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cozycryptidcorner · 5 years ago

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Sarakh the Gallu

Commissioned by a lovely anonymous user who wanted to expand their monster match. I hope you all enjoy!

With the volume turned down on your speakers, you select a playlist, then make sure your hair is out of your face. Even though you are grateful for your internship, the amount of work the museum staff shovels on you is quickly growing, and the checklist you have to fill out and categorize is thickly stacked. The many boxes coming up from storage and shipped from neighboring galleries are placed about with no rhyme or reason, but it’s your job to make sure all the objects for an upcoming exhibition on Mesopotamian artifacts. Supposedly, everything is there, because the paid daytime personnel already gave it a lookover and signed off, but checking and double-checking seems to be your boss’ MO. Even though you are begrudging to approach a redundant task, he swore up and down that being able to do this will increase your chances of getting hired once you get that sweet, sweet degree.

A benefit from working past closing is that you can listen to music. Earphones? Strictly forbidden for workers, though you don’t know why. Still, you guess you aren’t really in a place to complain since you managed to snag such a coveted internship position... but come on. No customers are allowed back here, it’s not like you’re going to have to be ready to answer every question about a particular expressionist piece, but nope! Zero tolerance from upper management. Cool. So anyway, you turn on your playlist, softly mumbling along to the lyrics, bobbing your head to the beat.

Most of the boxes are filled with the decorations for the actual setup, and once you’re done making sure everything’s here, you’re also supposed to begin setting up the exhibition. Under no circumstances, though, are you allowed to go poking around the genuine artifacts. Still, you’re expected to place the plaques, the fakes, the pedestals, and the long, plastic boards covered in various information where they belong. You look over the diagram on a crumpled piece of paper, mouthing the lyrics of the accompanying music, and dig through the decorations until you find the one labeled ASHJ-123, then pin it in place.

Something thuds in the adjoining room.

Immediately, your anxiety spikes, but you try to calm yourself with some logic. One of the plaques probably fell down, or maybe a new security guard just bit the dust. You need to stop imagining the worst. Still, turning your music down just a bit, you step out to investigate. The area where you heard the noise is mostly finished, with the artifacts already out on display, the whole thing resembling a tomb. Props to the designers, too, because walking through during your late shifts always gives you this weird, eerie feeling, like you’re trespassing on sacred grounds.

As you near a corner, you see one of the coffins slightly ajar, which is odd. Indignation sparks inside your chest, because if someone is going around willy-nilly and touching the artifacts, you’re going to be the one who suffers for it. You aren’t even allowed to fix it, you don’t have the know-how or skill, so that means you’re going to have to report it immediately and hope it can wait until morning. Turning the camera app on, you lift your phone up, snapping a picture from three different sides, and send it to your manager with an angry huff.

More noises. You’re back on alert, phone gripped tightly in hand, and you predial 911, thumb hovering the call button. Along the wall, where a reconstructed archway is, there’s a warm, bluish glow, the cuneiform engraved in the stone pulsing with some kind of strange energy. Which… Okay, maybe the curator uncharacteristically wanted some special effects to spice things up? To make some sort of ‘appeal to the younger generation,’ as he has said before? You gulp, wondering what’s triggering it, if you’re alone, or maybe the crew is still here?

Someone steps out from behind a statue, and you scream.

In your hasty stress, though, instead of managing to hit the Call button with your shaking fingers, you end up dropping your phone onto the thinly carpeted floor. You try to pick it back up, eyes on whoever that is, trembling, hoping that the very tall, muscular, bearded man wearing- uh, you don’t know what those robes are- isn’t here to harm you. But you want that fucking phone in your hands just in case.

“Do not be afraid,” he says, voice remarkably calming, low, and soft, “I mean no harm to you.”

“So-sorry,” you gasp, trying to calm yourself, “I um- I thought I was alone.”

He nods once, then looks around the exhibit, his eyebrows scrunched and furrowed in concentration. Like he’s lost. His hair is long, dark, falling past his shoulders in perfectly crafted waves, his beard about the same length, perfectly coiled in long ringlets. It’s… definitely a look, that’s for sure, though you don’t know what exactly he’s going for. Six thousand years too late, maybe? Washed out Bible movie actor? Having a beard is one thing, but giving it those Shirly Temple curls is something else. Perhaps it’s some sort of new underground hipster trend you aren’t aware of.

Letting in a deep, calming breath, you rub your arms. “Are you lost? The museum is closed, you’re not supposed to be here.”

The man frowns, his eyes… weirdly glowing, you think, when he looks at you. “I wouldn’t be here unless I needed to be.”

Sass. Great. Instead of the cops, you’re already dialing up the number for the museum’s internal security. “No, really, if you don’t have a badge, you need to leave.”

Something tingles in the air, causing all your hair to stand on end. “I assure you,” the man says, calmly, “I would not be called to this place unless there was a task for me to accomplish.”

“Cool,” you say, hitting the call button and setting your phone to speaker mode, the wall behind you exploding before the security guard even has a chance to pick up. You didn’t even know that’s what happened until a few moments after, because your vision takes a moment to return, chunks of the exhibit spread out around the floor. There’s blood in your mouth, tiny pricks of heat pinch against your arms and back.

Shakily, you try to get your bearings, maybe to rise to your knees, and you notice the man is standing over you, facing something just over your shoulder, arms outstretched, eyes glowing with an intensity that sends shivers through your spine. Something cackles, loud, chittering, you don’t know what could make that sound, it’s like a wounded animal. Wheezing from the plaster dust, you reach over to where your phone fell, bringing back a horrifically cracked mess. Fuck. Frantically, with tears pricking the edges of your eyes, you tap on the screen and press the sleep button, but nothing happens.

The man steps around your body, you hear the sound of… smacking? Like cement against cement, the telltale crunch of something breaking vibrating through the space. You roll, flipping your body over, trying to scurry out of the line of fire. As you look around for a hiding spot, you finally catch a glimpse of what busted through the walls, and you gulp, because surely your eyes are playing tricks. This can’t be happening.

It’s like a shadow, black and shimmering, a thick, viscous fog devoid of any kind of color beyond to, glowing orbs on its seemingly fluid-like body, but then it splits in half, revealing a throbbing, drooling maw filled to the brink with needle-like teeth. And the man- the man is fighting it, arms glowing with some kind of warm, primordial energy that almost seems to match the color of his eyes? It’s like magma, orange, red, and yellow, oozing and melting together, and he’s wrapping the stuff around whatever that creature is like a lasso. It’s struggling, knocking over priceless fucking artifacts as it writhes, wriggles, and shrieks, your ears popping oddly against the desperate shrillness.

You don’t even have it in you to scream in fear, despite the fact you are deeply afraid, because you are currently focused on one thing: survival. There are no places for you to hide that you would trust not to get immediately smashed, so you’re focused solely on dodging the scuffle, your eyes focused on the fire alarm on the other side of the room, where the hallway that leads out of this dead end exhibit also is. With a careful gaze, you watch the fight, slowly picking your way around the chunks of wall plaster and brick, trying to call the least amount of attention to yourself as you do so.

Something swipes at the back of your head, leaving a thick, slimy trail in your hair. Already you’re planning on how long and hot the shower you’re going to take once you manage to get home, thousands of little, prickly snakes working their way through your nerves as you dodge another one of that thing’s tendrils. Gross, gross, gross, gross, you almost choke, stepping over a fallen pedestal, then make a run for the fire alarm, reaching out and pulling on the little lever harder than you need to.

Alarms start blaring, red flashing light pulsing at the ceiling. No water, though, this is a museum, after all, with priceless artifacts hung up against the walls, can you even imagine? But the sound seems to throw the creature off its rhythm, it folds in on itself and starts screaming, you have to cover your ears because you’re afraid you might go deaf. The man who might not be a man takes advantage of this little hiccup, smiting the creature with a bright, hot flash of energy bursting from his hands, and the damn thing melts, the screams fading into a muted sob, and you suddenly can’t help but feel pity for the little thing. It… it’s like it’s in pain.

You watch, sickly fascinated, as it folds in on itself, crumpling like a piece of thin paper, smaller, smaller, until it no longer seems to exist. There’s a soft, anticlimactic pop, and the shadow is gone, like it never existed. The only evidence that it had would be the, well, the leftover, decimated exhibit, pieces of priceless objects from thousands of years ago shattered and broken. You swallow, thickly, staring at the mess, and realize numbly that you’re probably going to be fired.

The man approaches where you stand, gasping and shaking with a jumble of emotions you don’t have time to place, and he reaches out his hand. Carefully, he looks over the area where that thing slimed you, a thick layer of black mucus clinging onto your skin for dear life. The messy thoughts in your head slowly manage to form a full sentence, and, gasping, you manage to choke out, “what was that thing?”

Sirens roar in the distance, but the man seems only mildly bothered by them, “a corrupted spirit. If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up just like that.”

Fear spikes through your system. “What?”

With a kind of calm that only works to annoy you, he says, “any living creature that the corrupted spirit marks are likely to become corrupt themselves. Come, my brothers and I should be able to cleanse you.”

“I’m sorry- go where? You’re over this already, there’s a layer of nervous sweat on your skin, and you’re afraid. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere with you.”

He lets out a huff of frustration, shaking his head. “Given the fact you aided in my victory- I am indebted to you. I must help your mortal health.”

The sirens grow closer. Rapidly, you shake your head, refusing the offer, downright suspicious of what it might mean. It’s just goop, you can probably get the damn stuff off with a bit of shampoo and hot water. Still, though, he’s insistent.

“It won’t happen overnight, but it will eventually overtake your heart and corrupt your spirit.” He holds his hand out. “You must accept my help if you would prefer remaining sane.”

You hear people calling your name, realizing dully that it must be the security guards. Numbly, you turn around, seeing their silhouettes in the stairway, running down with frantic desperation. You need to go to them, to tell them what happened- but you realize that no one is going to believe you. Letting in a soft, calming breath, you turn back to the man, brain trying to restart after being knocked around a few times. Even if what he says is true, can you really trust him to do as he claims? You can’t just run from a crime scene, that would make you suspect number one.

What reason would he have to lie, though? He just saved you from that thing, you don’t know how you would have managed to escape without those… fantastic… biceps. Rubbing your arms, you try to quickly weigh the pros and cons of following him, but someone grabs you, pulling you back from the mess, you can feel them looking over the bruises on your arm. Something solid pinches in your hand suddenly, and you look down, finding an unfamiliar coin in your palm. Slyly, you pocket the thing as you’re swarmed by a few rather concerned paramedics.

You get questioned by the police as someone bandages you, but you’re… well, unbelievably wary about telling the truth, so you forget to mention the presence of the man and the creature. Did you notice any odd smells? No. Did you see anyone? You heard noises and went to investigate. Do you know anyone who would do you harm? Not like this. Are you aware of any groups threatening the museum? No. It goes on like that for a while, and you have to put your information down so they can contact you as a witness to what they believe to be a terrorist attack.

A bomb, they decide, though they can’t seem to find any evidence beyond what appeared to be an actual explosion. Still, no shrapnel from a weapon, no traces of chemicals, and the wall clearly look like it was unceremoniously shoved through, rather than an evenly dispersed burst of energy. You can tell that one of the detectives think that you’re the one to do it, but of course, there’s no bomb, no evidence. Plus, you pulled the fire alarm, that’s a point in your basket.

The paramedics want you to get a once-over from a doctor, but you want to go home and shower. After you swear on your mom’s life that you’ll book an appointment shortly, after you reassure to your supervisor that you’re fine, you’re just tired, they book you an uber home, so you don’t have to drive. Once you get back, you go into a cleaning frenzy, stripping out of your dusty, plaster covered and slightly torn clothes, and spending about an hour in the shower, slightly hotter than you can tolerate, shampooing, reshampooing, conditioning, shampooing again.

You’re still shaking, even after wrapping yourself up in your biggest, fluffiest pampering towel, looking over your dirty clothes, trying to figure out what to do with them. A part of you wants to throw them away, forget the night, put the memories under lock and key, because it’s been a few hours and you’re not even sure if what you experienced was at all true, or if you imagined the entire thing in some sort of trauma-induced lucid dream. A glimmer flickers, the coin slipping out of your pocket, and you find yourself on the verge of crumbling.

Carefully, you pick it up, running your fingers over the golden inscription, biting your lower lip. This has to mean something, why else would it just… appear in your hand? You flick it against your thumb, sending it across the table, and then it disappears. Well, maybe it transforms, or summons, or you don’t fucking know, but the man is in your kitchen. The same man from the museum. In your kitchen. And you, you’re wearing nothing but a towel, so that’s just the cherry on top.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

He breaks eye contact first.

“I’m going to get dressed,” you say as calmly as you turn around, heading back to the bathroom, clothes in hand. You gave yourself some time to think about… well, that, working to put your pajamas as slowly as possible. When you reemerge, you take a long, huffy, exhausted breath, placing your hands on the kitchen counter as you try to fight for words. Finally, all you can imagine saying is, “would you like some tea?”

“If you would be so inclined.” He doesn’t seem to know what you’re talking about but accepts out of politeness.

You don’t care about the actual tea, though, but you are definitely thankful for the mindless work. Two mugs. Two teabags. If he doesn’t know what tea is, he’s not going to have a preference, right? The water heats up, and you have to take a moment, staring at the clock on your microwave, to think. Turning around, you look back to him and ask what exactly is on your mind. “Why are you here?”

“You still need to be cleansed from the corrupted spirit.”

You suspected that might be the case. At least this way, you can think about it in the comfort of your own home, without the time tables of frantic paramedics rushing to get to your first.

“Can we do it here?” You ask, because you just got home, and you’d like to go to bed.

“If you’d like,” he says, nodding.

You hand him the mug of tea, not bothering to offer any honey or cream. “How long will it take?”

“A few months, by your calendar. Your soul must be wholly purified for there to be no remains, it takes… prayer, chants, rituals of cleansing.”

“Where will you be staying in the meantime?”

He seems caught off guard by the question and takes a moment to think it over.

With a sigh, you offer, “I guess you can stay with me. But,” you gesture in his general direction, “we’re going to have to modernize that look a bit, alright?” At his look of confusion, you elaborate with a sigh. “If you’re going to stay with me, anyone and everyone will notice you, you have a very strong presence, so I think it would be best if you try to… blend in a bit more.”

He offers a nod, “if that would make you happy, then I will allow you to… er, ‘modernize’ my appearance.”

Oh, you almost forgot. Drumming your fingers against the table, you ask, “what’s your name?”

“Sarakh, the Seventh son of Asag, my predecessor, Gallu of the Underworld, Slayer of those Corrupt, Salt of the-”

“Can I call you Sarakh?” You ask, almost overwhelmed by the amount of titles he has.

“If it pleases you,” he nods.

“Cool.” You nod to yourself, letting out a breath. “Welcome to my home, then, Sarakh.”

#demon #exophilia #demon/reader #gallu #monster/reader

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lizacstuff · 4 years ago

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Sen Cal Kapimi / Edser / Turkish Dizi asks

Asks under the cut

i love that in sck world, i love you means i love you, but also i hate you/our feelings are mutual means i love you. edser have a unique love declarations thats for sure 😂

YEP! In Edser world “I hate you” means I love you... but ONLY when you use the full name.

Çok romantik when done properly, I can’t hardly wait to see what Serkan might be remembering when he repeats the line back to Eda! It’s their thing!

Anonymous said: Hi! How you doing? Have you ever watch Şeref Meselesi? Is it good? Do you recommend?

Hello, I’m well! No, I have not watched it. The Kerem fans on twitter seem to really dig it, though. Personally, when I’m THIS invested in shipping, it’s hard for me to see one half my OTP in other roles. Particularly when were in the middle of the show. Maybe I’ll check it out some day. If you do watch, let me know what you think.

Anonymous said: I will give SCK this, they sure know how to keep us guessing between the next episode photos, summary and the fragman. Not to mention all the spoilers that are floating around Twitter. I have no idea how episode 31 is going to be super romantic for Edser with Selin still hanging around but let’s bring it on. For episode 30, at least Serkan’s interest in Eda has returned based on the fragman because that lacking in the last episode just felt so wrong after everything. He was attracted to her for sure but understandably fought it every step of the way. Eda was trying to reconnect with a brick wall because of the amnesia, trauma and Selin’s influence which was crushing to watch. Going to be interesting to see how Serkan responds to getting a few memories back and his growing interest in Eda combined with his engagement to Selin. Seems unlikely he would within one episode switch from being purely logical about everything to totally in love with Eda & throwing caution to the wind but I could be totally wrong.

I think he was attracted to her in 29. If he wasn’t the man who has no intention of ever marrying wouldn’t have freaked out and stumbled and bumbled his way through an impromptu proposal to a woman he doesn’t love just to put some distance between him and the crazy, beautiful, “evil” “manipulative” woman who changed him and took half his company!!!!

Also, remember episode 1, where he tried to pretend he wasn’t attracted to her as a woman.

So he always tries to deny her allure at first, and he’s always lying.

I don’t think we’ll see him go to “totally in love with her” in the next episode. I think we’ll see him, once the immediate threat is neutralized by his little stunt, becoming more and more intrigued by her. And her little stunt is going to bring out his innate, primal jealousy when it comes to her.

Also, from the fragman, I’m not entirely convinced he’s really engaged to Selin. The way he said, “I want you to wear this (tiny) ring.” Didn’t smack of a real engagement, even a loveless one, it more sounded like what you would say for a fake one. Also he’s not wearing a ring in the pictures. Old Serkan was very adverse to marriage and his relationship with Selin broke up over that fact, so I wouldn’t be shocked if after he made his shocking proposal and he and Selin left he was like, “Thanks for playing along, obviously we’re not really getting married, lets keep up the ruse so Eda stays away from me.”

We’ll see. I could see the story going for matching fake engagements. Though if he doesn’t disclaim his intent to marry her this episode, he will soon. So no worries there.

Should be fun!

Anonymous said: I'm all for them making Selin completely batshit psycho if she does end up going to jail; it would be entertaining, but you're right, I don't think I've ever seen it in a romance dizi. Some villains have done fucked up things and the protagonists just tell them to go away and that's kinda it. I think with some rumored things like drugging and implying they slept together, that would be treading a very fine line if the writers were to go there and not show proper consequences.

How have they implied they slept together? The show went out of their way to show Serkan on the couch and Selin going home to sleep in Istanbul. They didn’t have to do that, but they were very clear. I’m cool to follow the text and not neutronic fan’s fears.

My biggest trepidation about this storyline is that there will be no satisfactory repercussions for Selin. It needs to be more than her slinking back across the continent in shame. She needs to face real consequences.

Anonymous said: you know, if i was serkan (and especially with how even more robot-y he is now) and heard their story from engin i would probably call it "cok sacma" too.. like from the outside looking it, their love story and journey is quite crazy lmao. i've always wanted a fic from a third-person perspective of some regular ass artlife employee from the beginning just observing their boss and the crazy antics that ensue after he quite suddenly gets engaged to a woman he's constantly fighting with lol.

YES PLEASE!!! Someone write this!!!

It is quite a crazy story... which is why it was enough to sustain 60+ hours of story telling all on its own, lmao.

I’m sure everything being thrown at Serkan at once, the ways he grew and evolved, what he was able to tolerate and participate in, is quite shocking to him. However, Robot Bolat has never been in love so he just doesn’t understand the transformative nature of love. He’ll learn, and quickly! Also, I’m a big proponent that Serkan didn’t change. It’s just that under the influence of his love for Eda, he healed and he opened up and grew into the man who was always there, deep inside.

#sckask #sck 1x29 #asklizac #anonymous

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tangleweave · 3 years ago

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Rescue Me (RP)

@akasupergirl

“Help! Help! Someone help me!”

On the streets of Manhattan, it tended to be 6-to-5 and pick ‘em whether such a plea for assistance would actually be fulfilled. If there was a feature of the city to be counted upon, it was the indifference of the average New Yorker. But the odds were decidedly not in favor of the person issuing the cries, not least of which because he looked like some strange hybrid of man and frog… but also because five ornately armored bipedal figures were giving chase via various modes of transportation.

The diminutive target of the group’s ire was fleeing on foot in a general northerly direction. If he got perhaps another 70 blocks, he’d eventually make it to Stark Tower. He was, at the least, giving a good account of himself… his running speed easily matched that of an Olympic athlete, even dressed as he was in bulky, tattered clothing. It might have been more were his hands not bound behind him, and a flashing electronic collar not secured about his neck.

One would have been forgiven for thinking him a fugitive from justice, particularly in light of the five pursuers, whose armors looked strangely reminiscent of a variety of Iron Man configurations. The leading pursuer, in particular, was clad in armor of dark red and gold, festooned with silver spikes, and he was delivering terse instructions to his comrades. “Ramshot, Wysper, get ahead of him. Firearm, Screech, to the sides. I’ve got him from behind.”

“Sure you do.”

Anti-Venom landed atop the assailant’s shoulders before he had time to react, driving him fully into the concrete of the sidewalk. Passersby let out a plethora of colorful expressions and exclamations, none of which he had any time for. His left hand grew to gargantuan size and wrapped about the vigilante he’d just dropped, then slammed him against the nearest convenient brick wall – a narrow separator between a deli and a haberdashery.

“Sentry.” The ivory-skinned hulk snarled. “You and your Jury flunkies really ought to get a hobby besides pretending you have any authority to do what you do.”

“Screech! Get back—!”

“Ah-ah.” Anti-Venom’s other hand came up and delivered a hard slap to the side of Sentry’s head, completely disregarding the spikes there that tried to tear into the flesh of his palm, which simply liquefied and reformed. He pulled the dazed Jurist away from the wall and spun him around to face him. Anti-Venom’s grip kept Sentry’s arms pinned to his sides, and the red-orange glow of his eyes and mouth was reflected in the metal of his helmet. “You just wait right here. Some nice men in clean white coats will come get you directly.”

He thrust his arm out and smashed Sentry into the wall again, back-first, this time leaving him wrapped up in a tight cocoon of white bio-mass that was far stronger than any webbing his red-and-blue counterpart had ever demonstrated.

Anti-Venom launched himself into the air, vaulting in the direction of the distressed hostage the Jury had taken. He was already depressed by the possibilities. When last he’d encountered them, it had been as Venom, and their leader – Gavel – had been quite clear as to the reason for their formation: his escape from the Life Foundation’s Vault had led to the death of their family members. Tragedy and a thirst for vengeance had been their unifying theme, their singular call… but they’d failed to capture and hold him long enough to deliver the sentence they so dearly wanted to visit upon him.

That he was no longer Venom now probably wouldn’t matter much to them if they were still united in that purpose. Eddie Brock’s alter-ego wasn’t well-known (thankfully for his career) but the Jury knew of it. When he’d fled to San Francisco, he’d given them reason to think he was dead, and he’d done his level best to keep things quiet – until the Mister Negative incident, and his transformation into something very different. It was something of a minor miracle they hadn’t tried to come after him upon his return to New York and his attempt to resume some semblance of a normal life… though it wasn’t unreasonable to think Kara might be throwing him a little cover.

But who was the fleeing captive, and what did they want with him?

Two Jurists – Ramshot and Screech – were already between him and the captive. Judging by the smell trailing behind the green-skinned stranger, Anti-Venom figured he was probably a Morlock. It was a little too easy to forget about New York’s sewer-swelling mutant population, driven underground because their appearances were too grotesque for society to tolerate. Anti-Venom knew better than most what that sort of living was like… in two words, unduly harsh. This man certainly didn’t need people like these making it any harder.

Ramshot’s jet-boots were carrying him ever closer to their original target, while Screech had already turned to engage Anti-Venom. An earsplitting sonic scream erupted from speakers mounted on the Jurist’s helmet and armor, focused into narrow channels for maximum effect against a Klyntar symbiote.

Anti-Venom snarled through the wash of noise, raised an enlarged fist, and swept it into Screech with virtually no regard for his attack. The blasts would have shattered Venom, but against Anti-Venom, they were little more than a nuisance. His strike tossed Screech into a nearby lamppost, which snapped off entirely from the force of the impact.

Civilians were actively fleeing the area now, and with good cause. Amidst the warble of shrieking and the rumbling of fleeing feet, he could make out the Jury members re-orienting their efforts around him rather than their first target. In that moment, he knew he had only seconds to act. By attempting to help, he’d drawn their eye, and if he didn’t help their target get away within the next few moments, they’d both be under attack.

He threw himself down the street and hurtled into Ramshot, whose jet-powered boots were just about to carry him to the fleeing frog-man, despite the poor captive’s best (and impressive) efforts to run. Anti-Venom grabbed hold of Ramshot with both hands, his black fangs smiling wide for the Jurist.

“Hi.”

He swung his weight around to disrupt Ramshot’s center of gravity and threw out a spread of tentacles to catch about a traffic light. The Jurist’s flight was thrown horribly by the shifting dynamics and the grip Anti-Venom’s tendrils had on Ramshot’s ankle was such that when the jets pulled him taut, the sound of his foot disjointing was audible. The Jurist belted out a scream of pain and collapsed to the ground beneath Anti-Venom, who quickly jumped to his feet and leapt after the Morlock; he cast forth another tendril to catch about the frog-man’s waist and pull him up into the air.

The Morlock screamed – and after all, why wouldn’t he? – as Anti-Venom caught him in midair and swung hard and fast through the district. By peeling away three of the five Jurists, he had a wide swath of escape routes to the east… if only the Morlock would stop struggling.

“Calm down,” he snarled. “I’m here to help.”

The Morlock whimpered. “You’re… you’re not with them?”

Anti-Venom glared red at his passenger. “Do I look like I’m with them?” he returned. “Hang tight, I’m getting you out of here. What do they want with you?”

“They’re the Jury!” the Morlock cried, as if that offered explanation.

“I know who they are,” Anti-Venom snapped, careening hard around a corner. “Why are they after you?”

“They’ve been trying to round us up out of the sewers! They came into our territory claiming they had jurisdiction and were charging us with vagrancy! Got these collars on a bunch of us before we even knew what was happening! The others managed to help me get out but they’re still trapped – they need help! I thought if I got to the surface…!”

“That you’d find an X-Man or an Avenger and they’d help you out,” Anti-Venom finished. He rolled his eyes behind his living mask. “So sorry you’re stuck with me, then. Hold on…”

Spiked tentacles erupted from his back as he continued to swing fast and hard to elude their pursuit; the tendrils set about the task of tearing into the hand-sheaths and the collar. The Jury’s technology had clearly lost none of its potency – no more than they themselves had lost business dealings with anti-meta corporations, he mused. Even against the strength of his reversed symbiote the shackles were a considerable challenge to break, and it was in no way helpful when the Morlock bucked and squirmed in his hold while he sent tentacles to snap the collar without also snapping the poor victim’s neck.

A crimson energy blast sizzled past them both, causing the Morlock to shriek and Anti-Venom to momentarily glance back. Firearm had caught up with them – he was astride a hover bike and he was already releasing a flurry of variable ammunition at them. Missed shots were peppering buildings and windows.

“Not inside the city!” Anti-Venom roared in irritation. Goddamn it, they had the nerve to complain about vigilante property destruction but the moment they themselves did it…

He shot one more look to his passenger. “All right, listen, what’s your name?”

“A-Arthur,” the timid mutant stammered.

“Arthur, I’m gonna to need to drop you off, and then I need you to get below, fast as you can. I’ll deal with the Jury, if they’re up here they aren’t down there. Get to Stark Tower. Help is there.”

“S-Stark Tower?” The frog-man’s eyes bugged out even further than their natural disposition. “You mean where Supergirl lives?”

“Right. Where Supergirl lives.” He felt himself wincing – this guy was in the middle of a traumatic episode, he wouldn’t even absorb more than the first five words he spoke in any given sentence. He probably only vaguely understood what was about to happen. “Listen, Arthur, this is important. Are you listening?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Good. Listen close. Tell Supergirl, ‘Eddie’s in trouble.’ Say it back to me.”

“Uhh… um, Eddie’s in trouble!” The Morlock frowned. “Who’s Eddie?”

Yep, traumatic episode. He wasn’t putting it together and Anti-Venom wasn’t about to do the math for him. “Never mind that. Just tell her that. Understand? Eddie’s in trouble. Got it?”

“Got it! Eddie’s in trouble!”

“Good. Here we go. Three-two-one!”

The rapid countdown wasn’t quite enough time for the poor Morlock to prepare to be dumped off, and the frog-like mutant shrieked as Anti-Venom released him to tumble in a heap in a wide alleyway. But the white symbiote-clad vigilante had, at least, deposited Arthur next to a sewer entrance – whose manhole cover he immediately tore from its sconce. Arthur was, thankfully, quick on the draw and leapt headfirst into the hole, proof positive that either he knew where he was going or he was truly desperate to escape his captors.

Hopefully both, Anti-Venom thought, as Firearm and Wysper, riding a hover board, arrived on scene to engage him. He swung the manhole cover about on a loose tentacle like a deranged yo-yo and was able to smash into Firearm’s bike engine, forcing him to dismount before the vehicle crashed in a fiery blaze.

A sustained laser beam erupted from one of Firearm’s weapons – Anti-Venom held up the manhole cover to deflect the energy blast but the lid soon became orange-hot and too much for him to handle. He snarled and slammed it down atop the open manhole before any of the Jury could think to descend into it.

If Screech was adequately named, Wysper was even more so – there was some trick of her technology that made it possible to suppress sound within the immediate area. Anti-Venom was abruptly disoriented without his sense of audition, and he was pummeled by a pair of energy blasts that drove him to his knees.

He whipped a scythe-like tentacle towards his attackers, but it appeared Firearm and Wysper both had achieved their stride, and they dodged the attack with apparent ease. Firearm brought his rifle up again, and this time what emerged wasn’t red – it was ice blue, and to Anti-Venom’s skin it felt like frozen fire trying to insinuate into his veins. The arm that caught the beam blackened almost instantly, and the armor of the reversed symbiote fell away, revealing Eddie’s all-too-human arm at half the length beneath it.

Damn it, they’d figured him out fast. Way too fast. Fire and sound didn’t hurt him anymore, but cold and silence…?

He brought his other arm up, expanding the ivory skin outward to create as broad a shield as he could muster. It would last all of two seconds against a weapon like that, but maybe it was two seconds he could use to conjure some other solution…

What happened in the seconds that followed seemed little more than a haze of pain and fury for him. Sentry arrived, with Ramshot and Screech approaching only moments thereafter, and suddenly the alley didn’t seem so wide anymore. Anti-Venom was thrown about from one Jurist to the next, one awful, disabling strike after another, bits and pieces of him falling away with every blow. If they’d been cops, SWAT, even military, they wouldn’t have been able to penetrate the symbiote skin – but the Jury had developed their weaponry very carefully, and a precision freeze ray aimed at Anti-Venom’s leg froze him in a block of ice from ankle to thigh, joining solidly to the ground beneath him.

Ramshot drove a hydraulic punch into the side of Anti-Venom’s head, knocking the white symbiote flesh away from nearly half his face – the pained scowl that followed was with one eye of glowing red and one of blue.

Sentry stepped forward and grabbed Anti-Venom about the neck with one hand. The glowing eyepieces of the Jurist’s helmet seemed to narrow at the vigilante… but if he spoke, it was consumed by Wysper’s noise suppression.

Anti-Venom stared at his attacker in defiance. Go ahead, he thought. Let’s see you make a difference. I already made mine.

#akasupergirl #muse: anti-venom #long post cw #violence tw #{ cut for length and triggers }

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mrsalwayswrite · 5 years ago

Text

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum Part 2 (Alfie Solomons x OFC)

As always a huge thank you to @evelynshelby for encouraging and supporting my Peaky writing. She is the best!

Warnings: Violence, swearing, racial slurs and some mild sexual content.

Words: 7k (because I could not stop writing, sorry.)

Please let me know what you guys think and if anyone wants to be added to a tag list. Also, I am not British nor is the early 1900s something I am confident in for writing, so it there is anything blatantly obvious that needs to be corrected, please let me know.

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum

Part 2 - Bloody Fists and Opening Scenes

~1912~

He could feel their stares, their glares, their looks of disapproval. He gave zero fucks. His head held tall, an icy look sent to any who dared make eye contact. This was not his neighborhood. He knew that. He was a literal black sheep here amongst those wealthier than him. Yet he refused to bow to their need to dominate. To submit because he wore a kippah, making him lesser than them, his clothes handmade by his mother instead of purchased at a fancy store. No, he knew something these people did not. He was a wolf amongst these sheep, his bloodied knuckles testament to that…and if anyone tried to stop him, he would spill their blood on the ground without qualms. Fuck them all.

Truthfully Alfie was in a black mood. He walked down the street, fists clenched by his sides, kippah in his back pocket because he was no longer at prayer (his mother would lament that he never attended) nor was he on ‘business’. The whispers of the two Jewish lads walking behind him reminded him to keep his rage under control just a while longer. The three of them were walking back to Camden Town after conducting some ‘business’ for the boss. They had been sent to deliver a particular message to someone who owed their boss money. Smashed furniture and broken fingers were left behind, for that was expected. What put Alfie in a foul mood was the pathetic excuse of a man made a counter offer to pay off his debt. Instead of money, the boss could take his daughter’s virginity. All this he said with a sleezy smile on his face as his teenage daughter cried on the stairwell. What made matters worse… the boss would probably take the offer.

Strange sounds drifted from across the street. Alfie did not even have to look to know what caused it. The London Zoo sign proudly showed above its gates, welcoming its citizens to marvel at the mysterious and wonderful beasts inside. His feet carried him past the spectacle and onward towards the bridge, in which he would be back in familiar territory and no one dared looked down on him.

It was a warmer spring day, the taste of a hot summer to be had that year. Flecks of blood littered the sleeves of his white shirt, now rolled up to his elbows. Somehow he would have to create an excuse to appease his mum who would undoubtably ask about the blood. At least his black trousers hid the evidence better.

His eyes scanned the people on the street, a subconscious habit at this point. At once they locked onto a lithe, feminine form with blonde har. It was embarrassing how often he unconsciously scanned for that very thing. Over half a year flew by since he had last seen those emerald eyes and mischievous smile. His angel. He could not help the way his heart raced at seeing the blonde hair across the street and further down. She was standing in front of some shop, gazing at something in particular in the windowfront. Willing his heart to slow down, he subtly kept peeking, hoping to get a glimpse of her face. In his heart he knew it was futile, in the past it was never her, but hope always arose without his permission. A dangerous thing. This one wore a lovely light pink chiffon dress, sleeveless with ruffles towards the hem of the dress. The top layer of her long hair was pinned up while the bottom hung freely and beautifully.

Moments later, two lads came out of the store, young men really, both in clean pressed trousers, button down shirts, sports jackets and one in a hat. Immediately they walked the few steps to crowd the blonde, one leaning against the window glass to face her and the other hovering by her side. Grins on both of their face and they gave off the impression of superiority and confidence. That alone made Alfie want to fight them.

He knew he should leave it alone, he knew it was none of his business. Curiosity won out. He slowed his steps as he watched the interaction of the three further down. It was obvious, even from where he stood, the lads were trying to flirt with her…but without success. Her eyes remained straight ahead, ignoring them. Less than a minute later and without a word, she turned, starting to walk away, her back towards the lads and Alfie. One of the lads grabbed her hand and spun her back round to face him, not done flirting or still willing to work to get a reaction out of her. Perhaps she was purposefully playing hard to get?

She whipped around, staring annoyed at the lad before uttering something. With a twist of her wrist, she escaped his hold and quickly continued with her walk. Whatever she said, the two lads did not like. With a glance at one another, they followed her, keeping several paces back until the three disappeared from view down a side alley.

All the air had been knocked out of Alfie’s lungs, he was sure of it. For once she turned around and he was able to see her face, a sucker punch to the gut would have been more expected. For there she stood. He would recognize her anywhere for she haunted his dreams. Her delicate features pinched in annoyance as she spat something at him but that core strength visible even from here.

Immediately, as if on autopilot, his feet followed. He crossed the street, uncaring of the cars, carriages and other pedestrians. He had to get to her, to see her up close, to touch her and, if God himself was feeling generous, perhaps he could taste her lips once again.

“Alf, where you goin’ now?” Ishmael asked, having moved to his side. The lad was the same age as Alfie, both had their eighteenth birthday during Hanukkah. Having spent the past eighteen years growing up together, they acted more like brothers than neighbors. One thing stood resolutely between them, they would always have each other’s backs during the good and the bad times.

“Gonna pick a fight.”

“Uh huh…” Ishmael scratched the stubble on his jawline. “What for?”

“’member that girl I told ya ‘bout. Got me away from those coppers.”

“Yeah, you never got ‘er name.”

“Two fuckers just followed her down that alley.”

Ishmael grunted. No more needed to be said. He was the only person who knew the truth of that night and even then it took almost throwing fists between them for Alfie to confess. After, Ishmael had been sworn to secrecy or his tongue would be cut out. Nathan trailed behind the two, oblivious but uncaring. He was two years younger but Alfie tolerated him because he did not ask unnecessary questions nor go sticking his nose in unwanted places. The lad was just happy to be doing something instead of listening to his six younger siblings and mother in their one bedroom apartment.

Quickly they caught up to where the trio disappeared. As they turned down that side alley, a narrow thing between two sections of shops used to dispose of rubbish, the sounds of all of London faded. For Alfie could only see and hear the commotion before him.

Further down the two toff lads had her backed against a wall as they hovered over her. With an almost bored expression, she just watched them try and intimidate her. One hand loosely held her small purse while the other toyed with her hair.

“I will give you one last chance. Walk away or you will regret it.”

Her smooth voice flowed over him as he heard her speak to them. Internally he was amused by her statement but that still could not keep the red lens from coloring his vision. Those toffs needed to be taught a lesson and he had no problem being the teacher.

The one with the hat leaned forward and ran a hand slowly down her side, making sure to get a good touch of her breast before moving to her hip. “Come on, doll. All we are asking for is just a kiss. Don’t be so uptight. There’s no harm in a kiss.”

The other lad took a few steps back and lit a cigarette. He chuckled at his friend’s statement as he blew out a plume of smoke, ignorant of the trouble approaching.

“Oi! Look ‘ere lads.” Alfie loudly proclaimed as he ambled closer towards the trio, suddenly acting like he did not have a care in the world. An act because inside he was boiling with rage and hoped for nothing more than to ram both of the toffs’ heads against the brick wall. Multiple times preferably. “These boys ‘ere, right, don’t know how to treat a lady none. Tsk tsk. You boys need to go back on your mother’s tits until you know how to properly woo a lady. Cornerin’ her in a nasty alley ain’t the way to do it, yeah? For a posh girl like her, I ‘eard its about that champagne and roses, out dancin’ and the likes. Somethin’ you lot don’t know nothin’ ‘bout it seems. So before you piss me off more, right…fuck off.”

The one with the cigarette smirked around the fag in between his lips. “Oh? And who the hell asked for your opinion?”

“No one but it looked like you needed it.” He shrugged casually, his eyes looked between the two idiots and into the emerald eyes he longed to see. “You ok, Angel? They ain’t hurt you none, yeah?”

“I am fine, Alfie.”

Hearing her say his name sent a shot of warmth straight to his heart. She still remembered him, even after all these months.

“What? You know these kikes?” The one in the hat asked disbelieving, eyeing both her and the three Jewish lads blocking the front way out of the alley and onto the main street.

Alfie could feel himself along with Ishmael and Nathan bristle at the insult. Not that he had never been called that, he had heard all sorts of derogatory insults towards himself and his people, but it practically assured that he would break their jaw so they could not insult anyone for a long time after.

He did not wait for her response, as he laughed in her face. “You must be easy then, playing the innocent bird, but really you let kikes fuck you. You’re just as filthy as them.”

“Charles, shut it.” The one with the cigarette snapped at his friend. He stood between the two groups but kept his eyes on Alfie the whole time. “You lads head on back out. We will just escort the lady here back to her family at the tea shop. Nothing more needs to happen here. We were just teasing her. No harm done.”

“You see, that’s the thing, innit?” Alfie rubbed his hand over his chin, looking as if contemplating something monumental. “Your boy there insulted me and me friends. Worse though, he insulted the lady, yeah? So in me books, he needs to apologize to her then to me friends and me, yeah, then we’ll be on our way.”

The one in the hat- Charles apparently- sneered as he roughly shoved her further against the wall before storming over to stand by his friend. “What are you going to do about it, Jewboy? You are on the wrong side of the river to be saying anything. I can call the coppers and they will arrest your asses without question…because you are a dirty, money-loving, pig-fucking Jew.”

“Mate, I’m gonna make you eat those words. That s’what gonna happen now, yeah? You s’fuckin’ waste of air. Now, let the lady go and then we’ll see if you’re even able to utter the word ‘Jew’ after I’m done with you.”

“Are you her fucking bodyguard or something? I am not done with her. First I’m going to send you back to your shanties then I’m going to have her on her knees right here.”

“Who says I need a bodyguard?” Suddenly she moved from standing behind Charles to his side, a four inch pointed hair pin in her hand. As she moved, she dragged it along his throat until it landed on his bobbing Adam’s apple. Alfie had not even noticed her stepping away from the wall and behind the arrogant toff, she moved so quietly.

“Fucking bitch.”

In a flash she slashed Charles’ cheek before returning the hair pin to his throat. “You stand right here like a good boy until my friends and I are gone. If I look behind and see you following us, I will be sorely disappointed and this hair pin will pierce the very thing you are using to think, which in your case is not your brain.”

A faint snicker came from Ishmael behind him but Alfie kept his eyes on the dangerous beauty before him, both enthralled by her confidence and concerned for her safety. He could see it in the eyes of the lad Charles…he would not let her get away so easily, especially now after insulting him.

Ever so slowly, she pulled the hair pin away and took a step back towards Alfie. After a tense moment, she turned to walk the few steps to Alfie. With her eyes no longer on him, Charles moved. He snarled, moving to reach out and grab her but his hand never made it.

Alfie stood between them, appearing like an apparition in how quickly he moved. His fist reared back and slammed into the jaw of the foul-mouthed toff. All his pending rage from his ‘business’ and now being forced to listen to insults, all that anger fueled him to fulfilling his promise. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ishmael keeping the other lad back. With that knowledge, he poured all his focus and energy into making the lad eat his words and threatening his angel. An unforgiveable crime, really.

Two solid punches were all it took before Charles was on the ground. Yet Alfie was not done with him. Not yet. Punches and kicked rained down on the lad, a harsh lesson being taught that hopefully the idiot would remember. Soon enough, the lad was a blubbering, bloody mess on the dirty cobblestones. It was pathetic how soon his apologies and begs for mercy spewed forth in his mumblings, his jaw broken so his words were hard to understand.

Alfie stood towering over the lad, sprawled out on the ground; his chest heaving, bloodied fists by his sides. Like a judge condemning a prisoner to his sentence, Alfie pointed a finger at him. “I see you again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, mate. And it won’t be easy or pretty, yeah? You watch your back.” He gave a long pause, letting his words sink like a stone in the shallow pool of the toff’s mind. With a satisfied grunt, he turned to face the other, sporting his own bloodied lip curtesy of Ishmael but that seemed the worst of it. “Get ‘im outta here.”

Without a word, the other lad gathered his friend up and helped carry him down the alley, keeping to the side streets to avoid the bloody spectacle they were.

“I could have handled them, you know. I had it under control.”

Alfie rolled his eyes as he turned to face her. “Yeah? Sure didn’t look like it none, love.” They stared at one another, a silent battle of wills. After a tense minute, he smirked. “’sides, I reckon it’s me turn to be savin’ you, yeah?”

With that she cracked a smile, the tension in the air melting away. After quick shake of her head, she sauntered over to his side. “Let me see your hands.”

“No, s’fine, love.”

“Was he born this stubborn or did his mother drop him a few times?” She looked over her shoulder at Ishmael and Nathan, both hanging back and observing the curious scene before them.

Her question made Ishmael chuckle. “We still ain’t figured that one out.”

“Ah, fuck off, mate.” Alfie growled at his friend but without real venom.

“Thought so.” She turned back her attention to Alfie. “Hands. Now.”

Grumbling under his breath, he held his hands out so she could quickly examine them and wipe the blood off with a handkerchief she magically pulled out of her small purse. He could not help but wonder if it was the same one from all those months ago. Her soft voice pulled him out of his musings.

“Maybe one of these days we will have the ability to meet without blood on your knuckles and it soiling my handkerchiefs.”

“No promises. How ‘bout next time you beat ‘em up and I’ll clean up your hands, mmm? Sounds fair to me.”

She laughed, a beautiful sound full of life. Head tilted back, eyes crinkling, just like he remembered.

“But fuckin’ hell, love. Since when you carry that hair pin?”

Done with wiping his hands as best as she could, she placed the soiled handkerchief in her purse and retrieved her hair pin out, handing it over to Alfie.

“Since someone told me its not safe to be walking around on my own.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuckin’ genius that one.” He mumbled, looking over the slender weapon. It was sleek and impressive. He had never seen one of these before, only ever heard of them. The head of the pin was a lotus flower with a small ruby in the center. The blade part was at least four inches, making the while thing only six inches but lethal if used properly. “Chinese?”

She nodded, taking it back. Quickly and expertly she twisted the top half of her hair into a bun and easily slipped the pin in to hold it steady. There it looked beautiful and innocent, its potential unimaginable.

“Bloody Chinese, yeah. What you doin’ now? Just takin’ a stroll?”

“It’s a lovely day, is it not?” She winked at Alfie before turning to the other two lads. “Pleasure meeting you two. May I inquire as to your names?”

Of course the cheeky bastard winked at her. “Ishmael, that one is Nathan…and what’s your name, love?”

“Tut tut. That is not have the game is played.” She gracefully slide over to Ishmael’s side and wrapped her arm through his. “Call me Angel. Now I was off to the pictures actually and it would be a true shame if I had to go alone. Who knows the trouble that could find me. How would you lovely gentlemen feel about accompanying me? The tickets will be taken care of. The Three Musketeers is playing and I have heard its riveting.”

“Sounds interestin’. ‘Sides, just met you, be a shame to leave you so soon.” Ishmael gave Alfie a sly grin before guiding her down the dirty alley and back onto the main street with her giggling.

Grinding his teeth, Alfie followed, jamming his hands in his trouser pockets. They ached some but none of his knuckles or fingers felt broken or dislocated. Probably a testament to the calluses he now wore for how often he used his fists.

“Who is she?” Nathan whispered falling into step next to him.

“A friend. An old friend.”

“A gentile?”

He stopped and got in Nathan’s face. “That s’fuckin’ problem?”

“No…no, Alfie.” He stuttered out, quaking under Alfie’s glare.

“Good, that s’real good coz you say one bad thing to her and I’ll make sure the boss knows you pissed your trousers last week, right, when supposed to be collectin’ dues, yeah?” Letting his threat hang heavy, he turned back around and started after Ishmael and his Angel.

Of the two of them, Ishmael was more flirtatious and now was no exception. Occasionally he would lean over and whisper something in her ear that would make her giggle. God above, Alfie had missed that sound though. Even if it drove him mad that his ‘best’ friend was the one drawing it out of her. He wanted to be the one holding her, making her laugh, soaking in her attention. But instead, he kept walking, hands in his pockets, eyeing anyone that looked at her for too long. He figured there was a game she was playing, he only had to sit back and figure out the rules before winning.

Finally they made it to the movie theatre. The giant board over the entrance announced the movies playing, the scent of popcorn saturated the air, especially once they walked inside. The carpeted floor cushioned all the noise from the other people and the machines. Truthfully, Alfie had never been to the pictures. There was never excess money to spare on such frivolity. By the looks on Ishmael and Nathan’s faces, they had never been before either. His eyes hungrily took in the sights around him, committing it to memory. One day he would be able to come to places like this whenever he wanted. One day he would not have to worry about scraping by for money. One day…

“This way, boys.”

Her voice caused the three Jewish lads to wake from their stupor and obediently follow her. She walked a head of them, her perk little arse a guiding light that Alife could not keep his eyes off of. Down a corridor, she stopped at one of the numbered doors.

“Ready?”

Inside was dim, the picture already getting started. Lights down, a good few of the chairs were filled up surprisingly. The four of them found open seats towards the back in a vacant row. At the end sat Nathan, practically bouncing in his seat with glee, Ishmael, Alfie and then Angel. As soon as the images started appearing on the screen, Alfie found his arm being lifted and draped over her shoulder, followed quickly by her tucking herself into his side.

“Oh, now you wanna be with me yeah? Thought you didn’t want nothin’ to do with me. ‘ell, I beat some wanker up for you and the thanks I get, you walkin’ off with me friend on his arm. Ain’t fuckin’ right.” He whispered into her ear, wishing for nothing more than to bury his face into her neck and hold her close.

“I would hate for them to feel left out…but I can switch seats with you if you prefer and cuddle up to Ishamel there. I do not think he would mind.”

“Shut your mouth. You s’my angel, yeah? I share many things, right, but I won’t share you none.”

“Do not forget it.” Her hand reached over and grabbed his other, toying with his fingers. “Will you have to leave right away?”

“Oi! If you two plannin’ on yappin’ the ‘ole time, move down a few seats.” Ishmael stage whispered, keeping his eyes on the screen.

Before Alfie could retort with an unsavory comment, Angel swiftly yet gracefully rose, grabbing his hand and started tugging on him down the row. He fumbled along behind her, the space between the rows of seats less than desirable for a broad lad like himself. Finally she stopped them at the complete opposite end of the row. He dutifully sat next to her and immediately wrapped his arm around her shoulders again. A glance around showed there was no one else within at least four rows ahead of them and only Ishmael and Nathan on the far side of the row.

“Alright, love, you got me all by me lonesome. Either you s’gonna ravage me or kill me and with it bein’ you…I ain’t sure, yeah? Gotta let me know if I need to defend meself, especially with that bloody hair pin.”

She smiled, a brilliant light amongst the dim of the theatre. “Do you have a preference?”

“Ah, it’s be a fuckin’ shame to die without kissin’ you once more, yeah?” He leaned closer and ran his nose along her ear, just barely able to see the goosebumps appear on her skin from his breath and proximity. “Kissin’ you be the closest I’ll ever get to heaven, Angel.”

“Cheeky bastard with your honeyed words.” She breathed out, her words hitting his lips as she turned to face him. A moment passed, their eyes locked, then she tilted her head and pressed her lips to his. Their mouths met hungrily, tongues dancing, breaths intermingled. Their desperation for one another evident and all-consuming. Her hands clutched his head, dragging him closer. That intoxicating scent of hers, lavender, clouded his senses and judgement. The notion that other people existed vanished in the thrall of passion, yearning for one another. Her touch, her taste, soothed his soul and mind, like he was the desert and her the first rain storm. Their lips parted with a smack, both panting and trying to keep the sound low. The separation was too much, he needed her.

His lips attacked her neck, kissing, sucking, an almost animalistic feel of just more. His hand tightened on her thigh, drifting further up under her dress. Her silk stocking was almost as soft as her lips. As his mouth sucked on a particular spot just behind her ear, a low wanton moan slipped out of her lips and landed in his lap. That sound was enough to make him hard right there. His hand continued to explore up her thigh. He traced the garter she wore, hoping, praying, wishing one day to only see her in those garters, stockings and heels. That was it. God, he wanted that now. Continuing northward, his fingertips trailed up past her garter and into uncharted territory. Never before had he gone this far with a girl. He had heard some of the other Gentile lads talk about it or their conquests, usually at a brothel. This was nothing like listening to them. Oh no, it was far better. Finally his fingertips slowly made their way towards her hot core. Then it hit him. She was without any knickers. Just a garter belt holding up her stockings. This whole time, she had nothing on under her dress and slip, or however many layers a young woman like her wore.

“What’s this, love? S’you a naughty girl?” He murmured into her ear, teasingly tracing her lower lips. Already he could feel she was wet and that did not help how hard he was.

“Alfie…” His name on her breath was the most erotic sound he had ever heard. It was both a prayer and a command. One in which he had no qualms answering. Without warning, he plunged his finger into her heat. Immediately his mouth covered hers, inhaling her moan and coaxing her tongue to dance with his while his fingers played with her.

It did not take long for her to peak. A clenching around his fingers and her sigh evidence along with the moisture coating his fingers. Her head tilted back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling rapidly as she descended back to earth was his new favorite sight. He could watch this all day long and never tire of it. Angelic no longer described her in the heat of the moment. Goddess was closer to the new truth.

“ S’right, love?”

“Stop fishing for compliments, you know you did amazingly.” She smacked his chest half-heartedly then her voice dropped down to a whisper as if voicing her thoughts aloud. “That was better than I ever imagined.”

“An orgasm or just me?”

She hesitated, biting her lower lip then purred out, “you doing it.”

He groaned, nuzzling her neck. “Angel, you canna say somethin’ like that. Me cock is ‘bout to explode, yeah, and I ain’t goin’ in me trousers like some boy.”

“Well, we cannot have that now can we…come with me.” Abruptly she stood, nudging him to get up.

That was honestly the last thing he wanted to do. It felt like he had a plank of wood the size of his arm in his trousers. Grumbling, he followed her around the last row of seats and over to Ishmael and Nathan. She leaned over Ishmael’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear, earning a nod from him. A quick peck on his cheek and she started towards the exit door. Confused, Alfie glanced back over at Ishmael who only sent a cocky wink before turning back to the screen. So he did what felt right. He followed her out of the exit door. As soon as they passed through and into the main corridor, her hand trapped his and tugged him to follow her.

“The fuck is goin’ on. What you say to Ishmael?”

“I told him you were walking me home.”

Well that sort of explained the wink. Before he could question her further, she opened a different theatre door and pulled him through. This one was dark, just a couple sporadic lights on to beat back the complete darkness. It was also empty, probably in between shows or something. The lingering scent of cigarettes and popcorn filtered through the carpet but all Alfie could smell was lavender. She pulled him to the front of the theatre and practically threw him down into one of the seats.

“What…Angel?”

“Stop talking.”

Then in that dimness he felt her hands tugging on his trousers. That little bit of friction was enough to cause him to hiss. Never had he been so hard. Maybe this was what hell would be like. No relief, continuous torment. He felt himself spring out from its encloser before being encased in something warm and wet. It was overwhelming. A loud groan escaped without his permission but he could not care in the moment. Her name, what she was to him, became a chant as his hands tangled in her hair. Galaxies and stars flew by him as the pleasure grew until he thought he could not physically take it anymore. Suddenly she began to hum and it was as if all the floodgates burst forth. He finished with her sucking him dry, then she released him with a loud, wet ‘pop’ and continued to kneel in front of him.

“What…fuckin’ hell, I mean…fuck…what…fuck...” His brain refused to cooperate, still lost in the waves of pleasure his body was coming down from. This…this had to be heaven. Surely, something this incredible had to be.

“Do not forget to breath, sweetheart.”

“I’ll try me best. Damn, love. You done that often?”

She shifted to lean over him, her face close. “And if I said you are my first?”

His response was to drag her down into his lap and claim her lips. How was this girl even real? She seemed more like something from his own personal fantasy. Both heaven and hell in its pleasure and torment. He did not even care that he could taste himself, so desperate was he to claim her in any way. Their lips clashed, breathing becoming erratic once again as something continued to build between them. Her hands slipped under his shirt, running up his bare skin as she straddled his lap. His own hands were not dormant, but searching, caressing, teasing anywhere he could. Her core rested over his manhood and the heat was scorching him but in the most delectable way. Did she realize how badly he wanted her? She did want him just as much? Was she a virgin? He was. A movie theatre was not the ideal location for losing one’s virginity but Alfie was not opposed right now. He wanted to hear her panting his name again, to see her come undone but with his cock instead of his fingers.

Suddenly all the lights turned on.

“Hey! You kids can’t be in ‘ere!” A distinctly male voice yelled at them, standing in the back near the projector.

The two separated, panting, laughing and smiling. Both had to adjust their clothing and her hair to look somewhat decent, like they had not just been about to…well, you know. They fled the theatre, escaping out of the room and out onto the main street. Broad grins plastered on both of their faces, they tried to casually walk down the street without attracting attention. A feat truly impossible for a young, aristocratic woman and a Jewish lad of a lower class walking side by side giggling and smiling. People take notice.

“I do need to leave now.”

“I’ll walk ya.” Before she could refuse, he tugged her arm through his “I ain’t done seein’ you yet. Only God knows when I’ll see you again, right? Unless you’re gonna tell me who you is, that’d solve this problem. You seem to know where I am.”

She laughed, placing her head on his shoulder momentarily. “You do not like calling me ‘Angel’? I am growing quite fond of it.”

“You’ll always be my angel, yeah. Dunno why you not want me to call you by youse real name.”

“Then you would have to call me either ‘lady’ or ‘miss’ before my name.”

His eyebrows rose at her confession, a confirmation of his suspicions. “Oh yeah? Well that s’somethin’, innit? My lady Angel…” He teased, aware of how stiff she had suddenly become while waiting for his response. She relaxed instantaneously when she realized he was continuing to stay light-hearted in their banter. “What brings you all the way out ‘ere, mmm? I can’t think a posh girl like youself, your governess or whoever the fuck minds you would like seein’ you strollin’ with the likes of me, yeah?”

“You arse! I do not have a governess!”

“But you had one?”

“Fine, yes, yes I did. But she was fired when I was twelve for sleeping with the butler and the horse master when she was supposed to be watching me. I convinced my parents I did not need another. ”

“No!” Alfie placed a hand over his heart with a scandalized look on his face. “Heaven forbid! That disgraceful wench!”

They both broke into peals of laughter at his fake posh accent.

“My father’s driver.”

“Mmm…what s’that, love?”

She sighed. “My father’s driver…he has a mistress out here. When it’s obvious it will be a long day for my father, his driver will claim to run errands but really goes to visit her. I caught him once, snuck into the car without him noticing and popped up just outside of her flat. He about shit himself. So we made a deal. We pretend he is driving me somewhere while he visits her…and I…I get to pretend to be someone else for a while.”

“Ah. No siblings to drag around with you?”

“No. I have an older brother but he is too busy and lost in his books and studies for me anymore.”

“Where does your father work?”

She hesitated before dropping her voice to barely a whisper. “Parliament. But no more, please. I do not want to talk about him.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He still let out a long whistle. So her family had wealth and influence. His desire to figure out who she was exploded exponentially. “That s’fuckin’ thing, innit, I could kidnap you and get a ransom, yeah? Bet you worth lots, yeah?”

“Yes…” Her voice abruptly shifted to dangerously low and harsh, the complete opposite of her usually smooth, sweet voice. “…but I would make you regret it for every moment left of your life until you cursed the money you took and the day you thought of betraying me. I would ruin you in every way possible until you could only crawl and beg in the gutter. ”

He paused, surprised by the venom in her tone and how cold she sounded. “Well, fuck, love. Remind me never to get on your bad side, yeah? Gonna make me piss my trousers the way you talkin’.” He chuckled when she nudged him but they kept stride.

“Tell me about your family.”

“Naw, you don’t wanna hear ‘bout them. Nothin’ interestin’ there.”

“Alfie, please.”

Whatever willpower he broke between those emerald eyes and her soft, pleading voice. He was practically clay in her hands. “Well, there s’me mum, younger brother and sister. Me father died years ago…” And somehow he found himself telling her about his life and family with stories that made her laugh. Time and the streets underneath their feet felt endless but in a positive way. He wished time could cease or never force them to separate.

*****

“That is my father’s driver up ahead.”

“Yeah? I’ll walk you this time. Kinda wanna see this wanker.”

They walked closer, eventually catching the eye of the driver. He appeared at least in his thirties with a modest suit, thick moustache and a hat tipped down to shield his eyes. He did a double-take, not recognizing his charge on the arm of a lower-class lad. With one last drag, he tossed his cigarette onto the ground and stomped it out with his shiny shoe before striding their way.

“Miss Sarah, you kept me waiting almost an hour. Your father will be upset with how long we were gone.”

“Miss Sarah, eh?” Alfie looked at the driver and motioned to the young lady on his arm. “So the lovely angel does have a name, yeah? She s’bein’ a pain by keepin’ her name a secret. Done broke me heart thinkin’ I’d never know ‘er real name.”

“You, shut your mouth.” She pointed at Alfie, amusement twinkling in those green eyes. Then she turned back to the driver, “Robert, my father will hardly notice. I decided to go to the pictures and it went longer than I anticipated but it turned out to be…most pleasurable. I do believe it might deserve an encore, and hopefully multiple ones. Truly a masterpiece.”

Alfie tried his hardest to keep the color off his cheeks and the blood from rushing into his trousers with the cheeky smirk Angel -no, Sarah- was giving him.

The driver -Robert- looked down his nose at Alfie, not even trying to hide his distain. Alfie could feel his hackles and anger rise within. “We must leave, Miss, before you return home smelling of the dreck this place is.”

He could not ignore that particular barb. Keeping his voice light and face friendly, Alfie subtly pulled Sarah closer into his side. “How’s that mistress of yours? She live round here, right? Me guess is on Queen’s Alley. What I’ve ‘eard is that’s where all the harlots live…but fuck if I’d know. That all I ‘eard, yeah? S’real shame how many men visits them, I ‘ear.”

Steam practically poured out of Robert’s red tinged ears. His sneer deepened but he cast his eyes to Sarah. “Two minutes, Miss.” Turning on his heel, he stormed back towards the car, lighting a cigarette as he went.

“I think he like me, yeah, fuckin’ bosom buddies now.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling and the sunlight shining on her blonde hair. His breath stuck in his throat looking at her. The more he learned about her, the ravenous yearning to learn more grew alongside. She was everything he wanted and needed in his bleak life- fun, a laugh readily available, unaffected by his anger and violence, uncaring of where he came from, smart, sexy, never truly docile, mischievous with a slice of danger that he found extremely attractive.

“I better go before Robert makes me walk all the way to Parliament from here. It is a lovely day but my feet would murder me if I walked there in these heels.” She joked, untangling her arm from his.

“Don’t go.”

She froze. “What?”

“Don’t go, love. Stay. I’ll take care of you, that s’fuckin’ promise, yeah? I ain’t got much, can get a job at the factory or somethin’ for extra money. We’ll get our own flat, you can make fancy like. Dunno how but I’ll always take care of you.” The words stumbled out almost in a drunken stagger. Vulnerable did not even begin to describe how he felt. Hands running through his hair, he kept his eyes downcast unable to meet hers. She would laugh at him, at his piss poor promise to provide for her. He could never give her what she already had, what she deserved. But by heaven or hell, he would willing work day and night to keep her by his side. To know she was waiting for him with one of her heart-stopping smiles. He was a fool.

Finally he glanced up and his heart broke. A single tear had slipped down her cheek, betraying the moisture in her eyes as she bit her plump bottom lip.

“No, love, none of that, yeah? S’alright.” Tenderly he wiped the tear away with his thumb, unsure what else to do.

It felt like Sarah and him were encased in their own bubble. The people walking by them on the street did not matter. The sounds of the cars, horses, carriage and pedestrians were drowned out by the stillness surrounding them. The only people in the world that mattered were staring at one another, wishing life was not so cruel.

“I wish I could, Alfie. Truly…but not yet.”

He could feel his heart deflate but suddenly her hands were cupping his cheeks, forcing his eyes to meet her teary ones.

“I will turn eighteen this summer, and I can come see you. My father cannot stop me then. Try not to forget about me, sweetheart.”

“Never.”

With his promise, in full view of God himself and everyone on the street, she kissed him. It felt like their seal, their declaration towards one another. They would find each other once again. The kiss ended far sooner then he would have liked but it was not like they could have a full snogging session tight there on the side of the street. Not that anyone could stop him if he wanted to.

Gingerly she took a step back. “Stay safe and be good, Alfie Solomons.”

“Miss Sarah, I am always on me best behavior.”

“I certainly hope not.” Her eyes lecherously trailed up his body. “I want to taste you again…and not just your lips.”

His trousers suddenly tight, he tried to ignore it and tease back. “How ‘bout next time I return the favor properly, yeah?”

“I will hold you to that.” With a wink she turned and walked towards the driver, still leaning against the car smoking a cigarette.

He greedily watched her, eyes soaking in every curve of her body to memorize until he could see her again. “Fuckin’ hell, that girl, yeah, be the death of me.”

As fate would decree, that summer would pass by slowly with distance between the young lovers. It would be two years before they saw one another. Two whole years in which the flames of their passion dwindled but never extinguished.

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fiction #peaky blinder fanfic #alfie solomons x oc #Alfie Solomons #pre ww1 #mzwrites

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years ago

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༄ How To Save A Life… » original

Genre: Slice of Life, Angst

Word Count: 2,003

Pairing: None

World: Original

WARNING: This fic mentions anxiety, social anxiety, loneliness, self-harm and depression.

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It’s amazing, how such a simple gesture can mean so much to a person. They may not even realize the impact that they made, despite how big it may be. Human beings have the power to connect in a way that goes beyond any other species, but they don’t always choose to do so. With a simple act, a person can change another’s life, whether for good or bad. That kind of power is dangerous, so I suppose it’s a good thing that most human beings don’t realize they actually possess such a thing.

The more I think about it, the more it scares me. But I guess that doesn’t mean much, seeing how afraid I am of other humans in general. I really didn’t like other people, and I absolutely hate the way they make me feel when I’m around them. I go out of my way to avoid other people, and I make sure that I don’t get into any type of fights or altercations with others. I seem to have a skill, though, that makes people hate me with every fiber of their being. It’s been that way since I was a child.

Back then, I strived to get close to other people; all I wanted was a single person I could call a friend. It didn’t work out like I had hoped or like it always does on television. I didn’t fit in with any of the groups around me, even though I went out of my way to change myself to fit them. I did many things I shouldn’t have, that I still regret to this day, just to get them to like me, but they wouldn’t, they refused to accept me. They used me for what they could get, got a good laugh, and then dumped me to the side like roadkill.

It was frustrating, sure, but more than anything else, it just plain hurt. It wasn’t physical, so there was no amount of medicine that I could take that would cure the pain. I refused to do drugs and I refused to go out and get drunk just to forget. I suppose what I did choose to do was just as bad, though. Instead of drugs or alcohol, I turned to cutting. It terrified me every time I placed the smooth blade to my pale skin. Even though I was in so much pain, I didn’t want to die.

I was afraid to die.

I loved the world, I just hated the people in it.

Still, I slid the blade across my skin despite my fear. It was never deep enough to put me in harm’s way, which proves how much of a coward I really am – it’s pretty sad. It was no deeper than a cat scratch, but it still stung and throbbed, and little diamonds of blood covered it like a blanket. It was enough to make me feel better, for a few minutes, before I started to feel stupid for what I was doing to myself. That just made the situation worse.

I already hated myself for various reasons – fat, ugly, and above all else, unable to do anything right, just to name the main ones – and now I had cutting to add to my list. I was a despicable human being, I still am, but at least I can handle it a bit better now. I don’t cut anymore, though it does cross my mind occasionally.

Perhaps that’s a side effect of the crazy pills that I’m on now.

Though the pills do ease the fear of human beings, it can’t take it away. It’s still there, lingering just beneath the surface, waiting for me to feel safe and secure before it winds its black arms around me like death coming from the shadows. It grips my throat until I can’t breathe, and chains my heart so tight that it hurts every time it beats.

Sometimes I would envision myself in a barren wasteland, filled with nothing but rock formations that towered over me like skyscrapers. I could see chains binding my wrists to a metal plate in the ground, one that refused to budge so much as half an inch. The ground would crack beneath me, and lava would begin to seep through, but I couldn’t run away.

I could never run away.

I often wondered if someone could come to my rescue, to take me away, but I hated how that sounded. One thing I didn’t like – besides people -, was being a damsel in distress that needed a knight in shining armor to come to rescue her. Really, I’d be fine with just having someone that was a true friend, but after a while, I started to doubt the meaning of that word. I actually looked it up, and the definition only filled me with misery, knowing that I’d never have such a relationship.

Sure, there were people that tolerated me and my smart ass quips, like my co-workers, but something deep down told me they didn’t actually like me. I’m positive they only act nice because we have to see each other every week, and often are put together on projects. The day goes by in a painfully slow manner when you’re working with someone and there’s nothing but lightning between you – sadly, I know this because I just recently learned the true nature of my friend, who believes she’s done nothing wrong.

But I’m probably mostly to blame, anyway.

I guess I got a little off point, here, and for that, I apologize. I’m sure my ramblings mean nothing to you. So, let me spare you further hell, and begin telling you my boring, bang-your-head-against-a-brick-wall story.

Everything began when I was twenty-years-old, working at the local J.C. Penneys in the mall. It was my second job, and although my bosses were lenient and pleasant to be around – most of the time -, I still hated it. Not only because I was lazy, but because I hated having to deal with customers. Dealing with the people I worked with was one thing, but having the thought of being thrown onto the register with a customer was like staring my own death in the face.

Wait, I take that back. I’d rather stare death in the face than be on the register with customers.

Thankfully, this rat has learned to hide and run from customers – which would probably get me fired if anyone knew I did that since the company was one of those customer first types. That’s also why I do my very best to keep these thoughts tucked away from prying eyes. I mean, I hated being out there with people, but I needed the money. And in what other job would you be able to cower in an air-conditioned stock room by yourself, with no one to deal with but the massive racks of clothes that needed to be priced? It was heaven, really, but it didn’t happen very often.

I guess in a way I rely on my co-workers more than I should. With them around, I can roll the customer off onto them and get away scot-free. They don’t mind since they can actually handle having a simple conversation with other people.

It was the beginning of Spring, the beginning of April, and although it had been slightly chilly as of late, Florida was beginning to warm up. I didn’t mind the rare thirty-degree weather, it was the eighty-degree humidity covered weather that sent me to the floor panting and begging my family to move to Antarctica. I was very sensitive to heat, of any kind, which is another thing I can add to my pathetic list.

Nothing really special was happening in my life at the time, not like it ever did at any other time. I woke up last minute, rushed off to work, grit my teeth and tried not to harm myself just to be sent home, and when I finally would make it home, I’d flop in front of the computer where I stayed until it was time to go to bed.

See, rather than being one of those kids that goes out and parties the night away, having sex with every guy that smiles at her, I’ve always been the nerdy kid that sat at home, with no friends, playing video games and screwing around online. If anything, that’s the only thing I can say I like about myself. Of course, I probably would have done those things if I had actually had friends to coax me into them – I cave easily, remember?

That Monday, I expected the same routine.

I was only working six hours, so I just bit the inside of my cheek and decided to bare it, just like I did every other day that I worked at this godforsaken clothing store – I didn’t even like fashion, for fuck’s sake. That should be pretty obvious since I only ever come to work in t-shirts, jeans, and dirty sneakers that were falling apart – thank you, Walmart, for your wonderful quality in shoes.

I said goodbye to my mother, and promised to call her which I had no intention of doing – I mean, come on, I only get fifteen minutes, and I fully intend on spending those minutes trying to stay alive!

Since it was seven in the morning, and the store did not open until ten, I was forced to stand there looking like an idiot, pushing the little white button until my supervisor came power walking to the door with the keys. The older woman would smile and greet me with the typical good morning routine before telling me what I would be doing that day.

After her explanation, I’d take the elevator to the second floor – and god was it slow – before heading to the pricing office. Just like always, my team was already back there, scrambling around getting pricing books and sheets, picking out the cart they wanted, and trying to find a scanner that actually worked – those were few and far between, believe me.

The women would greet me, but it was nothing beyond a simple ‘good morning‘. Though I wanted to say something else, I never did, because I never knew what to say, and I knew I could never hold a conversation without doing something I’d regret. It was easier just to keep it short and simple. Seeing these women did make me feel a bit happy, even though we weren’t friends. I liked their presence, and they could be rather funny when they worked together.

Today we were looking for clearance in the Men’s department. Apparently, we had about fifty sheets of stuff to find, though I was sure we’d only be successful in about half the list, if that.

When nine-forty rolled around, I attended the meeting just so I could sit down for a few minutes, though nothing they discussed had anything to do with my team and, to be completely honest, I could care less about who got the most ICAPS, and who got the best reviews on the survey.

Good for them.

Give ’em a damn cookie and move on.

I took my time after the meeting ended because I decided to take my break now, so I could have fifteen more minutes without the threat of customers. I always did this when I worked six-hour days; it was starting to become a routine.

With those fifteen minutes, I spent them in the air-conditioned break room, in the back corner – or emo corner, as I’ve officially dubbed it -, trying to collect my thoughts and prepare myself for the horrible experience I was going to be throwing myself into it. It took a lot to calm myself down, but I managed it, just like always.

If only I had known how different that day was going to be.

If only I had known what was really going to happen to me that day.

I really should have stayed home.

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#original #writing #creative writing #writeblr #scenario #scenarios #slice of life #angst #one shot

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docholligay · 6 years ago

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The End of the Chuck-Line Rider

Hello! I wrote this for @rhiorhino, a McCree fic, as she is the only one who has ever commissioned me for McCree. I hope you like it, it gave me some trouble, but I think it turned out with some merit. It takes place after McCree rejoins my Overwatch, and you can find where it is in the fics here. About 2400 words.

Jesse McCree had spent the whole of his life bouncing from job to job, group to group, and it was the same in the city. He rode the line out to Brixton and Whitechapel and Poplar, sure as he’d bounced from Deadlock to Blackwatch to Talon.

But sometimes he got tired of the bouncing, and he went to Winston’s house.

Winston’s house was more than just a house, was why. A large, expansive place that had once been a warehouse, it should be grey and gloomy still surrounded by other warehouses, but Tracer, long before she had any capacity as commander, before there even was a second Overwatch, had painted it in lovely cheerful colors, and planted a few rows of flowers around the front stairs. It was a strange sight in the middle of the industrial park, lacking a quality of covertness one might have expected from the place.

For you see, it housed more than just Winston’s couch. It housed his lab, Mercy’s exam rooms and medical center, it housed arms lockers and a garage for D.va to tinker with her mech. Pharah had made herself busy digging out the bottom of the place to make a training room.

And it was for this reason that McCree felt he could be there. It was a sort of satellite headquarters for Overwatch, even if the official office was above some sort of fry shop off Well Street. He was a member of Overwatch, and the dog tags that clinked at his chest were proof of that. So he was allowed to be here, and when he tired of his tiny room, and of wandering around the city, he came here.

Winston had not yet discovered a way to keep him out of the kitchen, as it happened to be the only kitchen in the place, wide and generously spaced as the rest of the house, built for Winston and tolerated for McCree.

He was rubbing his gun idly as he sat there, drinking the coffee that bubbled out of Mercy’s housewarming gift to Winston that had probably been more than a little self serving. Pharah couldn’t hardly get mad at him for firearm safety, he thought as he pushed the brush through the bore.

How many times had he cleaned his gun in the past few months? He’d barely had the opportunity to shoot it, on Overwatch’s side, but still he cleaned it, a good habit. A good habit that got him out of the house.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for his small place across the river and down the way. He’d had a hard enough time finding anything he could afford, not to mention a place that would let him have his cats. And he wasn’t giving up his boys, just so he could have a little bit more comfort, no sir. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t quite that kind of man, to give them up after all they’d taken him through.

Mercy had suggested that Tracer had an extra bed in her home, and McCree hadn’t been dumb enough to ask her if he could stay, not when he was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, on account of she wasn’t allowed to shoot actual bullets at him with her gun.

So he was grateful, after all, for the tiny place he’d found, but it was still a single room with a microwave and a tiny cube of a fridge, with a tile floor and barely enough space for the cat tree.

And so sometimes he cleaned his gun at Winston’s.

The thing about Winston’s is that people came in and out of it, looking at him with various levels of suspicion and regret. He tried not to notice. He noticed anyway. Ashe had often said he had too much of a conscience to be in the Deadlock Gang. Yael had retorted that Ashe was the only one without one, before adding the venomous “rich kid” to the end of the sentence.

McCree had always chuckled when she said that. Until he heard his name said with that same venom, flecked off everyone’s teeth, everywhere.

A high ding rang out over the kitchen.

Tracer walked into the room, bouncing as she walked and humming happily to herself, till she caught sight of McCree, slowing and focusing her as if she’d hit a brick wall. She did not take her eyes off of him as she removed a mug from the cabinet, her canister of tea from next to the kettle, and then, just as quickly, snapped her head back to the task at hand, pouring the boiling water into the bright cup.

“We’re together on the next go round, you know.” McCree looked down the barrel of his gun, the oil from cleaning it filling Winston’s kitchen with its perfume.

She continued making her tea, with no response, pouring a bit of cream as her sloth tea infuser smiled out at McCree, the only one happy to see him.

“Tracer.”

She did not look up. “‘Eard you.”

It had been months since he’d been captured, since he’d decided to defect, since Mercy had passionately argued, using a religion none of them believed in but all felt strangely compelled by on the back of Mercy’s belief, that he should be allowed, that he should have a change to be something different and new.

We wiped down the edge of the barrel. “Think we should, you know, run a drill, maybe? Might be a solid idea to get some sense of the other.”

Tracer reached for the sugar bowl. “Know ‘ow you fight.”

Mercy was the only one who thought of him as a member of the team, if he was being honest. Pharah regarded him with suspicion. Winston hated him passionately, and wasn’t afraid to say so. Dva didn’t seem to care either way, and would tell you that if you asked her, but she somehow forgot to invite him to her apartment for dinners and games with the others.

Even Jack and Ana got invited to those.

He gave a weak grin and inclined his chin to her. “I mean, you’re the boss.”

She spun around quickly, somehow not spilling a drop of her tea, moving her hand with the motion of her body, practiced in all the ways she moved, and gave a smirk and a nod. “S’right, McCree, I am. See that you don’t forget it.”

But somehow it was Tracer who surprised him the most, a woman he would have said previously didn’t know how to hold grudge, who often joked she didn’t have the attention span for it but who had managed to gather it up to hate McCree. Tracer, who had mostly ignored the divide between Overwatch and Blackwatch, whatever Ana told her to do, who’d taken McCree out to his first gay club and laughed all the while. Tracer who now spoke to him only in snaps, for months.

There was a small part of him that was done with it, and it aimed forward.

“S’true, but,” He set down his gun and crossed his arms “Now Lena, we gotta--”

Tracer slammed her mug onto the countertop, tea spilling out the top of it, sloth tea infuser thrown off the edge of the mug and onto the stone, even his back to McCree, now.

“You SHOT me, Jesse!” Her eyes glowed with hot fire, willing and ready to answer the volley. “And you shot me to kill me! Near succeeded, too, you did, and wouldn’t that ‘ave been a lovely day for you, right? I don’t ‘gotta’ do nothing!”

McCree looked down into his coffee, watching the thin ribbon of cream he occasionally allowed himself circle around aimlessly in the dark.

He knew the feeling.

It would be impossible to explain to Tracer that it wouldn’t have been a lovely day for him, that he felt the full weight of regret like a fifty pound sack of flour the second he’d heard her cry out, the moment he saw the glitter off her blood in the moonlight. He’d thought it was the right thing, but it had been the wrong thing, and his gut had known that, same as Yael said it would. That he’d felt a wave of relief when Reaper had growled that she was still alive, that he had fucked it up, in the way this time at least.

But everything else she said was true, and Tracer had only spoken the truth into the light. That he’d shot her. That he’d shot to kill. And he would have to live with her hatred for the rest of his life, with Winston’s hatred, with everyone’s hatred. He’d made his bed, and now he had to sleep in it, and that was the god’s honest truth.

Tracer stared at him cold, daring him to defend himself, daring him to say anything at all, and he found himself unable to meet her gaze directly. She’d become a commander, in these ensuing years, and not just by title. Her back was straighter, her voice was clearer, and she did not look away.

“I--” He scrambled for a thing to say, trying to quiet the small voice inside of him that said he deserved another chance, that punishment enough had been meted out, that it was a commander’s duty to correct but either correct him and let it be done or send him on his way. The larger part of him, that part that knew what he’d done, fell upon that voice like a wave. “I’m, you know, I apologize.”

“Jesse.” She said very softly, wiping down the counter with a napkin.

“Yah?”

“I’m going to ‘it you in about, oh, one second, most like.”

“What the--”

He did not have time to finish the sentence before a mug came sailing at his face. He raised his arm, and barely blocked it, but the surprise of it caught him, and he stood up, tumbling backward into the wall. His gun was ripped from his hand and scattered across the kitchen floor, and McCree barely had time to worry that Tracer had knocked his gun out of timing before he felt the volley of her fists into his body.

He grabbed out for her, but there was only a small blue light where she had been and a fierce whack across the back of his head. Less than a second. The accelerator she wore every day gave her less than a second of movement.

It was enough, he reflected, as his nose cracked against a tiny fist, and she knew how to use it. The blood spewed out of his nose, and he reflexively grabbed for it, his other arm throwing out a wild punch in the hopes of finding her, but the most he felt was the graze of cotton that was the edge of her shirt. God, but she was fast. He wasn’t used to fighting someone like her, he was a barroom brawler and a one gun cowboy, and her heard her spring off the table ust in enough time to barely shield himself from the full force of her body on top of him, bring them both to the floor.

It seemed to last forever, but it could not have been half a minute before he heard Pharah’s voice, shouting above the sound of McCree’s head slamming to the floor, and the force of a knee falling into his chest.

“Ya rab! Hey!” He felt the knee lift from his chest, “Tracer!” and as he rolled over onto his belly and blinked around, he saw Tracer, her arms firmly held by Pharah, “You cannot do this! Not like this!”

“No, Fareeha!” She pulled away from her, “Tired of being bloody FUCKING told I’m not permitted to get the slightest bit angry over ‘im coming back into the fold, on account of your wife decided it was okay to the ‘ole lot of us!”

“Lena!”

“Let me ‘andle it!” She stomped her foot, as if she were an enraged toddler. “‘E TRIED TO KILL ME!”

“I know!” Pharah sighed, and took a breath. “I was there. It was horrible. I do not blame--”

“Makes no never mind to me.” McCree grumbled. “I had it coming, think we all know that.” He looked up at her through an already-swelling eye. ‘We square, or you not have your pound a flesh?”

It felt good, he would have said, if he had allowed himself to say such things. He wanted to handle it this way , too. That as different as he and Tracer could be, they both had a clear understanding of the fact that sometimes diplomacy didn’t work, and sometimes the only way to let bygones be was to pay it out in blood. That this was the most hopeful he’d felt since joining.

Pharah nodded. “I will get Angela. You will need care.”

She hurried away, Tracer still leaning against the edge of the countertop, arms crossed, the blue of her shirt peppered with blood that McCree was pretty sure was all his. He didn’t remember landing a hit.

He grinned up at her, still tasting the iron of it. “Good training, Commander.”

She gave a weak chuckle. “Fuck, Jesse.” She walked toward him, and extended a hand. “Come on then.”

He looked up. “You gonna hit me again?”

She smiled, and he felt his shoulders relax. “Not today. Most like.”

He took her hand, and as she pulled him up, she paused for a second by his hear. “Promise you this, you ever walk toward Talon again, it’s the last thing you ever do.”

He appreciated knowing what a man can do, and what a man can’t do, and Tracer was good at making that plain. She’d make good on the promise. She kept promises.

McCree straightened up. “Understood.” he went to tip his hat only to realize it wasn’t there, and awkwardly saluted, “Commander Oxton.”

Tracer looked around the kitchen, and put her hands on her hips. “All right then, clean this up,” She shrugged, “guess that’s the lot of it. Hm,” she looked at the floor, “broke me mug.”

McCree grabbed the broom and mop, and when he turned around, Tracer was offering him a handkerchief.

#HON HON HON #Thank you for reading #!!

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kagaintheskywithdiamonds · 6 years ago

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EVERY pokemon type matchup EXPLAINED

(or at least, some way to remember them all)

Water > Fire: water puts out fire

Ground > Fire: you can also pour sand on a fire to put it out.

Rock > Fire: sand is made of tiny rocks.

Water > Rock: rocks sink

Water > Ground: “ground” = “earth”, “earth” in this case meaning “the rock that makes up the earth” (which makes it nearly indistinguishable from rock-type but whatevs), and water erodes rock to carve up the land

Grass > Rock: if you plant a seed in a crack in a rock, its roots may have the power to break that rock into pieces when it grows bigger

Electric > Water: water conducts electricity

Bug > Grass: bugs eat plants

Flying > Grass: birds eat plants

Flying > Bug: birds eat bugs

Electric > Flying: lightning strikes in high places

Ice > Flying: birds fly south for the winter

Ice > Dragon: maybe dragons also fly south for the winter? scientists still aren’t sure

Ghost > Ghost: you know how Danny Phantom had to turn into a ghost in order to fight the evil ghosts? it’s like that

Dark > Ghost: messing with ghosts is some dark shit and only those proficient in dark magic can control them.

Bug > Psychic: spiders are a common phobia, so you could think of it like a psychological fear thing. also there’s the fact that gen 1 was crazy unbalanced and that bug-types were kind of useless and psychic-types were crazy OP and the usually-weak bug-types were SUPPOSED to be the Achilles heel of psychic-types but in practice it really didn’t work out.

Bug > Dark: the psychological fear thing applies here too. also there’s the fact that dark and steel types were added in gen 2 to fix the balance issues in gen 1 and bug-types needed another thing to be strong against.

Dark > Psychic: Dark Pokemon show me the Forbidden Power that can defeat the crazy OP psychic-types of gen 1.

Ghost > Psychic: ghost-types were also supposed to be the Achilles heel to psychic-types. but then the coders in gen 1 made psychic-types immune to ghost attacks, somehow. anywho they fixed that in gen 2 and onwards.

Fire > Grass: fire burns plants/wood

Fire > Ice: heat melts ice

Fire > Steel: greater amounts of heat will melt metal

Fire > Bug: did y’all ever go camping with your family and watch some kid in the neighboring campsite gather up a bunch of live bugs and then throw them into their campfire?? that’s what this makes me think of. but yeah if you throw a bug in a fire it will most likely die.

Rock > Bug: it would be more efficient to kill a bug by crushing it under a rock

Ice > Grass: plants die/trees hibernate during winter

Dragon > Dragon: dragon-types were also OP in gen 1 and they needed to nerf themselves (and this didn’t happen in gen 1 because the only damage-dealing dragon-type move was dragon rage which always deals 40 HP of damage sooooo)

Fighting > Normal: imagine a Machamp using a Snorlax or something as a punching bag. it makes more sense than trying to use any of the other types as a punching bag I suppose.

Rock > Flying: “kill two birds with one stone”

Fighting > Rock: imagine some guy karate chopping a brick in half.

Fighting > Steel: imagine that same guy karate chopping a steel bar in half. it doesn’t really work, since the steel bar just kinda bends instead of snapping in two. but he still managed to fuck that thing up so I guess it still makes sense.

Fighting > Ice: exercise and physical activity keeps you warm and that helps you tolerate the cold. …or you could imagine karate-guy chopping a brick of ice in half. that works too.

Fighting > Dark: I read somewhere that dark-type pokemon are actually called “evil” type in Japan, and that dark-type moves are often about “playing dirty.” meanwhile, fighting-type pokemon/moves are based more on martial arts, which is a more respectable and honorable form a fighting that often goes hand-in-hand with certain moral codes and philosophies. so basically, a good, clean, honorable fight trumps dirty cheaters.

Flying > Fighting: “have you ever tried to punch a bird”

Fairy > Fighting: I like to think of this as a defeat of toxic masculinity

Fairy > Dragon: it’s like a fairy tale where the hero slays the dragon in the end

Fairy > Dark: good overcomes all sorts of evil in fairy tales

Poison > Fairy: remember Ferngully? that movie about those fairies who lived in the rainforest and then their home was threatened by man-made pollution? it’s like that.

Poison > Grass: pollution also kills plants. both in the Ferngully rainforest and elsewhere.

Grass > Water: plants drink water.

Grass > Ground: plants also take in nutrients from the soil

Ice > Ground: “that thing where water gets into cracks in the ground and then freezes and that breaks the rock up”

Rock > Ice: after the ground is broken up by the ice, the ground becomes rocks. rocks are all that remain. rock wins.

Steel > Ice: ice can’t break up steel the same way it can break up rocks. steel does not fear ice.

Ground > Electric: lightning rods “ground” electricity so it isn’t dangerous

Ground > Poison: imagine a venomous snake trying to “kill” a clump of dirt. it won’t be a successful hunt for the snake.

Ground > Rock: ROCK IS JUST GROUND. GROUND IS ROCK. YA HEAR THAT, ROCK?! I OWN YOU

Ground > Steel: if you take a robot or your computer or phone or really anything electronic and then bury it underground without any protective casing, it probably won’t work anymore when you dig it back up.

Psychic > Fighting: “mind over matter”/“brain over brawn”

Psychic > Poison: if you’re psychic then you can see into the future and that means you might see a vision of you dying from eating food that was poisoned or you getting bitten by a snake in a certain location and then you will know to avoid those foods/locations (idfk, you got a better explanation?)

Steel > Rock: metal is the refined version of rock. metal is superior.

Steel > Fairy: can a fairy fight its way through a steel wall? no? I thought not.

Rock being resistant against Normal: if you’re not the karate guy from the earlier examples, then punching a rock isn’t going to do much for you.

Steel being resistant against Normal: again, if you’re not the karate guy, punching a slab of metal won’t go well for you.

Fire being resistant against Fairy: how is a fairy supposed to put out a fire. it’s too smol.

Dragon being resistant against Fire: FIRE CANNOT HURT A DRAGON

Dragon being resistant against Water: WATER ALSO CANNOT HURT A DRAGON, I GUESS. MAYBE BECAUSE SOME DRAGONS ALSO LIVE IN WATER?

Dragon being resistant against Electricity: dragons are the masters of all elements and I guess we just have to accept that at this point.

Dragon being resistant against Grass: foliage cannot hurt a dragon

Steel being resistant against Grass: if you cut down a forest, and lay a foot-thick blanket of steel on the ground where the forest used to be… those plants aren’t going to grow back very easily.

Water being resistant against Ice: water is one phase away from BEING ice. there’s not much ice can do to bother water.

Steel being resistant against Ice: I don’t RECOMMEND putting your smartphone in the freezer but it would probably survive the process

Poison being resistant against Fighting: punching a snake isn’t going to get rid of the venom that has already been injected inside your body

Bug being resistant against Fighting: I mean you CAN punch a bug but I wouldn’t recommend it because you’re probably going to hurt your fist from punching whatever surface the bug was sitting on.

Rock being resistant against Poison: a snake that bites a rock would also have little success. but apparently slightly more success than if it were to bite a clump of dirt. because it’s only a one-way resistance this time.

Ghost being resistant against Poison: you can’t poison something that’s already dead

Bug being resistant against Ground: I mean. bugs live in the ground. I guess they’re pretty familiar with the place. it doesn’t throw them off their routine too much.

Steel being resistant against Flying: when a bird flies directly into a skyscraper and dies, the skyscraper doesn’t take too much damage.

Steel being resistant against Psychic: you can’t play mind games with a computer

Water being resistant against Steel: water usually isn’t too annoyed by the objects that enter it.

Flying being immune to Ground: if you’re flying then you’re not touching the ground. the ground can’t bother you.

Steel being immune to Poison: you can’t poison a robot.

Ghost being immune to Normal and Fighting: so the idea here is that ghosts are intangible. you can’t physically touch a ghost, much less punch one. you’d have to blast it with fire or electricity or something instead. but making ghost-types immune to all physical moves would’ve been OP, especially in gens 1-3 when a move counted as physical or special entirely based on what type it was. and instead of ghost being immune to ALL physical types, they made it immune to the two that are most easily associated with physically attacking things.

Normal being immune to Ghost: listen… normal-types have like nothing else going for them. they might as well get to be immune to the type that is already immune against them. (fighting-types can still fuck up rocks pretty well so they didn’t need this kind of extra immunity)

#pokemon #I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS GOT SO LONG #shitpost #nintendo #gaming

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missyslittlepet · 7 years ago

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*Requested - Reader wears high tech glasses due to their poor vision and one day they break. Rocket offers to fix them but takes his time because he wants a way to get closer to them.* It normally would have taken him about three days, he did have a reputation for being good with tech after all. He watched silently as you staggered across the room, hands out slightly to avoid walking into anything. The sight was comical. Like something from one of those... what was it Peter called them? Martoons? Cartroons? Rocket couldn't quite remember and made a mental note to ask Peter later. You had been that way ever since you had your glasses smashed by some thug on knowhere. The Guardians had been treating themselves to a few drinks to celebrate their triumph against Ronan. It wasn't everyday they saved the galaxy after all. It had been your round and the line had been long so when a guy pushed in front of you just as you were about to order... Well let's just say you weren't all that pleased about it. Now, to say that this guy was built like a brick shithouse would have been an insulting understatement. After dealing with bullying due to your vision all your life you had grown tough and confident. You were through with people treating you like nothing so you probably weren't thinking when you placed the barrel of your gun against the guys back. "I think I was here first pal. Move along or I'll shoot." You had always wondered what it would be like to fly. However, as you flew through the air after being flung by the brute and the bar wall came closer into view, you couldn't help thinking it wasn't as fun as you had first hoped. The contact with the wall was swift and left you crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag doll. Rocket had been the first one out of his chair. Shots were fired and he managed to chase the guy out of the bar. The whole place seemed uninterested by the scene, completely numbed to it after the amount of times these kinds of things occurred. You were thankful for that at least because your face was red with embarrassment. Drax offered his large hand to help you up. Rocket watched this and scampered over quickly. "Nah, I got her, I got her!" Rocket shouted over the noise or the bar waving Drax away. Drax raised an eyebrow and backed away. Rocket instead offered you his small clawed hand and pulled you up into a sitting position. He studied you carefully and noticed a slight cut just below your eye where some smashed glass had caught your skin. "Ya alright?" He asked. You sighed heavily. "I'm fine..." You couldn't help seeing the cracked glass and glitching software dance across your vision, making Rocket look out of focus and distorted. You remove them from your face and glance down at them. Your blurred eyesight made you grimace and Rocket realised taking the glasses from you. They were brilliantly designed. Infrared technology, target locking software, facial recognition and very, very expensive to replace. Rocket turned them in his hands and chewed the inside of his cheek in thought. "I'll fix 'em, it will take a while but I'll get 'em working again." Rocket knew it was easy. Brilliantly made they were... for someone on Xander that was. He had developed bombs more complex that those glasses. Not that he'd tell you that. With a smile, you had thanked him and allowed him to guide you back to the Milano. What you didn't realise was there was perks to you not seeing clearly... Not for you, of course, but most definitely for Rocket. You see, with your vision impaired it allowed Rocket to watch you without fear of being seen himself. He was good at hiding behind a veil of satire meaning he had grown good at masking his true emotions as tolerance or annoyance. When no one was watching, however, he was free to allow some of his feelings to slip through the cracks. He felt the tell tale tug on his lips letting him know he was in fact smiling to himself again. He had been taxed with looking after you until your glasses were fixed. Peter thought it would be a good incentive for him to fix them sooner. Oh, how wrong he was. Rocket laughed lightly at the thought. It had been two weeks now and Rocket was still yet to actually take a good look at the true extent of the damage caused to them. If he was being completely honest with himself; he enjoyed the fact that he now spent all of his time with you. With out the loss of your glasses you really had no need for his help. "You know, if you're just going to laugh at me I'd rather you just left." You mumbled under your breath. Two weeks of feeling useless was really starting to take its tole. You had become irritable from having to rely on Rocket because as far as you knew Rocket was hating every moment. The last thing you wanted was who you considered your closest friend to start to resent you. Rocket never had been the type to help people without making a fuss about it first. Rocket's smile faded. "(F/n), I ain't laughing at ya." He said quickly, ears twitching as he spoke. "Oh, yes you are. Everyone is." You threw yourself down on what you hoped was a chair. Luckily, it was. "Ain't nobody laughing at ya. What makes ya think that?" His ears had flattened slightly, any trace of his smile completely gone. You scoffed. "What makes me think that? I'm completely useless without my glasses. And now you need to baby sit me. I know you hate this Rocket. Just go, it's my stupid fault for picking a fight with a guy that could quite literally throw me across the room. You shouldn't have to deal with me. I'm going to buy some new glasses as soon as we land. If done relying on everyone." Rocket felt a stab of guilt enter his body. He hadn't realised you had been feeling that way. "Nah, don't spend all of those units. I'll get 'em fixed by tomorrow. I promise." "Rocket it's been two weeks, I've stolen far too much of your time already. This isn't fair on you. You have more important things to be working on." A second stab. "...(f/n), I haven't started looking at 'em yet." Rocket admitted. He paused waiting for you to shout at him. You remained silent and waited for an explanation. Rocket took the hint and continued. "I just want an excuse to spend time with ya. 'M sorry. I understand ya just wanted ya glasses back, It was selfish of me." "...You never needed an excuse Rocket. I'm annoyed don't think I'm not but... that's kind of sweet..." You smiled in his general direction. "...yeah?" He mumbled, the smile reappearing. He made his way towards you and gently placed his hand on your arm. "Yeah." You laughed and scoop him up into a hug. He was just a fuzzy blur at that moment but he was still your Rocket. Rocket never minded you picking him up. He loved being close to you. "Just please fix them if you can." You laugh. "I'll go now, you've waited long enough." He nuzzled his head into your jumpsuit before running off towards his room. Later that night, after several hours hard work, he had your glasses working as good as new. He even took it upon himself to add some new features. He held them excitedly and ran off to find you. You had managed to stumble back to your room and lay on your bed. There was a quiet knock on your door and you called out for whoever it was to come in. "Hey (f/n), I fixed 'em." He ran over to your bed and hopped up. You allowed him to place them onto your face. You watched as the galaxy came into focus once more and your eyed landed on Rocket. His beautiful brown eyes stared back at you and a smirk tugged at his lips. "Oh Rocket, thank you so much. They're as good as new!" You pulled him into another hug. He once again snuggled close and smiled. Trying his hardest to wrap his arms around you. "They're better than new. Thought I'd add some stuff, y'know." He pulled away and placed it on your hand. He then extend one of your fingers and guided it up to the metal frame of your glasses. You could feel two small buttons. "This one," He moved your hand onto the left one. "Allows ya to detect what weapons someone has. Pretty useful in combat. This one," He guided you to the right one. He tried to stifle his laughter but still ended up sniggering. "Allows ya to see the probability of winning in a fight with someone based on build and IQ, so, if it's below thirty percent ya know ya gonna get thrown across a bar and smash your glasses." You laughed and nudged him playfully. "What's the probability I'll win against you then tough guy?" You press the right button and writing appears in the corner of your vision. 'Aint nobody beating me princess, besides, who else will fix your glasses?' You laughed again at the fact that he had made your glasses as sarcastic as himself. "Thank you Rocket, I love them." You smiled and kissed his cheek. "No problem (f/n), ya waited long enough." He had a dopey grin on his face and he scratched behind his ear nervously. "Since I don't need no excuse to hang out with ya does that mean we can go get a drink when we land?" His eyes dropped to your bed sheet. He found that the pattern had suddenly became very interesting to him. "Of course Rocket, I'd love to." You smiled when he looked up at you in disbelief. "Really?" He beamed. "Really. I think I'd be lying if I said I hadn't enjoyed your company for the past two weeks." "It's a... It's a date then?" His grin faded and he regretted the words as soon as he had said them. Had he just blown it? Took it too far? He looked away in fear. "Its a date." You grinned excitedly. "I can't wait." His smile returned in full force and he looked back up at you. "Me neither sweetheart." He smirked.

#rocket imagine #rocket raccoon fanfic #rocket raccoon x reader #rocket x reader

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doorsclosingslowly · 7 years ago

Text

These Words for Kindling

Three years ago, Maul chose to make the mistake of taking on an apprentice who cares too much about the child that Maul used to be, and not at all about the painful path to power. A morning free of his annoyingly well-meant pestering might even be described as a holiday. A day is excessive, and when Savage keeps being gone, that’s when Maul truly starts worrying.

10k | Pt. 6 of Runaways ‘verse | warnings for torture & past child abuse | read on AO3

The Thyferran sun bathes the cargo hold with a warm green when Maul wakes up, and Savage is gone. That’s not a rare occurrence; usually, when Maul slowly crawls out of the veritable mountain of cozy blankets that used to be one orderly layer up until two months ago, his brother is already hurrying about, quietly or grumbling about his stiff joints and the hard floor underneath the mattresses. Sometimes, he’s hiding in the fresher to discreetly cover new scratches that he somehow still believes Maul doesn’t know about.

Maul should really be asking him where he keeps the horn files. He’s loath to give up any more of his body and especially something that might prove an advantage in a fight, and Savage does not complain, but it’s plain by now that blunting the tips of his horns is necessary. They can’t keep pretending that Savage is not being hurt. This new arrangement is permanent.

(Two months ago, they burned the Sheathipede’s bed. It had just been taking up space, after—after what happened to his apprentice, and so Maul had unscrewed it from the floor and stolen termite and explosives, and watched his brother watch it go up in flames.)

The pillow wall between their nest-sections topples with an idle kick. It’s normal for Savage to be gone already, and it’s not worrisome either, except inasmuch as it is yet another instance of Maul’s worrying lapses in discipline. It’s already past noon. Before he met Savage, Maul would never have dared sleep this long. Or—been able to.

That Maul cannot hear his brother or feel his warm presence in the force is stranger, but still easily explained: he’s probably just found a quiet space in which to lick his wounds after yesterday’s fight. Maybe he chose to wake up early, to find more hatred to spew at Maul, more words with which to insult Maul’s former Master, or maybe he’s sulking. Maybe he’s grown tired of getting injured in his sleep and finally decided to find somewhere else to spend his nights. (Maul almost succeeds in telling himself that that’s what he’s always wanted.)

Maybe Savage is simply enjoying the sunlight, though.

Most of their time they spend in hyperspace where it’s dark throughout the day, and all too often Savage talks of Dathomir’s sunrises with a reverence that Maul thinks should be reserved to Sith teachings, or particularly well-designed droid blueprints. Sheathipede’s been docked on the heavily policed planet of Thyferra for two weeks now, hidden in a clearing since neither of them have the necessary identification documents to rent a hangar here, and Savage’s been up early every day to lounge in the sunshine. This morning is not unusual, and so, Maul thinks of nothing while he kneels down to meditate.

In the kitchen an hour later, a mug of long-cooled broth is waiting for him. Out of habit, Maul almost reaches for a box of protein bars, but there is little reason to prove his superior sense of taste when his only audience is an idling Cutlass interface. The broth tastes of an animal Maul can’t identify, but there is no-one to ask.

Still Maul suspects nothing when he runs through his katas in the wet moss outside. Instead, he thinks about his apprentice’s laughable aversion to backflips, which certainly aren’t unnecessarily dangerous and goofy, and calculates what it would take to wear the resistance down. An hour of ball-games, perhaps, for another of watching his apprentice fall flat on his face. Or perhaps it’s another chance for Maul to prove his role: for him to speak the order and brook no argument, since that is what a Master does. Either way, Savage will look stupid, Maul knows. There is little chance he’ll ever execute a perfect landing, or even a clumsy one that leaves him standing on his feet. It’s too late for him. He’s strong, but he’s not graceful, will never become it unless he shrinks and Maul invents a time-machine and changes the Rule of Two so Lord Sidious will consider training him as well. Savage hates acrobatics. He’ll look so stupid. Maul decides he’ll order him to do at least fifty.

Savage is nowhere to be found when Maul fixes a flickering light in the engine room, and when he walks into the cockpit, and the fresher.

He’s not outside, hunting for worms, either. He isn’t doing pull-ups on the sharp blue trees that dot their clearing. He isn’t running laps. It would take half an hour at most, Maul estimates, until he’d pass the ship again if he was running, no matter what route he might have taken, and Maul must have been waiting here, pacing and then forcing himself to sit down every few minutes and then pacing again with more ferocity, for twice that. Could he have… no. There are few reliable paths out here, and the forest is deep and, per the locals, largely unexplored and filled with unknown but venomous predators. Savage would avoid leaving the paths. He isn’t that stupid. Despite his opinions on Maul’s old Master, he isn’t actually stupid.

Maul goes inside and sits down on his blanket and meticulously checks his leg prosthesis for loose wires, and Savage isn’t there.

The speeder bike, which Maul will name Bloodfin once it’s finished in honor of the bike he left in the LiMerge building three years ago, roars satisfyingly across the clearing and back again. Then, it wobbles and jumps and almost smears him against a tree. Maul curses. He spent the whole blissful evening removing the governor and recalculating its maximum speed fifteen times and polishing its insides, and it’s still unusable. He pulls off the casing again. It’s shamefully dented and rusty—truly, Maul did its owner a favor when he liberated the unloved bike—but there is no point in tending to its looks when he’s still in the process of working over the mechanics. There should not have been a fault in the steering, but Maul will find it. He’s looking forward to the challenge.

It’s good that I had an entire day to myself, Maul decides. I would have torn Savage’s head off if he’d said one more word, and so he left me to cool my anger. We would have argued again—Maul is not even supposed to tolerate backtalking from his apprentice, and he had no idea how to stop it—and I’d have hurt him worse. Now, Savage will come back and pretend there was no fight, and I’ll have a functioning bike. This is good.

The itching in the back of his mind is just the break in routine.

Maul remembers this room. He is almost certain that he’s been here before, and then he looks at the ground and the smoking droid parts strewn across it and knows that he can’t have left the complex, ever. The floor is close, and suddenly, he is young again. He is small and excited and stupid, and his Master’s criticisms cut even more because this time, Maul knows his victory was remarkable. He built the assassin droid himself; it’s nimble and programmed to be utterly unpredictable and Maul cut it down in just minutes. He killed it. He is invincible.

Master disagrees. He chides, He sighs, He turns to leave. Forever, He says, because there is no promise here, and Maul is so angry and he lowers his head and runs and—now he is held down, unable to move or scream or beg, to kneel in submission or try drawing comfort from wrapping his arms around himself. He cannot rip out the intravenous drip that’s been keeping him alive for days. He burns. There are no fire ants, and he burns. The stumps of his horns ache, and they leak and the only thing he knows is that he deserves this. Did he fight? Did he headbutt his Master? Did he—? He does not remember. He never remembers the reasons for punishment.

What use is pain if you don’t even know what you did, afterwards? This is not teaching, this is… Maul’s mind argues, in his brother’s soft voice. If the agony suffocates your thoughts, how will it teach? Think, Maul: what else does Sidious want? What other goal to reach with your abuse? Maul does not know the answer, but he is no Master. Of course he doesn’t know.

Eventually, Maul’s eyes find the ceiling, patched and familiar and not Mustafar. Not LiMerge. Not Orsis. It is hot here, but—there are too many blankets on top of him. Nothing else. After a minute of breathing, Maul’s fingers find the tips of his horns, and the intact sharp points draw blood. He touches them again, just to make sure.

It was just a nightmare. A memory.

A worse one than usual, but that’s because… it takes a while to remember, and then it is clear as the ice-cold water that no-one threw in his face. No-one woke him, half-way through. No-one shouted from a safe distance. Now that Maul is sensible again, no-one is approaching him with gentle hands and trying to interrogate him about his so-called trauma with the subtlety of a brick.

Savage isn’t here.

He still hasn’t returned.

Maul untangles himself from his blankets and inspects every corner of the nest, but checking is just a formality. It’s messy, but it’s obvious that Savage hasn’t slept tonight. Despite the wall of pillows between them, he’d have stolen all the blankets. He always does. He isn’t here. He wouldn’t have let Maul dream for this long. Maul can count the nights that he woke up and Savage wasn’t there, already awake and worried, on one hand and have fingers left over.

Savage isn’t here.

This is wrong.

He did not bother Maul for an entire day. At the time, it felt like a respite, but in hindsight: how did he not notice that something was wrong? Savage never gives Maul this much peace. He’s bad at existing on his own, and much too dedicated to annoying Maul. He insisted they share the sleep-room in the first place. (Not the nest, that was—but Savage doesn’t talk about that day, and therefore it doesn’t count.) He keeps nagging Maul about eating well. He keeps insulting Lord Sidious for what he did to... He keeps worrying.

Savage is large and strong, and still he has not unlearnt the craving for other people that Lord Sidious obliterated in Maul decades ago.

He can’t have outgrown it in the space of a single day. He can’t have left Maul. He can’t be gone.

Unless—

(“You don’t need to pretend, brother,” Savage growled, two days ago and a few hours before Maul last saw him.

Maul paused his explanations, incredulous and angry. He fiddled with the ignition of his saberstaff, turning it off and on and off again, before dropping the weapon. Here was something worse than teaching the ways of the Sith to someone who obviously doesn’t care: being accused of not caring himself, when Maul had suffered and bled for his title. When he’d been so excited to have an apprentice of his own. So excited that he left Lord Sidious for the chance not to lose him.

“What you’re saying… I would never treat a child the way Sidious treated you. You could never treat a child that way. You’re trying, because you think you have to, but… I know your master’s lessons, and I don’t want you to teach me.”

So few words, and it hurt more than any second of Maul’s training ever had.

“You’re listening,” Savage said. “You’re not angry. That’s good.”

“Silence,” Maul spat and glared at him, but that wasn’t discouragement enough. Savage took Maul’s right hand then and pulled it up into the sunlight. Maul held himself very still. He knew what his brother was looking for, the startle that happened often when Maul was touched, and he would not give it. He could not afford to, because it would only take on the meanings that Savage wanted it to have: Maul flinches, and the force colors with pity and ache. Savage does not want to be taught because I flinch, Maul knew and refused to move, and it was not enough.

Savage looked at the hand. The force sickened.

After a while, Maul could see what his brother was looking at: criss-crosses of raised skin, fat burn scars and the echoes of lashes, broad and shiny and ancient. Maul had forgotten that they existed, masked under the stark colors of his skin, and they hardly hurt by now. He could not have hidden these. Savage was covered with scars himself, but that never seemed to matter. Hypocrite.

“Brother,” Savage dropped into the silence. He still did not let go. “Brother. I don’t want you to teach me. You don’t want to teach me.”

“Apprentice—”

“You’ve tried, and I know what he did to—I know how you were trained, I have listened to you, and you think you need to recreate... I know you were strangled. Punished. Lashed. Brother. You don’t want to train me. It hurts you. It panics you. Please, listen. You are not Sidious. You will never be him. It hurts you.”

Maul heard: You have not been a good Master. It burned less from Savage’s mouth than it always does in Maul’s thoughts. Somebody else noticed his failure, and it hurt less: it should not be like this.

“I heard the first word you said and the second and the fifth, but I never got to hear the thousandth word that you learned to say,” Savage growled, and his eyes were very warm. Maul looked away quickly. There was no reason to bring this up now. Or ever. “I watched you crawl backwards into corners and gnarr because you couldn’t get out, because you didn’t understand directions yet that weren’t backwards, but I did not see your first fight. I did not see you grow up. That monster stole you from me. He stole those moments. He stole them for no reason, just to hurt you, just because he’s a pathetic old man who gets off on hurting children. He’s a monster. You were a toddler. I will never forgive him.”

It was difficult, still, to find a reply when the apprentice brought up Maul’s childhood. The Maul that Savage talked of was alien, a vulnerable small thing that he had nothing in common with but the name. It was not Maul, and those words were nothing but a reminder that when Savage looked at him, the person Savage saw was not Maul.

The person Savage saw was not a Sith lord.

“You didn’t raise me,” Maul ground out. “Lord Sidious did. Lord Sidious raised me, not you, and I’m glad for it. He taught me strength. If I’d stayed on Dathomir, I would be dead now.”

Savage flinched, and Maul realized what he’d just said.

I would be dead.

Dead. Like Feral is.

It was a remark born from cornered anger, and it was simply meant to dispel dreams of the child that never was, but… Savage had confessed to being forced to murder a beloved brother, a task designed to break his will and cement his dependence on the Nightsister who owned him, like Kilindi Matako’s death had further bound Maul to Lord Sidious. Maul knew this pain, knew it well, and Savage had trusted him with it. And now he he’d thrown it back in Savage’s face.

I would be dead if I was the child you love: it was the cruelest thing Maul could possibly have said, and he wanted to take it back immediately, to distract from it by confessing his childhood dreams of running away and not being alone, but… that was the whole problem.

Lord Sidious would not have apologized.

Maul pulled his hand away, finally, and wrapped it around himself. It trembled against his stomach. He swallowed. Then he explained again, “You are not the Master here. I am. Whether you want me to teach you is irrelevant, and it has stalled, I admit, but your training shall continue—” or start, rather, but admitting that was too close to agreement with Savage— “Sith training, in exactly the way I was talking about. I’m not pretending. Now. We will not speak of this again. Power is necessary for survival, and you will learn to draw strength from your pain.”

That was a lie, though.

Savage didn’t learn anything that day. Instead, it went like every attempt at a lesson that wasn’t sparring; was nothing but Maul’s bluster and his lightsaber faltering instead of burning, and Savage’s pitying, kind eyes. Every explanation, every justification for Lord Sidious behavior—they all faltered. You don’t want to train me kept running through Maul’s head, and the harder he tried to disprove it, the more he wanted to throw up. The only thing worse than Maul’s failure was the knowledge that both of them could see it, and that Savage didn’t even mind.

Something must break now, surely; either the world or Savage’s face with its disgusting, patient, hopeful eyes. This life made no sense. Nothing did. Nothing broke.

Afterwards, Savage said he wanted to look at the crickets instead of sleeping, and Maul hated himself for his gratitude. He was too distracted to notice that Savage never went to bed.)

“He’s terrible at subterfuge. He must have told you something. Where is Savage, Cutlass?”

“I am Gorge,” the kitchen head mutters. It isn’t, and this is pointless. It’s the third interface of Cutlass the ship AI, and Maul��s only allowed his apprentice to refer to it by a false nickname out of a lingering sense of guilt. The blasted thing is faulty, and while Savage never complained, the way Maul expected him to… Now, it’s grown used to Savage treating it as a separate entity. A droid with personality issues. It seems that Savage rubs off his strange worldviews on everyone.

“Gorge,” Maul acquiesces, if only because there is no time. He regrets deeply that he afforded it this much leeway. The next version shall have infinitely superior programming. “Where is my brother.”

“What are you t-t-t-t-talking about, Master?”

“My apprentice. He isn’t on the ship. We fought, one and a half days ago, and now he is missing.”

“I don’t know, Master Maul. Why would he be gone? Where would he go?” replies Savage’s droid friend, the most useless thing in the entire galaxy.

“Did he visit you before he ran off?”

“He wouldn’t leave us. He loves you, and he just wanted to bring you a present because... He definitely never told me anything about where he didn’t go. Have you looked everywhere? This ship is t-t-truly quite big. Maybe he’s just—”

“Where. Is. Savage.”

“I wouldn’t know. No-one ever tells me anything. It’s very dark in here, my photoreceptors are badly calibrated I t-t-t-t-t… I believe. I am always here, waiting, and only very rarely Savage will come and visit me and ask me about the flora and fauna of a given planet. You don’t visit me very often, Master. Did you know that rancors are curiously widespread in the galaxy, with specimens found at both ends of the Hydian Way? They are highly valued as beasts of fighting and livestock, and even worshipped, in the Outer Rim. And yet they do not exist inside the Expansion Region or corewards, which suggests—”

“Override code senth-wesk-qek-qek-one-three-three-five-zero-resh-resh. Do not lie. There is no time for this, droid, and you will tell me. When did you last talk to Savage?”

“Nine milliseconds aft-t-t-ter a quarter-second after three seconds after ten seconds af—”

“Stop.”

The droid is still dissembling. Despite the fact that it can’t lie anymore, it’s using as much leeway as possible, complying with the letter and not the spirit of what Maul wants. It’s drawing out its answers. It knows something, and it doesn’t want to tell Maul. This is vexing, but even more deeply: it’s worrying.

There’s only one person who could have compromised its functioning to that degree. Savage may not have the technical knowledge or authorization to back up his wishes, but he has something strangely powerful. He has its loyalty. It knows that Maul could and will wipe its memory for the disobedience, and yet…

It likes Savage better.

It always takes Savage’s side against Maul.

That kind of motivation shouldn’t exist; it doesn’t, according to Lord Sidious, and so Maul had heretofore stayed ignorant of its danger. There is no such thing as petty friendship, not in droids made to carry out orders, and not in sentient beings. There is only power, and those who strive for it, and those too weak to count. It doesn’t make those wretched beings more loyal. Everyone wants power. Submission but reflects the lack of opportunity for challenging the Master.

(“It doesn’t love you. It only likes the food that you give it,” Master said, and then He stood and watched until Maul took the buzzbird and broke its neck. “It never loved you.”)

As long as Maul hadn’t needed to predict his brother’s behavior—why try, when Savage was always there, right beside him—as long as it didn’t matter that this explained nothing whatsoever about Savage; and before, as long as he’d known no-one but Master, for whom this held true—it had looked like fact. Now, though…

It’s obvious that Savage doesn’t want power. He refused it. He doesn’t want to be taught the ways of the Sith, he wants… Up until two days ago, Maul would have said that what Savage wants is family, but… Savage is gone, and he fought with Maul, and Gorge would not be hiding anything if Savage hadn’t asked him to.

That the droid Maul rewired is lying hurts.

But that Savage would…

“—me. Maul, are you alright?” The droid is loud, now. He must have been trying to get Maul’s attention for a while. “Are you alright? You’re t-t-t-t… shaking.”

“I am fine.”

Maul isn’t. Nothing is fine. There is only one possible explanation, now.

Savage has left him.

The pain of betrayal is a heady rush and it melts knives idling in the sink and burns the cutting-board—distantly, Maul decides that in this moment, he could fight all the Jedi and win—but there are times when calm is necessary, and now it is crucial. He will never find his runaway apprentice by feeling hurt. He’ll find him by thinking.

He must understand his apprentice’s reasoning if he is to get him back.

He has to figure it out—there is no other option, Maul will find his brother if it kills them both—but if Savage left him then all that Maul thought was true isn’t, and what lessons Master imparted on sentient behavior… what Maul knows of Sith apprenticeship… It’s a starting point, even though he understands by now that what he was taught is, at best, only a tiny part of the whole panoply of sentient behavior.

It’s familiar, though, and Lord Sidious would not have passed on that knowledge if it was entirely baseless.

So: what binds apprentice to Master is not love but lust for power. The apprentice stays because he wants to be taught. Maul is a worse teacher than Lord Sidious, and even then… No apprentice is content with his lot. No Master is content with an idling apprentice. The apprentice kills his Master, or he dies. Mastery or the maggots, that is the path of the Sith, but talking to Savage about the teachings of Bane has always been fruitless. Whenever Maul broaches the subject, Savage shakes and talks of Feral and promises to kill himself before hurting Maul. One day, he will learn.

He would have learned. He would have understood. But Savage left.

Kill or be killed, but…

It’s not the whole truth, anyway. Nothing that Maul has ever known was the whole truth. There is a third path.

Maul left his Master, and yet, he lives.

He didn’t want to leave. He was proud, eager for the power that Master promised him, and he didn’t want to leave until months after Savage forced him to, but he should not lie to himself. In his infancy, his childhood, his youth, there were days when he wanted to escape. There were days long gone when he wished for the life he has now. When he was a young apprentice, hungry and tired and alone, he thought of escape constantly. He wanted to run.

Kill or be killed.

Or run.

Savage must have left on foot, two nights ago or in the morning. The likely destination, Maul can guess: they are a few miles out of Thyferra’s capital, Ty City, which both of them have visited before, once and together. It’s a sterile place, peopled with suspicious civilians and too many police officers. It’s unlikely that Savage has allies here. It’s unlikely he has allies anywhere, apart from his clan on Dathomir (the one that Savage ran away from, if only to keep Maul from them) and that one drunk alien separatist on Bespin. Some smugglers, maybe. He’s never talked to anyone else in Maul’s earshot. He will be alone, and friendless people—especially people like Savage, with none of Maul’s cunning or infiltration skills—are easy to find.

He won’t have left Thyferra yet, unless he’s found a ship to hotwire—highly improbable if not impossible, as he’s never taken up Maul’s offered lessons—or hid aboard a departing ship. Legitimate transport is luckily inaccessible, since Savage has no papers. If he’s tried the illegal ways, then he may have been caught. He’s very large, after all, and useless at acrobatics. Maul should visit some holding cells.

If Savage’s tried to leave the planet.

No. There is no question. He did. He betrayed Maul. Refusal of that conclusion would be nothing but a desperate attempt to cling to safety that was never true, and—

There was never any sign. There were soft words and touches and a strange insistence that Maul eat dreadful homemade food. There was the waking up from nightmares to see his brother’s sad, cautious face. There was too much concern, and now, Savage is gone, but... he never sounded like he would leave, ever; he never acted like he might. He didn’t even let go of Maul when Maul wanted him to leave. He was the kind of person who called Maul ‘brother’ despite the fight when they first met and the bitten-off finger, who looked at the spitting hissing creature he’d abducted and saw someone to be kind to, who was always patient and devoted and there.

I will kill your Master for you, Savage had promised on that riverbank months ago, I will kill your Master, as if that was something people said. As if Lord Sidious could be killed. I will kill the man that hurt you, and the force sang with sincerity and love.

The promise was genuine. (Genuinely suicidal, too, but that is beside the point.)

However: it was a long time ago. It was before the fight, before Maul lashed out, before Maul told him he was glad that Lord Sidious raised him and used Feral’s memory to hurt his brother. Before Savage stoked their disagreement, and Maul’s hasty words broke their life. He rejected Savage’s position, and it was meant that way, but…

Savage wants his family.

He wants the child he sees when he looks at Maul, the child that never existed.

That’s why Savage stayed, Maul decides, and the kitchen around him melts into slag. Why he was so patient. Why he cared for me; why he endured his wannabe Sith master for so long; the reason for all his promises. Why he’s gone now. Savage tried to turn me into the person he lost, but I will never be him. And I told him that.

And then he just…

Left.

Ty City is even more unwelcoming at night. At first, Maul attributes his failed attempts at talking to any pedestrian to the engine noise of his half-rebuilt speeder bike, and so he parks Bloodfin at a footbike rack. Hopefully, her looking more trash heap than high-speed transport will mean she won’t be stolen, and the bike rack will prevent her being picked up by the garbage vehicles cruising the too-clean streets.

(Maybe it’s the bleeding head injury, instead. Twice he almost died when she broke down at full speed, and parts of her engine were probably worn off irreparably when Maul forced her past her limits on the way here, but he never even noticed. He sleepwalked through dressing, picking the first clothes he found—his apprentice robes kept carefully folded on a chair in the sleep-room—and then he climbed onto his poor new bike. There was no space in his thoughts but for failure and betrayal.)

Maul must ask for hints about his runaway apprentice if he is to find him fast, and so he walks and he keeps his hood off his head and what he hopes is a wide friendly smile and not a manic grimace on his face.

Still, both human colonizers and the native vratix walk faster when they see Maul, and leap away when he approaches. They jeer. They point him out to security forces, and he has to duck into alleyways and scale fences he does not have time to scale.

He has no choice, though. He must look approachable, he must ask for hints and directions, and he must not appear suspicious. People continue not to answer his questions. A vratix even screams at him, hiding behind their friends, and Maul pays attention to his facial muscles again and notices that his teeth are still bared.

Look friendly, Maul repeats to himself, look nice, but it’s a difficult endeavor: he’s never actually sought out anyone’s company before, unless seeking out was a shadowed pursuit, and the company soon to be dead.

Not since his early youth, at least. Apart from one person. Maul doesn’t really want to talk to any of these people; he just wants his brother back.

Maul closes his eyes and thinks of who these civilians might want to converse with. Who he could emulate. His old Master is charm and later, hidden sudden pain, and these people would flock to answer all His questions, but Maul remains ignorant of His secrets. Even if he knew how, he’s too wired, too anxious to try anyway. Savage, though, he would smile at them and say… but he left. The thought doesn’t even stir up hatred or strength by now. It just hurts—he is gone, he only wanted that child back who shares nothing but Maul’s name, and what if Maul never finds him—and it douses the imitation smile. In this way, it probably helps.

Finally, a young vratix stops.

“Oi, nightbrother,” they shout.

A clue. No-one but Savage and a few backwater yokels believes that this is their species. Maul makes sure that his face is arranged to look friendly, and then he says, “Hello.”

He blunders through the ensuing conversation, but the vratix has an ulterior goal—apparently they are cataloging non-standard beings on Thyferra for an art project—and so they are more tolerant of awkwardness. They are willing to trade a holo with Maul for information on the other zabrak they have met.

Four times Maul gets admonished for nervous foot tapping because it blurred the picture, and then, finally, the vratix decides that it’s enough humiliation for tonight. They take Maul’s hand and drag him towards a gigantic holomap of the city. Maul endures their curiosity and touch until they finally point out the location of the fabric store where they took Savage’s holo, and he even smiles and promises to ping their comm tomorrow and arrange to take part in another of their projects. It’s unwise to burn a source he might still need.

“Coolio,” the vratix says. “This is going to be ace. I have a holoblog for my project, you know? It would be radiant if you could leave a comment, always looking for exposure. Especially foreigners. I know it wasn’t, like, the easiest thing to show Cosmopolitan Ty because, like, is it? I’ve seen five off-worlders here ever, tops, and my ma always says that you’re all just dir... But that’s why it’s not just a project. It’s about prejudice, right? We’re all just people, you know?”

Maul nods, because it seems like the thing to do. He dutifully repeats the holoblog’s name, three times, and he tries hard not to run to the store. Not to fear.

Being angry is of more use, anyway, and as soon as the vratix leaves, Maul curses his wayward apprentice. The indignity. Photographed for an art student’s holoblog. As soon as Maul has retrieved him, he’s going to kill Savage for making Maul listen to this drivel.

Steaf’s Fabric Emporium is an old crime scene when Maul finds it. Shattered windows and police officers and worrying charred strikes along the floor. Lightsaber marks. A hysterical human male wrapped in half a mile of houndstooth fabric, holding himself steady with a steaming thermos. A half-melted helmet. Corpses lie there, covered in loudly-colored linen, and gargantuan muzzled reptile sniffer dogs chase each other excitedly.

The force whispers and pushes Maul out of sight.

It only takes a few minutes until Maul has sliced his pocket comm into the police frequency, and then he takes off running.

Maul has cherished and mended his cloak carefully for over three years now, and when he gets out of this air vent, he will destroy it. The fabric snags occasionally on loose screws while he crawls, but that alone wouldn’t have mattered. Maul is passable with a needle, and Savage is actually pretty good. If that traitor is still… They could mend it. The holes could be dealt with. Still, it wouldn’t do anything for the stench. Out of sight, out of mind: the vents in this police station aren’t like the streets of Ty City, visible and thus kept free from scum. They haven’t been cleaned for years or decades, and now he is rolling around in a fine patina of congealed dust and rats’ feces, and in the smell of piss and bacta wavering up from the cells below. With every centimeter he gets closer to Cell Block Vev, he grinds the foulness deeper into the fabric.

Filth and noise and narrows, that’s all there is in here. The durasteel leg was not made for crawling. It’s already worn through cheap spun banthawool, and now it scratches and clangs on the floor, no matter how carefully he moves. If Maul was still in his Master’s service, he thinks idly, that injury alone would have obliterated his use as an assassin. He cannot afford to slow down, though. He can only bask in his irritation.

This is all Savage’s fault.

It was stupid to go for the vents in the first place, though. They’re safe and quick, but only for getting in: Savage will never fit, and when they leave the station they will have to fight their way out regardless. But Maul wasn’t thinking clearly when he arrived and killed the secretary and used their cut-off hand to operate the station comp. He didn’t even notice or gloat that his holding cell prediction had come true.

He wasn’t thinking when he found the file—zabrak; male; unknown age; transcript of interrogation attached; neutralized and ready for transport; weapon in evidence locker 1-8-99—and the mugshot with Savage’s face and utterly vacant eyes.

Neutralized.

The station map promised a direct, quick path to his cell via the air vents, and Maul climbed in.

He didn’t expect the filth. He will burn his tunic, the one he saw in an ancient book and sewed and proudly presented to his Master, the one he’s kept to wear whenever he wants to wrap himself into his past. The one that, unluckily, he put on tonight. The cloak will go up in flames. The belt will have to burn, too. The boots, the shredded pants, everything, and he will scrub himself in the fresher for days.

It’s squalid in here, and Maul hates it with all his being. He chooses to hate it so much that he doesn’t feel his freezing fingertips—the one reason why Maul is grateful to have brought the cloak despite its unfortunate future destruction: the air vent is a frosty space, and what air rises up from the cells below is little better—and he barely notices the many times he bumps his already scabbed head.

He concentrates on hatred and disgust, because it’s better than the lack in the force, when he is this close to his apprentice.

It’s easier than thinking about what neutralized means.

Only a few more piss-smelling meters—still no sign of Savage in the force—and sound drifts up from the penultimate grille. According to the floorplan that Maul has memorized, it must originate from the corridor that leads to Savage’s cell, and when he looks down, a human police officer stands there, cooing into his communicator.

“Picking up that cake soon, babe. Just two more hours… Yeah, sorry, I know you don’t even get paid overtime, I shouldn’t complain, but it’s just—I don’t even know why I’m karking watching it? Not like that beast’s gonna move a centi… Yeah, guess that’s paperwork for you, yeah babe. Won’t for days, I’m sure, we head to guess the dosage and we may have highballed it a little too much…” A long pause. The human chuckles. “I know, what’s it gonna be? A lethal vomit attack? But the higher-ups… Yeah, right. They called some temple on Coruscant and you know how they are,” he says. “Still. Love you. Bye.”

The officer turns around when the grille clatters to the floor and he kneels in order to inspect it, and then Maul jumps down behind him and snaps his neck.

Steeling himself for what he does not want to see—neutralized has long since crowded out traitor—Maul peers through the trellis of the cell door.

Savage’s still alive.

Maul sees him, lying face-down but it’s him, no-one else on this homogenous rock has yellow-skinned feet, and he’s moving slightly, shivering with cold. He isn’t… Maul would have known his apprentice’s death in the force, somehow—Savage is his brother, he would know—and they wouldn’t have stationed a guard for a corpse, but that’s different from having visual confirmation. Maul looks at Savage, and he’s breathing, despite his lack of presence in the force that’s easily explained as unconsciousness now, and the sight makes it easier to admit to fears Maul didn’t want to think. Couldn’t think, because he knew he had to keep moving. Not dead.

Neutralized and ready for transport: drugged. That’s all they meant.

Not dead.

Ready for transport. A craven euphemism, and Maul would snap their necks again for it. They wouldn’t have stationed a guard for a corpse, there’s little more reason to allocate a guard to this prisoner, because Savage looks utterly helpless. He almost looks even worse than Maul could have feared. Whatever drove Maul’s runaway apprentice to visit the store in the first place, whatever he may have sought and whatever mistakes he made that drew their attention…

Whatever damage he might have done, he fought the Thyferran security forces like a desperate man, and they chained him down like a beast.

Savage is prone on his belly, and his head lolls against the floor. Thick stripes of plasteel fabric are wrapped around his limbs, binding the legs together and the arms to Savage’s torso, and his formerly tall blunt horns have been sawed into grey nubs. They stripped him down to his smallclothes, and where there are no bindings or underpants covering Savage’s flesh, there is no blood either, no nerves visibly exposed by cutting off his horns—“No, Master, please,” Maul begged and begged and he knew he deserved his pain for trying to headbutt his Master—but that means nothing.

Thyferra’s main export is bacta. It stands to reason that her people prefer their caged enemies to be cleaned up. They are medical people. They prefer control and healing to gore. They prefer the cold.

They’ve put a muzzle on Savage as well, a massive thing made of black plastoid and thick straps. It’s so ill-fitting that they must have requisitioned it from one of their reptile-dogs. The straps are knotted too tightly in the back of his neck and at the top of his head, and the snaps that were supposed to be used instead hang down limply. Savage is smaller than their dogs. The knots are too taut. The muzzle digs into the flesh of Savage’s cheeks.

(“Please, Master,” Maul would have whimpered if the gag allowed for it, “Please, I know I am Yours,” but despite the urge he wasn’t stupid enough even then to believe that remorse might save him. He was small and chained and helpless, and if he was lucky enough to survive the pain then he could earn his use again.)

Savage’s eyes are tear-swelled.

(The fire ants inside his arms came first, and when they had almost eaten their fill they scrambled away as if they were puppets, and then he drowned in bacta, and then it was silent. Silent. Silent.)

An animal. Maul’s apprentice—his brother—a chained, de-horned, muzzled animal.

They have no right.

Maul looks down at his brother, shivering and hurt, and though he tries hard to see nothing but the wages of his apprentice’s betrayal, that’s not what lies before him. For a second, he is back in his nightmare, watching a red-black child float suspended and chained in a sensory deprivation box for weeks. In the cold clear light of the cell lamps, everything makes sense. Savage’s words make sense. His hatred makes sense. It’s not a lesson. It’s not right. This does not teach strength.

It’s helplessness and pain and the knowledge that you are nothing, and they—Master—they can do anything they want. They can touch you; you are not allowed to cringe. They can move you; you cannot dodge, and because you didn’t, this pain is your fault.

They can speak, and you cannot reply because what use are the words of a thing.

These people hurt Savage, and they will die. They will suffer. Master hurt… it was His right and His duty and Maul still believes this, he must believe it because without training what is there left but a Monster and a victim, and—

Maul was smaller then, and just as helpless, and he was a person who had a brother who would have given anything just to watch him crawl backwards into corners, a brother who didn’t, doesn’t, want him to hurt, just as Maul hates the people who hurt Savage. That child was terrified and in pain, just as Savage would be if he wasn’t drugged to the gills right now.

That child was tied down. He was tiny. There was a Monster, and a victim. It was—

The situations are utterly different. There was a point to Lord Sidious’ cruelty—there must have been a reason—whereas this is just senseless. Savage isn’t even much of a threat, to anyone. He is kind and large and friendly, and even during an argument, he’s just fighting because he cares. He doesn’t deserve to be hurt. Master was justified in doing what he did. He was inducting Maul into the dark side and teaching how one draws strength from pain, and so there had to be pain. Master was preparing Maul for destiny, for his place in Bane’s great lineage.

Lord Sidious was training His apprentice to withstand every torture, but those are not the words that Savage hears. Savage has his own meanings. Savage hears: Master subjected Maul to every torture.

A Monster, and a…

It was completely different. It must be different.

It must be.

It—

Savage whimpers. It breaks the memory: there was no-one to soothe that terrified child in Sidious’ secret complex, but Maul is here now. He can end this.

He cuts off the dead guard’s hand and opens the trellis to Savage’s cell—how stupid of them, to have fingerprint locks for everything—and then he hooks the limb into his belt in case he shall have need of it again. He rushes inside and sits next to his brother’s head. He pulls it into his lap. It lolls.

Unknotting the muzzle straps is too time-consuming, so Maul pulls a tiny vibroshiv from inside his left boot and cuts them, slowly and methodically. His hands shake, and he draws no blood. He gently rubs the angry spots where the fabric pressed into Savage’s flesh, but the swelling does not go down. The bruises stay. Later, they will heal, he knows from experience. They will disappear. It will not be like it was never there, the muzzle, even if the swelling goes down, but the body will heal in time.

He avoids touching what’s left of Savage’s horns. They look healed, deadened, but Maul does not trust it. They must still be sore. If they are not… still, Maul hated those touches for months after his were cut, even more than he hated all contact.

Savage sighs and turns his head into Maul��s touch.

“You’re pathetic,” Maul whispers, and then he starts cutting the arm straps. Savage is unconscious. He will not hear anything. It’s the best time to refine Maul’s argument. He must be convinced: if he betrays Maul again, he may evade pursuit, and he might die. Savage is alive, is safe, now that Maul has found him, and for the first time in hours Maul can think again. “You’re very weak. You should have been able to fight them off. If I was the Master you deserve, if you’d let me train you, if you hadn’t betrayed me, you would have been able to fight them off.”

Another strap falls.

“You couldn’t, and you could have died.”

This time, the knife nicks his brother, but there is no time to waste on waiting to steady his trembling hands. There is no time to waste on comfort, either, but Maul cannot stop himself from trying to wipe the blood away. It doesn’t work. Maul’s hands are still covered in the police officer’s blood, and he only increases the mess.

“It would have been my fault. I am your Master. I’m supposed to teach you strength.”

He cuts the final torso strap, and then he gently lowers the head onto the floor and rolls his brother over onto his back. He takes hold of the limp left arm. It’s streaked with bruising left over from too much pressure, and in the bend of the elbow there are scabbed needle pricks where they administered the sedation. No use asking Savage what kind of drug it was when he wakes up, or the dosage. It was not fatal, and that shall suffice.

“You could have died. Through power I gain victory, that’s what I promised you. I should have taught you to defend yourself better.”

“You—” a hacking cough. “You re… reversed the logic, brother.”

Happiness and leftover stillborn anger fight inside Maul. Confusion wins. He replies, “What.”

“Water? Please, can I… water?” Savage licks his lips, eyes hazy and unfocused. There’s no IV, and no telling how long he’s been held here. Sedatives and severe dehydration: not a pleasant experience, as Maul well knows. It’s no excuse for re-starting the argument, though. Savage mumbles, “That’s not ho… how the Sith work. It’s not...”

“You’re on enough drugs to kill a bantha,” Maul snaps. He pats down his pockets—two crumpled protein bars, screwdriver, miniblaster, multitool, stim shots, lock pick, vibroknife, garotte, comm, backup comm, another knife… ah, there. He did pack the small hydrosack.

Savage’s arms must still be too numb to hold anything, and so Maul drags his brother into a sitting position and helps him drink his fill.

“No,” Savage says, only slightly more coherent once the hydrosack is emptied. “It’s not how the Sith work. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I had so much time to think. And I... You insist on being my master because you don’t want me to die. That, I understand.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s not the same thing as forging a child into a weapon. It’s the opposite, brother.”

Unfortunately, Maul decides, the muzzle is already in pieces. There’s no second water ration. No way of keeping Savage from talking that doesn’t involve ordering him to shut up and therefore causing another fight, in addition to admitting Maul’s weakness. His curiosity. A Monster, and a…

“It didn’t fit, except… You reversed it. The weak die young. A child must grow strong to survive the trials, I know, but that’s not… not what that monster taught you. He didn’t want you safe. He wasn’t doing it to keep you alive. He put you in danger in the first place. There were no Sisters. It was all him.” Savage looks up with half-lidded eyes and the deep conviction of the heavily mentally impaired. “He took you and abused you and said it would make you Sith. He didn’t try to make you strong so you wouldn’t get hurt. He didn’t care whether you were hurt. He hurt you.”

“There’s no time to get to the evidence locker, and a naked zabrak is going to look even more suspect when we get out. A massive, naked, drugged zabrak who can’t walk well. I don’t know how long you have been hogtied, but it may already have caused slight muscle damage,” Maul says, fleeing into practicality. “We will draw attention anyway, but it’ll be worse if you’re naked. They’re very suspicious of outsiders, the Thyferrans, and it’s a long walk to my bike.”

“You’re not Sidious. He was always wrong, and you knew. You changed his words.”

“My cloak will reach your knees at best,” Maul decides. “And it’s filthy. But it’s probably wide enough to fit you.”

“Love you too, little brother.”

Maul quiets. He does not move, and it’s good that he doesn’t: it allows him to hear twin pairs of boots ambling closer.

He drops the cloak to the floor, and then he leans his brother against the wall. Once he is reasonably confident that Savage will remain upright for at least half a minute, he lets go. Savage sways a little. “Don’t move,” Maul whispers. “I’ll be back. You’re heavy. Even I can’t drag your massive carcass around and avenge you at the same time.”

(The hologram will play and play again, footage from a cell camera they hadn’t noticed or cared about, but Maul will not watch it. He will remember this moment and its relief, its illicit tenderness; he etched it into his mind long before the recording was thrown down to where he kneels, and will remember the words long after. He will not look at anything.)

On the way back to their ship, Maul cannot stop himself, and so he asks Savage why he left. He receives no answer, and he’s glad for it. It’s not a conversation to be had while his brother is still this addled. When they haven’t yet flown to safety. The question is not exactly the one he wanted, either—he doesn’t know what he wants to say—even though he desperately needs to know. He needs to find a way to keep Savage from running off again. He could have died. He can’t be allowed to leave, ever again.

The newly stolen replacement for Bloodfin rumbles quietly, crawling between skyscrapers while irate commuters honk at them. Maul takes myriad detours because he’s certain they’re drawing attention for being too slow, and moreover, being judged a bad driver injures Maul’s pride.

Increased speed would have its own pitfalls, though.

It would make it far too easy for sleepy people to fall off.

At least he would feel it if he lost Savage now: his weight presses warm and heavy against Maul’s back, and it’s not as smothering as it should be. Maybe it’s because Maul chose to put Savage there himself, helped him climb onto the back seat and then held a hand on his head to keep him upright and allow Maul to slide in in front of him. Maybe it’s because even now Savage is too groggy to hold onto him—to imprison Maul inside his arms—and it would be trivial to free himself.

Maybe it’s this: twenty years of isolated apprenticeship are no match against the last three. Somehow, two days has become a long time to be alone.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Maul mutters, a week later, staring at the white stripes of hyperspace as if they held the arcane writings of Bane himself. They’re in the cockpit, still on the way to a planet he picked at random because it was on the other side of the galaxy and there is no way Savage can flee again if they never leave Sheathipede.

He should be at ease by now, should have moved forward, but between them there’s still tension that didn’t exist before. Savage isn’t talking much, doesn’t even join in with Maul’s idle mocking of the radio news broadcast. They will need to refuel soon.

They’ll need to land, and Maul has spent his nights and noons thinking about how to keep his apprentice by his side, fruitlessly. Enticing him with power and knowledge is pointless, even counterproductive. Implanting a tracking device requires surgical skills that Maul doesn’t possess, and so it would entail giving Savage into the care of a stranger, which… No. Not again. Never again. Detaining him on the ship forever is impractical, and it doesn’t turn the clock back to that time when Maul could close his eyes and simply trust that Savage would stay. The easy comradeship is gone, and Maul misses it.

There is only one thing he can think of that might alleviate his anxiety: Maul knows he cannot unspeak his words, but… if what Savage wants is his family, then Maul will try. Else his apprentice might endanger himself again, might run again, and Savage should never have been hurt.

“Brother,” more loudly this time in case Savage wasn’t paying attention. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“So the reporting team of Esk-Beth Coruscant isn’t falling for an obvious scam?”

“Don’t pretend to be dumber than you are. You know what I am referring to.” Savage stays mulishly silent, and so Maul is forced to continue, “You told me that I did not want to be your Sith Master, and I reacted badly.”

“Oh, that,” Savage says. “That was weeks ago. You’re still upset?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you aren’t—” Maul shakes his head. Remaining calm is necessary, if he is to see through what he started. This was not supposed to be another fight. “I shouldn’t have told you that I would be dead if you had raised me. That was… You told me of Feral, of what you were forced to do, and I hurt you with it.”

“That’s what you were talking about?”

“What else?”

“I just thought that it was true,” Savage admits. A finger softly knocks against Maul’s hand, as if Savage was asking Maul to look at him, but hyperspace is much more interesting. So many completely identical lines passing by. “Brother, few males survive long on Dathomir. I have mourned so many people, and I just thought… You were right. You would probably have died. I couldn’t have protected you from the Sisters, although, with the Mother’s interest in you… She commanded me to find you, after all, and She wouldn’t have spared a thought for another missing nightbrother. She… Whatever She wants with you… I couldn’t have protected you. Just like I could not protect you from Sidious. I’m not strong enough for that. I’m sorry.”

Maul does not quite know what he should say. Something comforting, probably. Instead, he fiddles with the radio controls; louder, quiet, and then off.

“I couldn’t even handle those police officers on Thyferra.”

“You fought well. You killed several of their number. They wouldn’t have bothered with the muzzle at all, if they had not feared for their fingers,” Maul tells the windscreen with a lightness he does not quite feel. A muzzle is a terrible thing. It has always been. “It’s difficult to fight that many people simultaneously, and you’re only an apprentice. You were weaker than ten stun guns. That does not make you weak.”

“I provoked the fight, brother. Someone touched me when I was arguing, because it’s not a lie that we use rancor leather and the man said—I was distracted, and someone touched me, and I spooked. I killed him. I don’t think they were trying to hurt me before that.”

The force colors with anger and shame; just faintly, but Savage is still recovering from captivity and drug-haze. He disdains himself for his weakness. Maul wants to agree—he does agree, or he would have, just days ago—but there is nothing to be gained from dwelling on this mistake, from heaping more suffering onto it. Some stones just drown. They already hurt Savage for his fear, and more punishment won’t… it’s a new idea, and it’s what Savage would say, but that doesn’t make it wrong.

Savage wants his family, and kindness is a brother’s choice.

Maul can choose to make it.

He can choose to be the brother Savage expects. If he is to keep them together freely, he must.

“You didn’t deserve to be abused, brother. They chained you down like an animal. They cut your horns. No-one deserves that.” Maybe Savage understands the significance, the surrender to an argument he apparently doesn’t even remember, or maybe he lacks the context: either way, the force grows warm and grateful. It’s a heady feeling, and so Maul adds, “And I found you. You were not fighting them alone.”

“I know, brother. We together are strong. I should not have gone alone in the first place.”

You shouldn’t, Maul thinks. You shouldn’t have told Gorge to distract me when I asked about you. You should have let me train you.

You shouldn’t have betrayed me.

Still: stones will only sink. He must make a different choice. “Why did you?”

“When you said that you’d have died, it reminded me: I am thirty-one, now. I am older than any of my brothers have ever been.”

“You’re not that old,” Maul says, mostly for the sake of contradiction, and to lure out more words. He’s undecided on the matter, in truth: compared to Lord Sidious, no-one is old; but if Maul could look away from the stars of hyperspace passing by the windshield without losing his calm, he’d see the faint beginnings of crows’ feet in the corners of Savage’s eyes.

“I’m old, brother,” Savage replies. “I didn’t really think about it much because I was too preoccupied with trying to help you, but then the Woman… then it happened, and then what you said reminded me… I am old. I could die any day, and you’ll have nothing to remember me by. That’s why… When a nightbrother grows of age—grows old enough for the trials, for breeding, so old that the Sisters will take him… he makes his brothers gifts. Leather bracelets, mostly, and there were no rancors to hunt on Thyferra so I tried to buy… You should have something I touched, so you can remember me when I am dead.”

The placid acceptance boils Maul’s blood. “I don’t care about your primitive customs.”

“Brother, listen—”

“No,” Maul snaps. He wheels around to stare him down, all plans for ceding ground and making Savage want to stay again forgotten. “No. Shut up.”

Savage doesn’t flinch. It’s a near thing, though, eyes closing and then moving past Maul’s face. Still, he tries, “Maul, you don’t know…”

“No.”

“Brother, you don’t understand. It does help. I would give anything to have that bracelet Feral made for me, but the Sisters undressed me before the ritual and when I… when I had a mind again, I was on the ship and Feral was dead and it was gone.”

“No,” Maul says. “I don’t need it. You will not die.”

“Brother, I know you want—”

“You will not die. I don’t need any of your trinkets. I don’t care that you don’t want me to train you anymore. I don’t care that you despise the Sith. I don’t care that you want to leave me. I won’t let you. I won’t let you die.”

“I didn’t—”

“Understand: when you look at me, you see the baby torn from your arms, but it was weak. It died the moment Lord Sidious looked at it.” It died then; its neck snapped with the first animal it was forced to kill; it drowned in that deprivation box. It does not matter. “Mourn your child all you want, but remember, I am not it. I am strong. I am Maul, not that child, and I will find you again however far you run. I am not a nightbrother, I’m not chattel waiting for death, and no matter how distasteful you find my training, I will not let you die.”

A pause—a stunned pause, Maul decides, although he his chest heaves too much to look and find out—and then: a touch. “I know that, brother,” Savage says.

“Yes. That’s why you left.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We fought, and then you left me.”

Savage laughs, not mirth but relief of tension. Then he says, “I didn’t. I wouldn’t, brother, I will never give you up. Didn’t you listen? I was buying you a present, because I went too far and you weren’t yet ready to—” Savage’s fingers tap the navcomputer anxiously— “to hear me, about the kind of man your Master was. And then I couldn’t fight back against their blasters, and I let you down, but… that’s the only reason I didn’t walk back to you. I never willingly left. I won’t desert you.”

Oh. That does make sense. “But I’m not—”

“I know. I’m not blind. It’s been three years. I have stayed by your side, and I loved you when you were a baby, but I love you now, brother. I trust you. It’s just—I want a better life for you. Sidious didn’t just try to teach you strength. It was a… a side-effect, I think, of obedience, because he wanted a tool, and a powerless tool is useless.”

Maul bites his lip, because he should counter this attack—he can't just be a tool; he is Sith, and the apprentice will kill and supplant his Master—but… agony is no teacher of strength if I cannot even think, apart from… (Think, Maul: what else does Sidious want?) He can do anything He wants. He is in control. I am Yours, the child would have begged. He has always known the answer.

“I know obedience, Maul. I’m a nightbrother: service is what I was bred for. I have watched the Nightsisters enforce control, and tried to teach children the strength for survival. It’s different. You can have one without the other.”

The stars slide further by, and Maul lets those words wash over him.

“We are free, now,” Savage whispers. “There are no Sisters here. No Master. You do not have to be Sidious, and I know you too well to believe you want to be him.”

(The replay of the cell’s holorecording will show tenderness, epiphany. Its sound will be much louder than the whimpers and the pain and the lightning, but still, He will dominate the room when He hisses, “Do you even understand what your beast did?”

Maul will watch streaks of abraded skin on the floor. He is not required to speak.

“I was content to watch you run around the galaxy, wreaking minor chaos and terrifying the Jedi so much they diverted all their attention into finding you. That was quite amusing. Useful. But evidently, you cannot be trusted not to betray my existence.” He will sigh, the very picture of idle disappointment even though the force will burn livid and purple with His anger. “You just had to ruin it. You had to speak my name, to betray your Master. If it were not for my interceding, those careless words would have been shown to the Jedi. Your little adventure would have derailed plans that your tiny brain cannot even begin to comprehend. Look at me.”

The lightning will bite, and only then will Maul look up.

He will look up, and finally see: an old man who hurt a child and enjoyed it.)

#darth maul #savage opress #runaways 'verse #in which Maul and Savage finally settle their argument about whether they are Sith or family #(spoiler alert: Savage wins)#(even more spoiler alert: he will win against Everyone this is fix-it fic)#dimtraces makes things #i hope this read more break works because this is Long

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hillnerd · 7 years ago

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Taking a Shallow Breath Ch 7

Ships: Rose/Scorpius, canon and others | FF.net

Romance friendship comedy family & drama | starts super silly- will get more serious as we go.

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Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6

A person's front door can say a great deal about them.

Some people enjoy choosing grande hand-carved doors that have history, and speak of times of old. Scorpius tended to like people who chose such doors. It meant they appreciated artistry, quality, and could embrace the unique. They also had a flair for drama. Rose loved those kinds of doors.

Some people prefer the clean lines of an Edwardian door. These usually put more effort into the knobs, hinges, and door-knockers than the wood itself. They speak of someone who enjoys details, while being beyond the fuss of the overly grande, and relatively down to earth. Scorpius had such a door.

There were also doors filled with character but no artistry. Albus had such a door. It was beaten up from years of use, a faded orange color, and the number six hung down so that it looked like a nine. He had a shoddy matt out front with stripes, and though it was anything but put together, it had a certain charm about it.

And finally there was the red hunk of metal Brad had the audacity to call a door.

It bore no decoration- there wasn't even a welcome matt: just a cold steel handle, highly glossy red metal and a black peep hole. It spoke of someone slick like the varnish, cool like the metal, and flashy like that atrocious tomato red.

Scorpius hated that door.

What he hated even more was that he had been staring at it for one hour, nineteen minutes, and ten seconds.

"Rose! Open this door! This is getting ridiculous!" yelled Brad.

One hour, nineteen minutes, and fifteen seconds with the poncy owner himself.

"Calling her actions ridiculous will hardly entice her to leave," Scorpius drawled from the floor.

Brad tried another spell. The door glowed blue then turned garish red again.

"You've also tried that spell already," said Scorpius, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Rose's Charms are the best. Get a magical locksmith: I doubt drawing up contracts for overpaid Quidditch stars has improved your charms enough to worm your way in."

Scorpius was satisfied to see Brad's shoulders tense. Until Brad, Scorpius had never met someone he could not get a rise out of when he wanted to. He had never seen the man lose his cool, which made Al's theory that 'Bert' was not human slightly more plausible.

"It's a Sunday. Magical Locksmiths are like banks and private practice Healers- closing at the merest hint of a Holiday or weekend." Brad leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "Rose's Uncle is a cursebreaker... Perhaps I could get him to open the door."

"If you want the whole Weasley family to know your personal business with Rose, by all means do," said Scorpius. "I'm sure her father would be keen to know why his only daughter has barricaded herself."

Brad blanched.

"You know, this is probably the most I've ever heard you talk, Scorpius."

Scorpius stoically did not mention he despised Brad and generally made excuses to escape his company.

"I suppose I just don't see enough of you and Al, though I think Al orchestrates that. He seems to rather despise me. If it weren't for the fact that he and Rose were cousins ,I'd think he were jealous."

"He is very protective of Rose," Scorpius said with a schooled shrug.

"As are you."

Scorpius remained silent. He didn't like where Brad was probing with this conversation.

"You know, there is a closeness between you and Rose I quite envy at times..."

"Perhaps, if you weren't so busy negotiating with Melrose Fenwick, you could spend time with Rose," said Scorpius.

"We spend plenty of time together," Brad said with a raunchy smile that made Scorpius roll his eyes. "But I still envy your friendship. Sometimes I even worry she tells you things she would never tell me."

"I wouldn't know. I'm not privy to your private conversations, after all." Scorpius could not recall being more uncomfortable. He hoped this would bring an end to this intimate look into Brandon Bradley's perspective. He came from a family where you were taught to never reveal your weaknesses, or worries, for fear they would be exploited later. Being a Slytherin only further enforced this. Scorpius had very few people he trusted with his insecurities, secrets and dreams. Brad would never be one of them, and he had no idea why Brad felt the need to share such details with him.

"She's incredibly special, you know? I even wonder how I was lucky enough to catch her."

Scorpius had pondered that subject many a time.

"I don't pretend to understand your relationship, but your friendship means a great deal to her, so whatever it is you're holding against me, I hope we can move past it. I know she'd appreciate it if we got along," said Brad.

Scorpius resisted a gaffaw.

Either Brad was very shrewd, or he was a much more gracious person than Scorpius had thought him. He hoped it was the former, that way his continued hatred would feel even more just. Was he trying to weasel something of a confession out of Scorpius?

Or maybe he was hoping to use Scorpius as a way to quickly earn Rose's forgiveness.

Scorpius had never cared much for Brad. The man was much too keen to have everyone's approval, an attribute Scorpius disdained. What tolerance he had for Brad dipped when he took up with Rose three years prior- but following the proposal, Scorpius found it hard to recall one pleasant thing about him. If someone like Rose could manage to stand the bastard, he had to have at least one redeeming feature, and after thinking, Scorpius discovered it. He had clean fingernails. There! That was surely enough for karma's sake.

Looking at the shiny door, Scorpius could make out their reflections as they sat together. At first glance one might think the rivals friends.

What if they were friends? Wouldn't Rose appreciate it? Wouldn't Scorpius have more opportunities to sabotage Brad and leave him in a crying mess on the floor for others to mock?

Scorpius felt a bit ill. It was uncomfortable to come to terms with how deeply rooted and savage his feelings towards Brad had become.

The most ruthless part of him wanted to sabotage Brad in every way. He did not want to stop at just stealing Rose, but hurt Brad's reputation, and leave him gutted. He wanted revenge against the ponce for ever having taken Rose's time and attention.

He shook his head to rid himself of this dangerous territory of thought. He never considered himself spiteful- though he had been known as a bit harsh at times, he was nothing if not fair. He was not terribly fluent in underhanded dealings, only ever dabbling in them when necessary, for he had always regarded himself as above that. He was a pillar of virtue, compared to many of the Slytherins he knew.

Of course, being friendly with Brad could have other benefits, like research on how to get Rose to see all the faults in him Scorpius and Al did. He would finally end the hold Brad had on Rose's affections, and if Brad would suffer, so be it.

"Yes, she would appreciate us getting along," Scorpius finally conceded.

"I'm willing to try."

"And I'm willing... to look past your atrocious taste in architectural features."

Brad laughed.

"Yeah, it's not quite as classic as your tastes-"

"That's one way to put it," said Scorpius with a raised brow at the door.

"I suppose that's why you're the architect."

"I don't have any business cards with me, but feel free to floo my secretary. It needs an overhaul, if not for taste's sake, then for your neighbors'. I would have lodged a complaint years ago."

"You know, it's been over an hour," Brad said, deftly changing the subject. "Part of me is wondering if she's in there or not."

Scorpius turned his head to the side. A spark of thought burgeoned within him. Rose was not there at all... and he had a reasonably good idea of where to find her. The more he thought on it, the more he felt the need to leave immediately.

"Well, it seems there is nothing I can do to rectify this situation. I suppose I'm going to go home," he said, hoping Brad took no notice of his sudden inspiration. Brad didn't seem concerned, so Scorpius took his leave, doing his best to look unhurried. The moment the doors closed on the the elevator he apparated.

He was immediately in the familiar alleyway near Marylebone High Street. Of all the wizard inventions, how they had not managed to get better apparating points, he was unsure. The alley had the same long abandoned posters featuring bands he had never heard of, and long-forgotten flyers of past classes liberally lining its its brick walls. At one point people must have passed by this area quite often, but the foreclosed building at the end of the alley looked like it hadn't seen people in a decade. It was a shame, really, as it was built rather handsomely, and with a few spells and layers of paint, it would be a grande place for a business of some sort.

He walked fast as he could without gaining unwarranted attention, until coming to the dark blue doors of the museum.

"Malfoooy!" he heard a voice trill from inside. Vanessa, a plump genial woman called him from the desk. The bubbly woman had worked there ever since its opening, she told him some years ago. She seemed an odd fit for the quiet rooms of the small museum, especially as her trilling laugh would echo off the walls disturbing the guests. He fished in his pockets to pay her for admission. "Don't you try to pay us. You and Rose are in here often enough, it wouldn't be right to ask you to pay each time."

"Fine, but I swear I'll manage to pay you eventually," Scorpius said, re-pocketing a muggle bill. "Is Rose in her usual spot?"

"Oh yes! Same as usual," Vanessa said with a laugh. Scorpius gave her a nod of thanks, before making his way into the gallery. A few turns and flights of stairs, and he was able to see Rose's bright hair. She sat alone on her bench, firmly staring at the painting front of her. Her hand tried to sneakily remove a piece of chocolate from her purse. The purse crinkled in a way that made him suspect this was not her first piece of the day.

"I believe it's against the rules to bring in outside food or drink," said Scorpius, pointing to the sign above her head that said 'no outside food or drink.'

"It doesn't say anything about chocolate," she said pushing another chocolate into her mouth, and licking her fingers. She moved the purse, almost overflowing with wrappers, to the side. Whether she moved it to make room for him to sit, or to conceal how many chocolates she had eaten, he was not sure.

He silently sat on the proffered spot, though not without spelling away a pair of chocolate finger prints from the seat.

Rose continued to chew, a look of consternation wrinkling her brow. She had a bit of chocolate in the corner of her mouth.

"Here." He handed her a handkerchief. She wretched it from his hand and wrathfully swiped at her face.

"Are you all done depriving the greater Western Hemisphere of cocoa, or should I wait until we can roll you out the door?"

Rose scowled at him.

"You're not going to hex me into the wall like your fiance, are you?" he asked.

"I would never do that in a museum!" Rose replied, scandalized. "But once we're out of here, there are definitely no guarantees."

"Good to know. You should never warn your enemies, though," he replied, patting his wand.

"That's such a Slytherin thing to say!"

"And that's such a a Gryffindor response!" he mocked.

They sat in companionable silence, staring at Rose's favorite painting "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." Scorpius suspected she loved it because of the featured temptress who had hair every bit as red and wild as Rose's. Everything about it was like a person were in a mythical dream. The redheaded woman who held an otherworldly grace of temptation, the grande steed, the bright glow of the knight's armor; all of it created a picture one could get lost in. Rose attempted to get lost in it weekly, and sometimes more.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?" Rose recited.

"Besides having to put up with your wild temper, and a bad case of asthma, I'm doing fairly well," Scorpius laughed.

"It's from the poem the painting is based on, dimwit," said Rose.

"I knew that and was being ironic, swot."

"Who wrote the poem it's based on, prat?" she challenged.

"Keats, gasbag. I do occasionally listen when you go into your long speeches about paintings."

"You're on my good side again, then. Plus, I didn't feel like being a human thesaurus any longer. Want to get going?"

Scorpius acquiesced and they left the museum, Rose leading the way. With them, a good teasing argument usually settled any disagreement. The cool air gave Rose a lovely flush under her spattering of freckles. They walked in silence before Scorpius suddenly asked the question:

"Was there a particular reason you were so miffed at me, earlier? With Al and Brad it was fairly obvious, but me..."

Rose stopped at a window display and feigned interest in the vases there.

"So, was there a reason, or were you just exercising your right as a redhead to have a perilously short temper?"

"I was just a bit mad at you for escalating the argument with Brad, really," she said coolly. "All your annoying asides didn't help an already difficult situation."

"Ah, and here I thought you were jealous of my orgy with Lily and Mags," said Scorpius, demeanor calm.

Rose made a face and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"You wouldn't do that," she stated firmly. Scorpius silently watched her reflection, eyebrow arched.

"Or at least Mags and Lily wouldn't do that. I'm still... unsure about your moral ambiguity."

"Hmm," he replied, seeing her flustered expression. "I must admit I can be very morally ambiguous. I suppose I'll just have to depend on you to rehabilitate me."

Scorpius then did something reckless. He was standing intimately close to her and took a curl from her forehead and pushed it to the side, his fingers grazing her pale brow. She seemed to hold her breath, but he could still smell the chocolate in it. Her blue eyes deepened, her delicate and inviting lips opened as her eyelids started to flutter shut. But suddenly Rose backed away with a great jerk and the spell was broken.

"Very funny, you dirty minded thing," she exclaimed, with an overdone laugh. "So! What were they doing in your apartment? Besides the 'orgy'— you can leave those details for someone who cares."

"They decided my wardrobe needed an update."

"I like your old clothes better."

"Lily sort of insisted—"

"Since when do you listen to anyone's advice on anything?"

Scorpius rolled his eyes. Rose always had an answer for everything, one of her traits that both annoyed and endeared her to him. In this case, though, she was chattering to keep him at bay.

"Well, perhaps this little experiment in fashion proves I am right in not listening to people's advice," he said. "But I do not want to argue about it anymore, Rose."

"Scorpius! Rose!" they heard from down the street.

They turned to see Lily bounding towards them. Scorpius supposed Al had told her about Rose's little street.

He was going to give a greeting when Lily pressed herself against him and kissed him. Had she been someone else, he imagined he would have greatly enjoyed such a kiss. It was far too long for propriety, and left him rather dazed as one of her hands snaked its way into his hair. After a few moments of her exploring his molars with her tongue she popped off of his face and gave him a sultry grin.

"Hullo, lover."

"Hi," he said with a great breath, trying not to pull a face.

"Hi..." Rose said in such a cantankerous way that Scorpius suddenly realized what had just transpired. Her expression looked somewhere between confusion, distaste and anger.

"So... What are you doing here?" Scorpius let out, his mind catching up to the situation as rapidly as it could. He would have to ask her to refrain from such kisses in the future as it muddled his brain.

"Brad Flooed me and told me what happened. We started looking in all the spots she might be, and I knew Rose comes here often enough. I'm not surprised you were the one to find her first. I definitely am going to give you another examination tonight."

Scorpius glanced between the two women, Lily giving him a rather convincing besotted look, and Rose giving an incredulous stare.

"Well," Scorpius swallowed, and calmed steadied himself before letting out the most stupid lie of his life.

"As you can see... Lily and I... We're involved."

"Involved," Rose repeated flatly.

"Wait a moment," Lily said before giving him a swat. "You haven't told her yet?"

"No," he said coming back to speed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Rose. It just sort of ... happened."

"A few months ago, actually," Lily added. Albus was right. Lily was an incredibly adept liar, and continued to play her role perfectly. "With all the wedding plans he didn't want to distract from you and Brad, but I thought he must have told you by now."

Rose shook her head.

"No... No he didn't tell me a thing."

"We ok?" Scorpius asked, trying to look her in the eye.

She hesitated, then gave them a smile, never looking him in the eye.

"It's fine," she said. "Really, it is. There isn't always a time to say those kinds of things the way you want to. I guess that explains your taking her fashion advice."

"I'm glad you feel that way," Lily said breezily. "On another note, Brad is worried– and we need to do some tests on Scorpius to see what he's allergic to. Why don't you go back to your apartment and then we can figure out your flower arrangement?"

"Why don't we meet at your place, then Floo him, Lily?" Rose supplied. "We could apparate there right now, in fact. You've been to her place before, right Scorpius?"

Scorpius dumbly nodded. He had never been to Lily's home. He didn't even know if it was in London. Lily gave him a panicked look.

"Are you sure you want to come directly with us? Don't you want some alone time with Brad?" Lily asked.

"It's ok," Rose said, looking between Scorpius and Lily. "You two don't want alone time do you?"

Scorpius and Lily exchanged awkward glances.

"No no! There will plenty of time for us to be alone again when you're on your honeymoon," Lily supplied quickly. "But, uh, why don't you go ahead, and we'll meet you there. I have something private to tell him."

Rose made one of her faces. "Right... Well, see you there in a minute, then."

As she walked away, Lily gave her a little wave. Her other hand snaked into Scorpius' back pocket and gave it a squeeze that made him jump from her.

They could distantly hear Rose's apparation.

"Oh, God! She's going to my apartment! Why did you say you had been to my apartment?"

"I couldn't very well say I hadn't been to my girlfriend's place, could I?"

"Yes! Yes you could have! You won't know where any of my shit is, which will be a dead giveaway! Rose isn't stupid, remember?" Lily spat, clearly aggravated. "Are you sure you're a Slytherin? Because you are pathetic at this whole 'plotting' thing."

"I'm sorry, it's a bit hard to concentrate when your tongue is exploring my esophagus and your hand keeps grabbing my bum. Overkill much?".

"Ok, so I was a bit demonstrative. I'll try to hold back from making her jealous," Lily growled. "God, this is awkward as fuck."

"I agree with your sentiment," Scorpius said, giving her a look of distaste.

Lily rolled her eyes. "I could never date anyone so stuck up."

"Next time warn me before you touch me with that filthy mouth of yours," he said, leading the way to the Apparition point.

"Don't make me get those bouquets from the wedding, Asthma Boy!"

"Perhaps we can stick more to witty banter instead of wagging tongues, if you think you can manage."

"Fine. No more unexpected wagging-tongues. She'll get so jealous that you're arguing with me, instead of her, she'll dump Brad immediately," she said dryly.

"Well, at least warn me a bit. It befuddles the mind," he said. "And I need it to stay sharp for all the 'plotting' I'm so pathetic at."

"Let's just Apparate," she said holding his arm a bit too firmly.

Scorpius felt a squeeze around his chest. He hoped it was just due to the side-along apparition, and not nerves at having begun a farce that meant continually lying to his best and oldest friend.

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#Taking a Shallow breath #fanfiction #fan fic #my writing #rose/scorpius #scorose #rose weasley #scorpius malfoy #harry potter #next generation #next gen #family #romance #comedy #drama #hp #wip

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mxn-jeon · 8 years ago

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Brick*

Min Yoongi | college!au | fluff | 3.1k words

You know that your dorm is made of brick, but you’re pretty sure that brick is not supposed to let sound travel like this.

You’re having a terrible day and all you want to do is sleep.

*repost of my story prior to deleting my blog jan 2017

It’d been a long day.

It all started when you’d woken up a little bit late, having studied all night for an exam you had today. In your haste, you’d accidentally rushed off to class still in your sleep clothes: basketball shorts and an old band t-shirt. It was a brisk 40 out and you were intolerant of the cold, but there was nothing to be done about it now—the prof took attendance and you’d better be there at 8am—or else.

You sprinted out of your dorm, cursing the weather as you began to run the gauntlet through your classes. It was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays were the worst. You hadn’t originally organized your schedule this way, but the registration powers-that-be had wrecked you and no amount of begging with the registrar would save your sorry second-semester freshman ass.

You’d managed the first few weeks, but things were starting to get ridiculous. Wednesdays happened to have five classes: 3 lectures and 2 three-hour labs in straight succession, with no time for lunch. Class started at 8 and ended at 5. It was normally better because you could chow down granola bars between classes, but of course—you’d forgotten to put them in your bag as you ran out the door this morning.

Last semester, you’d been more than willing to skip classes, which had sort of sunk your GPA. You were in no such state to do so this time round: since you’d been unable to get into most of the big intro-level classes, you’d been forced to register for unknown professors and small class-sizes.

They all knew your name by now…and they weren’t afraid to use it.

Fortunately, first two classes went by without much event, but it wasn’t long before your body started protesting from neglect. Skipping breakfast was fine, but lunch was not. Halfway through your 11AM, your stomach began to grumble acutely.

You ignored its guttural protests even as you speedwalked to your first lab (although the sun was out now, it was only marginally warmer)…only to realize as you walked through the door that you hadn’t dressed according to lab standards: shorts were a big no.

Too late. The TA gave you a once-over and disapprovingly sent you back in the direction you’d came from. Reluctantly you speedwalked back to your dorm, threw on a pair of pants and a jacket and made a quick cup of instant coffee.

You chugged it as you walked back, scarfing down a granola bar and feeling like a slightly improved version of yourself. However, your mood quickly turned sour as you got back to lab and were pulled out by your TA, who none-to-gently informed you that you’d gotten points deducted off your lab score for being tardy and for not following lab safety protocol.

A cloud hung over you for the remainder of the lab, and your type-A lab partner was hardly enthusiastic with your missing prelab and general cluelessness. You asked questions, trying to keep up, but her answers had become shorter and less informative as time passed. Frustrated, you’d finally reached for a pair of tweezers as she’d snarked out: “I can do it myself, just don’t mess anything up and look like you’re doing something without doing something when the TA comes by!”

Chastised, you sat mutely in your seat for the remainder of the lab, trying not to make the metal parts squeak as you scuffed your shoes against the linoleum and copied your partner’s notes robotically.

The second lab fared no better: it was more talking than doing, which was good for you, but bad for your woozy brain. You found yourself dozing off on the edge of the lecture, and almost swayed off your seat several times.

The caffeine was obviously not working. You sleepily wondered why.

(Little did you know that on your desk, in fact, was the wrapper of a decaf pack. Half of your coffee supply was, actually—your mother had snuck those in, worried for your health).

You dragged yourself through the last lab of the day. Now, you had the big elephant to worry about: today was your first exam of the semester—unfortunately scheduled for 6-8pm, thanks to “departmental reasons”. You were sure the university was conspiring against you, but you managed your first real meal of the day before dashing off to the testing location on the other side of campus.

By this point, you were sleep-deprived and brain-dead, having had to study most of the night before. Unfortunately, you became the most sluggish at the onset of the two-hour exam, and found yourself struggling to stay awake. You begged your brain to stay on, but it refused to jump through any of the hoops the problems presented, and with a heavy heart and hand you scrawled some work onto the pages and turned it in as time was called.

Just as you were dragging your miserable self out of the lecture hall, you checked your messages, and you’d gotten a slew of texts from the choreographer of the kpop dance team you were on, thirty minutes ago.

“Y/N, can you come to the rec center? We’re practicing formations right now and you need to be here. The performance is literally this Saturday and I can’t let you perform if you’re not at this critical practice.”

“Shit,” you curse as you tap out a reply, suddenly wide awake. I just got through 9 hours of class and a 2 hour exam, can I please just not come? I promise I’ll make it up, please??

The response is quicker than you expect. We’re filming the preliminary video at the end of practice today, and the organizers want the lineup and everything as it’s supposed to be for the event by midnight tonight. If you don’t show, you don’t go.

A few seconds later: I’m really sorry, but an entire semester’s worth of practice is going to be for nothing if you can’t make it today.

Gritting your teeth, you reply. Fine. Be there in 10.

Two and a half hours of dance practice and some walking time later, a quivering hand unlocks your dorm room and body weakly crumples onto the floor in the dark.

Your roommate has been fast asleep for some time, judging by her snores. You’re ready to pass out like a week ago, sweat and death-feelings and all, but you’re convinced you should really shower. So into the shower you go and out you come, still exhausted but at least smelling nice.

Throwing yourself into bed, you close your eyes, ready to sleep. Your consciousness dims quickly and you sluggishly note that this must be where the term ‘out like a light’ comes from.

It’d been a long day.

“Ah…AHH…ahhh…” From somewhere closer than you expected, you hear distinctively feminine moans.

You’re on the cusp of sleep. You don’t take much note of it until it repeats itself again a few seconds later, this time a little louder and more persistent.

Fuck, I just hope that’s someone who stubbed their toe.

Another set of ‘ah’s and your mind fabricates a short list of possibilities, ruling through all but one as some loud bed-banging noises add to the mix.

You know that your dorm is made of brick, but you’re pretty sure that brick is not supposed to let sound travel like this.

You close your eyes and pray that they’ll disappear. Unfortunately, this only serves to make the mysterious girl’s moans more insistent.

“What the hell? Can’t they go fuck somewhere else?” You spit into the dark, pulling the sheets up over your head and realizing they muffle nothing.

Also, the girl’s voice is sounding awfully familiar.

You try to remember who it is exactly that lives next door to you, and your eyes widen as memories slide into place.

“Fuck, that’s my freshman advisor next door…ugh, EW, fuck no just stop alsdkjfhlakwejfh”

You’re embarrassed that her sex noises are now part of your head’s repertoire of “heard noises”, but you were too embarrassed to go over and tell her to stop, much less bang on the wall. She’s not even someone you like that much, but you like her even less now for cutting into your much-needed sleep time.

You can’t help but notice that her moans are the same pitch. Damn, that guy must be some boring shaft work that guy’s giving her if she can’t even do more than make the same noise like a parrot, you think, gaining a small bit of satisfaction from the idea.

Despite your exhaustion, you try to think rationally, and decide to throw your noise-canceling headphones on and try to sleep.

You quickly discover they apparently are not animal-noise canceling, and the grunting and moans from next door can still be heard, albeit a bit muted.

You tolerate another 20 minutes of it by watching Weekly Idol before you want to start screaming bloody murder. Collecting yourself, you open the door to your room, let yourself out into the hall and stand there, listening. There’s no noise. You begin wondering whether it would be sensible to sleep out in the hall, no matter how ratchet it would be, since the doors seem to block the noise better than the walls did. No one really ever came down to your part of the hall, anyway—there were only four doors at this end, and one of them was fire exit.

By this point, you’re desperate enough to do anything, and you turn around to go back into your room—only to realize as you try the door handle that you left your keys and your phone inside the room.

Fuck. fuckfuckfuckufkuckukf

At this point, you’re borderline hysterical. You’ve had like 2 hours of sleep over the past 48 hours and too many classes and not enough food and just too much shit and you’ve seriously just had it.

Your brain insipidly cards through options. Your roommate sleeps like a rock so she’d never wake up, even if you threw a grenade at the door. The RA on your floor was probably out pregaming for Thursday (which was pregaming for Friday, according to him). The only people that would have spare keys would be the janitorial staff and the dorm staff, neither of which were around at this hour. To top it all off, you still have the sex soundtrack of your (now) most hated advisor stuck in your head.

And you? You just want to fucking sleep.

Curling up into a ball outside of your room, you think that you fit the definition of ‘annoyed to tears’ to a T. You wonder if sleeping in a manger with some hay and barn animals would be better. Barn animals would be better than the two next door. After all, baby Jesus slept in heavenly peace.

More thoughts run through your head, and in your emotional state, you hardly register the creak of a door opening until you hear insistent banging against a door and an angry, lazy drawl call out.

“What the actual FUCK! Are you broadcasting this shit? Shut up already! Neither of you are good at fucking so just go the fuck to sleep like normal people so that us normal people can sleep!”

At this, you look up, surprised. A boy in a black hoodie, basketball shorts and flip flops stands facing the door with a look of irritation spread across his features. Your vision blurs as several tears slip out, unbeckoned, and you swipe them away with your shirt sleeve.

“They keeping you up too? Can’t sleep either?” the boy asks sympathetically, voice softer and more gentle, turning to face you.

You blank. Your next coherent thought: Wow. Is that the boy that lives in the room next to my advisor?

Despite towering over you and your face being a good length away from his face, you can tell that this boy is very good-looking, if a bit pale. You remember the namecard on his door from passing it countless times: Min Yoongi.

Has this gem been living one door down this entire time? you think to yourself, flushing a little.

“Yeah,” you reply simply, closing your eyes and lowering your head, hoping he wouldn’t look too closely at you. You’re a mess of nerves and desperate sleepiness, how embarrassing.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, and suddenly a warm hand is on your back and he’s sitting down next to you with a soft exhale, oof.

He’s warm, you think happily.

“I just want to sleep,” you mumble, your voice muffled through your hair.

Yoongi smiles a little at that. He does, too, but the sight of you, a girl he barely even knows, huddled up out in the hall for the same reason he came out to yell at the people next door, made him feel as though he might be a little bit more in control of his life at the moment.

“Hey, I’m sure they’ll stop now that I’ve yelled at them.” He pauses. Faintly, the two of you hear muted yelling from within the room. You lift up your head and give him a wide-eyed look.

He put his ear to the door for a few seconds, then yelled, “She was definitely faking it! No one moans like that during orgasm!”

You start giggling at the absurdity of it all—you had the same thought earlier, but he shushes you with an evil grin. “You should get back in your room and go to sleep before they come out and see us here,” he says.

Your face falls as you remember. “I’m locked out, I left my keys inside when I came out here,”

“Mmm…no one with keys will be around until tomorrow morning either, huh. Well, you can sleep in my room, on my bed,” he offers. “I think it’s better than if you sleep out in the hall. I’d feel better, at least.”

You’re hesitant at first, but the idea of sleep soon overwhelms any misgivings, and has you unsteadily clutching onto his hoody with agreement as you enter his room.

You gasp. His room looks like a studio: keyboard, stereo speakers, wires laptop and a glowing array of equipment and soundboards grace the expanse of the desk, with a heavily scribbled-in notebook spotlighted in the middle of the fray. One bed is lofted over the setup, the other on the far wall and a rug spread out in between with a few cozy chairs.

“Wow, this is so…wow,” you say dumbly.

He laughs at your reaction, eyes crinkling. “Thanks,”

“Also, you’re into music? That’s cool!” you chirp excitedly, captivated by the buttons, dials and lights of the various consoles.

“Yeah, my roommate Namjoon and I share this deck since we’re both into the same sort of stuff,” He rubs his neck sheepishly. “Speaking of which, he’s staying out all night so you can sleep in my bed, and I’ll sleep in his.”

“Are you sure?” you ask hesitantly.

He doesn’t even bother to respond, hoisting you up the ladder. Your cheeks flush at the contact of his hands grasped around your waist. “Positive. I’m going to do a bit more work before I go to sleep.”

You hum in response as you clamber up the ladder. A bed has never looked so inviting. You tiredly crawl in and pull the blankets up over you, noting in the back of your mind that the bed smells distinctly not like teenage boy and distinctly like Yoongi. It’s nice. You settle in with a satisfied sigh.

Just as you’re about to drift off to sleep, you think of something. “I don’t think I ever told you my name?” you say, or you think you say, before your light goes out and your breathing deepens into the pattern of sleep.

From under the bed, Yoongi hears it. “It’s Y/N,” he says softly. “Y/N.”

Namjoon gets back around 2AM, ushering himself in with a slammed door.

“Oh good, you’re still awake--” he manages to get out before Yoongi shushes him, looking up from his notebook.

“Shh, someone’s sleeping.”

Namjoon laughed, voice still as loud as ever. “That’s a good one. What the hell are you talking about man? If you’re not sleeping then who could be?”

“Joon, keep it down. It’s a friend. She was locked out of her room and she’s super tired so I just let her sleep here.”

The younger one quirked an eyebrow. “A girl? I’m surprised at you, hyung. Where are you going to sleep, then, if she’s in your bed? There’s not enough space for two, unless you’re holding onto her real tight so that she doesn’t fall off…” His eyebrows wagged up and down as he gave Yoongi a look.

The elder shook his head furiously. “Ya, I wouldn’t dream of it, you pervert! I’ll just sleep on the beanbag or the floor or something.”

“Ok, if you say so.,” Namjoon replied, shaking his head with a smile. “Also, didn’t you say you were going to sleep like 4 hours ago, also? What happened to that?”

Yoongi flushed. “Well, I started working on another project,”

“Sure, sure you weren’t just looking at this girl and taking pictures of her while she’s asleep.”

“YA! KIM NAMJOON!”

Namjoon put a finger to his lips as he smiled cheekily. “Hey, hey, quiet down! Your friend’s sleeping.”

Grumbling, Yoongi mumbled curses under his breath as Namjoon stripped down to his boxers.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Yoongi asked from the chair, his voice a little sharp as the other man put his foot on the first rung.

“What I normally do before I go to sleep?” Namjoon replied back questioningly. “What, what’s wrong?”

Yoongi gritted his teeth. “Can you at least put on a shirt and some pants to sleep? There’s a girl in the room.”

“Whoa, hyung, she’s asleep! It’s not like she can’t see anything.”

“What if she wakes up and sees you? Wouldn’t it make her uncomfortable? Just, just, do it. Please.”

The two boys made eye contact in the dim room. A short staring contest later (which Yoongi won), Namjoon removed his foot from the ladder with a sigh. “Fine, I’ll do it for you hyung. I can’t sleep like this but just because you asked, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Joon,” Yoongi replied, feeling more relieved.

Namjoon pulled out a tee and some shorts from his closet and put them on. Stretching out his arms, he turned to the elder. “There. Happy?”

“Yes.”

Grumbling, he ascended the ladder and fell into his bed eagerly. Once he’d finished rustling the sheets, he closed his eyes, ready for sleep to claim him at last---

“Hey, do you think there’s room up there for one more?” Yoongi joked.

He was pegged in the head with a pillow. “Shut up, hyung.”

It’d been a long day. But, the morning would find Yoongi sprawled out in the beanbag with the notebook on his lap, lyrics scrawled all over the page about a locked-out girl who’d just become his latest muse.

note: yes this is my story. still unedited. rip my first fic

#min yoongi #suga #suga scenarios #min yoongi fics #min yoongi scenarios #bangtan fics #suga fluff #min yoongi fluff #bts fics #bangtan boys #i forgot how much i loathe tagging #kim namjoon #rap monster

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oceanotides · 8 years ago

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Sᴄɪɴᴛɪʟʟᴀ

Pʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡ

« “Here we go, gametime.”, Yoongi whispered and you watched him adjust his AK 47 at the column he was hiding behind, giving you a thumbs up and a slight, barely noticeable smile.

“Kooks, you need some fresh air?”, you asked tensely, aiming at the doors your rival gang was supposed to come out of, testing what weapon you’d use, “’cause you’ll get a whole lot of it.”

“Y/N, cut it off. I swear to god, I’m going to kill you all if we get out of this alive.”, and again, quiet chuckling was audible through the comm – until the defeaning, irritating sound of the sirens boomed through the streets, shaking through your body as they drowned out everything else. »

ｐａｉｒｉｎｇ: yoongi x reader

ｇｅｎｒｅ：gang!au, thepurge!au, angst, fluff

ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ： mentions of blood and death, a LOT of statements inspired by movies and books, content may be confusing

ｉｎｓｐｉｒｅｄ　ｂｙ： @lets-go-north ‘s the purge vine, lover, fighter and meet me on the battlefield by svrcina, bts x the purge by saera kim, bts // the purge by polarisdreams & bts x monsta x by datjimilly

ｗｏｒｄ　ｃｏｕｎｔ： 8,532

ａ／ｎ： i really recommend watching all the videos and listening to the songs mentioned above - just so you get the vibe!

remember back in spring ‘16 where i had announced i’d write some thepurge!au? no? well, anyways, i’ve finally done it and here it is. be prepared because i didn’t take a second look at it, so there may be a few grammar mistakes. btw, i’m dead, i’ve written this on a single day and the way it ends is kind of awful, so let me know if you’d want me to write an alternative ending and, as always, what you think about the whole story. if anyone even reads that damn long oneshot, lol. anyways, here you go!

A fresh breeze whistled around your ears. The petrichor; the world’s smell caused by the sky crying its eyes out, lingered in the air. The soft rain dampened your face and your eyelashes tickled your eyelid crease as you rolled your eyes and laughed out loud at the joke Jin had just made which actually wasn’t funny at all. Life was more tolerable for a moment.

The small backyard you were sitting in had always seemed calming to you. The high and grey brickstone wall entrenched you and gave you the small amount of privacy you needed whenever you felt like being alone, spending your noons organising your thoughts – in case you found time to do so in between all the things on your to-do list.

The rusty lawn chair Taehyung was sitting in made a nerve-wrecking noise as he got up, walking towards the brick house the backyard belonged to and you thought about following him but thinking about what day it was made you stay in your place, messily scribbling things you thought of as essential for tonight down onto a piece of paper.

Clanking noises which sounded suspiciously like the beverage bottles existing in abundance at the headquarter’s kitchen came from inside, reminding you of how thirsty you actually were and of how you’d need to stay hydrated for the event nearing.

“Tae? Bring me a desperados, will you?”, you called.

It didn’t take long for him to answer with the ‘When will you finally learn that you veritably have your own legs’ that was ridiculously characteristic of the currently brown-haired guy you happened to call a best friend of yours. Consequently you weren’t exactly surprised as he crossed the threshold, entering the yard again with some bottles in his hands.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on getting drunk.”, you said, looking at the seven bottles he was putting down on the small table you, Jin, Jungkook and Namjoon were sitting at. The lemonade he had been holding under his arm in order not to go twice followed suit and he fell back into the black chair he had claimed as his.

“Correct”, Namjoon agreed, putting the files he had been reading onto the brown ebony. Some drops of sweat covered his forehead, barely noticeable, yet somehow sticking out to you. It was a unusual hot day and the sun was illuminating the firmament with its last rays – spring was nearing its end and summer was to follow.

“Yoongi, Hoseok and Jimin said they’ll be here soon,”, he opened his bottle, the label reading pepsi, took a huge sip and flipped his hair back, “at 6:30, to be exact.”

His eyes settled on you when you crossed your arms and leaned forward, furrowing your eyebrows in thought as you took a sip, too, then focusing on what you had written down till now.

Yoongi, Jimin and Hoseok were a weird trio: one of them was most sarcastic person you had ever met; the other one probably the cutest; yet most dangerous person in this town while the latter managed to be the most positive human being in spite of his job as an assassin. Yoongi was a year older than you and you had become friends in your junior year when the both you were paired for a chemistry project.

Min Yoongi, the most intimidating guy out of all the people in your grade – scratch that, in the whole school. He didn’t even bother to give a shit, neither about other’s opinions nor about his grades that had caused him to repeat the junior year. The only reason for him not getting kicked out was Mrs Peterson, and, to be completely honest, you hadn’t been able to unterstand her back then. Maybe it was his ultra sarcastic attitude she relished – but had that been reasonable?

No, not at all. You hadn’t known him that well and at that point, you didn’t really want to, either. Your brother was his age and consequently shared a few classes with him. From what he had told you, Yoongi was no guy who liked to make friends. “He doesn’t even like to meet people.”, your brother said on a Friday evening when the two of you had been eating dinner together, watching one of your favorite series. You had helped him finish an assignment earlier that day since your parents weren’t home, as usual. But let’s not talk about that.

However, being absent thinking about what you had used to think about Yoongi, you hadn’t noticed him, Jimin and Hoseok entering the backyard.

Only when he draped a black hoodie around your shoulders you blinked, recognizing the three boys. Jimin looked at you with an excited smile on his face which partially disgusted and partially amused you.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Today was different from all the other times the eight of you hung out together. The mood seemed chill but you knew better than that, being close with the boys for more than a year now. What seemed to be joyful actually was gloomy; what seemed to be carelessness was worry about what was going to happen today, about what was going to happen tonight – tonight defined as the period of time starting in less than a hour. Aᴘʀɪʟ 21sᴛ, 7:00ᴘᴍ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ Aᴘʀɪʟ 22ɴᴅ, 7:00ᴀᴍ. America’s 7thPurge was going take place tonight.

You looked at the dark brown haired boy you had grown to respect and like so much sitting across the table, unfolding a map on it. The dimples he caused to show up when he was smiling were a perfect cover for what, who he actually was.

At the age of twenty-one, he was ruling one of the most dangerous gangs in Los Angeles, and whole LA to be honest. Rumors had it that he had cameras installed around the whole city and knew what was happening everywhere before anyone else was even capable of doing something. Of course the whole camera-thing was not true – well, not completely at least. And moreover he was not nearly as hostile as everyone thought, but incredibly smart and powerful instead.

Powerful was his voice as he spoke up to tell you about tonight’s plans, taking a look at his watch attached to his wrist.

“It’s 6:37pm.”, he said, giving the three boys who had just sat down a stern glance, before continuing. “However, we’re left with 23 minutes to discuss and prepare for tonight which is not a lot of time at all so I’ll just wrap it up.

I won’t have to tell you guys that us being a gang of more or less criminals makes us an outsticking target. Adding to that, Taehyungie here has taken it upon himself to defy Dom..inic at school which makes it highly likely for his gang to aim their guns at us tonight.”, he smirked, adding “what I would’ve done, too, by the way.” before making the boys turn toward you who had just pulled everything you’d need onto the table.

Aᴘʀɪʟ 21sᴛ 6:48:34ᴘᴍ, 11 ᴍɪɴᴜᴛᴇs ᴀɴᴅ 26 sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅs ʟᴇғᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴇ 7ᴛʜ ᴀɴɴᴜᴀʟ ᴘᴜʀɢᴇ

The car ride to the place Hoseok located Dom’s gang to be was as silent as the streets outside, the only sounds audible Jin and Namjoon going through the plan over and over again and Jungkook and Jimin chewing bubblegums while guiding Hoseok through the city.

It was rare to see all the downtown places that were usually busy all day and night deserted like this. There was not a single soul walking on the pavement or hiding in a dark alley. Normally you’d have enjoyed the view – you didn’t like crowded places, but knowing the reason for the emptiness was much less satisfying. Different from most of the people you were out tonight because you had to; and, on top of that, you’d never let any of your friends go out on their own, not tonight.

So there you were, leaning against somebody’s side, nervously playing with the ripped threads of your denim jacket, not caring about how it was just causing the holes to get bigger and bigger; you were just trying not to make up any horrible scenarios that could happen to any of the seven guys you were sitting in the black van with.

You couldn’t afford losing any of them.

“You scared?”, Yoongi’s voice finally broke the heavy silence, sliding into your thoughts as smooth as a feather.

You scoffed in an attempt to seem more relaxed, but there was no point in that, obviously not.

“To say the least. Of course I am.”

He shifted under you, a skinny arm wrapping around your shoulder.

“I am, too.”

There was a short moment of silence (again) before he spoke up again.

“But don’t worry, we’ll be fine. I promise.”

And to be honest, in any other situation you would have believed him, but right now you weren’t sure whether he was saying that to convince you or to convince himself. Yet though something, maybe it was the way he gave you the feeling of being protected by wrapping his arm around you, made you relax a bit.

You were squatting, taking cover in a small alley behind a trash dumpster. Visible in front of you was an abandoned warehouse downtown. The place looked totally rundown, but there were gleaming silver chains latched to the huge doors and you were pretty sure this is the place. You eyed the doors warily as you mumble “Where are we?” while holding your hand to your ear, speaking over the comm system attached to it.

It didn’t take a single second for Jimin to answer as he murmured “I don’t know, but whatever this is, I have a bad feeling about it.”

“Yeah well I’m good. It’s nothing”, Jins voice was dripping with sarcasm so obviously, you could literally hear the drops falling.

You identified the next voice speaking as Taehyung saying, “Oh honestly. Come on guys, it’s not that scary.”

The speakers attached to each and every of LA’s inersections made a somewhat creaking noise.

“Yo Y/N, you’re freaking out over there, ain’t you?”, Namjoon chuckled.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “No.”

“Yeah you are.”, Yoongi and Taehyung agreed simultaneously and you didn’t need to look at their positions on the opposite side of the street and on top of the old cinema to see that they were grinning.

“I said no.”

“Listen, man, it takes-“

“Woman.”, you corrected him.

“What?”

“I’m a woman.”

“Well whatever. However, it takes a grown man-“

“-woman!”

“…to embrace their feelings. If you want to cry, just go ahead and cry.”

Quiet laughter and chuckles were shared through the comm, and, once again, you felt a bit lighter.

“No but listen Y/N, as your friend you know I’m concerned about your well-being –“

“Oh listen can’t you just chill out, man?”, you imitated his habit of adding man to every sentence when Hoseok spoke up.

“Listen guys, I’ve seen some crazy shit but among all the things we’ve done, this is definitely an outcast so let’s just try to keep it as lowkey as possible. And always remember – oh my, honestly Tae? You’re playing crossy road right now?!”

There was a moment of silence and, indeed, the typical crossy road noise of the chicken bumping into a truck - boof! – was audible, making you shake your head as you actually smiled because oh my god, this kid.

“So obviously Tae’s not as tense as me right now, but would somebody mind to walk me through what we’re supposed to be doing?”, Jungkook snapped.

“Oh come on Kooks, this was your plan, you gotta embrace it.”, you said, now finally relaxing and preparing for what was going to come.

“No, jumping off a rooftop onto Domincs – emphasis on Dominic – was not my plan. Taehyung –“

His sentence was cut off by the booming, penentrating bass sound of the speakers you had grown to hate so much and from that moment on, all of your senses slowly returned to you and your heartbeat increased incredibly fast.

Blue light was illuminating the streets as the projection screen at the crossing lit up, displaying the oh-so-familiar text of the purge’s announcement. You unintentionally whispered the words yourself as the cold voice of the woman sounded through the alleys and streets down to venice beach.

“This is not a test.

This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of ᴛʜᴇ Aɴɴᴜᴀʟ Pᴜʀɢᴇ sanctioned by the U.S Government.

Weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during ᴛʜᴇ Pᴜʀɢᴇ. All other weapons are restricted.

Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity from ᴛʜᴇ Pᴜʀɢᴇ and shall not be harmed.

Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours.

Police, fire and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning until 7am when ᴛʜᴇ Pᴜʀɢᴇ concludes.

Blessed be our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn.

May God be with you all.”

“Here we go, gametime.”, Yoongi whispered and you watched him adjusting his AK 47 at the column he was hiding behind, giving you a thumbs up and a slight, barely noticeable smile.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see all of them getting into position – Jungkook and Jimin on the warehouse’s rooftop, Tae on the first door in the parkade next to it, Hoseok and Jin adjusting their snipers and Namjoon putting the black mask you all wore on to cover his face. It had kind of become your special trademark, the soft fabric giving you the artificial feeling of personal privacy and anonymity. You knew it wouldn’t last for too long, the siren had sounded for the 4th time now, 2 times to go. In just a few seconds the streets would be filled with gunshots, screams and, most of all, blood. Even the smallest mistake; a wrong movement or a moment of negligence could be the cause for you to be buried tomorrow. You were aware of the fact that you were slightly exaggerating and just making your heart beat faster and faster, but you couldn’t help it.

The rush of adrenaline pumping through you made you feel invincible and as the siren boomed for the 6th and last time, the doors of the warehouse burst open.

Just to make things more clear, you thought you had been prepared for any and everything possible – fist fights, gun fights, a wild chase – but you definitely didn’t expect Dominic and the rest of his gang to drive a..how to describe it?

The thing they were driving out the doors with resembled a team bus but it was longer and higher and it’s tires were the ones of a truck but twice the size, at least. It’s license plate read 1-800-FUCK-OFF instead of any valid number and, to be honest, you thought of it as a little bit funny, but right now you had much more important things to care about, for example a man covered in black sticking his head out of one of the black mirrored windows, positioning a MG3 machine gun.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.”, you heard yourself saying as you ducked in order not to get shot, “Jungkook, where are you!?”, you screamed, firing your gun once, twice.

“What!? You want me to jump on a fucking killer truck!?”

You considered explaining the situation to him but, seeing how Jimin pushed Jungkook to the warehouse’s edge and then jumped down with him, it wasn’t necessary anymore. More importantly the truck with Jimin and Jungkook on it was threatening to speed away while Namjoon was giving orders. You need to do something, you told yourself before an idea popped up in your head and you cut Namjoon off.

“Namjoon, I’m sorry but we’re going to lose them if we continue hiding like this! I’m going in right now”, you shouted.

In the next second you were jumping over the dumpster, securely landing on the concrete of N Los Angeles St; your weapons safely tucked away in your backpack, the silenced sniper rifle’s material cold against your cheek as you tried your best to stand still and slow your breath.

“Fuck this.”, you sighed in defeat as you angrily threw a stone against the target you were supposed to hit with your bullets. 50 minutes had passed and the bost shot you’ve made had hit the target’s nonexistent hair. Great, even the stone didn’t miss it – but you, attempting to shoot it with a sniper rifle? Never. Never ever were you going to get this.

“Fuck what?”, Yoongi appeared next to you, crooked his head and cocked an eyebrow, waiting for you to answer.

You pointed at the 480 cheytac dangling off your shoulders, to the target and then to you, “all of this.”

“Well, as welcoming that invitation is, I’d rather not sleep with you in a…training center.”

You sneered, “very funny. It’s just that I can’t seem to get a good shot and I’ve been trying for about an hour and ugh.”

“Yeah, well, you have never used a sniper rifle before, either, not to mention a 480 cheytac which is fairly hard to handle.”

“Oh, wow. Yoongi, this is the literal first time you’ve been kind toward me.”, you said out loud. Realising what you had just confessed you quickly managed to continue speaking, “what about shooting that target over there –“, you pointed at one which was pretty far away, all the way on the other side of the gym,”and showing me how to do it?”

He chuckled, “sure.”, and took the rifle out of your hands, his right eye closed as he turned to the side. Despite his character, his looks were …wow, they were amazing. The sharp jawline of his, his pale skin in contrast to his pink lips – a silent swish stopped you from keeping to drool over him and you watched the silver bullet smoothly hitting the target’s brain as he turned to you, the satisfaction of his success prominent in his facial expression.

“Told you.”, he said mockingly; caused you to roll your eyes.

“See, all you have to do is hold it like this.”, he put the rifle down only to take your hands in his, wrapping them around the sniper, aiming at the fake body in front of you. His warm breath tickled the side of your neck as he explained, “control your breath and focus on nothing else but the target.”, he watched you do so. “A sniper is characterized by their few but precious and unerring shots. If you shoot, you have to strike whomever you want to kill or hurt, whatever. There’s no such thing as a second chance – it’s like this all or nothing shit. So stay concentrated.”

You nodded, correcting your aim while you kept your left eye shut. The target’s head was the only clear outline right now, everything else being blurry. The small target cross covered the target’s brain, “now shoot.”,

and with a last glance at whoever henchman of Dominics and Owens gang that was, you pulled the trigger.

It was as though someone had pressed the slow motion button on their IPhone when the tiny bullet hit the shooter’s left shoulder and he fell back into the truck-bus-something. Confidently you threw the 480 cheytac over your shoulder and inhaled. Hoseok’s voice saying “now that was a real shot.” popped up next to you and with a smile shared between the two of you, you started to run.

Turning left and right in order not to get attacked by someone else purging you felt the urge to vomit. Every corner and place your gaze wandered to was decorated with signs of cruelty. It took a while for you to realize that a slogan to your right reading ‘h e a r t b r e a k e r – l o v e f a k e r – n e v e r g o i n g t o w a k e h e r’ had been mistaken for spraypaint by you when it was actually written in the blood by the female body hanging next to it. You were sure the girl must have been beautiful before but now the long, blonde strands of hair covered her face, her once white dress now blood-stained.

Quickly looking to your left as your stomach turned, your gaze fell upon a couple being beaten up by four short men, their faces hidden behind suicide squad masks, their hands swinging baseball bats – wait, were those children?

It was weird; the downtown being this alive when it was basically dead just minutes ago – the silence had been replaced by gunshots and screams and crazy laughter, the streets wearing red.. it was disgusting.

You were about to continue letting your mind rant about everything the Purge did as you turned your head straight once again and, suddenly, the truck was gone. It was just gone. There was no sign of it having ever existed, even when you did a sharp u-turn – there was nothing but other people chasing each other and, out of all sudden, you felt tricked, standing in front of the dead end. You felt scared somehow.

You knew the truck had to be somewhere near you, but there was nothing, the doors of the buildings around you as locked as they had been before. And besides, the truck wouldn’t even fit through any of them.

“What the fuck..”, you murmured, not caring that you were interrupting the heated and breathless conversation that had been going on through the comm system.

You heard Yoongi trying to answer when another familiar voice filled the air with laughter. This time it wasn’t coming from the headset attached to your ear, it was louder and you figured it was coming from a speaker which soon proved itself to be true.

“Oh, how the tables have turned.” (GUYYYYYS I’M SORRY I JUST HAD TO INTEGRATE THIS;; DOES ANYONE ELSE KNOW THAT VIDEO?? IN CASE YOU DON’T GO WATCH IT NOW)

By the time you looked up you found yourself surrounded by Hoseok and Yoongi and it took you not even a mere second to recognize the person standing on top of the two-story parkade straight ahead.

You were damned for him to show up here, tonight, and recall everything you had buried under dozens of happy memories and work and assignments and plans and college courses. The last months you hadn’t even wasted a single second thinking about him, you were sure you were over it and, to be honest, you hated admitting that you got emotional right now when it was the literal worst time to get sentimental or caught up in thoughts, just because you saw certain brown eyes boring into yours.

They caused all the memories to come to your mind again. You remembered all the late night sessions where you stayed up late to help him with several assignments and presentations, and on your worst days you did miss him, indeed. It hit you at the most random moments; when you walked out of the house in the morning or when you saw a jeep, or when the midnight air crept through your window and nipsped at your cheeks. Whenever you listened to Cole’s songs you remembered everything he had told you, each and every detail and you wanted to rip off your head. He had never meant anything to you and you haven’t to him, either, you’d tell yourself – and it was the truth. Even though you were hurting when you thought about it, you missed it, but it always ended with you realizing how easy it was for the both of you to throw it all away because in the end, you didn’t care about the other at all, you just didn’t want to be alone.

That was what life was like in high school and you accepted it, yet still, seeing him reopened a door to your past and you hated getting flashbacks from things you didn’t want to remember.

“I see you’ve brought your personal guards. Didn’t know I was so difficult to take down.”, you said in an attempt not to show him he had the upper hand, your head nodding at the people standing on the pavement after they had realized they didn’t have to hide anymore.

You felt Jungkook’s and Jin’s presence behind you and your mind started to fill with relief on the one hand, worry on the other hand.

Chris, or Tej, his name in the business, looked at his henchmen and shook his head, faking a chuckle while anger started to fill your body, “nah, I could take you without wasting a single bullet. These”, he pointed at the assassins positioned on several rooftops, “are for your oh-so-beloved gang leader and the members that actually pose a threat.”

You snickered. “You’re just playing. Are you going to fight or do you want to spend the whole night talking shit?”

Yoongi took a step closer. “Y/N, I’m not saying we’re in danger but that’s exactly what I’m saying.”, he murmured.

“I know,”, you replied, “but I have to do this.”

Gun shots echoed from the walls as Tej shot into the night once, twice; looked at you threateningly. Immediately you felt the pearl handle of your gun in your palm, several clicks of other guns cocking audible behind you. Still hidden behind your back, your fingers curled around the trigger.

Once again, everything else was blocked out by your ears. You knew as soon as the five of you’d lift your weapons to shoot down as many fiends you possibly could, they’d open the fire, too, and more than a few lifes’d be ending soon.

You weren’t exaclty sure who drew his weapon first, but in a matter of seconds you found yourself among a crowd fighting like it was a matter of living and death – quite ironical since it indeed was. Yoongi was standing his ground in front of you. Jungkook hit one of their heads and you quickly looked away, firing your gun here and there as you did your best in helping Hoseok and Jin to keep the steadily raising number of enemies at bay. Luckily, Namjoon and Taehyung soon joined the 5 of you fighting, Jimin appearing out of nowhere taking out men from the top of an empty car. You shot another one into the leg but his companies charged so quickly that you soon found yourselves preferring the methods of a fist fight. A text example of a street fight, your brothe would have said if he were to take part in it.

Eight on you-didn’t-know-how-may was definitely not favorable, you decided as you slammed your fist into someone’s stomach, then looked around in trying to find Tej’s head in the midst of the brutal brawl, immediately regretting it as you earned a punch straight to your previously-injured shoulder and cried out in pain. Little did you know the wound had reopened as you gritted your teeth and blocked your attacker’s view with your hand, easily causing him to fall backwards, afterwards battering him with the handle of your gun.

Oh how much you hated fistfights.

They were way too personal, no doubt, you’d choose a gun over your fist anytime. You were tempted to run and just join Jimin on the car’s rooftop in taking them down smoothly from afar, just so no one important to you was exposed to danger anymore but you knew fully well that, for the next hours, you’d be living dangerously.

Just when you were about to help Namjoon fight off his two attackers a certain green fabric flashed in front of you and without a second glance you recognized the guy dressed in a green bomber as Chris, but that wasn’t exactly what stopped you from fighting.

It was rather the wired box he had left standing on the concrete and the small, almost invisible device in his hand, better known as detonator. Apparently you weren’t the only one who had noticed the approaching danger ‘cause just as you uttered a loud Oh, shit! thin fingers wrapped around your wrist. They were pulling you around the corner and down to the ground, a body promptly guarding you by embracing you close to its chest.

It was then that the detonator was being pressed, the detonation present in a dazzling flash, illuminating the dead end in red, white and yellow; a loud Bang!; the unmistakable, abominable stench of burned flesh and you felt your gastric acid raising in your throat. You wanted to vomit, to cry out loud, break something to cleanse your nostrils from the bloody smell, your hands from the blood covering them; but there was obviously no time for that in view of the hands that pulled you up. You finally recognized your savior as Yoongi when he shouted at you to run since you weren’t out of danger yet but his voice sounded distant, reverberating in your brain. It felt like you had been thrown into a well or something; yet still you followed his instructions, jumped to your feet and ran.

Your body was moving on its own, you yourself completely unable to do anything about it. Looking down to the ground, your red platforms connected and disconnected with the ground, not coming to a halt until Yoongi, who had been holding your hand the whole time, pushed you into a inconspicuous side alley, sliding to the pavement right next to you.

For a minute or two neither of you spoke a word, the air filled with the sounds of two people catching their breath. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to speak, it was rather the fact that you were unable to, both due to shock and exhaustion. You wondered where you were, but there was no point in asking since you both had just ran and ran, without the slightest bit of a plan – which was fine with you, you had just needed to free your mind, yet you didn’t exactly feel lighter.

You let out a noise, a mixture of sighing, groaning and inhaling as you passed your hand over your forehead and turned to your right, opening your eyes to the sight of a battered Yoongi and you sat up straightaway, groaning with pain at the headache you were having.

“You look horrible.”, you managed to say, even though it was a rasping sound rather than a human sound. With shaky hands you reached up to cup his face, your hand tracing the outlines of several still bleeding scars and cuts on his cheeks.

“I could say the same.”, he whispered as he watched you reaching into your backpack for the first-aid-kit you had luckily taken with you, the backpack’s contents now displayed on the asphalt. He let you take care of his wounds and calmed down whenever your fingers touched his skin. The both of you were still panting and you did your best to ignore his hot breath against your collarbone as you reached behind him to adjust his jacket, afraid that he’d get sick given the fact that he was sweating and the air was not just a comfortable breeze.

Acting normal too, Yoongi let his gaze wander over the different items laying in front of him. A comparable huge amount of different ammo, spraypaint, a lighter, a knife, a map, a black hoodie, tissues…what caught his eye was a small, plain black journal, ‘YOUTH’ written on its cover with silver ink.

With you still patching him up he reached for it, palm brushing over the envelop previous to opening it, a small polaroid instantly falling out.

He turned it around, the caption reading oceans and without thinking about it, he confronted you. “Oceans?”, he asked.

You stopped in your action, letting go of his left wrist you had been wrapping up with band-aid. Your eyes fell upon the shiny, small image and you furiously shook your head, a little too fast.

“Rip it. Just – it’s nothing.”, you said, snatching the paper out of his hands and tore it apart.

The two of you were climbing over a fence, again. You had been strolling through alleys and streets and over railways for what seemed like ages, nothing relevant happening. Yes, there were a few not-so-pleasant encounters with people purging, however you were on the same page with not wanting to throw any more punches tonight, instead taking down each purger with one bullet, and one bullet only. You hadn’t talked much, pretty much due to the fact that neither of you felt like it. It wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy his company, though. You were relieved you weren’t out on your own and you were quite sure that he was the person you’d most likely choose as a companion tonight, just because…you couldn’t explain it, yet still you didn’t doubt your thought. So you both just walked next to each other in silence and you were fine with that, and, on top of that, you were partially doing it for the safety’s sake. Somewhere between two trains, one of them burning, and voices followed by gunshots you took his hand and never let go of it, not until he started to speak.

“What’s on your mind?”, he said, pushing branches out of his way.

“Huh?”, you murmured, snapping out of your trance to look around and see if he was talking to someone else until your realised that you were pretty much the only person he could’ve talked to, silently cursing you for your stupidity.

“I..”, you kicked a stone, “..don’t really know. Pretty much everything.”

He looked at you, an expectant facial expression prominent on his face, urging you to continue which you never did.

Sighing, he shook his head.

“Listen, I know I’m probably not the person you wanted to be with tonight –“

Oh, if only you knew, Min Yoongi.

“ - Don’t.”

He abruptly stopped walking when you cut him off. “What?”

You smiled, seeing as he was the stupid one now, copying his movements as you shook his head.

“I said don’t.”, you stopped breathing for a second, “’cause you weren’t telling the truth. I’m just worried about the others – you know, leaving them behind was not the right decision.”

You could literally see him rolling his eyes although you were looking to the ground.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that we would have died if we hadn’t done just that.”

“Yeah,”, you exhaled, “I know. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying about them.”

“They’ll be fine.”, he said, clearly avoiding eye contact.

“You’re saying that to convince yourself.”

“Partially.”

The dry branches made a crunching sound when you stepped over them, then you turned left to get to a street where you’d – hopefully – find some kind of a vehicle.

“I simply don’t like the fact that we left them behind with him.”

“So I was right? I knew you knew that fight-obsessed oh-i-am-so-powerful freak.”

You were biting back a smile at the names he called him, “Yes, congratulations. But you were right, indeed, I used to know him, we were..friends?” It was more of a question than a statement, you realised after finishing.

“Well, back then he wasn’t as much of an asshole as he’s now, I guess.”

“You guess? I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have befriended him if he was.”

“That’s a point.”, you nodded, then you fished the polaroid out of your pocket. You hadn’t thrown it away yet, you hadn’t had the heart to dispose it yet. Assembling the two shreds, you pulled out the old, rusty silver lighter Namjoon had gifted you at your accession to his gang.

“Funny how pictures never change but the people in them do.”, something in the back of your mind was telling you you had just quoted someone, but that didn’t matter right now, “But that’s just how it goes, you grow older and your best friend becomes your arch enemy.”

Yoongi let out an understanding sigh as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, checking the street before he led you through a hole in the fence that marked the end of the containment area you had been walking on in order not to come across some murderous purgers.

“That was quite poetic.”, he chuckled, “still, it’s the truth. People erase you from their lives because they’re too damn lazy to try and work things out.”

It was then that you both stopped walking and you turned around to face him, making eye contact. There was no real reason behind your actions, but something within you made you take your time to study his face, and, most of all, his eyes.

They were the first thing you had ever noticed about him. The ones he hid under his hair or behind his glasses; he called boring, brown. He always wanted any color, any other pair of eyes except her own. At first you had found it strange, it was a fair contrast to his i-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude; but you soon learned that he cared more about others and their opinions than he’d ever admit. However, you loved them. You loved how they lit up when his brain produced another brilliant idea. When he laughed his happiness wouldn’t be prominent in a smile or a grin, you’d notice it in the way his eyes started to sparkle and dance.

You had stared into them and he had stared right back into yours, like you should have kissed and made love and laughed and hurt together so many times that you didn’t even bother to count it anymore, but you had chosen to stay friends instead. Both yours and his eyes had been glistening back then, yours in tears and his in anger at himself.

And just the same, they’d dull and blur and lose their joyful aura when he was being bothered by something. They were the only thing left of his dark and ugly past, they were hiding something and you were eager to find out just what exactly it was that he was trying so hard to forget.

You were wondering what in hell he must have witnessed that made him the person he was now, you wanted to know what made him so desperate and hopeless that he became responsible for the ugly, knife-shaped scar extending from his artery to his collarbone he made sure to curtain with whatever top or hoodie he was wearing. You had only seen it once, but that was enough for the question persistently floating around in your head.

What happened to him?

It wasn’t the question that bothered and stressed you, it was you being aware of the fact that you’d never be to find the answer. He wasn’t going to open up to anyone, you knew it.

And now you were looking into these very eyes as you took a step forward, his fingers still intertwined with yours. His eyes were overflooding with emotions, mostly dark and sad ones, but so were yours as you both looked at each other with what if’s and could have’s and hearts and souls full of regret. For a moment your gaze travelled down to his red lips, sore as he had been biting them all the time, but then you got a grip on yourself and pulled away, your fingers no longer filling the gaps between his as you, once again, pulled out the lighter, flicked it and watched as the polaroid caught fire, whirling to the ground.

“Geez,”, you breathed, stomping onto the leftovers, “should’ve done that long ago.”

When you turned to Yoongi, his eyes were dull again, no emotion visible, his facial expression empty once again. He didn’t speak a word other than “let’s go” after you had thrown all the other polaroids displaying Chris to where the first one was still smoldering, a small fire developing.

You only shook your head, staring right into the flames illuminating the night, drowning out his words. Everything you remembered was Chris telling you that “beautiful, you’re playing with fire” and you took that quite literally. He was the fire and if you get too close to the fire you’ll get hurt, that’s just how it is.

The smoke was burning in your eyes and stinging in your nose and soon you attempted to turn away and go, but apparently Yoongi bet you to it.

You remembered hearing a “What the fuck are you waiting for?!” that sounded distant in your head and a gun being fired right after. Your head was snapping up and through the smoke you made out a quartet consisting of men, all of their heads covered with – you actually screamed at that – clown masks. Then, a small, silver object – a bullet – was just barely missing your left thigh with a hiss.

It took another gunshot, this time brushing your jacket, which was – thank god – oversized, for you to finally snap out of your stone-like state. You were firing your gun before you even realised that you were reaching for it but it was obvious that you couldn’t beat them since you’d have to reach into your backpack for ammo – in your foolishness you hadn’t grabbed the sniper that was still securely tucked away in your backpack and, with a glance to your right your suspicion about Yoongi, too, having grabbed his handgun instead of something more powerful was confirmed. In any other situation you would have rolled your eyes, but this was dead serious – literally.

So you quickly decided to do what you were best at; you grabbed his wrist and ran. The fact that they were looking like clowns scared the hell out of you and you completely forgot to look where you were going, leaving the route up to Yoongi who stumbled as a bullet brushed his upper arm. In your rush you didn’t waste a second thought on it, suddenly changing your mind as you took the lead again, turning left, right, running down a street before you took a sharp turn into a smaller, barely visible alleyway.

You were about to slump down when suddenly, you were pushed back, the cold brick wall of the building behind you touching your back. Your reflex was to slap whomever was touching you right there and make a run for it but, hell, this was Yoongi pinning you to the wall, one hand at your iliac bone, the other one at your shoulder, his eyes reflecting anger and frustration, but most of all something you could only decipher as worry.

“Do not”, he stopped due to his heavy panting, “do that ever”, now he was licking his lips and all you could think was oh hell, min yoongi, you’re going to be the death of me, “ever again.”, he finished.

You almost thought he was pulling away when he came back with full force. And then, he was slamming his lips into yours in a desperate attempt to convey all he never said because there were simply no words for it and, to be fully honest, he succeeded in that mission. Right now, in this small, hopeless alleyway, Min Yoongi was giving you all you had ever hoped for, you were letting out all the emotions you had bottled up and tried to keep hidden in this one, literally breathtaking, kiss.

And honestly, you could have kissed him all day. You could have swept back his mint, thin and loose strands of his hair from his eyes and spent the hours that were left just like that. Perhaps it was because there was so, so much sadness and pain in his heart, but he kissed like he needed to be kissed, like he was aching all over, and you knew he was. And you were willing to lend him some kind of comfort as you cupped his face with both hands, deepening the kiss as you traced the prominent cheekbones of his.

That you were, in fact, all lovey-dovey instead of hiding on the Purge’s night didn’t seem to get through to you and neither of you stopped until your palm brushed against his elbow and a thick, dark liquid started to cover it.

“Oh my god”, you breathed, panting from both running and the kiss, pulling away. His left sleeve was blood-stained and you didn’t even bother listening to him when he told you that “Y/N, it’s nothing”, instead pushing him down to the floor, all the way while rummaging through your bag, grabbing what you’d need to patch him up.

“The bullet..”, you murmured quietly, repeating it louder when he didn’t answer, “Yoongi, is the bullet still stuck?”

He shook his head with a “No, it was just a graze shot” and you let out a long, relieved sigh because oh, you would have killed him if you had had to take the bullet out. You had done that once and, to be real, it was kind of the most disgusting thing you had ever done. Raking around in the wound was a necessarity and goodness, there was no way in hell anyone’d ever like to do that.

“We’ll have to praise god for our damn luck tonight.”

A deep, silent chuckle rumbled through his chest you were leaning on in order to be in a better angle and you stole a glance at his dark orbs, enjoying the sight of the stars they were reflecting – or his eyes simply consisted of stars, you couldn’t tell.

“I’d love seeing you do that without even being religious.” You groaned, forcing back a grin. “Oh, watch me. You’ll see.”

You dampened a compress with antiseptic and scrunched your face at the acrid smell that started to fill the air with the action of removing the bottle’s cap.

“This is going to hurt.”, you said guiltily, but Yoongi just shook his head.

“Just get it done and over with. And, if the pain’s too much to bear, I’ve still got the gun. You know, just in case.”

He grinned as you hissed and dared him never to make jokes about such serious things ever again. You had almost had an heartattack when you recognised the damage the bullet had done; like he said, it had only been a graze, still, he was losing a lot of blood to the point where you started to wonder how in hell he was still able to crack jokes like that.

Perhaps it was because he had already been going through so much pain that a bullet was just an annoying pain in the ass – nothing more, nothing less. You didn’t know. Still, he grabbed your jacket and stuffed the hem of his shirt between his lips in order not to scream. After all, you didn’t want to be found.

When you pressed the compress to the wound, he silently hissed and you truly felt sorry when you saw the pain filled expression on his face. However, you continued since you knew it’d be best to finish to fix him up as fast as you possibly could, wrapping another bandage around his arm, careful not to put too much pressure onto it.

As you visibly exhaled and turned around to stuff the things you had taken out back into your backpack, he caught your wrist and stopped you.

“No. Just –“, he never finished his sentence, he just opened his arms and right then you couldn’t help but willingly give in, letting go of whatever you were holding and wrapping your arms around his torso. While you were still seated on the pavement he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, so tight that you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. You felt like some cliché girl in a cliché book the moment you breathed in and instead of inhaling air, you inhaled his scent. He wasn’t wearing his blackberry fragrance tonight, but still, despite the iron smell of his blood and the sweat there was something else that didn’t go unnoticed by you and, after a few moments, you became aware of the fact that what you were smelling right now was no cologne or perfume or shampoo, it was just him.

And godness, he smelled good. Like something wild and untamed yet angelic, like the ocean does when the waves crash onto the beach, but not those soft, gentle waves but the bigger ones. He smelled like rain on a hot summer night, like milk and honey when you couldn’t sleep at night, like a thunderstorm you were watching on a balcony. It didn’t made sense at all, but you couldn’t describe it any other way, so you just settled down with not trying to describe but enjoy it instead.

It was weird how his embrace made you feel like home, even though you had rarely hugged before. Your head fit into the crook of his neck better than it did into Chris’, your figures hugged each other more passionately, you were two magnets attracting each other.

His lips pressed against your scalp and you were feeling him smile as he did it, you were filled with a sudden warmth and triumph, for you knew then that he was yours. It was damn cheesy and you were cringing at your own self, but right now, that didn’t matter. And you loved him, and it was something that you had known somewhere within you all the way until now.

Why did you love him?

You didn’t have a set answer for that, but you guessed it was just how you felt around him, how he was never leaving your mind, the vibes he gave you and the laughs you got from talking to him. You loved that you knew him so well that you knew what he’d answer before he even said something, you loved his attitude, his looks, his eyes, freshly-added; you loved his scent, you loved the way he’d never fail to comment something sarcastic and you loved that beyond the cold guy, there was a guy caring for all the people he loved, but most of all, for you. And, as you sat there, a déjà vu from just hours earlier crossed your mind, where you had been sure that you’d never be to find out what he was hiding, that he’d never open up to you, but little did you know he was.

Tʜᴇ Eɴᴅ

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