favorite color,” Taehyung interrupted you. 

“Fine, I’ll take it since you said they’re beautiful or whatever,” you playfully rolled your eyes, but you were touched by the thought that went into his answer. You noticed you were growing colder by the second, and snuggled closer to Taehyung to try and produce some body heat. He noticed this and helped you get under the covers before cuddling with you again. 

 “You’re going to die tonight. Don’t worry, that’s part of the process. I’ll be by your side the entire time. You’ll be like me in the morning,” he kissed your forehead. 

“Will it hurt?” you asked, slightly scared.

“The worst is over. The most excruciating part is when my blood begins to circulate in yours, but I think I successfully distracted you from that pain,” he smirked. 

“Oh I’m sure that was the only reason you dicked me down senseless. Thank you for your generosity,” you laughed.  

Your body began to feel heavy yet weightless at the same time. Panic began to set in. The feeling was similar to when you drowned in the lake. Your breathes became more strained as you struggled to inhale sufficient oxygen. Sensing your distress, Taehyung held you tighter and whispered a single word into your ear.

“Sleep.” 

“You look pretty harmless.”

“I try to be, for the most part.”

“Jungkook! Get away from him. Don’t talk to him. Taehyung, if that’s even your real name, you’re on thin fucking ice. If ___ doesn’t wake up when you say she will I’ll put your pretty little head on a spike.”

“You think he’s pretty?”

“Shut up Jungkook.”

You slowly opened your eyes after hearing the men bicker. You woke up to find all three of them standing in front of the bed. Jungkook had an uncharacteristically somber look on his face while Yoongi looked gloomier than usual. You could tell that Taehyung had reverted back to his reserved state in their presence. 

“Yoongi? Why are you here?” you questioned. You started to panic. Did Taehyung admit to turning you? You hadn’t even thought about how to break the news to Yoongi. If you weren’t dead now then you’d surely be dead after Yoongi found out. 

“Your phone rang. I answered “Yoongles” who had some rather choice words for me. I told him that you were fine and resting. He barged in immediately after that,” Taehyung explained.

“Yoongi I told you that I would--”

“I’m beyond relieved that you’re still alive. I only called because it was urgent and--”

“The VEC was attacked,” Jungkook butted in.

“What?” you were shocked. 

“We’re the only ones left,” Yoongi stated.

Published October 24, 2020. No editing, copying, translating, or reposting allowed. All Rights Reserved © 2020 Baepsaesbae.

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book One: Gold (Prompto x Reader) Chapter V

Once back in Lestallum, the group reported to Talcott and Jared about their finds. As they were about to leave the Leville, Noctis experiences another headache. In order to dissect the source of his headaches, they decided to take a closer look at the Disc of Cauthess from the outlook. When they arrived, they ran into two familiar faces.

"What a coincidence," the auburn-haired man smiled eerily at the group.

Gladio crosses his arms. "I'm not so sure it is."

The man strolled up to them, leaving his spiky-haired companion behind. He came to a stop in front of (Y/n). "Oh, my. You must be the lovely maiden my dear companion spoke of. A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, my dear." He bowed politely before trying to reach out and grab her hand. However, Prompto reached out and pulled the girl away from him before the man could touch her.

"You know this guy?" The spirit whispered to the blonde.

"We kinda had a run-in with him in Galdin Quay," Prompto answered.

The auburn-haired man was unfazed by the marksman's reaction and decided to back away, changing the subject in the process. "Aren't nursery rhymes curious things? Like this one: "From the deep, the Archaean calls... Yet on deaf ears, the gods' tongue falls, The King made to kneel, in pain, he crawls.""

Prompto, who now stood in front of (Y/n), asked, "So how do we keep him on his feet?"

"You need only heed the call. Visit the Archaean and hear his plea." He spun around to face them, his smile never wavering. "We can take you."

Prompto looked around at his friends. "We in?"

Noctis was unsure of the men and didn't trust either of them. "I don't know."

"We take a ride..." The sharpshooter began.

"...but watch our backs," Gladio finished.

"Fair enough," Ignis said.

Noctis agreed with his friends. "Let's do it."

(Y/n) hadn't been paying attention to their conversation. Her golden eyes were focused on the familiar spiky-haired man who she had met yesterday. She never got his name, but there's no way she could forget his appearance. She was torn from her thoughts when Prompto shook her shoulder. Looking away from the emerald-eyed man, she stared into the blonde's cerulean eyes. "Huh?"

"You okay?" Prompto asked. He glanced at the man who had yet to speak, then back at the girl. "Isn't that the guy from yesterday?"

"It is..." She was even more suspicious of him than the auburn-haired man. She didn't trust either of them, but respected the boys' decision to allow them to be their escort for a short time.

The auburn-haired man smiles and begins walking toward the car park with his companion by his side. "I'm not one to stand on ceremony, but such an occasion calls for an introduction. Please, call me "Ardyn." And this..." He gestures to the man beside him. "Is Callyx. He's a dear old friend of mine. Come with us to the car park. That's where I left my automobile. She's a dear old thing. Pales next to your Regalia, but she's never let me down. So we take two vehicles-a convoy of sorts. Shall we?"

When arriving at Ardyn's car, the auburn-haired man turned to face the group. "All set?"

"Let's get this over with," Noctis sighed.

"Allow me to do the honor of assigning your driver... I choose you!" Ardyn pointed at the raven-haired boy.

"Fine by me."

"I do have one final request," Callyx spoke up with his smooth voice. His emerald eyes focused on (Y/n). "Your car will be cramped with five people. The lady should ride with us."

"No way!" Prompto shouted. "(Y/n)'s staying with us."

"Yeah. We're not gonna let her go with you two," Noctis replied.

"I only wish to speak with her on our drive over to the Disc." Callyx lifted his t-shirt up a little ways to reveal the jade gemstone embedded in his abdomen.

The spirit gasped at the sight. "You're a guardian, too?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"But your eyes..."

He smirked. "Contacts."

"Oh..."

He took a step closer to her, alerting the royal retinue. Prompto went to pull the girl back when Noctis moved to stand between the two spirits. Callyx noticed how tense the four boys were and raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not going to hurt her. There's something important I have to discuss with her."

"Then do it here and now," Gladio said with a faint growl.

(Y/n) broke free from Prompto's hold and stepped around Noctis to stand directly in front of Callyx. "What's so important that they can't hear it but your friend can?"

"Because I trust him and not your friends. If you don't ride with us, you'll never learn the truth about what the empire is planning."

Her mouth opened and closed. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't think of anything. If the information is important and the only cost was riding in their car, she would do it. "Fine. I'll ride with you."

"What?" Prompto gasped.

She casted a reassuring smile towards the blonde. "I'll be fine, Prom. If we can learn what the empire is doing, I'll ride with them."

"Are you certain of your decision, (Y/n)?" Ignis asked.

"Yes."

"B-But..." Prompto began.

Ardyn, however, interrupted him. "You drive your car, I drive mine, and the maiden comes with Callyx and I. With that decided, let us be off."

Prompto stared in shock, watching (Y/n) climb into the backseat of the red car alongside Callyx. He bit his tongue, deciding to hold himself back after seeing her resolve. Reluctantly, he got into the Regalia with his friends. Like a child, he pouted as he watched the red car leave the parking lot.

Outside of Lestallum, the two automobiles sat side by side. Ardyn glanced toward the boys inside the Regalia. "Just to be clear, this isn't a race, it is a chase. You're not to pass me. Lose sight of me, and you'll lose your way. And no tailgating. An accident would spoil the trip."

Noctis, who was behind the wheel, groaned. "All right, all right. Let's hit the road already."

"As you wish. Drive safely, now."

(Y/n) casted Prompto one last smile before they took off. After being a few minutes on the road, she looked over at her fellow spirit. "So, Callyx, what did you wanna tell me?"

The emerald-eyed man glanced at Ardyn for a split second before sighing. "How familiar are you with the conduit?"

"The first time I heard about it was from Noctis. Besides that, I know nothing about it."

"Well then, I guess an explanation is in order." Callyx combed a hand through his spiky black hair. "Centuries ago, there used to be seven Astrals. But all that changed when the seventh god disappeared. No one knows why and most of Eos has forgotten about him. The mighty Brahma, the creator of the universe, vanished without a trace. However, the conduit is rumored to be the only person who can hear and speak to Brahma. They are also the person the Astral has chosen to embody his power and act as his vessel in order to aid the True King."

"And what does this have to do with the empire?" (Y/n) inquired.

"The only beings possible of being the conduit are spirits. Humans are frail and unable to embody the power of an Astral. Our people are being targeted by the empire. They're slaughtering guardians left and right to prevent Brahma's return. I'm only telling you this because you need to know how much danger you are in. If you want to protect yourself, you need to find a safe place to hide. Leave those men and find a place to-"

"Oh, I don't think so," (Y/n) interrupted him. "Have you forgotten? Guardians are meant to protect those that gave them life. There's no way I'm going to leave Prompto to save my own skin. I care too much about him to leave him behind."

"You wouldn't be the first spirit to latch on to a human..." Callyx crossed his legs. "Then again, by the look on that boy's face, you mean a lot to him. Guess I'm kind of jealous."

"Is that all you wanted to tell me?" She sighed.

"Yeah..."

The conversation died. (Y/n) rested her arm on the door, cupping her chin with her palm. She glanced out at the passing scenery, admiring it to distract her from the two men in the car with her. She prayed to the Astrals this road trip would end soon.

A little ways behind the red vehicle was the Regalia. Noctis kept a good distance between them and Ardyn's car to prevent an accident. While the prince, Gladio, and Ignis were chatting away about the two mysterious men, Prompto stared at the car in front of them. His fingers tapped against his knee repeatedly, his leg shaking up and down. His right arm rested on top of the car door with his hand clenched in a fist and resting against his cheek.

When Gladio noticed the blonde's lengthy silence, he glanced at him. Seeing the sharpshooter's gaze locked on the car in front of them, he chuckled. "You that worried, blondie?"

"Of course I am!" Prompto yelled. "(Y/n)'s in a car with two weirdos! Not to mention, one of those weirdos tried to hit on her yesterday!"

"You're freaking out over nothing."

"Wha-no!"

"By the way (Y/n) carried herself in the grotto, I do believe she is quite capable of handling anything or anyone who dares cross her path," Ignis stated.

"I know she's strong, but that doesn't stop me from worrying about her..." Prompto muttered. He managed to look away from the car they were following and pulled out his camera. He scrolled through the various pictures he's taken of (Y/n) so far, admiring her beauty from every angle.

After spending 15 minutes scrolling through pictures, Prompto lifted his head and realized they were pulling over. He glanced around in confusion as they pulled into the Cauthess Coernix Station.

Noctis pulled the Regalia up beside Ardyn's car just as the man got out and asked, "What say we call it a day here?"

""What say" we continue on to Cauthess?" Gladio retorted as he and the other boys climbed out of the Regalia.

"The Archaean's not going anywhere."

"Neither are we, under your stewardship," Ignis replied.

"So we make camp...with Ardyn," Prompto groaned.

"Hell no," Noctis quipped.

"Might as well get the tent up," Gladio said.

Oh, I'm afraid Callyx and I have never really been ones for the outdoors. We shall foot the bill, so let us stay at the caravan over yonder," Ardyn stated.

(Y/n) turned her head towards the male spirit standing beside her. "You're a hunter. Don't you camp out a lot?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean I enjoy it," Callyx explained.

"That's... Okay, yeah. Good point."

"Will all of us even fit in the caravan?" Noctis asked.

"Only one way to find out," Ardyn smirked before walking off with his friend.

Once Ardyn and Callyx were gone, (Y/n) sauntered over to the boys. She placed a hand on her hip with a frown. "Can we talk somewhere in private?"

"Oh, no," Prompto gasped. He rushed over to the (h/c)-haired girl and grabbed her arms, shaking her back and forth. "What did they do to you?! Tell me, (Y/n)!"

"H-Hey, take it easy, Prom. They didn't do anything to me." She grabbed his arms to stop him from shaking her. "I just wanted to share with you all what Callyx had to say."

"Then shall we make for the caravan?" Ignis suggested.

"That'd be good."

They entered the caravan. Noctis and Prompto sat on the small wooden bench while Gladio and Ignis decided to stand. (Y/n) closed the door behind them and leaned against it. Wishing not to beat around the bush, she jumped straight to the point. "The empire's hunting down spirits and killing them."

"What?" Ignis gaped in shock.

"What do they hope to gain from that?" Gladio inquired.

"This conduit you heard about from the marshal... It can only be a guardian. Whoever this conduit is has the ability to hear and speak to the forgotten Astral and act as his vessel," she said. "By killing spirits, the empire hopes to stop Brahma from returning."

"Hold up," Noctis spoke up. "There's another Astral?"

"Brahma, the creator of the universe. He's known as the forgotten Astral. Not many know about him, but apparently the empire does."

"Can we really trust this information?" Gladio questioned.

"I...I'm not sure," she confessed. "I don't trust Callyx, but he genuinely looked worried about it when he spoke to me."

"If he is telling the truth, does that mean...?" Prompto gazed at the girl, worried for her safety. "Does that mean the empire will try to kill you?"

"Well..."

Noctis stood up. "Let them come. They're already crawling up our asses anyway."

"What more could they possibly do?" Ignis asked.

"We'll deal with any imperial bastards that cross our path just like we always do," Gladio claimed.

"Yeah!" Prompto cheered. "All of us are a team."

"Team?" (Y/n) parroted.

"Unless you wish not to be," Ignis stated.

"No, it's just..." She rubbed a hand up and down her arm. "I never expected you three to accept me so easily."

"We were all skeptical at first, but you proved yourself in the cave. I thought our whole groove would've been messed up with you around, but you proved me wrong." Gladio patted her on the shoulder. "You fit right in, short stuff."

"Sh-Short stuff...?" She glanced around at the boys before examining her appearance. "Am I really that short?"

"Well... Yeah," Prompto answered. "B-But that's okay!"

She looked away, unamused. "Ugh..."

(Y/n) excused herself and left the caravan. She wandered towards the rear of the convenience store before setting her gaze on the Celestial Crescent. She tilted her head in curiosity when hearing a faint mumbling.

...ui...

She blinked in shock when she could make out a portion of what the voice was saying. "I'm going crazy..."

"What're you talking about?"

(Y/n) tore her gaze away from the darkening sky and looked at Callyx, deciding to lie. "It's nothing, really. I thought the colors of the Celestial Crescent were changing for a second, but my mind was playing tricks on me." She didn't trust him even after he shared information about the empire.

Callyx took a quick glance at the sky before looking at the (h/c)-haired girl, his hands hidden behind his back. "Do you ever hear voices whenever you gaze upon the Celestial Crescent?"

"If you mean the voices in my head, then yes."

Callyx chortled. "That's not what I meant."

She put on a friendly façade. "I know. I'm just messing with you. To answer your question-no, I don't hear voices. Am I supposed to?"

He shook his head. "Not unless you're the conduit. Brahma's consciousness resides within those cluster of stars. He searches for the perfect vessel to regain his physical body, only speaking to the spirit he deems worthy."

"Do we have any idea what'll happen to the conduit once Brahma takes control of their body?"

"Who knows? Maybe they become an empty shell, maybe there are no side effects whatsoever." Callyx suddenly outstretched one of his hands to touch her shoulder, but he stopped mid-way when a familiar bubbly blonde came bounding over calling the girl's name. "Guess I'll give you two some time alone."

Prompto eyed Callyx suspiciously as he walked past him. When he was out of sight, he walked up to (Y/n). "I was kinda getting worried when you didn't come back. Everything okay, (Y/n)?"

"Mhmm," she hummed with a smile. "Everything's peachy."

"I thought you might've been worried about this whole conduit thing. I mean, it is kinda scary the empire is going around and just killing spirits. Are you sure you're doing okay?"

"Really, I'm fine. No need to worry, Prom."

Suddenly, Prompto wound his arms around her and hugged her tightly. He pressed his cheek against her (h/c) hair, frowning sorrowfully. "Y'know, you might be a better liar than me, but I can tell when you're really worried about something, (Y/n). You scrunch up your nose and furrow your brows. I find it kinda...cute."

She sighed, burying her face into his chest. She wound her arms around his torso and mumbled, "I am scared. Scared for my people, scared for me. There aren't many of us, which makes it even more frightening. I'm also scared I'm putting you and the others in even more danger."

Prompto hugged her smaller frame as tight as he could without hurting her. "Hey, don't worry 'bout us. We can handle ourselves. There's no way the empire could defeat us! And..." He nuzzled his nose in her hair, inhaling her gentle scent. "I-We won't let anything happen to you. I know you're supposed to be the one protecting me, but I wanna protect you too. If you were to vanish, I...I wouldn't know what to do."

A warm, gentle smile blossomed on the spirit's face. "I'll never disappear, Prom. Whenever you need me, I'll be there. Even when you don't need me, I'll be by your side. You're stuck with me forever."

Prompto smiled widely. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He fell silent for a moment before clearing his throat, arms remaining tightly wound around (Y/n). "Hey, u-um... After we're done with this Disc business, there's something really important I wanna tell you."

"You can't tell me now?" She inquired.

"Of course not! It's, uh...really important, but I still need a day to...come up with the right words. Think you can wait?"

"Do I really have any other choice?"

"Nope."

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

[undertaker1827]

Hi, it's me again! :D grell has a human partner who is the mother figure of ciel unfortunately in a case they were investigating they stab her in a vital organ (the rest I leave to your incredible imagination) Grell that day checks the book where it says that the name of the soul he has to be collected (also left your imagination) I hope I expressed good luck with the other requests! sad ending please!

Hello again!! You said unhappy and you sure have got it! Seriously though, this is completely different to what I normally write and if anyone’s feeling at all bad about themselves, please don’t read this. Links to happy Grell stories in my masterlist 😂 Also, male pronouns for Grell as requested and a gender neutral reader.

EDIT; Part Two

❗️Warnings; aaaaangst, all the way through. Very sad. Blood/injury/violence. Death.

Masterlist

-

How. How could this possibly happen? Grell’s mouth was dry, his fingers gripping the dreaded black notebook so hard his knuckles were starting to turn white. This was some sort of mistake, right? Had to be. Because Grell had already been through so much, had barely managed to claw himself back from the edge of despair and had continued doing so through finding you - you couldn’t possibly go now. This was not your time.

-

“So where are we going now?” You were walking next to Ciel through the cobbled streets of London, Sebastian half a step behind. A recent string of murders were proving more trouble than they were worth and all you kept coming across were dead ends. The police force had really tightened their ranks around this case and were not giving the earl any more than the bare minimum of information, despite his position as the Queen’s Guard Dog.

“The authorities aren’t going to help us with this,” Ciel informed you gravely. “They appear to have lost their faith in me and as such are using it as an excuse to not cooperate. There is only one other person I know who will help us with this.” A few minutes later, you were standing in front of an out-of-the-way shop, the sign of which loudly proclaimed ‘Undertaker’. You raised a questioning eyebrow at Ciel, who dismissed your confusion with a light wave of his hand.

Sebastian held open the door for you both to enter and you thanked him as you walked through, ignoring the chill curling up your spine at the creaking of the old hinges. The room was so dark you could hardly see anything, but the earl didn’t seem concerned.

“Undertaker, are you here?” He called, glancing around for the man in question. As it turned out, you would be the one to almost collapse in terror when the coffin propped up on the wall behind you slowly swung open, revealing someone dressed as though he were attending a funeral standing inside it. Your reaction was enough to make him giggle, which Ciel simply tutted at. “We’re here for information about your most recent guests, the police are refusing to hand anything over.” After a good twenty minutes of trying to make him laugh, Sebastian finally succeeded and you were once again on your way, this time with both a lead and destination in mind.

The people you were chasing were a notorious circle of smugglers who excelled at their craft and whose organisation had been doing so for the last century. The people being murdered were those who had tried to escape from the ring, bound only to it by their predecessors’ decisions to join it. The circle dared not let them escape, lest they hand over any information to the authorities and disrupt the entire ongoing operation. Their current storage unit was hidden in an abandoned warehouse at the dodgy end of the Thames, nestled between two disused docks. It was perfect really - they could take a boat by night to pick up and drop off their goods and nobody was any the wiser. Not until now, at least. But your downfall came in not realising they had their own network of eyes and ears.

The warehouse was empty when you got there; no smuggled goods, no people who were smuggling them. Not so much as a scrap of paper to be used as evidence. You had split up to search the main floor, you insisting that Sebastian stayed with and protected Ciel, given that you were something of an old hand at this. Pistol in hand, for precaution’s sake, you carried out your search quickly and efficiently. You found nothing of any interest, until you came across several large stacks of crates. They secluded you from the rest of the warehouse, but you were so intent on finding something to help further the investigation that you didn’t even think about it, certain the whole place was empty. But oh how wrong you were.

In a split second, an entire stack of wooden crates fell forward, more than enough to crush you to death had you been any slower in jumping out of the way. On your hands and knees and breathing heavily from shock, you crawled back to your feet only to let out a strangled whimper of pain. Searing agony was pulsing through your lower back and you were hardly able to look back over your shoulder to see the face of your assailant. The man, dressed all in black with a piece of material covering his face forced the knife further in until you both heard something crack sickeningly. With that, he let go of the hilt and watched you collapse to the ground, body twisted helplessly and incapable of doing anything more than wheeze in pain, desperately trying to fill your lungs with air that didn’t want to come. Your mouth was filling with blood even as you weakly tried to spit it out, your vision starting to distort. You just had to hold on a bit longer, just until Ciel got here and caught the man, no doubt one of the smugglers…

When butler and earl had heard the almighty crash, they glanced towards each other for but a second before they started running towards the source of the noise, Sebastian ahead of Ciel. Ciel was fighting back a nausea that he didn’t want to admit to having at the thought that the noise had come from the direction in which you had gone.

You kept your eyes locked on the man for as long as you could, him doing to the same to you as he watched the damage he had caused slowly consume you. You had never felt so sick in your life. Grell meanwhile, was running as fast as his already inhuman speed could allow him too. He was not going to let you die, no matter what. You were too important, your death would be a loss to this world. To his world. He was not going to allow it.

You watched the man even as he turned tail to run, as he was met by Sebastian’s fist and help off of the ground by his throat. Ciel’s shattered whisper of your name was enough to bring tears to your eyes, should your body have been capable of producing them. Even Sebastian’s eyes were wide. You could imagine the state your back was in, but had you not, the look of horror and guilt rising in the boy’s, no, your boy’s eyes was enough to tell you. The earl couldn’t even put a hand to the wound to stem the blood flow; it was so deep and wide, so cruel, there wasn’t even a discernible area to apply pressure to. It took every ounce of concentration you had left to look up at Ciel, to try and convey through your eyes alone that you loved him, that he would be alright. There were tears in his eyes.

Just as you could feel your mind starting to fade, a shattering of glass managed to grab your attention once more. There was a blur of crimson, lighter than the patches of your own no staining the concrete around you, and a deafening screech as the perfect chain saw, the one Grell was so proud of, was dropped with its chain still whirring to the ground. The reaper’s hands were cupping your cheeks in seconds, wiping away the moisture your eyes had given out and trying to get rid of the rosy red, the red he loved so much on you, from your sickly face. It was hopeless and somewhere deep within his heart he knew it, but he wasn’t giving up yet. Your lips formed Grell’s name once, twice, but you were too weak for your voice to come out.

He was sobbing, teeth bared and face wrenched in agony and Sebastian and Ciel were there but he didn’t care, because it was you, it was his Y/N who was bleeding out before his very eyes and there was nothing he could do. He was a god of death and you were dying and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t have gotten here any faster, couldn’t have punished his lungs or his legs or his heart any more than he already had and he had only seen that God forsaken To-Die list ten minutes previously, while he was thinking about which restaurant to take you to for this evening’s date night. His hands shook as he remembered the silly teddy bear he’d bought you only yesterday, the plush one holding a heart that had ‘I’ll love you forever’ embroidered on it in gold thread. It had been in his cupboard for a month now because he hadn’t been able to pick the right time to give it to you - he’d wanted it to be perfect.

“I got you a bear,” he choked out, watching the speed of your blinking become ever more lethargic. “It’s holding a heart.” A dry sob, a pale face slick with a stream of tears that wouldn’t stop coming, turning red as they mixed with your blood. “It - it says, ‘I love you’. I love you, Y/N, you know that, right? I-” He couldn’t breathe. His ears were ringing with white noise and the only real sound were your gargled breaths, each one taking less oxygen into your blood than the last. “Don’t go, Y/N,” he whispered out at last, voice coarse and rough but he didn’t care, because this was the last thing he was ever going to be able to say to you. “Please, please don’t go. I can’t.. I don’t know what to do without you. I’m nothing without you. Please Y/N- Y/N? Y/N look at me. Look at me. Sweetheart open your eyes, plea--” A whimper tore itself from the back of his throat as your hand went limp in his. Your chest no longer moved, your laboured breathing ceased; he heard your heart stop beating. That didn’t stop the raw, feral howl of pain the reaper gave as he curled his arms around your body, as he begged you to wake up. It was over. He barely registered the muffled sniffling of the boy crouched next to him, nor the way Sebastian for once held his tongue. One glance towards that wretched death scythe was enough to bring a burning fury to every fibre of his being.

“I will not,” he hissed out, hand subconsciously smoothing down your hair. “Not to you. There is not a being in this world or any other who could make me.” With that he reached into his pocket and drew out the black, leather bound notebook, opened it to random page and ripped it in two clean down the spine. “I will come back for you my darling,” he whispered before standing up, “I swear.” The reaper stooped down to haul his death scythe over his shoulder, allowing the gleaming chrome to get scratched as he dragged it for a moment against the concrete. It was barely a few minutes before he stormed into the office of one William T. Spears.

“Haven’t you ever heard of knocki - oh, Sutcliff, it’s you,” was the bored, uninterested greeting he was given and when he didn’t reply, the other reaper eventually looked up from his paperwork. “I’m listening, Sutcliff, what’s the-” he cut himself off abruptly. It wasn’t the fact that Grell was covered in blood, that was a fairly normal occurrence for those in collections. It wasn’t really even the scratched and bloodied paintwork of the scythe he cared so much about, though that added to the image. It was that Grell’s perfect makeup was flawed beyond repair, that his eyes were puffy and red in a way that only tears which truly hurt can cause, that his hair was tangled and his chartreuse gaze was wild with anger and defiance, fuelled onward by unadulterated agony.

“You monster,” he spat out, “you knew. You knew what they meant to me when you gave me that list, don’t you dare try to deny it. I knew you were cold and calculating, but how could you do this?” Grell was for once talking quietly, albeit with a growling quality, for he knew if he raised his voice now he could never stop. He didn’t give William a chance to respond. “Well do you know what? Enough’s enough. I quit.” Grell dropped the scythe on the desk, denting and splintering the polished hardwood surface and scattering the carefully organised piles of paper. He then picked up the book one last time and with a look of fury William thought even he couldn’t rival, Grell slammed it down on the free section of desk between his hands. As his former class and work mate left his office with tears flowing once again, the management reaper was left staring at a profile page, your smiling face looking past him and into the distance. The ‘uncollected�� stamp was still written next to your name, two drops of dried blood marring your death date.

[cryinginthebackseat]

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

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Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

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Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with. 

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Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.  

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

                                                         fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel​ @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass​ @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

[know-the-way]

I know it’s really stupid of me but I was kind of hoping for a redemption arc for Faustus. 😅😢

It’s not stupid, not at all! It’s natural to want to see the best in people, particularly when you believe they can be better than what they are now, so it’s completely understandable.

And, ya know, if the show gets picked up - he may have one yet still, we don’t know!

To me, this season really highlighted what the purpose of Faustus’ character is supposed to be, imo. Thinking of episode 4, we’re shown three different levels of corruption through three different characters.

The first is Harvey. Pure, sweet, golden boy Harvey is revealed to have some deep-seeded hatred of witches. Does he have any reason to hate witches? Well, let’s check - he lost a brother, got manipulated, controlled, and lied to by his first love, and has been in an endless cycle of extreme danger for the past year of his life. I think it’s fair to say we all understand that prejudice is not okay, but is it equally understandable why Harvey has some hang-ups about magic and witches? I personally think it is. (Not to the point of joining a literal witch hunt or angrily accusing your distressed best friend of killing your dad at her 17th birthday party 🙃, but understandable nonetheless.)

I personally think the intention with Harvey’s character being a cadet in Blackwood’s army was to demonstrate how, even when we believe someone to be morally good and just, they can become someone else when they endure pain and that pain is never properly addressed.

Did Sabrina apologize to Harvey for everything that happened between them? Yes. But did she repeat the same troublesome behaviors in different ways after that? Also yes. She didn’t demonstrate change in her actions, and a loootttt more happened with Harvey and the witch world in a negative way beyond his relationship with Sabrina, so the mistrust he feels isn’t entirely unjustified.

Then - “oh wow, oh my God, my second love has also hid being a witch from me, can I catch a fucking break here? Why should I ever trust another witch in my life?”

Answer: because they are humans, none being wholly good or bad, and they love you.

Roz talks to Harvey, tells him she believes he’s good, and demonstrably proves her own “goodness” by sacrificing herself to save others at Dr. C’s. Roz shows Harvey that she means what she says and her feelings for him are real - that she is a scared, broken human like him, just trying to do her best with what life has given her. Hence, when the moment of truth comes - Harvey remembers his humanity and proves his own “goodness” by saving her. But if Roz had never spoken to him, never acknowledged what he’d been through and that his feelings were valid... if no one had ever truly cared about his pain? It seems apparent that Harvey would have continued down a very dark path.

Which brings us to...

Mary. Mary has been literally murdered, had her identity hijacked by a demoness, her fiancé is dead, she doesn’t remember several months of her life, and her previous favorite student is a witch who has seemingly performed magic more than once on her.

Mary has every right to fear witches at this point. She has had zero trustworthy interactions with the witch world and from her perspective - her entire life has been stolen and no one cares. No one checks in on Mary, no one validates her pain, and as a result - no one in the witch world seems to have any compassion, humanity, or kindness in them. Enter the Pilgrims of the Night, who recognize her pain and fear without even knowing her, acknowledge it, and offer her solace in their congregation on the basis that her experience with witches is shared by the Reverend Lovecraft and his flock.

They prove themselves to her when the advice the Reverend/Faustus gives her (“let the dark in”) saves her life. My God, someone finally seems to care if she lives or dies!

People who care about others are good, so the church and the reverend’s mission must be good, too. Therefore, she is absolutely invested in whatever is asked of her and will blindly follow their lead in order to protect others from experiencing what she has. To me, Mary in the perverted universe represented the crossroads of corruption - where you truly believe what you’re doing is the right thing, even if it hurts others because those “others” have hurt you... and they will surely hurt again if you don’t stop them.

However, I think if Mary was finally told the truth - the full truth - and Lilith herself apologized for being the first piece in the puzzle... along with all the other witches... AND they showed that they actually cared about her well-being... Mary could find her way back through forgiveness. Or, at the very least, she could understand and process everything so that she could find a way to heal that doesn’t involve persecuting others.

And now, there’s Faustus. We aren’t entirely clear on Faustus’ history altogether, but we do know he’s had many experiences of being slighted by the churches of darkness (despite following the rules to a T).

He was rebuked by Edward for wanting to marry Zelda after mentoring him for who knows how many years, lost the office of high priest to him, and when he finally gets the title - here comes Edward’s self-righteous brat to fuck him over again. There he is trying to carry out the Dark Lord’s request to get Sabrina to sign her name in the Book of the Beast, even though she insults their doctrines and faith at every turn, and the coven and academy he’s had working like a well-oiled machine for the past 16 years is being slowly ripped apart. Why is the Dark Lord allowing this? Why is he having to endure a meddlesome child’s antics? Why is he not being rewarded for doing exactly as he’s been asked and returning the Church of Night to stability after Edward nearly destroyed it altogether? Like hello Dark Lord, can you throw me a fucking bone here?

Small victories - he finally secures Zelda’s hand in marriage and an audience with the anti-pope. This is what his life should’ve looked like two centuries ago, but no matter. He’s correcting it all now and by Satan, nothing is going to stop him this time.

But then...

Oh cool, Sabrina is here to intervene again and has presented the text of his old rival for consideration along with his (clearly superior) manifesto. What’s that, you say? Oh, she’s also gonna crash my wedding, accuse me of murder, and spread claims about my manifesto without having even read it? Wow, ahaha, sounds hilarious... except why am I not laughing?

He arrives in Rome and gets an inkling that the Dark Lord may finally be taking action about this heretical little monster because he’s offered the title of anti-pope by the unholy high council themselves. Finally, some appreciation! He just needs to hang on a little longer, eliminate these small meddlesome threats, and soon he will reside over a peaceful kingdom far removed from anymore mortal nonsense.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, what do you mean Sabrina convinces the council he’s unfit to be anti-pope? This is bullshit, man! You know what? Fuck this place, I’m gonna make my own damn church and ensure no other headstrong witches like Sabrina Buzzkill Spellman can ruin it. That’ll finally return things to ord- MY WIFE KEPT MY OWN CHILD A SECRET FROM ME?! WHAT THE FUCK?! Alright, that’s it, The Spellmans are clearly here to poison others (ironic foreshadowing) - time to wash my hands of them completely, I am so over thi- what’s that? The Dark Lord’s here? GOOD. About time this asshole showed up to set people straight and remind them that the values of his unholy church, which Faustus has exemplified perfectly, must be respected.

You mean for me to bow down to whom now? The halfbreed brat who has been directly and willfully wreaking havoc on the congregation he’s patiently and painstakingly lead back to greatness? Are you fucking serious, m8? No. Absolutely not. No. I’m getting out of here, and since I won’t have the little twat poison anyone else, I will literally poison them instead. Be free, sheep!

It’s up until this point that I believe Faustus was still mostly at the crossroads stage, same as Mary. He believed everything he was doing was the right thing, based on the teachings from the religion he devoted his entire life to, and that he’d be rewarded for serving the Dark Lord so faithfully - until the Dark Lord proved several times in succession that his religion was all a lie. That three+ centuries worth of groveling and abiding and waiting has meant absolutely nothing.

So now we have the Eldritch terrors. Beings more powerful than the oldest gods. He spends 15 years isolated in a time bubble purifying himself, devoting everything to them, and won’t it be so glorious when they welcome him into his ranks? He’s set them free now, after all, they owe it to him.

But doing the same action over and over and expecting a different result is what? The definition of insanity, friends. Of course the Eldritch terrors reject him, too... of course Sabrina gains their attention and veneration instead... of course he should have tried to seize their power for himself a long time ago... so, fuck it all, he’ll do that now. There is no right and wrong, there is no observed justice - if there was, he would have been rightfully recognized for all the time, effort, and pain he’s endured only to receive nothing in return.* No one ever acknowledged his pain... no one ever even considered it. Over time, that takes its toll.

(*Clearly, I mean this to be from Faustus’ perspective and not my own.)

Of course, he has inflicted more than his fair share of pain himself and I am of the personal belief he needed to pay for that, but... equally imagine being hurt over and over and watching those who did it walk away, not only without reprimand, but with the belief that they were right and just to do it? Could it slowly drain on one’s soul to watch the rules apply to some and not others? Debatable, I suppose, but I personally think yes.

So... I say all of this only to point out that there is still potential to acknowledge his pain. And thus, there is imo still potential to understand, communicate properly (I am very interested in any conversations he and Sabrina may have had during their training - I know he said she took a vow of silence, but clearly some talking occurred for Sabrina to learn so much about the void from him), grow, and finally - for him to be given the chance to repair everything he had a hand in breaking. It wouldn’t be an easy or painless task to get to that point, and no one would be faulted for not trusting him to do so, but I think there is potential for it. If they get picked up and they want to finally allow the characters some time to reflect and process shit, they could include Faustus in that.

[dalekofchaos]

Rian Johnson did Finn dirty and we gotta stop pretending he didn’t

Every now and then I am reminded how I hate how dirty Finn was done in the Sequel Trilogy. TFA started it, but TLJ continued it. JJ started it with the bait and switch, Rian continued by making sure Finn would remain a side character, which JJ would finalize in TROS.

Like I like TLJ for the visuals and Rey and Ben’s dynamic, but let’s be clear. It absolutely did nothing for Finn, Poe or Rose. Pretty much all the characters of color were given the shaft.(and one of them didn’t even get any speaking lines, NO I WILL NEVER NOT BE MAD ABOUT THIS)

Let’s take a look at what Rian Johnson did with Finn

Finn is repeatedly harmed for comedic effect. Most of his important scenes were either cut or rewritten. He is constantly belittled and mocked throughout the movie.

The beginning of Finn in the movie. Finn awakens from his coma. Does he struggle to come to terms with his near-death experience? Is he fearful that Rey is dead and he failed her? Is he scared, in pain? Nope. He falls on his face and squirts juice everywhere. The medics on-duty were on a coffee break and allowed their patient to wander the fucking halls unattended. And with that, his duel with Kylo is worthless and made a joke to laugh at.

Finn’s deleted scenes. The deleted opening where Finn wakes up. Finn and Poe’s scene on the Raddus where Finn declares he’s not joining The Resistance, but Poe simply says “you are where you belong” and hands him his coat after stitching it up for him. Then the scene where BB-8 shows Finn Rey’s last moment with Finn. Then the deleted scene with the one Stormtrooper where Finn shows restraint. and Finally the scene that shows a better death scene for Phasma......why were any of these scenes deleted? ESPECIALLY THE PHASMA ONE! I will never understand why this was deleted. Finn calls her out about her betrayal of lowering the shields and when this information is revealed, the Stormtroopers near her look suspicious and it looks as if they are going to turn on her. Phasma like the ultimate survivalist she is kills them with no hesitation. Finn cuts her hand off and blasts her into the abyss, giving Phasma a more deserving and better send off. Seriously, this is way better than their actual confrontation.  What I really like about this scene is its direct connection to The Force Awakens plot point and that it acknowledges Phasma’s survivalist attitude which was introduced into her novel.

Finn’s injuries do not get attention, but Kylo’s injuries do. In The Force Awakens, Finn fights Kylo Ren. He does well, but is ultimately defeated.  He is slashed in the shoulder and the spine by Kylo Ren and falls into the snow, unconscious. Now if this were in the first 6 movies, Finn would be dead or would be paralyzed. But because it’s a Disney movie, Finn heals up. Rey continues the fight and slashes Ren across the face, leaving him with a gash. The characters all escape, but Finn has to be carried to a medical station, unconscious until TLJ. Kylo Ren seems fine, ultimately jumping in a TIE fighter to try and kill his mom before getting patched up further.  Finn, again, has to wake up before doing anything. Here’s the difference between Finn and Kylo’s injuries.  Finn awakens in a medical bed wearing a bacta suit.  His first instinct is to call out for Rey. As he jolts up, he slams his head against the medical container.  He slams against it again. Regaining awareness, he opens up the medical container to find himself alone in a cargo room.  He falls out of the bed, spraying medical fluids all over the place.  He trudges down the hallway until Poe and BB-8 find him. His injuries are never mentioned, shown, or even referenced again.  Kylo, on the other hand, is asked by Snoke how his wound is, to which he responds “it’s nothing.”  He then takes that ridiculous thing off, complete with a close-up of a sad kylo Ren face, with his sutures  framed to draw attention to them. This happens again in the elevator.  Then we get a scene of him getting patched up soberly by a medical droid.  Then we get a shirtless scene as a final showcase of his other two scars.  Throughout the film, Kylo’s scars are present and framed as a constant reminder that he went through pain.  Finn’s injuries are used as a joke once and promptly forgotten, and let’s not pretend that these injuries are  one-to-one aside from how they’re framed.  Remember Finn received injuries trying to protect Rey, while Kylo received injuries trying to murder Finn and bring Rey before Snoke, a fate worse than death. Finn received a deep wound across his spine, which can often be fatal in the real world.  Kylo received a gash across his face.  Finn’s injuries were worse and nobly gained. Kylo’s injuries were comparatively tame and well deserved.  Yet the movie uses Finn’s pain as a joke, and Kylo’s pain as a humanizing factor. That Rey, as well as the director, cinematographer, and a considerable portion of the audience sees a scar and is willing to find sympathy with the person, no matter what they have done, is pretty reprehensible. Not only is Kylo Ren’s scar not enough to be considerably a change to his appearance, as Rian Johnson specifically modified the location of his scar because, “it looked goofy,” the scar is not the mark of an accident or from an assault, but rather from a failed assault on his part. Also, I could get into how messed up it is that scars that don’t fit Rian Johnson’s preferred model are considered goofy. Is a scar that isn’t kept to one side of the face not worth showing? Is a person with a scar you don’t personally like somehow less able to be taken seriously? By treating Kylo’s minor wounds as a big, life-changing deal, and treating Finn’s life-threatening wounds as a trivial matter of no more consequence than a joke, The Last Jedi reinforces century-old stereotypes about Black people. Specifically, it implies that Black people are somehow less affected by pain, have higher pain tolerances, or cannot be physically damaged the way White people can. This is a demonstrated, dangerous trend, where white people actually perceive Black people as experiencing less pain than White people under the same situations. Older textbooks, including some used as recently as late 2017, suggest Black people over-report the pain that they are experiencing. Doctors have declined to give painkillers to Black patients expressing the same level of discomfort that would grant a White patients the same painkillers, and some surgeons even believe that less anesthesia is needed for operations on Black people. This, of course, goes beyond the medical field, where Black people are not believed when they speak about suffering, and are expected to take more physical abuse than their White counterparts. However as the injuries are framed in a medical setting in this movie, I wanted to primarily address the medical bias as in the real world. This has been referred to as an empathy gap. When two people are hurt, with everything except the skin colour being the same, and White people feel worse for the hurt White person, there is a gap in empathy. Now, when the conditions are not the same, and the White person deserves to be hurt, and is hurt much less, and is still empathized with more, and the White man’s acts of attempted murder are framed as romance, while the Black man’s friendship is framed as harassment. Let’s also talk about Finn’s treatment. He’s placed alone in a room filled with cargo, without any monitoring.  It’s almost like the medical staff doesn’t even deem his injury serious enough to receive attention.  He’s not on the medical ship, which we know they have.  He’s not even in the Raddus’s Medical Bay, which, again, we know they have. Finn is isolated, left unattended,  injures himself, and stumbles out into the hallway without any assistance. All for a joke.  Finn’s injury should have been treated with respect and acknowledgement. A scene with the doctors examining his injuries, telling Finn he is medically clear to join The Resistance and Finn  sorrowed by his inability to help his friends, would have been light-years better than a scene where Kylo looks sad getting hurt while trying to kill people.

Finn’s rivalry with Kylo Ren drops instantly. Like Finn’s injuries, Finn’s rivalry with Kylo Ren is dropped for no reason whatsoever and never mentioned again. Finn and Kylo Ren are narrative foils, yet after TFA it’s dropped??? From the start they have been prominent foils to each other: dark from light and light from dark, both in the First Order but in drastically different positions. And Kylo too obviously has strong feelings about his defection. I also believe that Finn is the awakening in the force that Kylo and Snoke felt. Perhaps that is why Kylo focused on Finn and is so angry about him. Finn is also the first person to use the legacy lightsaber and is the first to actually fight Kylo. TLJ could've focused on Finn and Kylo being  narrative foils having a force connection and Kylo wondering why Finn would switch to the Resistance while Finn wonders why Kylo joined The First Order and  Rey standing in the middle of it all wondering with the new realization that her family has a mixed past of good and evil and her questioning where exactly does she belong? The way at the height of tfa when Kylo Ren rejected Han Solo’s offer for redemption and killed him he looked over and noticed Finn. Like they both locked eyes and in that moment was a surge of emotions between them— shock (and some fear) on Finn’s end, and anger on Kylo’s as he shouts at Finn that he’s a traitor— and those circumstances set Finn and Kylo up to be the dynamic for the sequel trilogy. They were foils, and the trilogy had the potential to truly expand on that and see their development in a final standoff/rematch at the very end. But it was wasted, because why have good movies.

Finn repeats the character arc from the last movie. Finn’s character arc from The Force Awakens was dropped completely in The Last Jedi. He does want Rey to be safe, but TLJ paints it as if  Finn just wants to run away, despite the fact that he learned to be courageous, face his fears and stay and fight at the end of TFA.  The First Order kidnapped Finn as a child, from his family(possibly killed his family) he was able to leave The First Order and resist the indoctrination. He no longer wanted to fight, he wanted to leave everything, he wanted Rey to come with him. When Rey was captured, Finn had something to fight for and when Kylo Ren pushed her. Finn finally stood up to his past and The First Order. He overcame his fear. So Finn should have been wanting to fight The First Order and become a big deal in The Resistance, we could have even seen Finn inspiring a Stormtrooper rebellion  against Phasma and The First Order. Finn just wanting to leave is just bad writing and backtracks his entire character arc from TFA.

Went from one of the major focuses of this trilogy to a side character. Finn is the very reason why The Resistance is alive. Finn breaks his life-long brainwashing, informs Rey and Han about the importance of BB-8 and helps out in getting BB-8 to the resistance and provides vital information that lead to the destruction of STB and gets nearly killed while helping to achieve this. If it were not for Finn saving Poe, BB-8 would’ve been scrapped for parts and Rey never would’ve left Jakku. The map would either be destroyed or be in the hands of The First Order. Starkiller Base would’ve destroyed D’Qar and Ach-To. He is the reason why Poe is still alive. He is the reason why BB-8 isn’t parts and Rey left Jakku. Because of leaving Jakku, this is the sole reason why Han and Chewie were able to find the Falcon. And he is the reason why The Resistance was able to find out about Starkiller Base’s weakness. he Helps out in sabotaging STB so that Poe, the very pilot he saved in the beginning can deliver the finishing blow to Starkiller Base and destroy it completely. In the Last Jedi, Finn awakes from a coma with no one attending him. No medics or guards. He's not even on a medship, he's in the fucking cargo hold. Finn recovering from his injuries is meant to be seen as a joke and his injuries are never mentioned again, while Kylo gets sympathy and shown his scars. There was also no marketing for Finn in the build up to TLJ. Despite Finn knowing that the First Order must be fought and knows there is something bigger than himself and Rey, we then see Finn attempting to flee in an escape pod to hide with Rey. Then he meets Rose. Rose in mourning meets Finn and expects him to be this big Resistance hero, only Finn never officially became one. Rose thought he was deserting. Finn wants to escape to save Rey and because The Supremacy is tracking them through hyperspace, but Rose sees this as desertion….Desertion? You taze people for desertion? How exactly am I supposed to root for either side again? This is probably the same only less lethal treatment one could expect from The First Order. And what if The Raddus took critical damage? Are you trying to tell me Rose would taze anyone going to the escape pods? I thought she was supposed to be a mechanic, not someone who prevents escape. Despite Finn explaining himself, she tazes him. She spends the majority of the movie berating, insulting and belittling him. It's even worse in the novel. Finn, who was the main focus of the last movie, and one of the main protagonists, is now made the sidekick to Rose in a pointless side plot. Finn and Rose then get caught because none of them could bother park their ship legally. Finn, the child slave doesn’t even get to say they should save the child slaves of Canto Bight, instead he blindly follows Rose into freeing the space horses. Then they openly trusts a man who talks like a snake and is shocked when DJ betrays them. Finn and Rose are made to fail their mission pointlessly, when they could've succeeded and get caught on the way to the escape pods. Finn gets to face his oppressor and fight Phasma and end her, but Phasma's better death scene was stupidly cut for reasons I don't understand. Finn then makes one last effort to save The Resistance, the people he loves. Rose stops him. She takes one last chance to insult him and kiss him without his consent as the bunker is destroyed while The First Order prepares to kill what Finn loves....and people see this as love???

The racist undertones of how RIan Johnson wrote Finn. Finn is treated like a racist slapstick caricature. The first real problem for Finn. He is reduced to a slapstick joke in his very first scene. Finn awakens from his coma, slams his face and it is revealed that he isn’t even on the medical ship or even in the medbay on the Raddus...he is in the cargo hold and is made to be a joke. This is the Co-protagonist of the trilogy, and he’s reintroduced as a slapstick joke. Then once again he wants to runaway. I am getting a real racist vibe that Rian Johnson sees Finn as the cowardly black man troupe. That’s just downright disgusting. Moving on. Finn is paired with Rose Tico, honestly I want to like her, but bad writing prevents that. Finn is put with someone who abuses him and we are supposed to root for this and see it as romance? Let me explain. Finn is then tazed by Rose, which is understandable, she thought he was running away and she was in mourning. He also was objectively posing absolutely no threat to her, wasn’t running away, and was even trying to explain himself. Additionally, just the threat of the taser seemed to have been enough to stop him from leaving. But Rose attacked him anyways. The difference between Rey and Rose attacking Finn is Rey subdued Finn just enough to stop and interrogate him, Rose went completely overboard by paralyzing him and knocking him unconscious. It was completely unnecessary and gratuitous. Rey and Finn have a real friendship and partnership from the last movie. Rose, on the other hand, spends the rest of the movie belittling Finn and talking down to him. The book also says that she thought about using violence against him more than once after the tasing (for annoying her) and even pushed him. This displays a really problematic pattern of violence and disrespect towards Finn so yeah,  multiple uses of violence and expressed desire to inflict violence on him as being abusive. I would argue that she is undeniably verbally abusive with Finn. In the movie and in the book (more so in the book) she often belittles him by calling him names and using other put downs. It seems she wants to make him feel bad about himself and bring him down, which is abusive. Of course, it doesn’t really matter what her intent is, even if she doesn’t “mean to be mean” it still counts as verbal abuse. So, in summary, her repeated threats and use of violence against Finn and her continual use of insults and put downs causes me to come to the conclusion that she is abusive to Finn. For the record I am not saying Rose Tico is abusive towards Finn, I am saying how Rian wrote Rose towards Finn is hostile for no reason whatsoever and could be interpreted as abusive and it’s downright tone deaf how the abuse and tazing is directed at the black man of the trilogy. Then Finn is made to fail. The only time he is allowed to be portrayed as a protagonist is him facing his abuser and taking her down. My only problem is they cut out Phasma’s better death scene. Finn reveals Phasma shut down the shields for Starkiller Base, and that gets the Stormtroopers to turn on Phasma. This is what I would hope starts a Stormtrooper Rebellion. Finn’s defection was withheld information by Hux and Phasma in fear of a full on rebellion. Humanizing Stormtroopers and having one become a hero is kind of genius, but the way they did it in Episode 7 made it seem like Finn was the ONLY good Stormtrooper, which has to be an impossibility. If one Stormtrooper can suddenly switch sides, what's to say that others couldn't? And since Episode IX will most likely see the fall of the First Order, I personally think that Finn should convince all (or most of) the Stormtroopers to turn against Kylo and Hux, leading to a cool final scene where the First Order is ultimately destroyed by their own henchmen, children who were abducted and indoctrinated take back their narrative. That would be cooler and more unique, I think, than another Resistance vs. First Order space shootout, or Rey and her possible Jedi apprentice army taking them down. The most insulting part of the movie is the last part. Finn’s suicide run. Finn was the best Stormtrooper and knows about The First Order’s weapons, he should know full well that speeder would be destroyed trying to destroy the mini death star. Finn’s attempted sacrifice was pointless, Finn was treated like garbage throughout the movie, he deserved better.

Finn was almost a big deal for the Resistance in the beginning. It is shown through cut material that Finn was in Cobalt Squadron uniform. If this was the case, there is something real simple they could’ve done. Have Finn be with Paige, have Paige and Finn have a short friendship(this actually gives Ngo Thanh Van speaking lines), Paige being in awe that Finn, someone who escaped The First Order helped The Resistance destroy Starkiller Base is working with him and she is more than happy to show him the ropes. They are co-pilots.  Finn was able to save Paige from dying in space and instead she dies in his arms while leaving a bloody handprint on his heart, working as a callback to when Slip died in Finn’s arms and left a bloody handprint on his helmet and her last words being “tell my sister I love her. Finn brings the bad news to Rose and gives Rose Paige’s pendant. Rose breaks down and hugs Finn. Both Finn and Rose have a good relationship at this point and there is no pointless hostility. You could even have Finn and Rose together finding the hacker and having their plan succeed and just having DJ betray them as they make it to the escape pod. And Finn and Phasma do have their fight, but keep in the deleted Phasma death scene. Instead of that? Nothing and instead of that we get a conflicting and hostile relationship between Finn and Rose and Paige has no speaking lines.

Rian Johnson rejected any and every possible character arc for Finn. Rian squandered a proactive, clearly-defined character from TFA, trying to make him fit moment after moment because he had no real big-picture idea what to do with this guy. And in light of Rian presenting himself as a progressive voice, he deserves to be challenged on why he failed a complex, heroic black character so abysmally while giving clear focus and dignity to the white male villain of the piece. (And this isn’t to say I want Kylo Ren’s character development to be worse, it’s saying I want Finn’s to be better.) But he shouldn’t just have treated Finn with care and dignity because it would’ve been more “progressive” - he should’ve done it because it would’ve made a better MOVIE.

Finn is brought to a white man, put on his knees, and is slapped in the face by said white man who once commanded him. Why? No Answers

Rian Johnson had Finn and Rose arrested and locked in a prison cell. Him and Rose are the only characters to be arrested (as in, not kidnapped by evil regime) in the Skywalker saga. PLUS they were immediately electrocuted after being pointed out to the space cops.

Rian admitted not wanting Finn and Poe together because he can't see them as two separate characters(he can't see two men of color as two different characters, let that sink in) and because in his words they "got along too well" and Rose is only there to give Finn 'conflict" We were robbed of Finn and Poe being boyfriends. I love Rose Tico as a character, but I will always want Finn and Poe to be together, aside from the amazing chemistry Finn and Poe have together and John and Oscar have together, if we get to see a gay relationship portrayed in Star Wars, it will show boys and girls who are gay that nothing is wrong with you, you are perfect the way they are and the way they love is beautiful. Oscar Isaac fought to have Finn/Poe together, he encouraged the shippers that the relationship they want is valid and supports it. And I feel so bitter after finding out Finn and Poe were meant to have scenes together in Canto Bight but were separated because Rian Johnson said “those two were getting along too well and that would be boring”  aka Disney doesn’t want gay characters in their cash cow. Despite Oscar’s fight, FInnpoe did not happen and it’s a damn shame. 

Rian Johnson joked about keeping Finn in a coma

Rian had a scene written where Finn was too bumbling/confused to know how to put on a tuxedo. He also had a scene where he sees alien ass unconsensually. 

Finn’s suicide run. Finn knows about the weapon during his time as a Stormtrooper, so he should know full well that speeder would be destroyed trying to destroy the mini death star. Finn’s attempted sacrifice was pointless as he knew that it wouldn’t work.

Rian has Rose explain to Finn, A CHILD SOLDIER, that war and child slavery are wrong.  Surely you see the issue there.

Finn almost had memories of his upbringing, but Rian chose to cut it. "In the original scene, Rose’s story of her childhood was a bit tamer and Finn shared his backstory with her, revealing a further connection between the two characters – that they both had family members taken by the First Order. Most of the sequence was reshot."

Rose stopping Finn. “that’s how we win, not by fighting what we hate, by saving what we love.” That makes no sense and ignores the entire narrative of Star Wars and heroism of the saga. Paige, her sister sacrificed herself to save The Resistance. Holdo sacrificed herself to save The Resistance. The Rogue One crew sacrificed themselves. Kanan Jarrus sacrificed himself to save what he loved. Finn’s entire arc in the movie was learning not to just think about running away with Rey and fight for a greater cause and when the time comes for Finn to prove that he’s grown as a character, he can’t? What was the point of Finn’s arc in the movie? And let’s talk about Poe. Shouldn’t Poe be sacrificing himself? Poe has spent the entire film watching others die and give their lives and he’s never backed down, so shouldn’t Poe be in Finn’s place? And if Rose stopped Finn who would save The Resistance? We saw after Rose stopped Finn, the bunker was blown up by the battering ram. Absolutely NO ONE knew that Luke was going to make his surprise entrance and save everyone. For all we knew, The First Order would’ve moved into the bunker and killed everyone and The Resistance.

I am well aware that JJ Abrams did Finn no better, I even talked about it here. But let’s be honest, Rian didn’t know what to do with Finn and truly did him dirty. 

This was really the easiest character arc for them to write. Indoctrinated Child Soldier turned Elite Soldier who after realizing what he was doing was wrong, wants to make things right, hunted by the FO for treason and because he knows too much, he slowly finds his path with the resistance and trains in the force with Rey and together they rise as the new Jedi, oh and Poe is his boyfriend.

It is my own personal headcanon that The force chooses Finn because he chose empathy for his fallen brother and chose to walk away from killing innocents.

Finn had potential to be one of the best characters we ever got in Star Wars. It’s been over 3 years since he was sidelined in the sequel trilogy and it still upsets me to this day. John really deserved better, to be marketed like this and then sidelined is just awful.

Finn in The Force Awakens: trooper number as call back to Leia, Awakening in the Force, & call to the hero’s journey/defending the symbolic hope of the Skywalker family is peak Star Wars & whatever was Abram’s original intent for Finn’s prominence in the ST; undone by studio interference because KK and China did not want a black lead.

Finn was the literal 1st face we saw when they teased The Force Awakens, it's clear he was supposed to lead the way for the future of Star Wars, criminal what they did to the character and god forbid a person of color saves the galaxy because some of ya’ll can't handle it

Finn was setup as the male lead and co-protagonist of the sequel trilogy. That’s not an opinion, that’s not a headcanon, that’s a literally fact. He was set up to be equal with Rey & Kylo’s foil and we all know why that changed.

At the start of the trilogy, we all thought people of color would have a prominent role in the new trilogy and there was a potential for the first LGBT relationship in Star Wars. But no, it’s clear that both TLJ and TROS gave us the impression that only white people can be Jedi and save the galaxy, people of color can only have secondary roles. And the blink and you miss it kiss? Only white women, not two men of color who clearly love each other.

Finn deserved to be a main character alongside Rey and Ben. He deserved a good character development, a great arc, an interesting backstory. he had the potential to become one of the most epic star wars characters. TLJ and TROS was an insult for him and he deserved better. nobody will EVER change my mind.

Finn should have been a Stormtrooper turned Jedi.  It doesn’t matter that you think it tells a better story for him to not be a Jedi. “Finn being a hero who is not a Jedi is important.” Poe and Rose are great examples of ordinary heroes coming from nowhere. Rey was supposed to be a jedi related to Skywalker or Kenobi legacy while Finn was the perfect "nobody from nowhere" that becomes a Jedi. And honestly, Black kids deserved to see themselves in the Black Jedi and black kids deserved to see themselves as one of the three protagonists of the trilogy.

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (155/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: This story takes place about 1000 years before 66 years after the events of Dragon Ball Z.

Hey, it’s the Hero Lab!

[1 July, Age 726.    Planet Plant.]

The latest reports from the frontlines were very encouraging.    The Tuffles were a stubborn enemy, but the Saiyans had managed to drive them out of the north quarter of Orange City, while the Truffle pushback in Cidertown had slowed to a virtual standstill.   Nappa smiled as he laid the report down and enjoyed the view from his new penthouse.    The blood of the previous owner still stained the walls and floors, but he rather enjoyed the scent of dead Tuffles.   It gave the place some much-needed personality.    

"You seem to be in a good mood today."  

Nappa looked up from the balcony and spotted a young Saiyan floating overhead.    He didn't recognize the man, but judged him to be part-alien from the color of his hair and the strange clothes that he wore.    He looked more like a Tuffle than a Saiyan, but the scent was proof enough that he wasn't Nappa's enemy.    Whatever the young man's parentage, his blood was nothing like the kind that decorated his new home.    

"Why wouldn't I be happy?" Nappa asked.   His thin mustache framed his smile as he crossed his arms over his massive chest.    "The Tuffles have been lording over us for years, and now we're finally taking over this planet, just as easily as I took over this apartment.    Before long, the Tuffles will be the ones begging us to let them stay on Planet Plant."

"I guess you're right," the man said.   "At least until someone stronger comes along and takes it all away from you."

"I like you, kid," Nappa said with a gravely laugh.    "You sure do know how to tell a joke.   What brings you here?"

"I had some questions," he said as he alighted on the balcony.  "I need information, and I heard you knew my father, so I thought I'd start with you."

Nappa eyed the man suspiciously.    "I know a lot of fathers," he said.   "None of them wore long black coats, or carried a sword, though.    What's your dad's name, kid?"  

"Vegeta," he said.  

Nappa laughed.    Then he looked at the young man more carefully, doing his best to ignore the blue eyes and the lavender hair that hung around his face.   Then he laughed harder.  

"Something funny about that?" the man asked.    

"I do see a bit of a resemblance," Nappa said.   "Guess King Vegeta II had a few 'unofficial' heirs over the years, huh?   Who knew he had it in him?   So which is it?   You want to blackmail the royal family?    Or were you hoping they'd give you a cushy civil service job?"

"Nothing like that," the man said.   "I just wanted to ask you some questions.    Nothing personal, just general background stuff."

"Yeah?  Well why should I help you?" Nappa asked.    "For that matter, killing you would probably be a smarter play.    One less would-be usurper for the king to worry about, right?  I’m sure your old man would make it worth my while."

"Oh, I probably should have been more specific," the young man said.    "My father isn't Vegeta the Second.    It's Vegeta the Fourth."    

Nappa gave him a sidelong glance.    "There is no Vegeta IV," he said warily.  

"Not yet, anyway," the man said with a knowing smile.  

"That's it, I don't know what your game is, punk, but I'm through playing!" Nappa said.    "You can tell your lies in hell!"  

He drew back his arm and threw a punch that would have killed most Saiyans on contact.    Nappa had made a name for himself on the battlefield for defeating entire companies of Tuffle mechatroops all by himself.    He fully expected to turn the young man's head into a cloud of red mist.    

Instead, the man blocked his strike with such incredible speed that Nappa couldn't even tell that he had moved.   In one instant, the man had been standing with his hands in his pockets.    And then in the next, the man was now gripping Nappa's palm with his thumb and index finger.    He squeezed slightly, and Nappa nearly dropped to his knees from the pain.    

"Nnnghhh!" was the noise he made as he struggled not to show how much it hurt.   His free hand reached up for his scalp, where he tugged at the tuft of thick black hair on his head.

"Look, let's cut to the chase, all right?   For you, this'll only take a few minutes, but I might be doing these interviews all night, so don't waste my time, okay?   Those Tuffles you're fighting might be pushovers, but I'm not.    So now that you know that you can't brute force your way out of this, what'll it be?"

He released Nappa's hand, and Nappa gasped with relief as he cradled it in his other palm.   He stared at his hands for a moment, then at the man.   Then he paused to consider the sword, and how much worse it would get if the young man decided to make use of it.    

"Heh.   Uh, yeah, sorry, Your Majesty.   I-I should have recognized you sooner.    Anything you want, just let me know, Prince... uh... Prince... What'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't," he replied.  "So, let's start with a simple one.    Have you ever heard of a Saiyan named Luffa?"

*******

[1 December Age 893, Earth.]

"Honestly, I didn't expect him to know Luffa.    Nappa didn't recognize her when she faced him on a Time Patrol mission, but he did fill me in on a few things."

By Age 889, the arcade game Super Dragon Ball Heroes had become a popular pastime, and the city of Hero Town became the global headquarters for the craze.    Gaming enthusiasts from around the world traveled to Hero Town to partake in the game, which was based upon actual events from the previous century.   Trunks had logged many hours in front of an SDBH cabinet, though his reasons had nothing to do with recreation.   For all its popularity, the game had a very strange secret.    It was the Capsule Corporation who developed the software, but the world within the game was actually made possible by the Time Patrol.   Deep beneath Hero Tower was the Hero Lab, where the Time Patrol occasionally conducted secret research and reconnaissance.  

"I don't get it, Master," said a teenage girl standing near one of the main computer terminals that surrounded nearly every surface of the Hero Lab.    "You formed the Dragon Ball Heroes Team to help you defeat Sealas, right?   So why didn't you come to us on this Towa situation?"

"Note's right, Trunks!" said a teenage boy eating mochi from a bag.  "I'm Goku's descendant, after all!   It's not fair to leave me out of a case like this."

Trunks deactivated the Hero Switch device and handed it to Anne, one of the scientists who maintained the lab.    His black trenchcoat and sword hung next to several labcoats on a metal rack in the corner, revealing the olive-green sweater he wore underneath.   He smiled at Note and Beat, and then Dr. Leggings, the project director of the Hero Lab, who was programming the next simulation.

"I understand where you're coming from, kids," Trunks said, "and I appreciate the offer, but it's not that simple."  

"Why not?" Beat asked.   "From what you've told us, Luffa's a Saiyan, right?   If that's all you needed, then I could have tackled these missions for you.  I'm a Saiyan, too."

"Oh, here we go..." Note grumbled.  She made sure to roll her eyes dramatically enough for everyone in the room to see.

"What?" Beat asked.    "It's true, isn't it?"

"Beat, even I have Saiyan ancestry," Dr. Leggings said without looking up from her computer terminal.   "After a hundred and thirty years of Saiyans living on Earth, it's not as uncommon as you might think."

"She's right," Trunks said.   "We have a lot of Saiyan-Earthling Time Patrollers back in Toki Toki City from the next century.   A few of the stranger ones call me 'Your Highness', but I try not to hold it against them.      Besides, if all I cared about was Saiyan blood, I'd go to my father for help.   So that's not why I recruited you, or Luffa, for that matter."

"Then why did you recruit Luffa instead of coming to us?" Beat asked.  

"Listen,” Trunks said.   “In my timeline, No. 17 and 18 had destroyed much of the world.   Son Gohan was the only Z-fighter left, and he was reluctant to train me.    He needed the help, but he was worried about me getting hurt.    I think eventually he decided he didn't have a choice.    He knew that if anything happened to him, there would have been no one else to defeat the Cyborgs.   But now I understand how his reluctance.    After he... well.... Later on, when I was on my own, I was determined to defeat them alone.   I wanted no part of my mother's plan to use her Time Machine to get help from Goku."

"But, Master, if you hadn't gone back in time," Note said, then you never would have joined the Time Patrol, or formed the Dragon Ball Heroes Team!"

"Exactly," Trunks said.    "Working with Goku and his friends in the past, I learned how valuable it can be to have allies.   It's not just about having extra hands to help with the hard work.   You can learn from each new friend you make.    And they can learn from you, as well.    I think that's why the Supreme Kai of Time created the Time Patrol in the first place.  So it wouldn't be right to keep turning to the same handful of allies every time.  Besides, I need you guys here, keeping an eye on things in Hero Town."

"Well, yeah," Beat said.   "I guess that makes sense.   But it's been so dull around here lately."

"Tell you what," Trunks offered.   "Once things settle down in Toki Toki City, I'll pull a few strings, maybe bring you guys in on a Time Patrol mission.   How's that sound?"

"Really?!" Note cheered.   She jumped into the air and kicked her heels behind her with excitement.    

"Awesome!" Beat said.  

"Don't get too carried away," Trunks said.    "I can't make any promises.   Ultimately, it's up to the Supreme Kai of Time.    But I think we can manage something."    

"I think we're ready for the next session, sir," Leggings said.   "Assuming these coordinates you gave us are valid.   Are you sure we can trust Nappa?"

"She's right, Master," Note added.    "He's bad news.   Just because you're stronger than he is doesn't mean he would have had any reason to tell you the truth."

"Which is exactly why I'm using Hero Lab to access the game world instead of traveling back in time," Trunks explained.   "Our research teams back in Toki Toki City are constantly using time machines to observe historical events, but they can't interact with anything or ask questions, because it might alter history."

"But the SDBH game is a simulation based upon the Scroll of Eternity itself," Dr. Leggings said.    "Meaning it's a nearly perfect copy of the real world, one that you can tamper with and not have to worry about permanently changing anything."

"Of course!" Note said.   "It's like how Sealas used the game to learn what changes he could make to alter history.   He used the game like a practice run for the real thing."

"Only, instead of changing the way things happened in the past," Beat said, "you're using the game to find out how things are supposed to have turned out.   But how does that help you learn anything about Luffa?"

"I asked Shenron to bring me a powerful ally," Trunks said.    "I should have been more specific about the wish, but I was kind of desperate for the help.   Shenron sent me Luffa, but she had no idea what was going on, and neither of us knows how to get her back where she came from.   She talked to one of our historians, and it's starting to sound like she's from some other part of the universe, or maybe from another timeline.   But wherever she's from, she's still a Saiyan, and not a descendant of Goku or Vegeta, like we are.    So I think if I go far enough into the past, I'll find some historical information we have in common, and maybe I can follow that thread back to her home."

"Phew!" Beat said.   "That sounds like a lot of work!  I'm worn out just thinking about it."

"You're not even doing anything," Note muttered.  

"There's no telling what kind of trouble I might run into in the simulated history," Trunks said.   Dr. Leggings has only ever run the simulation in a very narrow time range.   A few centuries at most.   I may end up taking the simulation into uncharted territory, and everything I know about Saiyans tells me that they had plenty of enemies to fight.    If things get hairy, I'll need some backup, and that's where you two come in.   I can't think of anyone better qualified than my two top students."

"Gosh...!" Note said.

"Yeah!  Now you're talking!" Beat cheered.    

Anne handed the Hero Switch back to Trunks.   The device was a powerful computer, but it looked like a black bracelet covered in glowing blue lights and a Capsule Corp. logo.   Trunks placed it onto his right wrist and prepared to activate it.  

"In the game world," he said, "Nappa told me that "Saiya" was a name for several planets colonized by Saiyans throughout history.   The most recent one was destroyed around four hundred years ago.    Hopefully, someone there will know more about King Rehval, or the Camelian Empire, or this Planet Nagaoka that Luffa once mentioned."

"What if they don't know, sir?" Anne asked.  

"Then I'll have to keep traveling backward until I find someone who does," Trunks said.   "Wish me luck."

"Wait, Trunks, one more thing before you go!" Dr. Leggings said urgently.

"Huh?   What's wrong?" Trunks asked.    He held up the Hero Switch on his wrist and pointed at it.   "Everything looks good on this end."

"It's just... are you sure you don't want to wear the Great Saiyaman 3 outfit for this mission?" she asked.  

"I'm positive," Trunks said.   Before anyone could object, he activated the bracelet, and vanished into the game world.    

*******

[12 May, Age 513.    Planet Saiya.]

"You picked a fine time to ask about the weather, stranger."

The Saiyan’s name was Reeque, and Trunks had no idea how old she was.   The small settlement he found on Saiya was it's largest population center, and they directed him to an old hag who lived in the wastelands.   Trunks found her easily enough, but then the blood-wraiths attacked, and they had to take their conversation on the run.   Powerful as Trunks was, his technology and ki were useless against the intangible creatures, and Reeque's warnings were enough to convince him that he should keep his distance.    

"They become solid every seven months," Reeque told him.   "Then we pay them back a thousandfold, but in the meantime, we run and hide until dawn.    They say the storms left them behind, but I doubt that.   Not even Luffa would be so cruel."

She carried a walking stick carved from some gnarled length of driftwood, but Trunks was impressed with how swiftly she crossed the rough terrain.    Her dark red robes flapped behind her back like the wings of some great ugly hawk.    

"I apologize for not making myself clear, ma'am," Trunks said as he hopped over a rock.    "The Luffa I asked about is a Saiyan, not a storm system."

"Well that's perfectly clear to me, boy," Reeque said, "but it doesn't change the fact that you're mistaken.   Only Luffa I've ever heard of is the one my great grandmother told me about.     Wiped out the entire Kingdom of Saiya in a single day.   The smart ones fled while they could.   The rest stayed, but only the hardiest few survived.   The environment here was harsh before Luffa, and it only got worse from there.    Without the supplies from allied worlds... well, you learn to savor the taste of roast blood-wraith."

"Then where did the Saiyans go when they abandoned this planet?" Trunks asked.

"Hell," Reeque said.   "If there's any justice, they went to hell.  Otherwise they scattered across the galaxy.     There was a kingdom on Sadala, but my life wouldn't be worth a zinc coin on that forsaken place.   My parents were banished, and they joined the usurper kings during the civil wars.    Fifty years ago, they tried to rebuild Saiya, like the name alone would restore their fortunes.   But there's nothing left here.  Nothing but blood-wraiths and ruin."

None of this was surprising to Trunks, since Nappa had told him this planet would eventually be destroyed altogether.   He had tried to arrive on Saiya well before that day, but it seemed like the destruction of Saiya had been set into motion long before whatever warrior finally put it out of its misery.

"And King Rehval?" Trunks asked.    "What became of him?"

"Why should you care, boy?" Reeque asked.    "You've come a long way in search of the dead."

"I think he's my ancestor," Trunks said.    "I, uh, I'm trying to settle a dowry on another planet, and they're very interested in genealogies."

"Social climber, huh?" Reeque said.   "Well, I can't help you with that.   Anything else you wanted to know?"

"The Camelian Empire," Trunks said.   "Do you know where I can find it?   I don't need exact coordinates, just a general idea will do.  Er, is something wrong, ma'am?"

She began to make a sort of rhythmic coughing sound from her throat, and Trunks eventually figured out that it was laughter.    "You're an amusing fellow," Reeque finally said.   "When I saw that purple hair of yours, I thought I might be seeing things, but my imagination isn't wild enough to dream up such silly questions.   Oh, I've spent countless nights like this one, running from bloodwraiths, but I think I'll remember tonight for a long time to come."  

"Then you can't tell me about Camelia either," Trunks said.    

"There's nothing to tell, boy," Reeque said with a rasping chuckle.    "The Camelian Empire fell more than three hundred years ago!"

*******

[23 February, 238 Before Age.    Chai I.]

"The ‘Super Saiyan’?   Now what in the world is that, Trunks?"

"It's a legend I heard when I was a boy," Trunks said.   "According to my father, once every thousand years, there's a Saiyan who surpasses the limits of what Saiyans can do.   They're considered the ultimate warriors.   Powerful, invincible, and with an insatiable craving for battle."

Rehval III considered this tale for a moment while admiring the bouquet of his wine.   At last, he took a sip from his glass, and sampled a bite of his fish entree.  Trunks waited patiently at the other side of the table.   The restaurant looked fancier than any Trunks had ever seen on Earth, in any century.   And this was merely a section of a minor administrative building in the Camelian capitol.      

"I'll be blunt, Trunks,” Rehval finally said.    “You seem like the kind of man who likes to get to the point, so I won’t keep you in suspense.   I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I see," Trunks said.    

"Do you believe in this legend yourself?" Rehval asked.  

"No," Trunks said after a pause.  "In my experience there's no such thing as an invincible warrior.  There are extraordinary Saiyans, but not necessarily one every thousand years.    There could be two or three, or a hundred, or none at all."

"I'll tell you what I think," Rehval said.   "I have heard tall tales of ancient Saiyan heroes.   Chanisp was said to have lived about a thousand years ago.    For all I know, they've been saying "a thousand years ago" for centuries.   I mean, a year ago, was anyone saying Chanisp lived 'nine-hundred and ninety-nine years ago'?   Of course not.   The round numbers make for better storytelling, but I deal in precision."  

Rehval paused his meal to point at a gold watch on his left wrist.    "My summit with the Camelian Imperial College begins in three hours and twenty-two minutes, Trunks.   I can't afford to offend the Camelians by rounding up.    Time can be a strict mistress."

"I take your point," Trunks said.    "And I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."  

"Not at all," Rehval said.   "There aren't many Saiyans in this part of the galaxy, besides common raiders, I mean.   And you're a man of unusual manners and poise, Trunks.   You're exactly the sort of citizen I want in the Kingdom of Saiya.    I think you'd find life very prosperous under my rule."

"I am... interested in hearing more," Trunks said.    "Let's put it that way."

"Well, then, it's a good thing you found me during this gap in my schedule," Rehval said.    "I have all afternoon to convince you to come home with me."

Trunks smiled as though amused by his remark.    In fact, this had been his third attempt to speak with King Rehval III.   An earlier visit to the Camelian capital world gave him access to important diplomatic records, which showed him the exact date and time of an official visit by the Saiyan King.    Trunks found him on the first try, but he was too busy to talk.    Trunks reset the game world simulation and tried again, approaching Rehval three hours earlier, but wasn't able to catch the man's interest.    This time, he figured out that the key to Rehval's attention was to show interest in joining his cause.   Rehval’s Kingdom was the most powerful Saiyan faction in this era, but his subjects made up less than half of the Saiyan population, and Rehval was very keen on getting more Saiyans to rally to his flag.     Even half-aliens like Trunks were welcome, apparently.    

"Where did you say your mother was from?" Rehval asked.    Trunks was pretty sure Rehval had aims for establishing diplomatic ties with Earth, even if he had no idea where it was or if it was worth his time.

"The Yajirobe System," Trunks lied.  "It's pretty far off the beaten path.     But what were you saying about Chanisp?"

"Well, there are lower classes in every society, Trunks," Rehval explained.   "It's not something Saiyans think about much, but other civilizations have demonstrated it time and time again.    The problem is that, in disorganized societies, these lesser citizens don't understand that they have a duty to follow their betters.    And so, in their confusion, they turn to superstitions."

"Go on..." Trunks said.    He took a bite of his salad and chewed thoroughly.  

"They say Chanisp defeated a mighty demon and liberated the entire Saiyan race from slavery.    Did it actually happen?    Maybe.   Was he one of your father's 'Super Saiyans'?    He might have been.   How does any of that prove that there should be another one like him ten centuries later?   Oh, and the cycle just happens to reset in the present day.   So the tale expects us to believe that, at any moment, any one of us might miraculously transform into an invincible, demon-slaying superhero.   How convenient."  

"Well, when you put it that way..." Trunks said.    

"I'm not one to brag, Trunks, but as far as I know, the strongest Saiyan alive is sitting across the table from you.   That's not a challenge, or a demand for respect, just a statement of fact.   I'd have to be stronger to be the king, or I wouldn't be the king for very long, now would I?"

"Makes sense to me," Trunks lied again.   

He only brought up the legend to gain historical context.   Rehval seemed to enjoy discussing it, so that worked to Trunks’ favor, but what he had truly wanted to know was whether Rehval had heard of a golden-haired cryptid running amok in the galaxy.   He had not, which meant that there had been no Super Saiyan in this era, or that the Super Saiyan hadn’t appeared yet. 

"These legends are just stories people invent to convince themselves that there's a way out of their reality.     When the thousandth year passes, they move the goalpost, or invent a new story to replace the old.   'Oh, the Super Saiyan is real, he's just invisible and working in secret, but he really is here to help us all.'   That sort of thing."

"And that's why you're pursuing diplomatic ties with Camelia," Trunks concluded.  "You can't afford to wait for a messiah."

"The Saiyans are at a crossroads, Trunks," Rehval said.    "If our race is going to survive, we need to follow the same well-tread path as the Camelian Empire.    Statecraft.   National unity.   It's not as romantic as your father's legend, but it works.    It's a path that leads to prosperity.    If we all unite as one kingdom, under one law, then we grow stronger as a people.   That means forming alliances, brokering treaties, and all the other minutiae that goes with it."

"Well, this has been a very interesting discussion, but I'm afraid I need to get going," Trunks said.   He stood up from his chair and gestured to the waiter to bring his coat and sword.    "It's been a pleasure, Your Majesty."

"Wait," Rehval said.   "I thought you wanted to hear more about Planet Saiya.   The great society that I'm building there.   I'd like you to be a part of that society, Trunks."

"I'm sure you would," Trunks said as he put his arms through the sleeves of his coat.    "But I've already seen how Saiya turns out, and I'm already a part of the society you envisioned.   What's left of it, anyway."

"I don't understand."

"It's simple.   Your vision isn't all that visionary, Rehval.   No matter how strong you think you are, there's always someone stronger who'll come along to challenge you.   That's not a leader, that's a gunfighter daring someone to come along and defeat him.   I've grew up in a world ruled by strength alone, and you're half-right.   It is a well-worn path, but it doesn't lead to prosperity."

"What do mean you've already seen Saiya?" Rehval asked.   "Who are you?"

Trunks activated the bracelet on his arm, and vanished from the game world.    The simulated Rehval who existed within it was left with more questions than answers, though he would not ponder them for long.    Soon enough, the simulation would be refreshed, and he would have no memory of this encounter.

NEXT: Burning Questions

[aion-rsa]

Endeavour Theory: Has Morse Already Crossed Paths With Nemesis Hugo de Vries?

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Warning: contains spoilers for Endeavour Series 7 and Inspector Morse episode ‘Masonic Mysteries’.

There’s a beauty to mystery that could hardly be lost on fans of Endeavour, a series with playfulness in its bones, as evidenced by its regular tips of the hat to pop culture and Morse creator Colin Dexter. The show’s viewers understand that ambiguities deliberately positioned as such should be allowed to stand, unaccosted by any fun-sucking need for certainty. We’re not here to unweave rainbows or clip angel wings.  

That said, Endeavour does love a game, and its fans love to play along. So while appreciating that some things are destined to rightly remain in the hazy hinterland of maybe, let’s play. The name of this game? Find Hugo de Vries!

Played by Ian McDiarmid in Inspector Morse Series 4 episode ‘Masonic Mysteries’ (1990), Hugo de Vries is a fan-favourite villain in the world of Morse. Erudite and cultured with a love of classical music, he has much in common with the detective, as is fitting for any two nemeses. A great difference of course, is that de Vries is a diabolical killer utterly without conscience. 

Ian McDiarmid as Hugo de Vries in Inspector Morse Series 4 episode ‘Masonic Mysteries’

In de Vries’ one and only Inspector Morse appearance, Morse finds himself framed for the murder of a woman from his choir, which is staging a production of Mozart’s The Magic Flute. After the murder, Morse finds almost £100,000 transferred to his bank account from the charity administrated by the victim. Morse’s personal file on the police computer is hacked to insert a fictional past event in which he supposedly attacked a woman, and his guvnor – McNutt at the time – covered it up. His home is set on fire, he’s pulled over and breathalysed after an anonymous complaint is made about his erratic driving, his Jag is vandalised with masonic symbols and McNutt’s dead body is discovered in his bathroom. All of it, realises an increasingly unhinged Morse, is the work of de Vries, who’s borne a grudge against Morse since his sergeant days.

Endeavour being the story of those very days, Inspector Morse fans have been watching the prequel closely for a cameo by the younger Hugo de Vries. After another ‘Masonic Mysteries’ character, Marion Brooke, turned up in Series 3’s ‘Arcadia’, Endeavour writer Russell Lewis was asked in this 2017 interview whether Endeavour would one day bump into de Vries. Lewis replied, “Each thing in its season. I shouldn’t be surprised to see him sooner or later.”

Jump forward four years to a post-Series Eight finale exchange on Twitter when Lewis is asked the same question. The writer’s answer this time is more playful. “Ah, Hugo. Who can say if he hasn’t already crossed our path? He might well have done, of course. On the other hand… ‘Now you see him, now you don’t. That’s de Vries all right’.”

Ryan Gage as Ludo Talenti in Endeavour Series 7

In the spirit of investigation, let’s assess the evidence. Is Lewis just teasing or has Hugo de Vries already crossed our path in Endeavour, namely in the form of Ryan Gage’s Series Seven villain Ludo Talenti?

That name alone may contain all the clue we need. Not only do Hugo and Ludo bear more than a glancing resemblance, but the latter in Latin is the first person of the verb ‘to play’. ‘I play… many talents’ would be an inelegant translation. A better one might include the possible allusion to Patricia Highsmith’s famous conman Tom Ripley, given the epithet ‘Talented’ in his first appearance. Like Ripley, both Hugo and Ludo are master manipulators who charm and inveigle their way to wealth, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. 

To jog the memory, Ludo recurred throughout Series Seven, initially presenting himself as a university contemporary of Morse’s who ran into him after Morse’s wallet was lifted at a garden concert (almost certainly a ruse designed to engineer the ‘accidental’ meeting). Ludo befriended Morse and the pair bonded over a shared love of opera. Ludo’s family is in shipping, he tells Morse, and he travels around raising money for their charitable fund, driven by a pursuit of music and beautiful women. 

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When Morse asks him which country he’s from, Ludo is coy, preferring to say he is a “man of the world.” He later tells a childhood story about life during Nazi occupation, which throws up various suggestions but like so much Ludo says, that could well be fiction. For what it’s worth, the saying he cites as from his country, “Do not praise a day before sunset,” is Polish. And what of Hugo de Vries’ nationality? Ian McDiarmid’s accent in ‘Masonic Mysteries’ is difficult to place, though the name is Dutch (borrowed from a famous botanist), and he faked his death in prison in Sweden. (Ludo incidentally tells Morse that he posed as a Swedish policeman on the phone once to track the detective down.) Ludo’s name, it’s revealed in the Series 7 finale, was taken from the gravestone of a 16th century priest on Venice’s San Michele cemetery island.

Ludo Talenti’s priest namesake revealed in Endeavour’s Series 7 finale

To tot up the similarities so far, that’s two criminals, of indiscriminate European origin, around Morse’s age, fluent in the language of classical music and opera, living under assumed names. Both also share a snobbish disdain for the police. Ludo expressed surprise that a man as cultured as Morse would be “a lumpen, plodding petty official” while Hugo sneered at Morse’s colleagues going about in pairs “like low comedians.” They also share a similarly rarefied, Bond Villain-ish way of speaking (Every man has his price, every man, I shall make it my life’s business to find yours,”), and express the same nihilistic attitude. “Life, death, rich, poor, it’s all a roll of the dice, Morse, there’s no reason to any of it,” says Ludo, foreshadowing Hugo’s words when he forces Morse to his knees at gunpoint in ‘Masonic Mysteries’. “He was clever, you see,” Inspector Morse tells Lewis in that episode, “he took one look and knew your weakness right away.” In Series 7, Ludo jokes to Morse that he will find his weakness and exploit it without mercy to his own ends.

What else? The nature of their crimes. In ‘Masonic Mysteries’ Morse tells Lewis that his past encounter with de Vries saw him con Oxford University out of millions of pounds. His scam had a kind of poetry to it – posing as the heir to a Swedish armaments manufacturer, de Vries proposed the building of an institute for peace studies. His later scheme involved stealing money from Marion Brooke’s charitable foundation to frame Morse. 

Paperwork from Ludo’s life insurance policy scam. Note the signature.

Ludo’s Series 7 scheme was less poetic, but of a similar flavour. He bought up life insurance policies of people looking for a quick pay out, killed them, cashed in, and disguised the deaths as freak accidents. One such victim was poor Carrie Bright, the cancer-suffering wife of ACC Bright. (In a rather baroque twist, the initials of the locations for each murder spelled out the name L.U.D.O.). Both men wore disguises to do their evil work – de Vries posed as a homeless man to murder Morse’s former guvnor McNutt, and Talenti posed as a healer to gain access to the Bright home and sabotage their Christmas lights, causing Mrs Bright’s death by electrocution. Note in the image above the name of the Executive Director of Ludo’s fake company ‘California Amenity Redemption and Disbursement’ (or C.A.R.D, perhaps another game-play reference…) in the signature on one of his victim’s letters: E. De Vere?

Hugo and Ludo didn’t work alone on their devilish schemes, they each had a female accomplice. Hugo’s was the aforementioned Marion Brooke, a devotee who shared his revenge obsession (Hugo’s the kind of man who makes women kick off their shoes and men open their chequebooks when he enters a room, Morse once told Lewis). Ludo’s was Violetta (played by Stephanie Leonidas), who started a passionate affair with Morse during his holiday in Venice. In the Series 7 denouement, Ludo says that he picked Violetta from the streets when she was 15 years old and “gave her the world,” forcing her to become his co-conspirator in the life insurance murders and the plan to make Morse his “pet policeman”. 

On the subject of having police officers in your pocket, Hugo de Vries’ association with Morse’s longstanding adversaries the Masons mustn’t be forgotten. De Vries taunted Morse with his masonic connections, through Mozart’s freemason-themed opera The Magic Flute. There’s no evidence that Ludo Talenti was involved with the freemasons yet, but Endeavour viewers know that they’re in full operation in Oxford at the time. 

Endeavour Morse attends ‘The Demon’s Wife’ opera in Venice

Endeavour and Violetta met at a performance of ‘La Sposa del Demonio’ in Venice, an operatic work by Endeavour composer Matthew Slater, which translates fittingly as ‘The Demon’s Wife’. Demons come up a great deal around Talenti and de Vries. “There speaks a devil sick of sin,” Ludo says to Endeavour. “There may not be a devil, but there’s devilry alright, and de Vries…” says Inspector Morse, walking away from Hugo’s burial and doubting whether or not he’s really in the coffin. (De Vries’ name, cryptic crossword fans can’t ignore, shares its first three letters with ‘devil’). And perhaps it just suited his complexion, but Ludo wears deep red numerous times in Series 7, perhaps in echo to de Vries’ burgundy shirt in his sole appearance. 

Speaking of that Venetian denouement, did Ludo not die after being shot by Fred Thursday and falling into a canal, putting the kibosh on the ‘Ludo is Hugo’ theory? Well, he was certainly shot, and he certainly did fall into the canal, but did he die, or did that devil live to return and torment Morse under a new name in future adventures? You’ve heard the evidence. What’s your verdict?

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Endeavour Series 8 is available to stream on ITV Hub and Britbox.

The post Endeavour Theory: Has Morse Already Crossed Paths With Nemesis Hugo de Vries? appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[popwasabi]

Why I don’t give a fuck about canon

Recently, after randomly coming across some dope pictures of Transformer toys on Instagram that gave me a strong case of nostalgia, I was inspired to revisit an old childhood favorite in “Beast Wars.”

“Beast Wars,” in case you never watched or heard of it as a kid, is the continuation of the Transformer’s story set in the future as descendants of the Auotobots and Decepticons, the Maximals and Predacons, respectively, accidentally travel to prehistoric Earth to continue a centuries long battle between the two opposing factions.

There’s a lot of to digest there, so I’m not going to go into extreme detail over the plot, but the cast features colorful characters such as Optimus Primal, Cheetor, Rattrap, Dinobot and Megatron to name a few. They all have interesting and distinct personalities and generally play well off each other. It was a big part of my childhood and I collected an ungodly amount of their toys back in the day.

(This was my first ever Beast Wars toy and I think it’s beautiful.)

My rewatch though was…a mixed bag to say the least. The graphics have not aged well. The adventure of the week setup of the plot was repetitive and lacked real character development at times. There were characters that were added in last minute to the show clearly to promote a new action figure over the story on numerous occasions. Though I found the humor to still be pretty good, the action was stale and just lacked high stakes most of the time, save for a few episodes.

I was not shocked it didn’t land terribly well on my rewatch but you know what did? “Beast Machines!”

“Beast Machines” was the follow-up to Beast Wars that had the Maximals fighting on Cybertron where Megatron has taken control of the whole planet using a virus that changes Transformers into mindless drones to do his bidding. The remaining Maximals manage to survive however after Optimus discovers The Oracle which reformats them into animal robot hybrids that are both mechanical and biological. This sets them on a quest to stop Megatron and bring biological and mechanical balance to Cybertron once and for all.

The series is much more narrative based than the previous as it follows a steady trajectory to its epic conclusion. The animation is much sharper, and the soundtrack is fun as hell to listen to still. The pacing is much faster as the stakes couldn’t be higher for the Maximals and all the old characters from the previous grow in interesting ways and develop into more organic people (literally in some ways). Optimus is a more hardcore and emotionally damaged leader and Megatron goes from being something of a punchline in the previous series to a far more menacing and calculating nemesis. The story touches on themes of balance, authoritarianism, PTSD, love and reunion to name a few and for a kids’ show it is, dare I say…more than meets the eye.

I absolutely loved it as a kid and I might actually love it even more as an adult, so it was shocking for me, to say the least, when I read further into the history of the show, that a lot of fans straight up rejected it back in the day.

Common complaints I came across were they didn’t like how characters, such as Ratrap especially, “changed.” They didn’t like the new bio/mechanical Maximals and couldn’t believe that Cybertron was once an organic world.

Their big reason (in just about every forum and video I saw about it)? It didn’t adhere to “canon.”

Now, I’ll start this by saying there is no objective way to critique or even not critique a story. People can like or hate something for a variety of reasons that don’t follow a strict logical pattern. Gods know I have a few questionable/divisive favorites in my catalogue that I have written about here that are based on abstract ideas and personal experiences.

(The Matrix Reloaded is still great btw)

But I will say, if you judge a mega franchise’s latest entry on how well it is supported by established canon it is, in my opinion, a flawed way to critique a work of fiction.

Canon, sometimes referred to as “lore” by fans, is most often applied and used to describe the long running back stories of franchises that stretch beyond just the main books, movies or series, or even the original narrative of the plot. Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, and to a certain extent Harry Potter, all fall into this camp of series with so many interconnected parts, with more than one main character featured in each, that fans follow along this canon like ancient monks studying scripture and history books.

And they can be just as fanatical and over zealous about it.

(I wish they were more fanatical about proper hygiene or at least deodorant...)

My problem with the ways fans often view canon is that their conceptions of what a new story should be is based entirely on the past rather than what is happening right now with the story and what themes the writer is trying express with it this time. 

They base their impressions of the story on external continuity more than the internal continuity.

Yea, the changes in a series like “Beast Machines” are jarring to say the least. Cybertron was formally an organic world like Earth? Rattrap doesn’t have confidence in himself and actually at one point sells out his comrades? Transformers can be biological now? It’s a lot to take in but when watching the story play out it’s not like these elements aren’t explained through the text of the new story.

Cybertron lost balance between its robot inhabitants and its biological life forms and its why it’s out of balance now, and Megatron is the logical progression of that inbalance. Rattrap is struggling to understand his new form, half his friends on the Maximals have been turned into drones, and the remaining team out loud say they don’t have confidence in him. He has PTSD from both the events of this story and the Beast Wars and feels insecure because of how others view him and that’s perfectly logical to not just the story but also the canon. If a fan is willing to give a story a chance they will see that the canon hasn’t actually been destroyed in much of any way and the logical progression is actually there if they simply listen to what’s going on.

(Seriously, it’s not that deep.)

Fans need to stop confusing a character achieving a franchise long arc with being “suddenly different.” In this way, criticisms of canon in new entries in long running series reveal that fans really just lack imagination to connect the dots. It would be like complaining that Luke Skywalker can’t become paranoid and make a grave mistake in judgment because people never change, nevermind the character already has changed a lot from his origins in “A New Hope” to where he was in “Return of the Jedi.”

(Oh wait, people did do that…)

But that’s not to say you have to like the new direction either. You can understand these changes and still be like “well, it’s not for me. I don’t care for a PSTD angle or a new origin for Cybertron,” but that’s whole lot different than saying the new series “rapes your childhood” or “Bastardizes the canon.” All the old canon you hold nostalgia for still exists. My love for “Beast Machines” is not harmed by the existence of newer Transformers properties that don’t meet what I look for in the series.

Too often, fans take changes to established “lore” very personally because it doesn’t fit their expectations or have the same nostalgic feelings they had before. When new entries in mega franchises occur fans often try to judge it by how much it is like what they watched before, rather what makes it different and what it is saying now. Again, you don’t have to like new directions in tone or character but consistency to established work DOES NOT equal good storytelling.

I have not been immune to this myself in the past, of course. Back in the day I wrote a 2500-plus word diatribe on “The Amazing Spider-man 2” that mostly went after how it changed the character I grew up with in a bad way and butchered the established back story I knew him by.

You know what other story doesn’t follow canon very well though? “Spider-man: Homecoming.”

(Now, hear me out...)

Spider-man in the MCU is generally agreed upon to be a good thing by fans. Both movies were big hits both critically and financially and fans often go as far as to say Tom Holland is the “definitive” Peter Parker. 

But Holland’s Spider-man differs quite a bit from the comic-book webslinger. This Spider-man does not have a spidey sense. His best friend is not Harry Osbourne but in fact a retcon of a Mile Morales character. His father figure is Tony Stark, something that never happened in the comics, instead of Uncle Ben, which no matter what way you spin it is arguably his most important relationship in the series.

His character is a reverse of traditional Peter Parker too. Where comics Peter is a reluctant hero, who if anything hates being Spider-man and the burden of his responsibility, “Homecoming” Spider-man actively seeks out responsibility and in many ways enjoys his role as the famous webslinger. In fact, his whole arc is about him earning a spot as an Avenger. He wants to be THE hero and be worthy of it. It’s completely different from what we know of Spider-man.

(He just wants Tony sempai to notice him uWu)

Now I know some fans actually do complain about this Spidey from a “canon” standpoint, but most don’t. So why did this Spider-man get a pass for many but not “The Amazing” one? Quite simply it’s because stories, as cheesy as it sounds, are about feelings and stories like “Homecoming” tell a good story that effectively make those feelings connect with the audience.

We root for this Peter Parker and his journey to becoming an Avenger and successor to Iron Man because the story is told well, the emotions feel earned, and frankly both films are fun and enjoyable.

It’s easy to complain about canon for many nerds because it’s something tangible that they can point to and make a big stink about when they don’t understand why a movie isn’t reaching them. I don’t doubt that many neckbeards genuinely hate a film like “The Last Jedi” (Hell, I’m not a big fan myself) but when those same nerds enjoy something like “The Mandalorian,” a series that has its own loose relationship with canon and establishing new rules in the series, it tells me it’s not about the “lore” to them.

(Easy, fanboys...)

I have come to understand, in my growth as a nerd, that my problems with a lot of movies and TV shows in my favorite series rarely, if ever, have anything to do with the story not meeting some arbitrary guidelines regarding canon. It has more to with the story simply not connecting with me emotionally. The story isn’t drawing me in and keeping me on its narrative path. I’m not feeling the same magic that someone else might feel enjoying it because either a) it doesn’t feel earned to me or b) it just stylistically isn’t for me.

To paraphrase a line from another mega franchise, also owned by Disney, the canon is more like guidelines than actual rules.

(Didn’t expect to see ol’ Barbosa in this write up, did ye?)

It can show you where a story comes from but it isn’t law that you strictly adhere to it. Of course, when writing a new work in a popular series you should consider what came before it but I would like writer’s the freedom to try something new and most importantly fans to be open to it. You don’t have to like it but the idea that new entries in a story MUST remain strict to the canon is bull shit. Not even the original Star Wars trilogy adhered to its own canon perfectly, as clearly the writers were in fact making it up to a certain extent as they were going along.

(hmmmm...)

And that’s ok, because some of those changes were great! Made the story better and made the conclusion stronger.

Again, you don’t have to like every new entry that tries something bold or confrontational in your favorite franchise but if writers strictly followed canon to the T we wouldn’t have things like “Homecoming,” we wouldn’t have “The Mandalorian,” and we certainly wouldn’t have my favorite Transformers series “Beast Machines.”

Canon shouldn’t be a trap for writers and it shouldn’t be a litmus test for fans digesting it. There are so many better ways to judge a story than whether or not it fits neatly into established lore. A good story is a good story, regardless of whether or not it’s supported by something as static as canon.

“Beast Machines” has its flaws here and there, but canon isn’t one of them, at least not for me. Again, if you feel that the lore is important, that’s fine, you don’t have to ignore it but I would ask you to look beyond what came before when critiquing a new story.

Otherwise, you might miss something special that comes next…

Now then... 

[wesleyhill]

The Throne, the Coal, and the Voice

A homily on Isaiah 6:1-8, Psalm 29, Romans 8:12-17, and John 3:1-17, preached at Trinity Cathedral, Pittsburgh, on Trinity Sunday 2021

“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.”

May I speak to you in the Name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

In the eighth century BC, in ancient Israel, in the kingdom of Judah, there was a king whose actions became a warning to subsequent generations to tremble with fear and awe in the presence of God.

The king’s name was Uzziah, and at first — like so many new rulers who take the reins of power aware of their deep need for wise counsel and due caution for their awesome task — Uzziah was humble. But, as Israel’s Chronicler records, “when he had become strong he grew proud, to his destruction” (2 Chronicles 26:16).

Contrary to the law of Moses, King Uzziah bypassed the priests and approached the incense altar in the temple to bear the censer himself. The priests objected and tried to intervene, but Uzziah forged ahead anyway. He scoffed at the priests who stood in his way, and just at that moment a skin disease broke out on his forehead, right there in front of the altar. Then the Chronicler tells us: “When the chief priest Azariah, and all the priests, looked at [Uzziah], he was leprous in his forehead. They hurried him out, and he himself hurried to get out, because the LORD had struck him” (26:20). And he remained so struck until the day he died.

Like every other story, no matter how seemingly bizarre, in the Old Testament, this is ultimately a story about God — about the sheer mysterious otherness of God. The God we meet in this story of King Uzziah’s folly is a God of power and glory who will not be approached flippantly or arrogantly: “he [scatters] the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He [brings] down the powerful from their thrones” (Luke 1:51-2). This God is holy — He is “set apart,” lofty and exalted, morally pure (whose “eyes are too pure to behold evil,” as one of Israel’s prophets says [Habakkuk 1:13]), resplendent and radiant with eternal life and light: in a word, transcendent. As the book of Hebrews in the New Testament tells us, “indeed our God is a consuming fire” (12:29).

In the year that the proud and reckless King Uzziah died, with the skin disease he received in the temple still spread across his forehead, one of Israel’s greatest prophets received a vision of this fiery, holy, transcendent God. Isaiah the prophet says: “In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.”

In the year that yet one more brash and arrogant human ruler passed away, his pride being no help at all against the inevitable forces of decay and death, Isaiah sees the God who remains unrivaled, sovereign, majestic, unchanging, impervious to the fleeting schemes of would-be usurpers.

No one can see this God and live, the Bible says, and yet somehow Isaiah is granted a vision of the LORD. He sees into the inner court of the heavenly temple: “I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.” And he sees fiery angelic creatures attending God’s throne: “Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew.” And Isaiah hears their voices calling out to each other like the pulsing of an earthquake:

“Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”

This chorus is so thunderous that Isaiah adds, “The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called, and the house filled with smoke.”

And just like so many other characters in the pages of the Bible who encounter God’s searing holiness, Isaiah’s first response to this heavenly vision is to be instantly aware of how unworthy he is — more than that, how doomed he is because of his impurity, his complicity in the evil of his nation. “Woe is me!” he cries. “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” It is not only King Uzziah who is guilty before God: it is Isaiah, and it is all the people of Judah — it is, in fact, all the world, including you and me. As we think of God’s radiant, fiery holiness, aren’t we instantly confronted with the wreckage of our lives? Aren’t we like Peter when he came face to face with Jesus’ divine power and said, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:9)?

“Woe is me!” If we were dealing with any other god, that would be the end of the story. Isaiah sees into the inner sanctum of God’s holy, fiery throne room, and he is undone by it. We are undone by it. But — contrary to all just deserts and all expected outcomes — that is not the end of this story.

Isaiah says that after he protested his unworthiness, “one of the seraphs flew to me, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched my mouth with it and said: ‘Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.’”

Rather than being obliterated by the blazing holiness of God’s life, Isaiah is touched and made pure by it himself, made to share in God’s radiant purity, with fire from the divine altar. The white heat of God’s holiness does not destroy Isaiah but delivers him instead. The coal taken from God’s presence does not consume Isaiah but cleanses him. The sacred fire that touches Isaiah’s lips does not abandon him in his guilt and sin but absolves him — sets him free to live and speak in trust and hope.

Alexander Pushkin, the celebrated nineteenth-century Russian poet, once wrote a poem about this scene from Isaiah, and he pictures the coal not only touching Isaiah’s lips but reaching into his innermost self:

[God] split my chest with a blade, Wrenched my heart from its hiding, And into the open wound Pressed a flaming coal. (Ted Hughes trans.)

This heart surgery, where the poet sees the winged seraph invading Isaiah’s life with the burning coal of God’s presence, is what the prophet Ezekiel foresaw when he prophesied: “A new heart I will give you [the LORD says to Israel], and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you” (Ezekiel 36:26-27). The flaming coal that Pushkin sees pressed into Isaiah’s heart is nothing other than what John the Baptist foresaw when he said about Jesus, “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Matthew 3:11). The LORD who is lofty and exalted, who inhabits eternity, draws near to us who are lost, ruined, guilty, mortal. He touches us, cleanses us, forgives us, burns away our sin, and makes our hearts aflame with life and love by the fiery presence of His Spirit, the One Whom we name in the Creed as “the Lord, the giver of life.”

After the coal has touched his lips, Isaiah says, “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I; send me!’” Isaiah is not only touched to the depth of his being by God’s cleansing fire; he also hears God speak. He hears God’s voice. And as the rest of his prophecy makes clear, that divine voice conveyed to him God’s Word for the people of God. God speaks and sends Isaiah as His prophet to deliver His Word to us who cannot live without it. “The voice of the LORD is a powerful voice; the voice of the LORD is a voice of splendor” (Psalm 29:4).

This Word that God gives to Isaiah to speak to the people of Judah is the same powerful Word by which God brought the universe into being. It is the same Word that was with God in the beginning, the Word Who was God. It is the same Word Who became flesh and lived among us, full of grace and truth. It is the same Word Who said, “The Father has sent me… God sent his Son into the world… that through him the world might be saved” (John 20:21; 3:17, NEB). That Word is the human being Jesus, God in human flesh, God’s voice for us, God’s self-communication, God’s ultimate self-revealing. And what He says to us is, “I absolve you. Your sins are forgiven. Peace be with you. Behold, I make all things new. Believe in Me.”

According to the writer of the Fourth Gospel, what Isaiah saw when he saw the LORD of Israel high on His throne, reaching out to sinful humanity with His cleansing fire, speaking to sinful humanity with His judging and saving Word — what Isaiah saw was none other than the glory of the God we know and worship and call out to as the Father, “the maker of heaven of earth,” who sent His eternal Word, Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord, to reconcile us to Himself, and the Holy Spirit, who pours God’s love into our hearts and by Whom we cry out, “Abba! Father!”: “Isaiah said [what he said] because he saw [Jesus’] glory and spoke about him” (8:41).

To Him, therefore, with the Father and the Spirit, one God in three Persons, be ascribed, as is most justly due, all might, dominion, majesty, and power, now and forever. Amen.