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deepdonutkid · 4 years ago

Text

Kismet

Requested: No

Paring: Shelby!Sister Reader x Isaiah

Words: 5624

Summary: For a year now, you had a secret relationship with Isaiah and even when he is still in the same room with you, you can’t stop feeling lonely. It’s not that you don’t love him anymore, it more about the weight of the secret you have to carry. But with Tommy as you big brother you can’t risk, telling the truth or your man might get shot.

Note:

I was in the mood for a Shelby!Sister reader x Isaiah and it turned out to be way longer than I expected it... and I even cut out dialog... So here it is!

It’s also flavored with Junior Peaky Boys fun at the beginning. And I was inspired by my homegirl’s one shot called star and my story is an addition to hers, it’s the same night, but Bonnie has some other adventures than the reader and Isaiah.

Somehow I feel like everybody is a little ooc, but I couldn’t correct it.

Requests and tag list are still open, feel free to dm me or send me an ask.

tagging: @bonniesgoldengirl @justalonelyslytherin @theshelbyclan

Warning: swear words, drinking, binge drinking, gambling, a hinted smut and a sweet ending

It was one of those nights, nothing special, just the usual fellows around the same table in the Garrison. You had fun nevertheless. All your friends were right there, you had enough to drink and you had a luck hand today. The cards seemed to work in your fortune.

Deviously smiling you revealed your hand. You just had won this round and it gave you unholy amounts of satisfactions. “Ha”, you cheered: “Suck it up.”

Your friend shrugged and shoved his coins in your direction. All he said was a very grumpy “There you go”, but it pleased you.

You took the money and peaked around the corner. Where was Michael with the drinks? He was like a brother to you, but he was just your cousin. Maybe it was because you were born just two months before his older sister, Anna. Even though, she was gone Michael came back to his real family and now you were closer than ever. You cared for him, more than your siblings did.

But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t hit him, if he just left the bar to fuck with some random girl. It was not about him having sex, more about leaving without telling anybody. Especially when he was supposed to get drinks for the table. You moaned and said: “Where is Michael?”

“Probably doing somebody”, Isaiah joked and lit a cigarette. Then he offered you one and you took it gladly. Actually, you bit your lip and gave him the side-eye, but you had to hide your smile in front of the others. Bonnie and Finny weren’t the smartest boys in Small Heath, but you wouldn’t risk it.

You had so much fun with Isaiah that you didn’t even know when it started. Months passed by, while you were completely caught up in your little game with him. Nobody knew it. That was mainly Isaiah’s fault. At first it amused you to keep your relationship with him secret, but now you were ready to tell your family about it. Your boyfriend didn’t like the idea.

Somehow you thought Michael started to notice. He gave you the glace, which said: “I know, dear”, but maybe you were just getting crazy. You just had to be more careful around others now and everything was fine.

The night was still young and you were keen to make Bonnie lose all his money today. He had won the boxing match earlier and the bruises were still visible, but unfortunately for him, he couldn’t win against you. It was just a card game, but it filled you with gleeful joy. This and the fact that Isaiah was sitting next to you. Sometimes he would brush your thigh with his fingers, which made you giggle even more.

“There he is”, yelled Finny while being so fucking drunk, like you never had seen him before. Michael arrived with messy hair and his tie was undone, but he had your drink and that was all that you care for. “Finally”, you fluted and ripped the glass of his hand: “Thank you, babe.”

And the whiskey was still cold, which meant he fucked the girl first and ordered the drinks afterwards. “How was she? Good?” you asked before you took a sip from your whiskey. You weren’t a lightweight when it came to drinking, maybe not as well as Arthur and John, but you could tolerate much more than Ada and Finny. Your little brother was so drunk, he looked like his head was all empty and yet filled with bullshit.

Michael sat down next to you and answered: “Mhh, she was okay, but she talked too much.” Then you felt the weight of a hand on your thigh again. A shiver rushed down your spine, but it was the wrong side. Your cousin had put his hand on your knee. “Everything alright, Y/N?”

You nodded. “Yeah, everything is perfect”, you blabbered hoping he wouldn’t keep asking questions, but he did. “Don’t be so worried, every time I’m with a girl. I know you’re still a virgin, but you can get some too. Tommy wouldn’t be against it.”

How wonderfully wrong he was. Neither were you a virgin nor would Tommy be okay with this. After all, you were his little sister and he wouldn’t accept the guy, you were sleeping with. Of course, Isaiah was a friend of the family, but after the whole thing with Ada and Freddie you had something to worry about.

The best snarky comeback was right on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t say it without letting something slip. ‘What gives you the idea I’m still a virgin?’ And yet you were silent as the guy who fucked you, sat right next to you. You felt trapped and decided to go straight forward. “Yes, he would. You know it and everybody in Small Heath knows it.”

“Oh whatever”, Michael mumbled: “Just drink enough and you eventually forget about it.”

You grinned and emptied your drink. “Fuck it, let’s play some cards. I’m not done with Mr. Gold over here.” Then you took the cards and dealt them to start the next round.

Much later that night when you brought Finn back home and went straight back to the pub, in front of the entrance, you stumbled into Bonnie. “Is there a reason why you’re smirking?” you asked him. He was gleaming red and smiling like an idiot.

Then you remembered. “The singer, right?” Bonnie nodded and his grin got even wider. “You talked to her?” Again he gave you a silent answer. You grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside. He was a lot heavier than you thought, but then again, you were just a girl and he was a boxer.

Sometime it was weird to only have male friends, it just happened. Maybe it was because of your brothers. Maybe that’s why you never acted like a proper girl. Of course you felt like a woman and you liked your body, but in your eyes it was so much easier to talk to guys.

“Eyy, where did you found him?” Michael slurred and helped you to put your friend on a chair again. With your hands finally free you had the chance to explain. “Found him outside. I don’t know what he did there, but he talked to the singer.”

Both, Isiah and Michael nodded. It was only logical for Bonnie to freak out after it talking to her. He was there every Friday night looking for the singer and now his brain seemed to melt, just because she said something to him. But neither of you knew, what she said exactly. Maybe this was a problem for another night. It didn’t look like Bonnie was able to answer.

So you ordered some more drinks and sat back down again. In this separate room, which was reserved for your family, it was almost too tempting to get close to your boyfriend again. Isiah looked so good that night and it hurt to be unable to touch him… or to kiss him. But you would be satisfied with just holding his hand now.

It was a curse; you knew it soon after you realized that you loved him. He was handsome, charming and a loyal friend. There was no better man for you, even though you wished you could be together in public. And again you bit your lip and moved your chair away from him.

But you couldn’t think about this anymore, it was too frustrating and luckily somebody else caught your attention. It was Bonnie who mumbled very quietly: “I think she kissed me, but it could be a dream as well. It felt so surreal.” You padded his shoulder and nodded to underline your compassion.

It was just the same with Isaiah. Whenever you two were alone, it was amazing and beautiful. He was so soft and romantic and he just made you happy. But every time you woke up and he was gone, the sweet scenery shattered. And out in public it was getting annoying to find excuses to be with him or getting away, so you could spend some time alone with him and you had to lie to your whole family about your whereabouts. Slowly it became exhausting.

There was nothing you could do about it, so you just drank your whiskey and talked with the boys about Bonnie’s singer and the girl Michael had. It was so easy for them to display their relationship in the public, but of course you didn’t have this privilege as a girl. Apparently, you needed to be protected. Or so it has been explained to you. You wasn’t concerned for your safety but for your freedom. Tommy said it was his job as your big brother to care for you, even if it felt like he was controlling you. You have always been the wild one among your siblings and everything was fine, until your mum died and your dad left. Then Tommy was in charge and sometimes his opinions would vary from yours, which led to fights. And yet you feared what he might do, if he found out about your secret.

All the sudden Bonnie fell from his chair and you groaned. Now somebody had to bring him home as well. First Finn and now him… but why they couldn’t take the whiskey today? You weren’t nearly as drunk as them, but still.

Isaiah stood up and picked his friend up. “I’m taking him home. I’ll be right back”, he said, before leaving.

Now Michael and you were alone. It wasn’t what you wanted. The only thing you could think of was smooching the sweet lips of your boyfriend. You were caught up in your little fantasy, when your cousin woke you up again. “Isaiah is acting weird lately.”

“Oh… really? I didn’t notice”, you replied: “He seemed normal to me.” Your hand grabbed the fringe of your dress. Talking about him made you nervous.

Michael moaned and fumbled for his cigarettes. He put them out, you took one and he turned his between his fingers, when he added: “I don’t know, maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I think he is hiding something from us.” Then he lit his cigarette and took a drag from it.

You inhaled sharply and stared into the void for a second, before answering: “Don’t be silly, he is just as loyal as ever.” Then you laughed and Michael joined in. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just needed to get this off my chest.”

The rest of the conversation went just like usual. You chatted, you bickered and you had fun. While the bell already announced the new day, Isaiah came back.

In this tiny glimpse of a moment you couldn’t hide your smile and he reciprocated. Actually, you were just waiting for Michael to leave now. It was your plan all along, but patience has never been your strong suit.

It took three more rounds for Michael to say goodnight. “Take care of her, will you?” Isaiah nodded. When Michael finally grabbed his jacket and headed to the door, you felt unbelievably excited. Your fingertips slapped a melody on the table, while you watched him leaving. The door shut and now you had what you longed for all night.

You turned around and looked at him. Gosh, waiting felt like an eternity. Now you were the one smiling like an idiot. Slowly Isaiah came closer and his hand pulled you to him for a kiss. “Finally”, you whispered against his lips, before giving him what he wanted.

After you two parted you rested your head on his shoulder. Now you were getting tired as well, but you didn’t want to go to your bed. “I was waiting the whole evening for this”, he moaned and stroked your hair.

The smell of his perfume made you realized how much you missed him too, even though he was with you since you went to Garrison tonight. You moved closer to him and wrapped your arms around him to give him a tight squeeze. Then you signed: “I wish we didn’t have to hide” and buried your face in his shirt.

“Babe”, he replied: “We already had this conversation. It wouldn’t end well. Let’s just enjoy what we have as long as we can.” It hurt, but Isaiah was right. There was no chance Tommy was getting you off the hook, once he knew about it. And no matter how you explained it to him, he would still be against it. You were too young for stuff like that, as if he didn’t fucked Greta, when he was the same age.

You leaned back to see his beautiful face again. There was something in his eyes, a twinkle or something like that, but it always made you feel comfortable. A lick of your lip was enough to purpose the idea of doing something nasty. He knew you since you were children and it was like he could read your thoughts, especially the dirty ones.

Isaiah started giggling and asked: “Hey, babe, I still can cheer you up, right?”

Maybe it was time for some fun, different to the fun you had before with your friends. The word pleasure would describe it well and with his knowing look he gave you so many ideas. You laughed and nodded. “I think it might help when you do the thing with your tongue.”

“Oh”, he responded amused: “Like this?” And then grabbed you for a kiss and god, what a kiss it was. His tongue brushed your upper lip just to enter your mouth and explore it as if it was your first kiss. He even bit your lip playfully and kept going until you couldn’t breathe no more. Your knees started shaking and it was needless to say, he was the best kisser you ever had.

It took you a while to catch a breath again, but then you answered: “Yeah, just like this… But maybe we could go to your place and do a little more?”

He didn’t seem to be so sure about this suggestion. His thumb stroked your shoulder as he held you in his arm. Because he was so quiet for a second, you knew, he thought about this backwards and forwards. “But right when the sun comes up, you have to go back home”, he argued.

Again, Isaiah was right. You should take too many risks. Otherwise you might get caught and neither of you wanted that. All you could do was to shrug and agree: “Just don’t shoo me after we fucked.” There was bitterness in your voice. What wouldn’t you give to wake up next to him every morning?

The pub was almost empty, when you left. You couldn’t hold his hand on the way out. Everybody in Small Heath was Tommy’s spy. Back on the streets a cold wind blew. Now you had an excuse to go near him and he shared his coat with you. Isaiah was always so sweet and caring. You knew you wanted to spend your future with him. There was no other man and you wouldn’t get over him, not now and not in five years.

You even took off your shoes before entering the Jesus household and followed him on your tiptoes to his room. It was completely dark in the house and the silence was haunting, but good for you, you knew the way by now. The excitement made your fingers tremble.

Finally you arrived where you wanted to be the whole day, in his room. Isaiah closed the door as quietly as possible and started smiling. You walked up to him and started to unbutton his shirt. Now you didn’t want to waste any time.

And neither did Isaiah. He was ripping down your dress, which only worked because the straps were so thin. His hands were all over your body and you couldn’t stop kissing every inch of his skin. It felt like magic whenever he touched you. You moaned, when he played with your bare breasts. To silence you he put his thumb on your lips, which you took as an invitation to suck it. Maybe it was mean to tease him like that, but you were desperate for his affection.

An hour later you laid next to him, your head on his chest as he stroked your hair. “You should leave, before we both fall asleep, babe”, he whispered, which caused you to sign. Leaving now was draining, even exhausting. After this wonderful sex, you were too tired to move anywhere, not to the bathroom and certainly not back to your cold bed.

You pouted your lips and tilted your head, so you could give him your puppy eyes and a pretty please with cream and a cherry on top. “Just ten more minutes. Your bed is way comfier than mine.”

He laughed and kissed your forehead. “That’s just because I’m in this bed and you like to use me as your personal giant pillow.” Your fingers hovered about his belly. Even though his muscles weren’t tense now, you could still feel the strength lying beneath his skin.

While your index finger drew circles around his bellybutton, you whined: “Maybe… just maybe that is true, but I still want to lay here for a bit. Otherwise I start to feel like a whore, who only comes for sex and leaves silently afterwards.” It wasn’t a knock against Lizzie or her job, but you didn’t like the feeling, when you got home and had to find sleep in your own bed. Even though you had a relationship with him, you still felt lonely. Especially when the sun was rising and nobody was by your side.

“You’re not a whore and you know that”, he argued looking a little concerned.

Then you turned on your back and stared at the ceiling. “No, I’m a Shelby and that is probably worse”, you scoffed.

Now Isaiah was silent and had no witty comeback for that. Maybe, because it was true. If you weren’t part of the family, you could be with anyone, whoever you wanted. Carrying the name Shelby was the only reason, why you had to hide your relationship with Isaiah.

After a while he mumbled: “Okay, stay for a while, but you should be back before they open the shop.” By that time you were already half asleep and yet his words made you smile. He wrapped his arms around you, the little spoon and purred like a cat. Just in this position the both of you fell asleep.

Loud steps were coming near the door, but they wouldn’t wake you up. The screaming of Isaiah’s name did. It was a familiar voice and it took you a couple of minutes to notice, it was your brother Finn who shouted and ran down the hall. Suddenly you were wide awake. You startled up and looked around the room. The sun was already up and shining through the window. Then you saw Isaiah, who was just as frightened as you were.

If Finn came rushing through that door, your secret relationship was no longer secret. “I locked the door last night”, he whispered, which was relieving to you, but still no perfect solution for this problem.

Now Finn arrived at the other side of the door and was knocking on it like crazy. “Isaiah, wake up! Y/N is gone. Nobody can find her and Michael said you were the last one with her in the bar”, your brother yelled. You could hear the panic in his voice, but you couldn’t get caught. Not now.

You stumbled out of the bed and collected your clothes, when you heard Isaiah ask: “What are you going to do? You can’t go out there. He will find out.” And you knew your boyfriend wasn’t concerned about Finn, more about Tommy.

The tension in the room was immense. You had to come up with a plan or your brothers would shoot your lover in front of your eyes.

Suddenly you knew what to do. You pushed the pile of clothing to your chest and squeeze it thigh, when you explained in a lower tone: “I’m gonna hide in the wardrobe and then you open the door and go with Finn away. Afterwards I can come out and then I go to the betting shop and tell the others I have fallen asleep on a bench or something.” It was not the best plan, but yet your only option.

Isaiah nodded and you climbed into the cabinet where he stored his shirt and jackets. The second you entered the small wooden space, you knew it was all going down. Call it intuition, call it divination, call it whatever power Polly owned, but you felt it rushing through your body. He closed the door behind you and then you could hear him stumble into his pants.

Only half clothed he unlocked the door to let Finn in. Isaiah was still sleepy. He wasn’t the morning type of person and before he hadn’t had his breakfast he wasn’t really available. Finn strode up and down. You heard is nervous steps. “Everybody is freaking out right now. Polly thinks somebody kidnapped her or worse. I mean, she has always been unratable in her doings, but this time my sister is really going of the edge. It’s already past lunch and nobody has seen her”, Finn explained: “This morning her bed was empty and I thought I shouldn’t worry, but now I’m afraid I should have said something sooner.”

The cabinet was very uncomfortable and yet you tried not to move or to make a noise, which would cause Finn’s attention. However, being in Isaiah’s position didn’t seem to be pleasant as well. He had to lie to his best friend about the whereabouts of his missing sister, knowing she was sitting right here. Isaiah patted his friends shoulder and said nothing.

Finn didn’t calm down and seemed to be upset, Isaiah wasn’t panicking like him. “C’mon, get dressed. We have to look for her. She might be lying somewhere in the dirt. We shouldn’t waste even more time, standing around.” Then he walked to the closet and opened just the door where you had been hiding.

Butt-naked you fell down to the floor and looked up to your younger brother, who had the same face expression as the one time you told him where the babies were coming from. Some when later you would look back at this moment and would have a good laugh about this, but right now it felt like your world was collapsing.

He should have seen you like this and it took you a whole minute to gather the mental energy to get back up at your feet and greet him like it was the normal thing to do in a situation like this. “Hey, Finny, there I am.”

Your brother froze mid movement and stared at you as if you were the first pink elephant the world has seen or a bear riding a bike. Then he broke the silence. “What?”, he winced. There was no anger in his voice, just total confusion.

Finn looked to Isaiah and then back to you. “You screwed my sister?!”

There was no answer to this question.

“How long?” Finn asked: “How long did you hide that from me?”

You glared over to you boyfriend as if you were asking him for permission to say something. Isaiah signed and nodded. There was no point in denying this anymore. It was over.

Now you had to tell the truth. “A couple of months, maybe a year or so”, you croaked and your voice sounded strange. Like it was not your own and even though you dreamt about finally opening up, it shouldn’t have been like this.

Your brother yelled: “A year?! A whole fucking year? Damn, I should be proud because apparently you two are excellent liars with no moral issues… you two deserve each other.” You heard the disgust and disappointment, when he spoke and it broke your heart. Back then, when the whole thing started you though he might be the only one of your brothers to understand you. How wonderfully wrong you were.

“No”, you said under your breath: “Don’t fucking do this to me. I would have told you, if you wouldn’t have run straight to Tommy after you knew. Everybody knows you can’t keep a secret. So don’t act like it was my fault or my mistake, because it’s not. I would have gladly told everybody, I’m like him very much, but you and Tommy and Arthur and John made it impossible for me to even talk with a guy who is not part of the gang. You can’t turn this around and act like you are the victim in all this.”

It was time for you to stand up for yourself and your decisions… and time for you to get dressed. You didn’t seem as responsible as you were when you were still naked and in front of the closed you have been hiding in. Now you knew how wrong it was to lie and hide your relationship, because it wasn’t their concern. It was your life, your body and your choice. Nobody could take that from you and certainly not your brothers. You weren’t afraid of them. All your life you saw how your brothers treated women and you said nothing about it, but this should change right now.

So you stood there, furious and filled with rage, put on your dress and your shoes and said one last thing, before leaving: “This madness has to end.”

You stormed out of the room- not caring for Isaiah or Finn- and heading for the King of Small Heath to throw him out of his high throne. Your hair was a nest and you smelled like a bar after a dirty old night, when you entered the betting shop. Nobody was there, just the regular family members.

Everybody seemed to be relieved to see you again and then came close to hug you. Ada was right next to the door and the first to greet you. “Oh my god, you’re back, sweetie”, she muttered.

Next was Polly who examined your appearance for cuts and other injuries. Of course you had none, besides the hickeys Isaiah gave you. She tried to take a closer look of your neck, but you pulled away, which caused her to ask: “What happened? Where were you all night?”

Now Tommy was coming up to you. His steps were slow, but fierce and the glare in his eyes was pinching. “Just from the smell I would guess, she was with a guy this night”, he scoffed: “She probably had a lot of fun, but now she should say, who that guy was, so we can take actions.” You knew he was addressing you, even though he didn’t phrase it like that.

“I don’t think, this is your business”, you replied with a grin on your face. You wouldn’t back down. Not this time. “But yes, I was with a guy tonight. So you don’t need to worry. I’m completely fine.”

Your older brother led out a little laugh, pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Well, well, well, I don’t care what you think. I’m your brother and it’s my job to make sure you’re safe”, he explained: “And now you tell me who he was.” Ah, past tense, a hint of what was going to happen.

You crossed your arms and tiled your head to give him a dismissive look. “Who said it was your job?” was your comeback, but your brother wasn’t remotely impressed. Neither of you would let the other win. You were too stubborn for this gesture of insight.

Others, including Arthur and John, were somehow intimidated by Tommy’s behavior, but not you. Actually, you learned too much from him to take his shit. He taught you to help your head up high and how to outsmart your enemies. Now you could use the same strategies against him.

“Ever since our father left and mom died, you act like you are in charge, but you’re not. We are your siblings, not your pawn, waiting for your command”, you hissed: “I have my own life and I make my own decisions and who I meet shouldn’t concern you.” Slowly your anger grew. It was a boiling feeling in your gut, like you were fueled with fire.

Tommy was getting gleaming red. You had hit the right spot and you knew you would hurt him with your words, but otherwise he wouldn’t understand. The words were stuck in his throat as he killed you with his looks.

Patiently, you waited for his answer. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, but silencing your brother was the best thing ever, since he was the reason why you felt miserable lately. “No comeback? No arguments, dear?” You loved to poke his wounds and you did it with a huge smile on your face.

“As if you would listen to me… You even said it yourself. You wouldn’t take my advice”, he responded and bid his lip. “But I don’t need to talk to you to teach you a lesson. You’re too young to fuck around town and I’m going to find the bastard who did this and kill him.”

The door was opened behind you and soon Finn entered the room. You gave your little brother the death glare you were known for. He shouldn’t get the idea he was allowed to talk about what he found out.

You should be raging right now, but all you could do was laugh. His empty threats weren’t as daunting as he thought. With nothing but spite you whistled: “I would love to see you try. I kept this a secret for over a year now and you noticed nothing. And now I can wait another year for you to find him… or I could run away… whatever you prefer.”

Now you’re pushing your luck. Finn could ruin everything, if he just said one wrong word. The palms of your hands were sweaty. It was a dangerous game you played there, but it was not like you could back out of it now. This was road of no return.

Tommy seemed to be more surprised than fuming, when he asked: “You slept with some geezers for a year now?” He respected your talent to keep it under the radar. Everybody who could shirk his rules deserved acknowledgement for putting up with this risk. Maybe he was finally realizing how much you had grown. You weren’t his little kitten anymore.

“No, not geezers, just one guy”, you corrected him: “But yes, that is true.”

You watched Tommy as he walked around the table, heading for the whiskey, while he nodded understandingly. “Mh, so you would say it’s love?”

A sign came from your lips. You already knew the answer, but you weren’t so sure, if you should say this out loud. After all, you didn’t even have a proper talk about this with Isaiah. Silence was filling the room, while you calculated your risks. If you said, you loved him and Isaiah wasn’t as serious about the relationship, you would look like an idiot. Good for you, he didn’t come to the betting shop to witness the fight between you and your brother. Finally you decided to tell everybody: “Yes, I do.”

“Good”, Tommy mumbled while he poured his whiskey: “Then you should have my blessing. Just give us the name now.” He took a sip and seemed to be amused by your embarrassment.

Talking about Isaiah, while he wasn’t present, was weird, but you knew why he stayed in the comfort of his own room. You weren’t mad at him for not running after you. This was your fight and not his. And after all your brothers were a little scary, when it comes to stuff like this.

But you had Tommy’s word now and nothing should happen to your man. You shrugged and rolled with your eyes. The fuss they made about this was still annoying.

Ada patted your shoulder and encouraged you to speak. “Do we know him?” The answer was yes, but it was also the reason, why you struggled to say it out loud.

Even John chimed in and kept pushing: “Yeah, what’s up with this fella?” He was smiling to let you know the mood had changed. Nobody was against you anymore.

“It’s…”, you started and fumbled for the seam of your dress: “It’s Isaiah.”

At first it was dead silence, while the others processed the information, then Arthur and John burst out in laughter. Finn seemed to be relieved, because he would have hated it to keep a secret like this. Your older sister was hugging you a little too tight and even Polly was smiling.

Tommy had a smug on his face when he muttered: “If that’s the case, then you should have your happiness.”

“Isaiah is a fine fella. You will be alright”, hummed Arthur. Apparently everybody was happy with your choice. You just had to stand up for yourself.

It felt like a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders and then you could laugh about it too. But suddenly you remember that Isaiah was still waiting for his death in his room. “I should go and let him of the hook”, you fluted and already went to the door when you heard Tommy said: “Don’t get pregnant or he has to marry you.”

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heliads · 4 years ago

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Curiosities

You feel that life can be divided up into a select set of curiosities- rules by which you live and breathe, that explain away everything in your life as a mutant. You’re doing fine until a certain boy named Peter Maximoff throws everything into disarray.

masterlist

If you try hard enough, everything that happens to you can be sorted out into a list of curiosities. You’re not sure how long you’d been thinking about it this way, but it made enough sense if you really thought about it. Your life was different, ever-changing, and if you kept it locked away within the list of curiosities, you could get a handle on it long enough to peek through the chest of memories that would otherwise fly open and swallow you whole.

Curiosity #1: You were a mutant.

This in itself was relatively easy to explain. When you were about ten, maybe twelve, you started to show the first signs of your power. A faint stirring in the shade in the corner of the room, the fact that you were never afraid of the dark. You waved to your shadow with your left hand, it responded by moving the ankle on its right. By the time you were about fourteen, your powers had fully come into being: you were able to control the shadows. You could bring them into existence, spooling black fog around your fingers and forcing it to your will.

Curiosity #2: Even among mutants, you were an outcast.

You had come to Professor Xavier’s school when the building itself was fairly uninhabited. Xavier understood you; but then again, he was able to look past the dark furrow of your brow and into the sunny spaces of your head; he could tell that you didn’t wish to hurt anybody. None of the other students shared that same gift, except perhaps Jean, but she didn’t particularly wish to go probing into your skull.

When the school was still new and lacking in students, you were able to grow and flourish as a mutant. The Professor taught you how to use your powers himself, and you had full reign over the grounds. Then, more students started to appear, and they took up more and more of Xavier’s time. Before long, he barely saw you at all.

The other students didn’t know what to make of you. They could understand mutants with cool, interesting powers, like Storm with her weather manipulation or Mystique with her ability to change forms. Furry, blue teachers were acceptable; you were not. They were afraid of how you could control the shadows, how you seemed part darkness yourself. They drew away from you, huddling in the hallways and not making eye contact when you walked by. Slowly, a hated nickname surfaced: Suffocator. They were terrified that you would reach out a hand, call the darkness to you, make it cover their mouth and nose and choke out all air from their desperate lungs. You hated it, but it didn’t matter. Suffocator you were, and suffocator you would always be.

One night, a few of the mutants your age were bored and wanted to throw a party. Someone, maybe Jubilee, had heard of this thing called a masquerade party on one of her trips to the mall or somewhere outside of the school. She was desperate to try it out, and so Xavier’s School had posters everywhere across campus advertising the party.

When you first heard of it, you weren’t planning on going. Nobody wanted you there, not the girl who lurked in the shadows and didn’t speak to anyone. Then you realized that everyone would be wearing a mask and intentionally disguising their identity- nobody would know who you were. It almost seemed too good to be true.

A few days later, the day of the masquerade party arrived. You had donned a sapphire blue mask, one that shimmered like the lake just outside the school when the sun crossed its waves. The glittering, twinkling sea would hide your face from those who would otherwise distrust you. You had glanced at yourself in the mirror before you went; you did not look like yourself. You smiled in satisfaction, and headed out.

The party was being held in one of the empty halls of the school, and you blended in seamlessly with the other mutants. You talked and laughed with them, and they had no idea that they were speaking with the girl they’d avoided just a few hours earlier. You found yourself smiling and having more fun than you’d had in months.

Then, you became aware of one student heading towards you. Tall, overbearing Natalie: she had always hated you for some unknown reason. She glanced once at the group of friends you were speaking with, then folded her arms across her chest. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” She said, and the group looked from her to you and shook their heads. Natalie donned a gleeful smirk. “That’s Y/N. I’m not sure you really want to be spending that much time with her.”

The group of mutants cast you fearful looks once they realize it’s you, and start to walk away. Natalie is the only one who remains, and she crosses the final few feet to stand in front of you. Her voice comes in a loud hiss that seems to echo around the room. “Suffocator.”

A blur of silver flashes around you, and then a boy suddenly appears in front of you. “Those are strong words for someone who can’t even figure out empathy. I mean, come on- yesterday someone was crying in front of you and it took you half an hour to figure out they were sad.” Natalie draws back, angry. “Rude, Maximoff! Hasn’t Xavier told you not to make fun of people’s powers? Empathy is hard.” The silver-haired boy laughs. “Not making fun of people’s powers? I think you’re the one who needs to work on that, not me.”

Natalie rolls her eyes, trying to hide her annoyance at the fact that she’s losing this argument. “Whatever. I’m bored of this already.” She stomps away to hang out with her other friends, leaving you to stare at the boy who’d suddenly come to your defense. Of all the mutants, why would it be Peter?

Curiosity #3: Peter Maximoff.

Nobody at Xavier’s school trusted you. Nobody, it seemed, except for Peter. Ever since that day, he’d been relentless in his task to befriend you. You’re not sure why- everyone else had given up on you long ago. It’s not like you didn’t want friends, or that you were that strange a person. You were like everyone else: happy, laughing, friendly. It’s just the threat of your powers, so strange and unnatural, that forced everyone else away.

But not him. No, Peter refused to let your powers daunt him in the slightest. He’d be there after class, walking nonchalantly beside you. It didn’t seem like a friendship borne of pity- no, he teased you and made the same jokes as he would with everyone else. He even called you Suffocator once, that dreaded nickname, although it didn’t have that same barb as it did before. Maybe that’s because the other students used it as a knife to stab at you before running away. Instead, Peter tossed it like a paper plane, letting it float through the air as the two of you laughed from a joke. He didn’t want anything more than friendship, and so the two of you hung out after class, fighting mock battles with your powers and enjoying the time to be two simple teenagers in the otherwise strange world of mutants.

Curiosity #4: The quiet.

You’re not sure when you notice the silence at first. It’s just another day, ordinary in its dullness. You’re in the back of the grounds, away from the large groups of people in an attempt to study for a test you have later. You look up, once, fishing for a sticky note to mark the end of the chapter, but your eyes stay searching even after your hands close around the pad of paper.

You can’t hear anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. The birds still chirp, although with odd hesitation, as if afraid to sing too loudly. The wind still rustles the trees, but slowly, as if trying not to be noticed. The everlasting din of the students, though, that is gone. You push your books into your bag, standing up quietly. Even the zip of your backpack seems to echo in the silence.

This is strange. What happened to make the air so tense, the students shut their mouths for once to stand together in quiet? You sling your backpack over your shoulder, heading quickly to the front of the school to see what the fuss (or lack of, rather) is about.

There’s nothing at the front of the school, either. In fact, there aren’t that many people there. The only mutants out are Jean, Peter, Storm, Scott, and Nightcrawler. You watch as Jean presses her fingers to her temples, sending out a message that you only now pick up in your head. Go inside now. Don’t look out. Get the Professor. It echoes on a loop inside your brain, appearing only now that you’re close enough to the sender.

You glance around you, searching for some trouble that would cause Jean to send out such a message. Then, you see it- three large armored trucks headed your way, military logos emblazoned on the sides. This sort of thing happens every few years or so- some military higher-up decides that the mutants are too dangerous to be kept alive, and they attempt to round up everyone at the school. Xavier is usually there to put a stop to it, but today he’s out in some big city doing official business, so he’s not here to protect you. In fact, the only ones here to protect you are yourselves.

You watch as the trucks roll closer. Once they reach the gate, they stop, and soldiers start to stream out of it. Storm shouts over to Jean. “Are we doing anything about this?” Jean nods, her hair flicking out behind her like tongues of flame. “We’re stopping them. They want a fight, I can hear it. That’s just what they’ll get.” She says, and the mutants around her prepare themselves for a battle.

Curiosity #5: You stay to fight.

Why are you still here? Jean told everyone who wasn’t one of Xavier’s hand picked team to go inside, and yet you’re still cracking your knuckles out in front of the school just like everyone else. Maybe it’s because you want a taste for just how much damage your powers can deal out, or maybe it’s because you finally have a chance to prove yourself to be a hero, to fight like the others and make a name for yourself as someone who’s in it to protect the other students, even if they wouldn’t protect her. Regardless of the reason, the outcome stays the same. You’re here to fight.

When the men start running forward, you realize with sickening dread that they’ve brought guns, and dangerous ones at that. You’re not sure why they thought they’d need military grade rifles at a school, but they’re out and loaded nonetheless. They raise them towards you, launching a volley of bullets, but you throw up your arms and a wall of shadow appears in between the mutants and the guns, blocking the bullets and forcing them to the ground.

Jean turns to you, amazed. “Actually, I think it would be better if you stayed with us.” You grin slightly at that, turning your attention back to the soldiers. You and the other mutants fight in unison, powers working together as fluidly as a well oiled machine. You seem to compliment them, understanding their hurried motions as if you’d been working with them your entire life.

Before you know it, the soldiers are hurrying back to the armored trucks, gesturing frantically at the drivers to get them out of here before they are killed by a bunch of kids with magic powers. The mutants look happily amongst yourselves, proud that you’d managed to defend the school against the soldiers. Together, you’d protected everyone here.

The night is starting to grow late, and everyone is out on the grounds in celebration. It’s not everyday that a bunch of teenagers fight back against the military and win, you know. You idle near a group of mutants, red plastic cup in hand just like them. Something feels odd, and it takes you a moment to notice what it is. Nobody’s scared of you. There aren’t any students huddled together, looking at you through nervous eyes that flick away when you catch sight of them. No pointed fingers, no hushed whispers. Maybe you’ve finally been accepted as one of them.

Jean approaches from across the field, stopping at a group of mutants only a few feet away from you. She leans towards Storm, tapping her on the shoulder. “Scott, Peter, Kurt, and I are hanging out in another corner of the woods. You know, victory party and all that? Come with us.” Her voice is a low whisper, but you can’t help smiling at it. You wait for her to nod at you, to ask you the same question, but strangely enough, she just slings an arm around Storm’s shoulder and the two of them walk away into the woods, leaving you behind.

She saw you. You know she saw you- her eyes glanced over you before they left. Her eyes weren’t glinting with hatred, some ill-concealed malice or anything. This wasn’t a plot to intentionally leave you out, she just didn’t see you as someone to invite, even though you’d been a key part of that victory group she seems so keen to celebrate. The realization hits you like a ton of bricks- no matter how hard you try, how many times you fight to protect them, they will never see you as a friend. All because they don’t understand your powers.

Dazedly, you leave the grounds where the rest of the mutants are celebrating. You find some quiet corner of the woods, a place that’s tucked away where nobody will notice you. The ‘victory party’ is on the opposite side of the grounds, so you know that you don’t have to fear anyone accidentally stumbling across you.

You slide to the ground, leaning back against the sturdy trunk of one of the many trees that stand tall and proud around the school’s forest. You cover your face in your hands, feeling all of your emotions finally catch up with you. You wish you could prove yourself in some way, that your powers may physically be dark but that you weren’t a monster, but it doesn’t matter how hard you try. You’ll never be anything more than a villain to them.

Silent tears course down your cheeks. You don’t think you’ve ever felt more alone than this night, even when things seemed impossible. No matter how bad things were before, this night manages to take the cake. There’s a cracking sound behind you, and you wipe your tears away hurriedly as you realize someone’s walking up to you.

“What are you doing all alone? Don’t you know we’re celebrating?” It’s Peter. Of course it is. You turn to face him, hoping the darkness will obscure the puffiness in your eyes. “Guess I was just tired.” You plaster on a smile, praying that he’ll get bored and go rejoin the others, but no such luck. He plops down in the grass next to you, arms stretched back behind him.

“Why aren’t you with Jean and the rest?” He says, and you frown at him. “What do you mean?” You ask. Peter furrows his brow. “You know, the victory party. You were there when the soldiers attacked, and you saved our skins like a dozen times over. Why aren’t you with them?” You look at him, willing him to be observant for just this once. “I just didn’t feel like going.” Peter rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Stop being your dramatic little self and just come on. The rest will be happy to see you.”

He extends an arm as if to drag you there himself. You sigh frustratedly. “Fine, Peter. I’m not being dramatic. I know there’s a party, and I also know that they very much do not want me there. I was there when Jean asked Storm to hang out with Scott, Kurt, and the rest. She knew I was there, she saw me, and she didn’t ask the same of me.” Your voice breaks off. “It’s pretty obvious that no one here wants me to be there. Hell, no one here wants me to be at this school at all, and the only one who can’t see that is you.”

Peter’s silent for a second, and you curse inwardly. Now you’ve gone and made Peter, the one person who’s been here for you, feel bad about himself. You wouldn’t be surprised if he just gets up and leaves now. But he doesn’t. In fact, a smile flashes across his face. “That’s because they’re idiots.” You look at him, confused. “What?” He laughs. “They’re idiots, and you’re an idiot for listening to them.”

He gestures absentmindedly at you. “Y/N, you’ve got one of the coolest powers I’ve ever seen, and for what, so you can be sad about it? Are you really telling me you’d rather be an empath than control the shadows? That’s like, the neatest thing ever.” His words, spoken with such conviction, bring a laugh to your face as well. Peter’s eyes light up when he sees it. “See, there you go. Come on, let’s have some fun. We don’t need them if they’re being weird.”

Your laugh dies off quietly as you look back at him. “Why are you doing this? Why are you taking the time to make me feel better? You make fun of your own friends and rob convenience stores when you’re bored. Since when has Quicksilver gone this far out of his way to make somebody laugh?” Peter smiles at you, then leans forward. His lips are on yours, suddenly, his hand gently cupped against your cheek. Just as you’ve realized what’s happening, he’s back in his spot a few feet away again. He smirks at you. “That’s why.”

You laugh in spite of yourself. “That’s why. Well, I guess that’s an acceptable reason.” Peter smiles. “Only acceptable? That’s not the best thing I’ve heard, but I suppose it’ll be okay for now.” He stands up, offering a hand to you. You take it. “So, are you coming with me or not? I intend to cause all sorts of chaos.” You look over at him, laughter dancing in your eyes. “Of course I am.”

Curiosity #6: Peter Maximoff loves you. And you love him.

peter maximoff tag list @amourtentiaa

#peter maximoff #peter maximoff imagine #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff imagines #peter maximoff oneshot #quicksilver #quicksilver imagine #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver imagines #quicksilver oneshot #xmen #xmen imagine #xmen x reader #xmen imagines #xmen oneshot #xmen peter maximoff

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elysianslove · 4 years ago

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hello!! congrats on 1k that’s so cool<3 for the followers event, the character i would like to request if possible is toge inumaki from jjk,, thank youu have a nice day (*≧∀≦*)

hi!!! thank you so much my love!! i hope you like this <3

1k Event ━ Inumaki Toge

inumaki’s general personality; okay i love the trope of cute, quiet, pretty boy as much as the next girl but you cannot convince me toge is that cute, quiet, pretty boy stereotype. he is cute! he is pretty! but he is not quiet! well i mean literally he is, but he definitely has that cheeky personality you know? toge’s definitely got a trustworthy face too, one where you take one look at and all your fears disappear. so because of that, i think he gets away with literally everything. i see him as a lowkey troublemaker, so nothing too bad, but no one ever suspects him at first because there’s no way it’ll be him right? he is absolutely someone that people underestimate too often too much, as well. you don’t consider him as much of a threat when you look at him, because he has such a kind aura around him. and he is, incredibly kind that is. but people really should stop underestimating him just because he’s another pretty boy. on a completely different note, i think toge’s one of those people that crush really hard on someone, but are the worst at showing it. like he seems unimpressed, i know, but really it’s because he’s holding in a burst of emotions. it’s not that he’s embarrassed of them; he just doesn’t know how to process them. also someone that loves to play small, practical pranks on people (i.e. stealing maki’s skirt hehe, mainly why i think so strongly of him as someone who’s personality is opposite of what they portray themselves as or may seem). i also think he’s kind of? really confident in himself? like not to the point where it’s just plain cockiness and narcissism, but i see him as someone that’s really confident in their abilities, someone who won’t falter in any face of danger because they are aware of their capabilities and their limits, you know?

motivation; i think that toge’s a very very caring person. like really, he loves and cares for his friends unlike any other character on the show, and i think for that reason, they’d be his motivation. essentially, protecting them. i think he’d constantly go out of his way to prevent any harm coming to them, and that’d be his main drive. towards you, he doesn’t really have a motivation honestly. he just wants to spend time with you. that’s it. like, he just enjoys being in your presence, and loves your company that much, genuinely.

inumaki’s love language; oh i don’t know why but i just know toge’s a huge cuddle lover, probably the small spoon too, so it’s physical affection for sure. loves, loves, loves holding your hand, especially when you’re doing something with your dominant hand and your other hand is just held in his grasp. the intimacy is so endearing to him. loves to hug you so tight, and hold your head to his chest. especially loves it when your hands slip underneath his shirt and are placed on his skin. he just loves anything physical that aren’t too out there, but still dance on that edge, that balance between a relationship and a friendship. he just. loves intimacy.

inumaki’s preferred dates; arcade games, picnics, paintballing, outdoor movies, ice cream dates

kissing inumaki; to put it in one word, thrilling. reserved only for you, there’s a small, gleeful smile on his lips whenever he reaches out to kiss you, and he always tucks a hand under your chin, guiding you to his lips, making you feel like a spotlight is focused on the two of you.

what being with inumaki feels like; the satisfaction of finishing a hike and catching the mesmerizing sunset

#1k event #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen headcanon #jjk x reader #jjk headcanons #inumaki x reader #inumaki toge x reader #inumaki headcanons #toge x reader #inumaki toge headcanons #toge headcanons

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years ago

Text

Illicio 18/?

Part 17

CW for: -Canon-typical violence, body horror and gore -Some characters talk about the not so great mental state they were in, including suicide ideation.

"Where are they? Elias, if you-" Jon's rather pathetic attempt at a threat is cut off by Elias' gleeful cackle.

"Calm down, Jon. Gerard's merely a bit... lost in thought. As for Martin, the door is open, if you want him back."

"What door? Elias, what did you do?" Jon snarls, pouring the compulsion thick into the question.

"I cashed in a favor. Or rather, a wager." Elias smiles. "You've grown fairly powerful, haven't you?"

"Elias-"

"You'll find Martin right where you put him." Elias' eyes gleam dangerously, his smile still sharp on his face. "In the Lonely."

XVIII

"Nah. I convinced them I'm not suicidal, mostly because, you know, I'm not? Anyways, they're letting me go this weekend. I'll call you when I'm settled, we'll have a sleepover that doesn't involve eye gouging, how about that?" Melanie smirks in his direction, and Gerry rolls his eyes.

"That's my preferred kind of sleepover."

"You have very low standards," Tim mutters in the background.

"I mean yeah." Melanie shrugs. "He's dating Jon."

"I'll take offense to that," Georgie laughs, closing the door to the room behind her after coming in.

Gerry lets his head fall back against the glass, closing his eyes to feel the rattle of the car as the tube makes its way through London's entrails. Melanie's looking well enough, her injuries healing at a slow, human pace that Gerry can't help but to be hopeful about.

"So you don't feel the need to go back?" Tim asks, leaning against the corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. It may be a bit risky to bring an avatar whose powers manifest as fire into a place with so much oxygen and defenseless people, but Tim looks calm for once, no hint of orange in the depths of his dark eyes. "When I left, I started feeling the withdrawal right away. Not like... at first it wasn't pain, I just 'wanted' to come back."

"Nope!" Melanie grins, popping the 'p' with such satisfaction that Gerry can't help but to chuckle along with Georgie. "The only place I want to go to is home."

"Aren't you lucky," Tim says a bit sullenly, but when Gerry looks over he's got the slightest hint of a smile on his face, albeit a sad one.

Tim is sitting two seats away, but Gerry can still feel both the heat -the burns on his skin throbbing in ghost pain- and the conflict emanating from him. Maybe this is why Jon used to feel so comfortable around him, Tim wears his heart on his sleeve and there's no guessing at what he's feeling, regardless of if that feeling holds something good in store for you or not.

"What is it?" Gerry asks after a few more seconds. He doesn't turn to look at Tim, but they both know his words are aimed at him.

Tim's voice, when it comes, holds all the fragility of diamond, hard and sharp and waiting for something to hit at just the right angle to crumble to dust. "Do you- I wonder if this would work on Martin."

Gerry snorts, his tentative good mood wiped away like so much dust under the rain. "Are you asking me?"

"You care," Tim says. It's not a question, and Gerry doesn't bother denying it. Thinking about Martin feels eerily like waiting outside of a locked room, kept barely alive by a voice not done justice by the magnetic tape in a recorder, hoping, praying that the coffin will open, that he will come back, for someone else if not for him.

He keeps hoping the story will end the same, but he knows better than to dare think he'll be lucky twice.

"I don't know that breaking Martin from the Eye is our biggest concern anymore." Gerry sighs. "He told Jon no when he offered."

"...So? Are you just going to leave it like that?" Out the corner of his eye, he sees Tim scowl something fierce. "Jon said the fucking same, are you two just going to sit there and make eyes at each other while he turns?"

"We're trying, alright?! Jon's running himself ragged trying to Know enough that Martin doesn't have to depend on Lukas anymore, and I can keep telling Martin he's more important than the Extinction, but he's too damn stubborn-"

"He said you broke into his flat just to make him talk-"

"Well, you live with him. If you can't bring him back, why-"

"Oh, shut up!" Tim groans, crossing his arms over his chest and throwing his head back to look at the roof "Shut up, for real. You're pissing me off, and we're underground, you're going to make me blow up half the city."

Gerry rolls his eyes, a resigned huff escaping his lips. "Sometimes I wish I'd convinced you to stay behind when we went to get the Dark Sun. I don't know what Lukas did to him, but I doubt he would've done it I'd you'd been here."

"You know what? I do, too." Tim remains focused on the roof of the car, his fingers tapping against his arm in an incessant rhythm that leaves melted indentations on his skin. "I should've stayed where it mattered."

They don't say much after that. What else could they add? He can deny it until he's blue in the face, but they both know Manuela Dominguez burned because Tim still holds Jon dear, whether he likes it or not.

Still, Tim's words weigh heavy in his mind as they climb up the steps to the street and start the short trek to the Institute. It's- he's right. Whatever they promised Martin, this has gone too far. Martin might be ready to sacrifice it out of some misplaced lack of self worth, but nothing is worth his life, not even saving the world. And if he has to break into Martin's office and convince him of it, well... it won't be the first time, at least.

He starts on the stairs up towards the Institute's upper floors, only to stop when he notices Tim is no longer following. When he turns around, Gerry finds him standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face turned towards the door and his eyes overtaken by the bright orange of the Desolation.

"...Are you okay?" Gerry asks, arching an eyebrow.

Tim scowls at whatever it is he's looking at, but lifts a hand to stop him when Gerry makes to walk back down. "You going to see Jon?"

"Martin, actually," Gerry admits. Tim nods.

"Fine. You do that. I'll be down at the Archives." He gestures to the stairs going down instead.

It is a bit odd, but there's something else tugging at his mind right now. Something feels off today crawling under his skin like a many legged being. He wonders for a moment if this is the Spider pulling at him, before he resolves that one way or another it won't do to dwell on it. He feeds the Mother of Puppets either by fearing the manipulation or by fighting against it; the best he can do is be prepared for whatever it is he's being pushed into.

"-ou are. I was starting to fear you'd gotten cold feet." Gerry freezes before turning the corner to enter the corridor that takes to Martin's office. Lukas' voice is light and amused enough that Gerry wants to rearrange his face, mostly because he knows there's only one person in the Institute Lukas really talks to.

"I haven't," Martin says, and he sounds like a gray afternoon given a voice.

"Wonderful! I'd hate for you to give up after so much hard work, when we're already at the finish line. We can go down, then."

Martin doesn't answer, not even when Lukas lets out a satisfied chuckle. Gerry leans around the corner as soon as the familiar static of the Lonely starts ringing in his ears, and he's just in time to see the last of Martin's back disappear into a wall of fog.

The finish line.

Gerry frowns; the Eye won't volunteer any information about what Lukas is talking about, not even when he tries to Look, but if this means that he's done with whatever he was pushing Martin into, then this can't be good. Should he go look for Jon? Would the Eye let him know where they-

"You're looking real unhappy there, dear." Helen's voice doesn't really make him jump as much as merely draws him out of his reverie. "Did you lose something?"

"Someone." Gerry huffs.

"The pessimism... you've been hanging with Jon too much, I'd say."

"If you happen to know where they're going-"

"They're real funny," Helen chuckles. It makes Gerry a bit dizzy, but he merely lays a hand on the wall to steady himself. "They kept saying they needed a map, like there aren't better ways to get to places."

Gerry freezes, the implications of the Distortion's words deafening in his mind.

"Helen?" he asks almost shakily. If he can reach Martin and ask Helen to get the others- "Is it a door that they needed?"

Helen merely stands there before him, her smile curling into itself and her door partly opened behind her.

Gertrude would eat him alive for being so stupid, so selfish, Gerry thinks with a bitter sort of amusement. What gives him the right to stop Martin from saving the world, just because of anything he or Jon may or may not feel?

Probably nothing, but maybe it's high time he tries being self-centered for once, he decides before he walks into the Distortion's corridors.

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

It had taken him a few blocks to place the feeling, but when he finally did Tim found it laughably easy to put a name to it.

At first it feels like a prickle at his nape, the feeling of being watched, and he ignores it because it's far from an uncommon occurrence at the Institute. It's only when he feels the urge to hasten his pace that it clicks in his mind, even when it doesn't feel quite the same as when he first caught sight of Jon ducking behind a corner on his way home.

The Hunt is insidious, playing at your most basic instincts as it chases you to where you'll be easier to strike down. Now that he's recognized it, Tim finds it all too easy to shake it off. Instead the Desolation sparks to life inside his chest, aching for a good fight, for destruction, for the delicious sorrow that lays promised by the bond between the two hunters.

It's a bit funny how they don't notice when he flips the tables, coming back through the Institute's front doors just in time to see the back of the old man disappearing into the alley behind the institute; how very Hunt-like, to underestimate the 'prey'.

They head straight for the door that leads down to the Archives, and Tim feels the burning in his chest grow hotter.

Daisy wasn't lying when she said they were opportunistic, but she failed to mention just how fatally uninformed they were. He still feels the sequels from yesterday, and Jon was trying not to hurt him. Even if they reached him, what chance do they hope to have against the Archivist on his home turf?

He waits until their steps have faded down the stairs, before pushing the door open again and slipping in himself, and he wonders if maybe in another life he wouldn't have shared a patron with them, with how fervently he tracked the Stranger, and how easily he falls into the role of the hunter now.

Jon did kill the thing that took Sasha, and he's not too fond of owing favors.

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

Dying is not so terrible, Daisy thinks. Or maybe it's Basira -as always- that makes it tolerable.

It's cold by the entrance to the tunnel, but the cot itself is warm enough that Daisy doesn't shiver -she doesn't think she has the strength for it- in Basira's arms.

She doesn't smell the scent of tears or despair, and it only hurts a little. She wasn't expecting Basira to cry, or be devastated. In fact, she was counting on it. One of the things she fell in love with was Basira's stability, always a safe port to come home to in the middle of the storm that is Daisy's rage.

She's looking down at her on her lap, lightly brushing Daisy's hair off her face. All the hair was brushed away long ago but still Basira runs her fingers softly over her cheekbones, her forehead, her closed eyelids, and it feels like drifting off to sleep on a sunny windowsill.

It's far too peaceful an end, for all the pain she's caused.

"Basira-" she starts, only to stop a second after, her eyes shooting open at the sound of running feet and hurried breathing, the cloying scent of fear like a shot of adrenaline straight into her expiring heart.

"Jon?" Basira asks, her body tensing under Daisy's in preparation for- for what? "What's going on?"

Daisy chokes back a strained laugh. Of course something else would happen now that Basira has finally run out of excuses to let her die.

"I'm- I- Daisy?" Jon's voice is shaky, and the scent of fear intensifies. It makes her want to howl that she's not only unable to assuage his distress, but that she's a part of it now. "What is- the Hunt-"

"Jon, what do you want?!" Basira snaps.

Jon flinches. "Martin, I- he left me- I don't think he's coming back." There's a tape recorder in his hand, and what makes Daisy sit up on the cot is that he looks like he sounded in the Buried, lost and trapped and all devoid of hope.

"Where's Gerry?" she asks. "He's good at finding Martin. Bringing him back."

"That's- I don't know," Jon says shakily. "I'm- I tried to See him, but- I think he's inside Helen? I don't know- he doesn't feel like he's in danger, but-"

"And can't you See Martin?" Basira arches an eyebrow. "If you can See inside the Distortion-"

"I'm- I can't usually do that." Jon huffs almost angrily. "I can sort of See inside Helen because Gerry's in there, like-"

"Like you're looking through him?" Daisy supplies, when he seems to be out of words. Much to her despair, she feels reenergized already, like the mere idea of a goal is enough to fuel the embers of the Hunt inside her. She can feel Basira's eyes on the side of her face, and she knows she's already plotting, scheming some way to keep her around longer.

"Exactly, yes." Jon nods. "And only barely enough to feel that he doesn't think he's in danger. But when I try to See Martin, it's- it's like- like two mirrors in front of each other. I know it doesn't make any sense, but-"

"Nevermind that." Basira climbs to her feet in a smooth move "We can find him."

Daisy doesn't miss the use of the plural, nor the way her glowing green eyes fix on her with that look she knows all too well. It's a look that beckons her to follow, a siren call she has little to no hope of refusing. She heaves a sigh before she stands from the cot as well, smacking Jon on the shoulder.

"Couldn't wait until I was buried to drag me out again, could you?" she asks.

Jon gives her a small, sad smile. "I'm sorry."

Daisy shrugs. She'll stick around just for a few more hours, just for them.

"Let's find those two."

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

There's a body below the institute.

This is, of course, not the first time this has happened, Martin thinks, and the thought almost feels amusing. The handle of the knife Peter placed in his hand after the whole explanation about the Panopticon feels almost vulgar in its suggestion that violence is the only way to save the world.

"I must admit, he's not at all as surprised as I expected he'd be." says a voice that Martin still hears in his nightmares from time to time. When he turns around, Elias is standing across Peter, the two of them framing the door like guardian statues. He looks immaculate, his suit clean and freshly pressed, his tie perfectly knotted at his throat. Martin arches an eyebrow, wondering if he factored in enough time for grooming when breaking out from jail, and Elias chuckles. "Speaks wonders of your job I suppose."

"A natural, I told you. Now Martin, if you'd move along please?" Peter says without taking his eyes off Elias. The smirk on his face speaks of familiarity, the kind of look you give someone that you know will be incensed by it. "I didn't count on us having an audience, but I guess I should've known."

"Can't a man watch his own death?" Elias' lips curve upwards like the edge of the blade in Martin's hand. "Also, you must admit it's much more.... poetic, this way, Peter."

"I'll concede on that." Peter turns towards Martin again. "What's keeping you?"

"This is you, isn't it?" It's not that big of a leap, the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus, and the Eye's biggest servant. Elias' widening grin is answer enough. "Will the others survive?"

"I'm surprised you care." Peter says, and Martin rolls his eyes.

"I-"

"He doesn't. But he knows he should. Again, impressive." Elias shrugs, and for all that Martin stands over his body with a knife, he couldn't look less bothered. "But in the interest of truth-"

"Oh, you care about that now?" Peter cackles in the background.

"The answer is, I'm not sure." Elias raises his voice a little. "But making an educated guess, most of the ones you used to care about should fare just fine. Tim and Melanie are well out of my reach. Your new allegiance should protect you from the worst of it, like the Hunt should miss Tonner, if she wasn't so keen on starving herself. I'm not sure about the Detective, ever the rogue variant, but thanks to our patron's little present, Jon is powerful enough that he should survive as well-"

"Don't call him that," Martin mutters quietly to himself. He doubts Elias is listening, anyways; he's much too fond of his own voice.

"-egular workers of the Institute will be affected of course, though there is no telling just how grave the damage will be. But I know you don't care about that, and you know that too, don't you Martin?"

He's... really irritating, Martin decides.

"I do." Whether he means he does care or he merely knows he doesn't, Martin isn't too sure himself.

"Always very self-aware, yes." Elias has the gall to nod like a proud mentor, and Martin rolls his eyes. "I would say then that the only variable to factor in is whether or not you want to kill me."

"I really do." And for so many reasons, too.

"Then go ahead, Martin." Peter steps forward, and Martin sees Elias watching him from the back like a snake about to strike. It's actually pretty funny, that they're both so sure they've cornered the other. "Kill him, and help me save the world."

"I don't think I will, actually." Martin shrugs, tossing the knife aside with a careless flick. The delight he feels at Peter's confused frown is muted, but it's definitely there.

"I- what?" Peter stutters. Elias' grin grows even sharper behind him. "Martin, this is not the time for games, the world is at stake here, and-"

"See, that's where you messed up. All those details that didn't add up, the insistence that I was some sort of- of world savior? Far too grand for me." Elias breaks down in cackles, and Martin covers his flinching by crossing his arms over his chest. "It really wasn't that hard to see through all the bull you were trying to serve me."

"Serve- Martin, I never lied to you. The Extinction is coming and-"

"I don't doubt it." He waves the matter away. "But this is not about the Extinction, is it? It's just whatever pases for a game between you two, using people as your betting chips, and I don't want any part in it. I'm out."

"But you said-"

"What you wanted to hear, mostly." Martin shrugs again; the feeling of perverse delight growing more and more alive in his chest. Who knew that pettiness was an emotion just as effective against the Lonely?

"You projected too hard on dear Martin, it seems," Elias says after his laughter has subsided. Peter looks fit to boil, his pale face sporting ugly red blotches as he rounds up on Elias.

"This is your doing," he says. Elias' carefully knotted tie crumples in Peter's clenched fist. "How-"

"It wasn't him." Martin interrupts again, feeling more tangible by the second out of sheer indignation. "It was me, always me. I came to you because Jon was dead and it seemed like the most useful thing I could do for the others was letting you do your thing. I thought it would even be a good way to get killed, but you lost any hold you might've had the moment Jon woke up." It's almost cathartic to let everything out after so much lying. It certainly is rewarding to watch Peter's face lose more and more color with each word. "Suddenly I had a reason again, and it was very easy to pretend I was going along with your schemes, if it meant keeping him safe. You had me for a while when you started dropping hints about the Extinction, but it was just too much, you know? I'm not exactly a- a 'chosen one', or a hero, but it was the best way to figure out what your end game was."

"But- I can feel the Lonely around you, it's-"

"Sure, it's there. Always has been, maybe. But if this is the final test, then- then I guess failed." The silence that blankets over the Panopticon after his words is so dense Martin can almost taste it. He wonders if the other two can hear the frantic beating of his heart.

"You- no." Peter shakes his head. "This- you have no idea what you've done, you've doomed-"

"I did warn you, Peter." Elias speaks, sweet and cloying like festering rot. "Now, sore loser is a terrible look on you, so get on with it."

"Get on with what?" Martin scowls, trying to ignore the shiver that bleeds down his spine when Elias' amused smile turns towards him. "I thought he couldn't use the Panopticon."

"That ship has sailed, I'm afraid." Elias shakes his head, tutting under his breath. "Really, one way or another you shouldn't have anything to fear, Martin. If your allegiance to the Lonely's strong enough, you should be able to walk right back out. If it's not... then you just have to hope Jon's allegiance to you is strong enough."

"I'm- what?" Martin frowns. Why would Elias want Jon to go get him from- oh. Oh, crap, how could he have been so stupid?! He steps back, when a tendril of fog begins to wrap itself around his ankle. "Wait, I-"

"I'll do it." Martin feels his blood freeze in his veins, when he whips around and finds Gerry standing by the entrance to the Panopticon, his hand wrapped around the knife Martin discarded just a few minutes ago.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Peter asks, his hand still extended towards Martin, but the fog momentarily at ease. Martin takes a few more steps back, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order because this is not good. Gerry shouldn't be here, he can handle the Lonely, but he can't leave Gerry alone with these two-

"If you want him dead so badly, I'll kill him, and use the damned thing for you." Gerry steps towards the body with knife in hand, and Martin has a split second to appreciate that Elias no longer seems so amused, even getting closer to the body himself. "Let Martin go."

"You don't have any bonds with the Lonely." Peter arches an eyebrow, but he's starting to lower his hand. Fuck, this- this isn't good.

"Does that really matter? I could hardly be more marked by the Eye. I'll use it for you, just let Martin-"

"Are you crazy?" Martin snaps, whipping around to face him again. "Get out of here, I-"

"Peter." Elias hisses in the background, and Peter grunts.

"As much as it'd please me to use the Eye's own gifts against it-" Peter starts, every word sounding like a forced pleasantry. The edges of Martin's vision blur with thick, white fog that pulls at his core almost as much as his mind reels from it. "-I am a man of my word."

"What- wait-" Gerry takes a step towards him, reaching a hand to grab at Martin's shoulder.

"Say, Gerard," Elias' voice cuts in, loud and laced with static as he steps between Gerry and his body. "Have you ever wondered how your father died?"

Gerry's face goes contorts in pain as the memories are forced in, and Martin flinches in sympathy.

"Go away!" Martin snaps, before whipping around to face Elias. "Cut it out, I'll go in-"

"The marks, Martin-" Gerry grunts. "Stay-"

"You were sleeping while she butchered his body. A spirited woman, your mother, but not the finest planner-"

Gerry shakes his head like trying to shake the foreign thoughts loose, a thin stream of ink running down his philtrum, staining his lips black.

"Like you'd fucking know- Martin? Martin, look at me!" He orders, like Martin isn't already doing so, like he isn't actively trying to give in to the pull of the Lonely -if he goes, they'll leave him alone, they have no other reason to keep him-

"She did love him, you know? Or she loved his devotion for her at least. It's quite funny, actually. Good old Eric fought so hard to break free of our patron, and he never once stopped to wonder if he wasn't running into something worse. His end was quite gruesome, even for one of Gertrude's assistants." Elias' eyes gleam with dark amusement when they meet Martin's, and the threat in them is clear. "He thought her steps sounded different that afternoon, but he was only starting to get used to getting by on his remaining senses, and she'd been so gentle and caring to him lately-"

"Stop..." Gerry snarls "I don't care, I never knew him, you can't-"

"Oh, but you could have. If he hadn't been so arrogant, if he hadn't tried to plan so much smarter than he was. You should be careful which of your parents' footsteps you want to follow, though I suppose both trails are marked in blood."

"Elias, stop!" Martin shuts his eyes tight to not see Gerry's pained expression, focusing on the cold, slimy feeling of the fog that resides within his core, but he can't- the Lonely's refusing to come to his call, and Martin wants to scream, because when Gerry warned him so many months ago that he'd ruin his plan, Martin wasn't expecting it to be by making himcare so much for him. "Peter, just- do it already!"

The man's face is veiled in satisfaction, and Martin has no doubt that he too knows Martin won't survive the Lonely like this, and the act is as much a fulfillment of the wager with Elias as it is his revenge for Martin unraveling his plans.

"Martin!" Gerry throws himself forward, and Martin feels his hand pass straight through his front.

The last hint of color he sees before the grey takes it away is that heart-wrenching mix of green and blue.

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

Martin's trail is a soft green against the dirty stone floor of the tunnels. Not as easy to follow as Daisy's, and mingled with a sickly grey one that smells of salt and absence.

"These tunnels don't make sense," she grunts after taking a left turn for the sixth time in a row.

"They change." Jon sniffles behind her, his footsteps light and hurried in contrast with Daisy's heavier, determined ones. "I feel a sort of- a pull, towards the center. I'm guessing that's where Martin is?"

Basira doesn't respond, sure, Jon could've come down here himself, but then Daisy would've given up, would've died in her arms without the interruption, without the goal.

"Do you feel Gerry?" Daisy asks. There's a light growl to her voice that wasn't there before, and it makes Basira stop a little. "Is he alright?"

"He's- I think he found Martin. It's like the two mirrors thing, whenever I try to See any of them." Jon wipes a hand across his brow, letting out a soft, sheepish chuckle. "I'm- I feel blind."

"We're being followed," Daisy says calmly, and Basira spins around on her heel. The Hunt doesn't manifest with light, there is no eerie glow to her warm brown eyes, but Basira sees her fingers curled in the shape of claws, and the stiff line of her back just as clearly, the blood simmering under her skin, not yet boiling but very much threatening to. "Are you going to come out, or will you keep hiding like rats?"

Basira's gun is on her hand in an instant, and she pulls Jon behind her, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins at the familiarity of falling into step with Daisy.

"Must admit- I'd been hopin' you'd be dead by now." She doesn't know the old man that comes from behind the corner they just turned, but she can guess who it is just by the distortion to his features, his too-wide grin full of too-sharp teeth, his eyes that reflect the light of their torches in the way no human could. "We wanted to have Jonny boy for ourselves for a bit."

"We got a few statements we'd like to give." And if that's Trevor Herbert, then this must be Julia Montauk, of course.

"You didn't dare go against Daisy and me last time," Jon pipes in from behind Basira, and she contemplates turning around and strangling him herself, because of course Jon will hear danger ask for him by name and be a smartass about it. "Now there's three of us. Doesn't sound too smart."

"But see, we're well out of your dear Archives now, Jon dear." Julia takes a step to the side that Daisy mimics, keeping herself between the groups. "And your guard dog here looks like a famished mutt. I like our chances, actually."

"Brought this on yourself, really." The old hunter cracks his neck, running a red tongue over his teeth. "We'd have let you live, you were going around stopping rituals even, but you just had to go and take that page out."

Basira feels more than she sees Jon's patience dwindling. There's static in the air sure, but there's something in her connection to the Eye that reacts to him getting ready for a fight.

"Easy, Jon," she mutters, her gun trained on the old man's forehead.

"We're wasting time. I need-"

"Go, just follow your call," says Daisy, without moving an inch from where she's facing the other woman down. Basira can See the blood rising hotter and angrier inside her, and Daisy's almost back to looking like herself, the light back in her eyes, the steel in her spine, the slightest hint of a smirk as she stares Julia down. "We'll take care of this."

Jon hesitates for a moment; Basira can see the struggle in his eyes, going from Daisy to the hunters to her-

"Just go!" Basira snaps. "You know what's going on here, go find out what's happening there!"

And well, maybe it is underhanded, to use his worry for those two against him, but if it gets him to leave...

"I'll come back," Jon says hurriedly.

Basira nods. "Or I'll find you. Go!"

He rushes down the tunnel; Basira wonders, daring a look over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of his awkward race around a corner, is this the last she sees of Jonathan Sims?

"That's cute!" Julia snarls, calling her back to attention. The faint orange glow behind her is easy to miss, but Basira recognizes it easily enough. "You're getting very high and mighty there."

"This one is not even a full avatar," Trevor gestures at Basira with a chuckle, and it feels both relieving and insulting. "You can't take the two of us alone, not in your state."

"I don't know. What was it you said a moment ago?" Tim speaks from behind them, causing the two hunters to whip around to face him. His eyes glow like two angry embers; Basira remembers this Tim not from the night before the Unknowing, but from the warehouse up North. "I like our chances."

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

The pull at his chest is not foreign to Jon, though it feels as different as day and night from the one he followed to find Gerry when the hunters came the first time.

It's something built into him from the moment he opened his eyes as the Archivist, something that ties him to the Archives, to whatever it is that lays at the middle of this labyrinth, and Jon despises it.

Still he follows it, heading to whatever fate awaits him willingly, for them.

The chamber he finds himself in is enormous, the walls made up entirely of cells with thick bars covered in rust. At the center, stands a tower made up of blackened stone, the very top domed in clouded glass, and the Beholding drops a word in his mind with all the ceremony of an artist revealing their Magnum Opus.

The Panopticon.

"So good you could join us, Jonathan." Elias's voice hits him like a hammer to the chest, and only then does Jon notice him standing at the base of the turret, his arms crossed behind his back and smiling beatifically in his direction. "Was it hard, finding the place?"

"Not- not too much." Jon steps closer carefully. He still can't See Martin or Gerry, but Elias being here -how did he get out of jail? Was he ever really trapped there?- is not a great signal.

"Because I called you." Elias nods. "I thought you might want to pick up what you lost."

Shit.

"Where are they? Elias, if you-" Jon's rather pathetic attempt at a threat is cut off by Elias' gleeful cackle.

"Calm down, Jon. Gerard's merely a bit... lost in thought. As for Martin, the door is open, if you want him back."

"What door? Elias, what did you do?" Jon snarls, pouring the compulsion thick into the question.

"I cashed in a favor. Or rather, a wager." Elias smiles. "You've grown fairly powerful, haven't you?"

"Elias-"

"You'll find Martin right where you put him." Elias' eyes gleam dangerously, his smile still sharp on his face. "In the Lonely."

"W-"

"As much as I'd enjoy a chat, I'd advise against dallying. He was in a bit of a state when he went in. Not too suited to survive in there, even after all these months." Elias takes a step aside, clearing the way to the stone stairs that curl up around the body of the tower. "Good luck, Jonathan. I'll be seeing-"

Whatever he was going to say next, Jon doesn't care to know. He rushes past him, climbing the stairs as quickly and as carefully as he can, keeping away from the edge because he wouldn't put it past himself to simply trip and snap his neck.

The interior of the turret is mostly empty, but his eyes pick up on three details immediately. The first is the dessicated body sitting at the center of the eye carved on the stone floor. He Knows who he is, and who the man outside isn't, but right at this moment, he couldn't care less.

The second thing he notices is the door to the Lonely, like a tear on dark fabric leaking out a soft silvery light and heavy wisps of fog that drift down to the floor.

Gerry's crumbled next to the body like a puppet whose strings were cut off. His arm stretched out towards the rift, and he's bleeding, a puddle of acrid-smelling ink under his head.

Jon rushes to his side, falling to his knees beside him and turning his head as carefully as he can.

"Gerr- I- can you hear me?" he asks, his heart beating so hard he's worried it'll punch a hole right through his chest. Gerry's eyes are wide and glassy and Beholding green, and his papery white lips move around words Jon cannot hear, but he's alive, and that means they have a shot still.

"I need- Gerry, I- you have to wake up now. I'm-" This is- he's so bad at this. How do you call a person back? I'm sorry but I love you, please don't go? "I need you, please."

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

"Told ya!" The old man smirks, his sharp teeth painted red with the blood flowing from his nose after Tim's headbutt. His claw-like nails sink into the flesh of Basira's neck, and the whirlpool of activity in the tunnel comes to a screeching halt. "This one is not quite done yet. Let's see if she bleeds like a monster or like a human."

If one thinks about it objectively, Tim's cockiness wasn't necessarily unjustified. He merely failed to factor in the part where he technically doesn't want to blow up the entirety of London to get rid of two hunters, or turn Daisy and Basira into a pile of ashes.

"That's enough," Daisy growls, loosening her grip around Julia's neck. The woman slashes at her face as soon as she's free, the knife leaving an angry red gash across her cheekbone and nose.

It makes something hot an angry burn at his chest, that even with all this power, he's still useless to stop this.

"How sweet." Julia shoves her off, climbing to her feet with a slight limp in her step. Tim feels a dark pang of pride at the angry red burn on the side of her face. "You're not the monsters we wanted, but it's okay, we don't discriminate. Let's see that throat, old man."

"Basira?" Daisy calls out. She's still on her knees, still watching her own blood drip down to the dirty floor of the tunnels.

"Yes?" Basira asks, then chokes a little when Trevor presses his nails a bit harder.

"Will you find me?" Daisy's starting to shake, and Tim takes a step back even as the Desolation in him beckons him forward, because the sheer amount of sorrow and rage coming from her is intoxicating.

Another wave of loss, of suffering hits him just as hard. Tim darts a glance at her, but there's nothing in Basira's face that betrays the pain simmering inside her.

"Anywhere."

Daisy's form splits open.

It's like watching a flower blossom in a timelapse video, or a moth emerge from its cocoon. The creature that comes out is long-limbed and sharp-fanged, and its fur shimmers with a faint coat of blood as it leaves behind the useless skin of Daisy Tonner. They watch it in stunned silence as it raises to its full height, its hunched back grazing against the roof of the tunnel, a cavernous growl squeezing out from between jaws where the hide is stretched too thin, pierced here and there by sharp yellowed fangs, its eyes like two pinpricks of light at the end of a cavernous tunnel fixed on the hunters before it.

"...Fuck," Julia mutters. Tim is inclined to agree.

Then the thing that was Daisy takes a step towards her, and the room explodes in activity again. Basira is shoved to the side as Trevor rushes to step between them, and it's all Tim can do to throw himself over her, as two and then three beasts slam each other against the walls of the tunnel, raining down dirt and debris that digs into Tim's waxy flesh.

It feels like hours before the howling fades away, before the tearing of flesh under claws and fangs leaves behind a silence so haunting it very nearly drowns the roar of the Desolation inside him.

"G- get off," Basira orders, pushing a hand against his chest. Tim scrambles to his feet and offers a hand that she ignores, her eyes focused on the soggy skins left behind in crumpled lumps by the beasts. "I- shit."

"Eloquent." She's looking down one of the tunnels, the one that reeks of hatred and pain, and Tim knows very well the sort of debate brewing in her mind. "Are you going after them?"

"Are you?" she snaps, whipping around to face him. Her face is carefully blank, and Tim doesn't point out the red rims of her eyes, or the pain emanating from her in waves. It doesn't take a genius to understand she's pinning her own hesitation on him. He doesn't know much about Basira, but he might understand that it's easier for her to handle weak people than to be weak herself.

Is he going after them?

He could probably find them, following the claw marks and the rage. If they make it far enough from anyone that could get caught in the crossfire-

"Why were you down here?" he asks, though he thinks he might know the answer already. Jon is many things, but he wouldn't abandon them so easily.

"Jon was still holding on to you when they found you, you know?" Sasha -no, not her, not anymore- had said, and Tim had believed her immediately, just as he believes it now.

"Martin and- they're missing. We think they're at the center of this- this mess." Basira's voice is almost frail as she continues to look down the corridor the monsters disappeared in.

"Can you find them?"

"Yes." The word comes immediately, mournful and without hesitation.

"Well- let's- let's get to it. Somehow I doubt Daisy needs us that much right now."

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

"You're making a right mess of me," he says. He's standing next to the table, watching the proceedings with something that almost feels like interest. "I thought you had more experience at this."

"I was feeling experimental." She shrugs. Her arms are covered in blood to the elbow, and her chest and face are also splattered red. "I felt like it had to be special."

"Very romantic," he says dryly. "What's going to happen to Gerry?"

"Gerard will be fine." She enunciates the name clearly and firmly. They never did settle that argument, but she pretty much just won, he guesses. "He's got the potential."

"He's two years old."

"He's my son." She saws angrily, until the bone finally breaks. "You brought this on yourself, you know?What were you thinking, pulling your eyes out?"

"I suppose I did. I thought you'd be happy that I was free." He shrugs again, before extending a translucent hand to push a lock of blood-soaked blonde hair behind her ear. It passes right through. "It's nice to see you again."

She pauses on her work, her eyes -he always did love that perfect mix of green and blue- fixed on the carnage dripping down to the kitchen floor.

"You knew how I was," she says finally. "I never hid that from you."

"You didn't."

That's not an apology. It's not an excuse. It's not enough for this man who sees himself dead on a table and asks about his son first, why do they both look so satisfied with it?!

The saw is heavy in his hand, and slippery with the blood that stinks the whole room of iron. Gerry tries to drop it, tries to step back, this is not him, up to his elbows in the blood of the one he loves-

"Gerry?" Jon's voice washes over him like cool water over a burn; Gerry thinks he might cry, when he blinks away the image of his parents and Jon is there, looking down at him in concern. "I'm- you're- how do you feel?"

"Like shit." Gerry lets out a dry cackle that's just this side of hysterical, before the gravity of the situation catches up to him, and he sits up so abruptly Jon has to throw himself back to avoid getting head-butted. "Fuck. Jon, we- Martin-"

"I know, I- Elias told me." Jon bites at his bottom lip. "I'm- it looks like we're completing the card after all."

"...Looks like it," Gerry says. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, but there's no other way to go about it. Jon's not going to leave Martin in the Lonely, and Gerry's not going to ask him to. He climbs to his feet with a groan -he definitely bruised something- and Jon follows suit. "I'm- I don't know how well it'll go, Jon. You were able to use me as an anchor in the Dark, but I don't know if you can just- just pull Martin out. The person has to want to come back, usually."

"Let's find out." Jon takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the rift to the Lonely for a moment. He looks over his shoulder at him, and there's an odd intensity to his eyes, not the eerie power of the Archivist, but merely the one befitting a man in love. "Are you ready?"

"I- what?" Gerry blinks a couple times, before his own words come back to him from so long ago, whispered against Jon's lips with more devotion than any prayer he's ever uttered, the threat of an apocalypse looming over their heads and in his heart the firm intention of walking into the Dark for this man. "Oh."

"...I don't mean to force you to-" the little yelp Jon gives when he leans in to kiss him might just be enough to turn him immune to the Lonely, Gerry thinks.

"Let's go get your Martin back, then."

#vit writes #illicio #jongerrymartin #jgm

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

Text

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Fifteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains allusions to torture and prolonged, vivid depictions of assault. Stay safe!]

"Call tags?" The scribe droned, not even looking up from the terminal.

Danse only hesitated for a second. "D, N, dash, four zero seven P."

The scribe punched in the letters and numbers, and Danse saw the young man visibly jerk in surprise. Rheumy brown eyes stared up at the towering suit of X-01 armor and the scribe's voice squeaked when he hissed, " Danse? "

The armored man nodded.

"Are you insane?! Danse--er, Paladin Danse, the elder has been on the warpath ever since you went...sir, he says you're a synth, a traitor to the Brotherhood. You're supposed to be dead! I knew there was something fishy about those reports!" The scribe whispered shakily. He looked incredibly nervous. "Most of us think he's off his rocker, but you try finding a soldier with the balls to tell him that point-blank!"

"It's comforting that you all have such faith in me." Danse said, meaning every word. "I'm afraid the announcement of my death was a bit...premature."

The scribe blinked. "Sir, after everything that...the amount of us that would stand by you through anything is the vast majority, I promise. Elder Maxson has locked up Paladin Brandis and-"

"Tell me he hasn't harmed Brandis." Danse cut him off, relieved when the scribe shook his head hastily.

"I think even the elder knows better than to assault one of the most beloved officers in our chapter." The scribe exhaled a long breath, then looked back up at Danse. "Sir, you should know that...well, it may be a bit disappointing to hear, but even if you are a synth, we're still with you, sir." The scribe gave him a salute.

Danse's eyes pricked with tears. He couldn't believe that he had the power to inspire such unwavering loyalty. "At ease, soldier. With any luck, this will be a diplomatic engagement. I'll take Knight Vega and be on my way."

"I...I am unsure if it will be so simple." The scribe admitted. "Ex-Knight Vega has also been confined to the brig since you went AWOL."

" Ex -knight?"

"Maxson stripped of her rank, sir. Accused her of conspiring against the Brotherhood. On her end, she maintains her innocence." The scribe shrugged. "I don't understand why he doesn't just exile her or have her stand trial, but he's been dragging his feet the whole-"

" Bait ." Danse realized. "He's been waiting for me to come back for her, of course . She's our only way into the Institute. Either that or he just wants the satisfaction of killing me himself." He moved past the checkpoint without another word, leaving the scribe to sputter. Danse hoped he wasn't being too self-absorbed when he surmised that the report of his 'death' was no doubt being utilized as a thumbscrew on Elizabeth. Maxson obviously needed a confession; hell, he might even suspect Vega of being the one that tipped Danse off in the first place.

No one paid him much mind as he strode across the compound. Though he did intercept a few curious glances, Danse chalked them up to the distinctive armor he was wearing instead of outright suspicion.

"Where is the elder?" He gruffed at a crowd of aspirants, counting on the staticky speakers of his helmet to disguise his voice. One of them grimaced.

"In a mood." She joked, the group of aspirants nodding and laughing amongst themselves. "But if you mean location, he's been hanging around the build site a lot. Watching the progress on Big Lib, you know."

Danse inclined his head and turned on his heel, making a beeline for the previously-mentioned location while he guiltily recalled the time that he had threatened Vega with an upbraiding for her own quips about Maxson. As he thundered back across the courtyard, he could hear the muttering start up. People were beginning to notice him. His window of opportunity was shrinking; he needed to find Maxson fast . Danse picked up his pace, half-jogging.

Catching sight of Maxson at the very top of Prime's gantry made Danse feel minute, an insignificant David at the feet of a giant. He swallowed hard, shaking off the unsettling sensation and cueing up his helmet's speakers.

At the whine of feedback, Ingram glanced up from her console beneath the shelter across the dusty tarmac. "Hey!" She said sharply. "Whoever you are, you don't have clearance to-"

" Elder Maxson! " Danse roared, ignoring the red-headed proctor in favor of tilting his whole body back to project his voice upwards. " You know why I'm here! "

" Abomination! " Maxson shouted, sounding almost gleeful . He bolted for the lift, as if he expected Danse to flee. The paladin stood his ground though, patiently waiting for the elder to arrive at the lower level.

"Danse? You…" Ingram trailed off, scrambling across the square. "Is it really you in there, Danse?"

"Yes, Proctor."

There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more to explain , but Maxson's arrival on the ground effectively cut off Danse's conversation. "I knew you would return, you traitor ." He asserted smugly as he marched over to Danse. "How kind of you to give me the privilege of ending you myself ."

Danse held up his hands peaceably. "I am unarmed, Maxson. I'm not here for a fight. I am simply here to request the amicable release of...of General Vega." He used the Minutemen title on a whim, watching Arthur's nostrils flare in irritation.

"Oh General Vega , is it? The Minutemen send a machine to do their dirty work? Or have you already infiltrated their ranks with more of your kind?" Maxson spat.

Danse shook his head. "This may come as a shock to you, Elder Maxson, but I had no idea I was a synth." He heard Ingram gasp behind him. Even Maxson looked momentarily startled at his admission and Danse seized the opening to reason, "through the entirety of my career I've done nothing to betray your trust, Arthur. And I never will. Please," Danse implored, "we need General Vega if we hope to eradicate the Institute."

"You expect me to believe that you wish to eradicate the Institute? You were born of it!" Arthur spat venomously. "You even standing here is an affront to nature, you scum . The Brotherhood does not negotiate with-"

"Elder Maxson, wait!" Ingram interrupted him sharply. "He's telling the truth. Vega is instrumental to gaining entry to the Institute. Our whole reason for being in the Commonwealth is to destroy the Institute. If we lose this chance-"

"I will not be spoken down to by my own troops, Proctor!" Maxson raged.

"Arthur, listen to me . You and Danse having a pissing match should be the least of our concerns." Ingram raised an eyebrow. "If he meant us harm, I feel like he would have come with a battalion or two. Danse might be a little dense , but he's never lacked battlefield intelligence."

"This thing isn't Danse, so stop referring to it as such!"

"Until proven otherwise, yes, he is . His DNA matched that Institute crap. It's him, Maxson. It's always been him. Sure, you might find it easier to think that the Institute grabbed the real Danse while he was out and about, but I don't think he would be reported as a missing asset if he was supposed to be here." Proctor Ingram theorized as she crossed her arms, her armor frame creaking.

"Just give me Elizabeth, Maxson." Danse pleaded. "This isn't a fight you want."

"Oh, on the contrary. This is the fight I want." Maxson seethed. "A chance to prove Brotherhood superiority once and for all! We will settle this as it is written in the Litany!"

"You sincerely wish to have a live-fire trial?" Danse asked incredulously, "a Litany trial, Arthur? As I recall, you stated before that you were above such practices."

"We live in unprecedented times, traitor." Maxson drew himself up to his full height. "My authority has been brought into question again and again. It seems only right that I battle my chief dissenter."

Danse was at a loss for words. Maxson's behavior was so irrational, he was almost tempted to consider whether the elder himself had been replaced by a synth. But no, voicing that fear would no doubt send Maxson into an even worse froth.

"When I defeat you, it will finally affirm the truth of the Brotherhood: that we were meant to stand tall atop the corpses of abominations, meant to triumph! " Maxson's eyes were wild as he turned to Ingram. "Proctor, you will bear witness to our Litany agreement. And now, abomination , issue your challenge." The elder demanded.

"Arthur-"

" Issue it or be slagged where you stand! " Maxson screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.

Danse had never personally engaged in a Litany trial. His memory of the terminology was hazy at best, but he still made an attempt. "As a Brotherhood of Steel paladin," he began haltingly, saluting and then extending his hand to Maxson. "I am issuing a formal challenge against your authority as elder of this chapter. Through your actions and your deeds, you have proved yourself unfit to lead in my eyes. We will engage in combat under your terms, and should I emerge victorious, I ask that you relinquish General Vega to me."

"And when I emerge victorious, I will kill you." Maxson stated confidently.

"So be it." Danse knew he had very little agency in this matter. Maxson wanted to fight him, and Maxson always got his way. "Your terms, Elder?"

"No weapons or armor. We fight with nothing but the skills we possess. The first one pushed out of the circle loses." Maxson smirked. "You might be a synth, but a bullet in your head puts you down just as easily as any feral."

"You give me your word as Elder that you will turn Vega over to the custody of the Minutemen if I win?" Danse insisted, his heart slamming in his chest. Oh God, he would have to fight Maxson. Worse still, he would have to beat him. Arthur's prowess in combat was almost fabled , that story about the deathclaw part of this chapter's mythos.

"I will give you nothing, creature , and it will be far more than you deserve. But certainly, if you manage to beat me, I'll see to it that your co-conspirator is relinquished to your care." Maxson sneered. "Proctor, send out the announcement that we will have entertainment shortly."

"Sure thing, Elder." Ingram muttered, sidestepping away as Danse removed his helmet.

"I want everyone down here and watching, Ingram!" Arthur called as she departed. "Make sure that traitor Vega is escorted to the combat area." He then chuckled in a self-satisfied manner, no doubt taking note of Danse's stern expression. "Oh don't worry, synth . We showed your precious general all the courtesies that the Brotherhood has to offer while we interrogated her."

Danse knew that Arthur trying to rile him up was technically a good sign. It meant that the other man was attempting to disperse some of his own nerves. However, it was difficult for him to capitalize upon with the worry of Vega possibly being injured getting added onto the pile of Danse's concerns. The growl erupted from him unintentionally, burring in his chest like a hacksaw. "Maxson, if you-"

"Do not speak to me, freak ." Arthur hissed.

Danse stewed as a crowd began to form. At least now they would have an audience. Hundreds of eyes watching his every move, but also watching Maxson's. Danse hoped that the scribe at the gate hadn't just been spouting optimistic nonsense.

The paladin emerged from his armor, standing at attention beside the frame as a vertibird whirred by overhead, descending from the Prydwen. Upon their first sight of him, the troops began talking amongst themselves. Danse reasoned that it must be quite the shock for most of them, to see him alive and well.

Please be alright, Vega , the paladin begged mentally. Please , Elizabeth .

He heard her coming long before he saw her, watching the crowd part for a lone knight in power armor. "You're a fuckin' piezashet , y'know that? Just a fuckin' asshole! " Backhand roared, struggling and straining against the iron grip of the knight that was dragging her along. "Let me go , y' fuckin' cockass'n sunuva' fuck! "

Danse blinked, a bit impressed with the vitriol the general was spitting considering her appearance. She looked like a stretch of bad road, gaunt, both of her eyes ringed yellow-green from faded bruising and her glasses absent. The whole left side of her face bore the distinct grate marks of the Prydwen's catwalks, indicating that she had been slammed against the floor. Her Vault suit was in shambles, half-ribboned and hanging off of her shoulder at a rakish angle, and her hair was a tangled, greasy mess.

Danse catalogued it all and swiftly tucked it away for later. Compartmentalize . She's alive and ambulatory. Priority is Maxson , he instructed himself sternly. Focus . You can't afford to be distracted right now. You face the elder of the Brotherhood of Steel .

All of that flew out the window the moment he heard Elizabeth's voice crack. "D... Danse? " She asked tremulously, "Danse, you're alive? "

Danse nodded, not looking at her. "For better or for worse, I am."

"I…" Backhand paused. "What's going on, Danse? I-I thought that...I thought you were…"

Her obvious distress gave Danse an odd rush of guilty comfort. She would have missed him. Had she mourned him when she thought he was dead?

To hell with it .

Danse turned to Elizabeth, carefully tipped her chin up and pressed a corner of the bandanna around his neck to her lips. "For luck." He murmured with a thin smile, cupping the right side of her face so he didn't hurt her. She just stared up at him, those eyes bright with pent-up emotions. The knight securing her coughed awkwardly and Danse stepped back, feeling Vega's gaze on him even as he moved to face Maxson.

Ingram cleared her throat and announced above the rising hubbub, "this is a Litany trial! The conditions are no weapons or armor, strictly empty-handed combat. If Paladin Danse manages to remove our elder from the circle, the Brotherhood has agreed to release the former Knight Vega into Minutemen custody. If our elder removes the paladin from the circle, Paladin Danse has agreed to allow the elder to pass swift judgement upon him."

"Say it how he said it, Proctor!" Danse barked, his deep voice carrying well. "He plans to kill me if he wins, don't shy away from it!" He heard Vega swear before the crowd of knights, aspirants and squires around him voiced their mixture of dismay and apprehension. "Elder Maxson has deemed me a threat to the Brotherhood and has forced my hand. So now we engage in a combat trial as it is written in the Litany."

"Trying to turn my troops against me, abomination?" Maxson huffed as he discarded his heavy battle coat and began rolling up his sleeves. "I can't say I'm surprised, but I am disappointed. I had hoped you would meet your end with some shred of dignity."

Danse shrugged, Backhand's lucky bandanna brushing his chin when he raised his head. "You haven't won yet, Maxson." He reminded the younger man with a sad smile.

Arthur lunged at him suddenly, dust flying with the speed of his approach. Danse barely managed to sidestep, latching on to Arthur's wrist and shoulder. The paladin used the other man's momentum against him, redirecting him around his body and kicking his legs out from beneath him.

"Are we beginning now, Arthur?" He asked sharply, that tactical portion of his brain considering the merits of stomping down on Maxson's groin with all his might.

But no, no, he couldn't--Maxson was the elder -

Arthur flailed on the ground, his face red with fury as he clawed at Danse's hands on him. The paladin released him and stepped back, not overly eager to stay within striking distance of the formidable elder. Unfortunately, Maxson didn't leave him much of a choice in the matter. The younger man darted forward again, too low for Danse to redirect him. The paladin took the brunt of Arthur's shoulder to his midsection, gasping out a pained breath even as he tried to brace his footing.

Arthur's shoulder drove deeper into his stomach and the younger man grappled Danse's legs, heaving him backwards off the ground . Danse frantically grabbed at Maxson's back before the younger man pinned him bodily, the two of them hitting the gravel with a bone-jarring impact.

Danse still hadn't been able to catch his breath and he barely got his arms up in time as Arthur cocked back for his first punch.

Maxson tended to machine-gun when it came to his blows, pummeling his target to a pulp within the first flurry. Danse had watched him fight enough to know that this was possibly the worst position for him to be in. Here, Maxson could just rain attacks down onto him until his damn arms broke, beat him into submission without even having to get him outside the boundaries. "You will die. In the dirt . Like the dog you are!" Maxson screamed as he struck Danse.

He's the elder. He's the elder. But...

Danse gritted his teeth. No . If Maxson was doing to kill him, he was going to work for it. Danse wouldn't hand him his fragile existence on a silver platter. Not anymore. Never again . Every assault, every misguided order, every time his admiration or willingness to help had been taken advantage of…

Danse sucked in a breath and shoved Maxson in the chest with all his might, knocking the other man off of him. " Fuck you Arthur! " He spat, suddenly red-hot angry . He got to his feet and loomed over the elder of the Brotherhood, smoldering with rage.

Maxson seemed confused, like he couldn't believe Danse was actually fighting back . He scrambled back to an upright position, the two of them circling each other much more warily now.

"You should have just laid down and died like a good soldier!" Maxson taunted, feinting a few jabs on the left before he swung in from the right. His fist caught Danse in the jaw, snapping the older man's head to the side as he continued, "should have just let me break you, Danse!"

Danse, reeling from the hit, staggered back a step and dropped to one knee. No, get up . Don't let him do this to you . He forced himself back up, glancing the next punishing blow off his shoulder and then landing a check of his own that sent Maxson sprawling on his back.

"Get up, Arthur!" Danse shouted, his fists clenched. " Get the fuck up and fight me! "

So fast Danse almost missed it, Arthur whipped his combat knife out of his boot sheath and rushed him with it, holding the blade low in an effort to conceal the weapon.

The blade that killed the deathclaw .

The point barely grazed Danse's arm as he flinched back, razor-sharp steel easily parting the flannel and skin beneath it.

He was in trouble now. Maxson unarmed was bad enough, but Maxson using a weapon he was intimately familiar with absolutely spelled certain death for Danse. Never mind that they had agreed on no weapons. Danse doubted anyone was exactly refereeing a Litany trial. As long as they stayed within the circle, he was under the impression that he was on his own.

Arthur slashed wildly at him, no longer bothering for subtlety as he openly attacked Danse with the knife. Maxson had this hideous, leering smirk on his face the whole time; he was playing with his food.

Danse felt like an idiot for even thinking that he had a chance at winning when Maxson buried the blade in his shoulder.

But what else could he do? Die in the dirt , like Arthur had screamed at him?

" You're a cheating sunuvabitch, Arthur! " Vega's voice rang out loud and clear like the crack of a whip. Danse saw her out of the corner of his eye, the woman struggling vainly against the armored vambrace that encircled her waist. " Coward! " She yelled indignantly.

Danse smiled thinly through the pain, gripping Maxson's wrist on the knife with enough force to make Arthur grunt. His free hand clamped down on the crook of Maxson's elbow, keeping the younger man locked in that position. Maxson headbutted him to try and make some space and Danse slammed their heads together harder, baring his teeth and snarling in Arthur's face.

Between the two of them, Arthur would always be smarter and quicker than Danse.

But Danse was stronger . Danse thrived in the trenches and on the front lines. Maxson may have called him a dog as an insult, yet there was truth in his words. Danse was a bulldog , boots on the ground, chewing for the jugular until the day he died. This wasn't his first time fighting for his life against insurmountable odds and he was finally refusing to roll over for Arthur.

Something flashed in Maxson's eyes for a split-second and Danse latched onto it. "You're afraid of me, aren't you Maxson?" He panted, maintaining his death grip as Arthur began to struggle to free himself. "Of what I could do to your leadership, your elder status-"

" Shut the fuck up!" Maxson seethed, the palm of his free hand crashing into Danse's throat. The paladin stumbled back and dropped to the ground, his lungs screaming for air as the blade tore loose. Maxson, instead of just finishing him off, began to pontificate, watching Danse writhe and hack for air in the dirt. "You know Danse, I saw what you had with Cutler and I envied it. I searched for years , trying to find something like it. I failed, naturally. So the only solution was to get Cutler out of the picture. But you were stubborn . You longed for a dead man, entirely ignoring the needs of your leader!" Maxson hissed, grinding the heel of his boot against the wound on Danse's shoulder. "And if I couldn't have you wholly, I would break you."

Danse knew on a technical level that the wound should hurt. His face automatically winced. But all he could focus on was Arthur's words, his confession . The heel of the elder's boot, already sticky with blood, crushed down on the side of Danse's head next.

"Why so quiet now, Danse? Do I behave like a man who fears you, freak? " Maxson mocked him, delivering one last kick before backing away.

Danse laid there in the gravel, bruised, bleeding; dazed not just by pain but by the knowledge that Maxson had sent Cutler away on purpose. Maxson had sent Cutler to his death. Sent Brandis to his death. Sent Danse to his death.

" Well , synth? For being so confident, you are remarkably silent!" Arthur needled. "Where's all that righteous wrath you threatened me with? I wanted a fight! "

Danse noticed dimly that the crowd was entirely still around them. It was eerie, like everyone else had vanished and it was just he and Arthur.

Danse raised his left arm, the whole limb shaking violently, and he curled his fingers to flip Maxson off.

The crowd's judgemental silence dissolved into laughter and rowdy shouts, both for and against the paladin. He vaguely picked up Vega yelling, " Attaboy! "

Arthur sputtered with fury. He leaped at Danse, no doubt enraged enough to slit his throat. All Danse could think to do was hike his knees up, planting them firmly in Maxson's pelvis and then catapulting the smaller man up and over his body. Maxson landed several feet away on his back, giving a pained grunt as the wind was knocked out of him by the impact.

The knife clattered and skidded through the dirt and gravel, out of reach for the moment. Danse floundered to roll over, trying to keep the distance between himself and Arthur while the dust settled. When it did, though, he realized something.

Arthur's entire body was outside the circle.

Danse blinked, eyes wide as he realized that not only did that mean he had won, that meant Arthur had lost. In front of everyone .

" Freak! " Maxson shrieked, staggering back to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at the wounded paladin. "At least Cutler had the good sense to get himself killed , unlike you and fucking Brandis! " The elder screamed, blood and saliva flying from his mouth. "You two are like goddamn radroaches! "

"Elder Maxson?" Rhys . He sounded so hesitant, so unlike himself. "Sir, did you...did you send our squad out here purposely? "

"It is not your place to question me, Knight! And don't act like Danse didn't tell you as much, I'm certain he wasted no time vilifying me upon your arrival to the Commonwealth!" Maxson spat ruthlessly. "Traitorous liar! "

"I'm afraid the paladin may have been too preoccupied with keeping his squadron alive to convey any personal irritation regarding you , sir." Haylen said dryly. "Perhaps you can fill us in on what we might have missed?"

Maxson, instead of answering, threw himself back at Danse.

…

Danse hit the ground with Maxson on top of him and Backhand screamed something abusive that was extremely unflattering to the elder's lineage.

Arthur grabbed Danse by the collar of his worn shirt and slammed the back of his head against the ground, the elder appearing to snap as he howled with rage and punched Danse again and again and again -

Vega's fists clenched in her binds and she struggled futilely against the knight holding her, willing Danse to fight back, to do something , don't die on me!

Suddenly a huge gauntlet was seizing Maxson by the seat of his pants, tossing the young man off to the side.

"That is enough ." Brandis, Brandis , how had he even gotten there?! Backhand had last seen him in the bowels of the Prydwen as she was being led out from the cell! The elderly paladin stood tall over the two bedraggled men in the dirt, cracking his knuckles in his gauntlets. "What is the meaning of this, Maxson?" He asked furiously, tone sharp through the speakers of his helmet. "You would disgrace trial by combat in such a manner? How dare you! You bring shame upon the Litany!"

"Stay out of my way, you meddling old fool!" Maxson ordered, getting shakily to his feet.

"Or what, you'll beat me to a pulp as well?" Brandis retorted. "You've turned against your troops, Arthur, the men and women you swore to lead with integrity. You've freely admitted to sending soldiers to their deaths because it suited you , not the needs of the Brotherhood. You've brought nothing but disgrace to our chapter, Arthur! Look around you! " Brandis exclaimed, gesturing at the crowd. "You're a tyrant , Maxson! Not one amongst the ranks would stand up to you, not one would shake you back to reality, and those that tried are now lying in the damn dirt ."

"Be quiet! "

"You cannot silence me, Maxson." The old paladin said calmly. "You've tried and failed before."

"What would you have me do, Brandis? He's a synth ."

"Perhaps." Brandis allowed. "But all I see is a man who obeyed your stipulations and threw you out of your circle, Maxson. According to our tenets and the Litany, his requests must be met. Release Vega to his custody."

Maxson snarled futilely. "You will regret crossing me, Brandis!" He warned. "Stand down now! "

"I have no squadron left for you to kill, Elder ." The older paladin scoffed a little. "What will you hold over my head? Retirement?" He tipped his helmet towards the knight who had Vega. "I said, release her ."

The knight who had been holding Backhand let her go with a mumbled apology, and without any hesitation she took off at a dead run for Danse. Her whole body ached from the heavy-handed treatment Maxson had inflicted on her, but in the light of getting Danse back it was an easy burden to bear.

She tumbled to her knees, her hands still bound in front of her as she called his name. He groaned in reply, grimacing when she touched his arm. "Danse, holy shit ." Backhand breathed.

The paladin exhaled a broken laugh, barely opening his eyes. "Did I win?" He asked blearily. "Everything is spinning."

Backhand couldn't help the sob that escaped her as Danse pawed blindly at her bound hands, the young woman opening her mouth to say something.

There was a commotion behind her, Brandis shouting " no Maxson! " and then a gunshot. Backhand froze as a plume of dirt kicked up bare inches from Danse's head, the paladin jerking away from the impact.

She pitched herself forward, bridging Danse's form with her own by propping her weight up on her elbows. "Don't move, Danse." She whispered, "I've got you, okay? If he wants to shoot you he's gonna' have to get through me ."

"Don't try to--Vega, I order you to get out of the way! How dare you defy me!" Maxson struggled against Brandis' attempts to take the service pistol from him, waving the gun wildly in the air. " Traitors! Let the synth meet its fate!"

"Vega, you need to... Elizabeth , he'll shoot you, please -" Danse begged, weakly shoving at her side. "The Brotherhood needs-"

" Fuck the Brotherhood, Danse!" Backhand yelled at him. "If this is how they treat you , someone who's spent his entire career fighting for their cause, then I don't want shit to do with them!"

The report of the service pistol cut through the air once more, and Backhand's body collapsed on top of Danse.

Part Sixteen

#spoilers #fallout 4 #fallout four #paladin danse #paladin danse x sole survivor #Eventual romance #canon-typical violence #paladin danse/sole survivor #paladin danse x f!sole #paladin danse imagine #fallout fandom #fallout fanfic #fo4 companions imagine #fo4 companions #fo4 paladin danse #elder maxson #brotherhood of steel

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meta-squash · 4 years ago

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Brick Club 1.8.3 “Javert Satisfied”

I know this is technically a “good thing” since otherwise Valjean’s testimony would be for nought, but everyone except the prosecuting attorney agrees that Valjean is the real Valjean. I guess some part of me would expect for everyone to still think that Madeleine had gone crazy, or to somehow still be affected by the respect and veneration for Madeleine as mayor. But that’s not the case, and pretty much everyone believes that Madeleine really is Valjean.

Quick note that the lawyers also try to pull in all sorts of nitpicky bullshit to try and get Champmathieu indicted anyway, which courts still do today.

“This sentence, containing a great many ‘of’s, is the prosecuting attorney’s, written by his own hand, on the minutes of his report to the attorney general.” Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like the comment on all the “of’s” goes hand in hand with the earlier critique of the provincial language of the courts.

“...although the judge was a kind man and quite intelligent, he was at the same time a strong, almost zealous royalist, and had been shocked when the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, in speaking of the landing at Cannes, had said “the Emperor” instead of “Buonaparte.” A supposedly impartial person whose impartiality is a requirement for him to do his job well, actually be affected by his personal opinions and biases. I mean, that hasn’t changed in 150 years, that’s for sure. *cough Amy Coney Barrett cough* But it’s such a tiny little thing. Would the order of arrest be granted so quickly if the judge hadn’t caught that little honorific slip-up? It’s also just an example of the kind of knife-edge that things like someone’s life sits upon when in the hands of the courts. This is probably not the first case where a tiny, unrelated detail like that weighted the balance between life and death or freedom and prison for someone in this court.

Okay I don’t know anything about couriers and letter-sending and doing things quickly. If this is an official letter sent by courier, would that be one person riding horseback, without a carriage? Surely that would be faster than a horse pulling a vehicle? Especially since the deliberation went on for a little while after Valjean left the courthouse, and then the judge went in with the prosecutor, and then the letter was written and sent, but it got to Javert in M-sur-M soon enough that Valjean only had time to send his letter to Lafitte and briefly see Fantine. I’m just trying to figure out the timing of all of this.

“The buckle of his leather collar, instead of being at the back of his neck, was under his left ear. This denoted extraordinary agitation...For his collar buckle to be awry, he must have just had one of those shocks that could be called inner earthquakes.” I know the descriptions of Javert a few paragraphs later as being overjoyed means that this “agitation” is most likely shocked excitement, but I don’t know, something about this description is so weird to me. It’s the “inner earthquake” line, I think. That feels a lot more “negative” than excitement. Javert’s entire world has been shaken by this information. Perhaps it’s because this is so big. Really, it gets treated with such flippancy within the narrative, but a respected, well-known, charitable member of society in a mayoral position ends up being a wanted convict, and Javert was not only right about it, but right about it twice. That’s big for Javert himself, but it’s also big in general because it’s probably the first time Javert has ever uncovered something like this and been right about it and then told he was wrong and then proven right again. Plus the fact that he was hiding his convict identity the whole time while being a high-ranking, well-loved, leader of the community. Like, a “criminal” government official isn’t just corrupt in the usual way, he was fully a convict the whole time with a hidden identity and everything. It must be mind-blowing for him. And it’s interesting, Valjean is the only one who’s able to deliver multiple earthquake-status blows to Javert’s world throughout the book. (Valvert shippers, I’m starting to understand your perspective a lot more in this read-through than my last two.)

“...Javert turned the knob, pushed the door open as gently as a nurse or a police spy...” What an odd comparison to make. Nurse or police spy? Those are two incredibly disparate professions with totally disparate morals. Nurse implies a calm gentleness, a gentleness that is maybe nurturing or healing or at least positive in some sense. Police spy implies a much more cautious gentleness, one whose purpose is sneaky and definitely not positive towards those behind the door. How is Javert both a nurse and a spy? Unless he’s Harold Shipman, I’m not sure what to make of the connection to the nursing profession.

“Properly speaking, he did not enter. He remained standing in the half-open doorway, his hat on his head, his left hand in his overcoat, which was buttoned to his chin. In the bend of his elbow could be seen the leaden head of his enormous cane, which disappeared behind him.” Okay So this paragraph in context with the chapters before and after it are really interesting. He doesn’t enter the room at first, just stands in the doorway. He only enters the room after both Fantine and Valjean have noticed him. I’m sure there’s a good horror movie example out there, but it’s like he’s not allowed to enter until he’s noticed. Like he’s not allowed to exist for others until they see him. Does that even make sense?

“There is no human feeling that can ever be so appalling as joy. It was the face of the devil who has just regained his victim.” Man, I like the Hapgood translation of that second sentence so much better: “It was the visage of a demon who has just found his damned soul.” Like, it’s not Javert who has singularly persecuted Valjean (I mean it is, but not really), Valjean isn’t Javert’s victim. Valjean is persecuted by society, Javert is just there to collect someone already marked. He’s not the only one doing the marking. So I like the symbolism of a demon collecting a damned soul.

“Javert’s satisfaction radiated from his commanding attitude. The deformity of triumph spread across his narrow forehead. It was the full quotient of horror that only a gratified face can display.” I love this chapter for its bizarre contrast of ugliness and grandeur. Everything Javert does in this chapter is this gross, twisted version of divine justice. His joy, which should be a beautiful and pure emotion, is perverted by its circumstance. And the description of how scary a satisfied face can be is so good because it’s so viscerally descriptive. You see that exact face on every video of a cop being a racist, condescending, sanctimonious, power-hungry cunt to people on the street. That face of “I’m better than you and I have power over you and there’s nothing you can do about it so ha ha I win.” It’s more evil than antagonists who know they’re evil because Javert fully thinks that his actions and thoughts are right. And Hugo points it out here. Triumph and glee for the wrong reasons doesn’t make a person beautiful, it deforms them.

I actually love the description of how joyful Javert is because it’s clear that this is personal for him. When he arrested Fantine and sat down at his desk to write out her sentence as a one man judge-jury-executioner, he wasn’t gleeful like this. He wasn’t sad about it, he just was. He was doing a duty and Hugo even says that he was very thoughtful about it and spent time cataloguing what he saw in order to decide what to do. This isn’t the same type of detached judgement and condemnation. This is fully personal glee at being able to be vindicated.

“At that moment Javert was in heaven. Without a clear notion of his own feelings, yet with a confused intuition of his need and his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light, and truth, in their celestial function as destroyers of evil. He was surrounded and supported by infinite depths of authority, reason, precedent, legal conscience, the vengeance of the law, all the stars in the firmament; he protected order, he hurled forth the thunder of the law, he avenged society, he lent aid to the absolute; he stood erect in a halo of glory; there was in his victory a trace of defiance and combat; standing haughty and resplendent, he displayed in full glory the superhuman beastiality of a ferocious archangel; the fearful shadow of the deed he was accomplishing, making visible in his clenched fist the uncertain flashes of the social sword; happy and indignant, he had gnashed his heel on crime, vice, rebellion, perdition, and hell, he was radiant, exterminating, smiling; there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous St. Michael.”

I have multiple things to say about this passage so I think I’m going to break it all down into different paragraphs because there’s A Lot of different things in my brain.

First of all this is an echo--this time righteous and vindicated--of Javert’s feelings from 1.5.13. Madeleine lets Fantine go and Javert has this thought: “Or, in view of the enormities he had witnessed over the last two hours, was he saying to himself that he had to resort to extreme measures, that the lesser had to make itself greater, for the detective to turn into a magistrates, the policeman become a judge, and that in this shocking turnabout, order, law, morality, government, society itself, were personified in him, Javert?” In 1.5.13, Madeleine’s authority overruled him, protected Fantine and humiliated Javert. In 1.5.13, he is forced to accept defeat. Now, he has all of the authority, all of law and reason and justice behind him because Madeleine no longer has that same power. Javert is again the personification of justice, law, society itself, but there is not Divine Authority to stand up for Valjean as there was for Fantine. Javert is vindicated here for his earlier humiliation, with all levels authority backing him up this time.

“Without a clear notion of his own feelings, yet with a confused intuition of his need and his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light, and truth, in their celestial function as destroyers of evil.” Okay hold on wait. In 1.5.13, Javert has a moment of nearly breaking the fourth wall, nearly deciding that he needs to become a Symbol in order to restore the balance of authority and justice that he feels Madeleine has knocked askew. He is very much aware of his potential to personify Law and Justice etc. But here Hugo says that he does all of this with “confused intuition” and without a clear idea of how he feels. Interesting that when he is conscious of being able to become a symbol, he is prevented from doing so, but when he actually becomes a symbol, he’s unaware of it. Also, here’s another moment of Javert clearly Feeling Something but not fully understanding it, again a thing that only Valjean seems to provoke in him. (Oop more Valvert fodder.)

I don’t really know what to make of the superiority complex that Hugo describes here. Obviously Javert thinks that he is righteous and that he is doing a Great And Grand thing and that he is avenging society by ridding it of the scourge of the evil deceiver convict Jean Valjean. But the way Javert’s righteousness is describes feels like almost more of a “nanny-nanny-boo-boo” feeling. Is your righteousness truly righteous if you’re feeling personal satisfaction and personal superiority about it?

Javert is literally the Angel Of Death here! I know in my last post I talked about Javert as the grim reaper entering the room. His comparison to St Michael confirms this. Michael is a seraph, which are winged celestial beings with a fiery passion for doing God's good work (which is interesting to me considering how much Valjean’s symbolism is associated with fire). In Roman Catholicism Michael is the Angel Of Death who descends and gives the person the chance to redeem themselves before dying. He is also the one who will weigh people’s merits on Judgement Day. Except! Javert is Michael without mercy or patience! He judges without allowing a chance for redemption. We saw this in 1.5.13 when he sat down and wrote out Fantine’s sentence while she simultaneously explained her situation and begged for mercy. We see it now. Javert as St Michael is “monstrous,” he is the St Michael that defeated Satan, not the healing protector Michael. We even have the sword imagery. Michael used the sword to best Satan in battle; except this time the sword is “social” and to Javert at this moment, Valjean is the personification of Crime-As-Satan.

(Side note: something I love about Javert is that he as a human being isn’t really portrayed as an avidly religious person, at least not in the ways that Valjean or the bishop are portrayed as religious people. But his symbolism sure is religious. I think that’s one of the drastic differences between book Javert and stage Javert. Stage Javert is portrayed as a religious person but his symbolism is more human.)

“Probity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the idea of duty, are things that, when in error, can turn hideous, but--even though hideous--remain great: their majesty, peculiar to the human conscience, persists in horror. They are virtues with a single vice--error.” Hugo’s thought about duty done in error is so interesting. He says something similar when talking about Problem of the monastery: “To mistake a grave error for a duty has a grandeur of its own.” For Hugo, the fact of having such strong conviction alone is a grand thing. Having conviction, having a sense of duty is always a good thing--the error is not in the sense of duty itself but in what that allegiance might be to. The virtues of duty or honesty or conviction are by themselves inherently good, but they can be misused and misinterpreted and made wrong.

(Side note: This is actually a really interesting thought re: Grantaire! Hugo holds not just having beliefs but having faith in and conviction about your beliefs in such high regard. Which makes Grantaire, who is conviction-less and faithless, in the midst of all these people who are so loyal and committed to their beliefs and ideals, not a mild contrast but a massive one.)

“Without suspecting it, Javert, in his dreadful happiness, was pitiful, like every ignorant man in triumph. Nothing could be more poignant and terrible than this face, which revealed what might be called the evil of good.” God I love this line. “The evil of good” is a concept that really, really, really needs to be common usage. I feel like this line specifically really needs some in depth analysis but also I don’t really know what to say about it except that it’s just so true. Regarding Javert being “pitiful” in his happiness, this kind of reminds me of Mme Victurnien? Both think they’re doing a “good thing” and their deeds ruin lives; their triumph and feelings of righteousness are pitiful for this reason. Again, it’s the equivalent of a “ha ha I win” bully moment, but with much worse consequences. Man, I feel like this chunk needs more analysis than this but I don’t know what to give it.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #brickclub #lm 1.8.3 #les mis #les mis meta

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buffcontrol · 5 years ago

Photo

New Story: The Black Tank Top

It of course seemed ridiculous, beyond improbable, that what appeared to be a regular tank top could do what it promised. Chris folded and unfolded the thing in has weighty hands, feeling the stretch material on his fingers and glancing at the accompanying note. “Wear this and you’ll get whatever you want!” That was all the note said, on nondescript paper from a nondescript package that had arrived on his doorstep that morning.

In any case, the large black top was just his size and looked pretty nice. The weird note was whatever, but he couldn’t complain about getting a nice new shirt to work out in, he supposed. He slipped off his white tee to try it on, feeling the collar bunch around his neck as he wiggled it over his wide shoulders.

He paused to look in the mirror, wondering, what do I want, exactly? What is it that I really want? He wouldn’t mind getting a little bigger, he thought, packing a little more muscle on would certainly be nice. He rubbed at his stomach before pushing up on his impressive pecs and flexing a little. Already, Chris’s body was something to behold: round in the right corners and heavy where he needed to be, in his big biceps and forearms, his chest, ass and legs all impressively dense and full. He was tall, handsome and naturally athletic without appearing overbearing or appearing cartoonish. Just naturally masculine and fit.

With a final slap at his curved biceps and another glance at the tank top, he picked the thing up and yanked it over his chest and down his stomach. For just a moment, still staring in the mirror, he thought maybe he would suddenly inflate and enlarge into some godly adonis. He inhaled, flexed, stared in the mirror and waited. Nothing happened. He felt a little ridiculous but laughed it off. Time to forget about it and get his workout in.

Yet, he couldn’t really forget it as he began jogging toward his usual gym. Maybe it wasn’t that he couldn’t forget, it was more that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Yeah, he thought, hitting his stride, his pace increasing, maybe it’s working. Maybe I’m running faster. He laughed a little to himself at the thought it could be true. Maybe he was going to get bigger after all, albeit slowly or more gradually than he would’ve thought.

His workout was following the norm. He easily picked up each weight at each machine and followed his usual rhythm perfectly. It was effortless to the point he wasn’t even processing it, he was simply performing it like a task. Automatically. When he was done and had returned home, it was like none of it had happened at all, he just came to suddenly sitting on his couch with a satisfying, full bodied pump coursing through him and a haze that made it hard to think.

“Huh…” he wondered aloud.

He felt as if it had suddenly become a chore to move. He knew he wanted to stand up, get some water… or something… but his limbs were light and floaty. They weren’t responding to the circuits in his brain, too bogged down with a warm glow to function properly.

“Must be tired,” he said. He felt a dull surprise when it came out droll and monotone. It was if the heat in him had spread into his very vocal cords. Must’ve been a really good workout, he thought, must’ve been… why couldn’t he remember his workout? It was beginning to worry him when the sensation throbbing in him started to churn somewhere deep in his crotch, making it impossible to think of anything else.

HIs thick fingers were moving on their own toward his gym shorts and there was absolutely nothing on his mind but the heat incinerating in him. All the concern was slowly vanishing as he puffed out his chest and caressed himself on the couch. It felt good, he thought, it felt good to let go of whatever was in his brain, just feeling his muscles and the extraordinary pleasure in him when—

There was a knock on the door. Chris’s body erected automatically and he moved to the door without thinking. It was when his hand met the doorknob that a pulse of shock burst in him. He stopped, looking down at himself and the stiffness totally formed in his shorts, standing at attention. “What the?” Why was he so dizzy? And horny? And then why… why was his hand opening the door? He wasn’t trying to open it yet suddenly the door was open and a man walked right in.

He was short and thin with brown hair. Totally unremarkable. He dropped his jacket on the ground and marched into the flat’s living room. “Looks like you’re enjoying that tank top I sent you,” he said.

“Wha….” Chris moaned. He was following this stranger back in. This guy shouldn’t be here, he thought, this is wrong… “Who are you?”

“Do you care?”

“No, I… uh…” why didn’t he care? Suddenly, Chris was scared. This was all so weird, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t seem to find the emotion or motivation in him to stop what was happening.

“I already told you, I’m the guy that sent you that top you’ve got on. Looks good on you man,” he said. “You know, it makes you into whatever you want to be. What do you want to be, Chris?”

“Get out…” Chris stuttered. It was too hard to talk, he kept feeling that warmth coursing through him as he swayed in place. “I don’t know haha…”

“Tell me what you want to be, Chris,” the man approached him. There was a flinch in his body but it was immediately suppressed. “Feel free to do whatever you want. You’re safe with me.”

“Huh…” his hands found the bottom seam of his new tank top and pulled it up over his chest all on their own. He couldn’t believe he was stripping in front of some random stranger. The fear throbbing through him was laced with something so satisfying and pacifying his mind failed to connect his terror with any ability to act.

“That feels better, doesn’t it?”

“Yah dude…” and as the words moaned from him, he felt his arms come up in a tight double bicep pose. The muscles on his body tensed and expanded as he flexed them, quivering, like something in his body was trying to break free of what it was doing. He laughed as he flexed, the laugh coming from some deep and primordial place from him out of his control. He laughed, but his eyebrows were stitched in fear. “Please man… please…”

“What is it” he asked.

“Please let me go…”

“Is that what you really want?” He asked.

Chris strained. “N- no…,” he cried, some new truth settling into his brain and cementing. But he shook it off, sweating, everything in his body becoming harder to control. He managed to just barely jerk his head, “I mean yes! Please let me go! What’s happening to me!” His voice was panicked but his face was plastered with a big, dumb smile. He couldn’t change it no matter how hard he tried. Suddenly, he transitioned into a side pose that showed off his powerful deltoids. “I don’t want any of this!”

“Be honest with yourself.”

Chris’s eyes were clouding as his grin widened. Drool was slowly accumulating in the corner of his mouth as he tightened the muscles on his arms. He was clearly trying to say something, but it only came out in chokes and gurgles as he smiled, baring all of his pristine white teeth.

“Doesn’t it feel good?”

There was an impulse to lie, as if protecting himself, but it was quickly extinguished by the pleasure building in him. He couldn’t deny the satisfaction that was settling into his entire being. “Ye… yes… so good…” The more he felt himself giving in and the more he flexed, the harder his dick grew in his shorts, precum sliding down his thigh.

“So be truthful. Tell me what you really want. Is it just to be bigger?”

As if something inside of him had opened and he could see more clearly into his being, Chris’s innermost desire became starkly apparent. He had always known it but never had the ability to say it to himself. Whatever spell was over him, he could not deny it any longer. But he tried, “Nn… nnn…” he grunted.

“Accept the truth.”

“I want to be a brainless, muscle whore!” He blurted. “I want my entire life to be devoted to sex and pleasure! I don’t want anything else but fucking and flexing and cumming!”

The man opposite him grinned. “Are you sure? If that’s not true, you can say so and all of this will stop.”

But Chris knew this was true. No matter how deep down he had tried to suppress it, he was innately desperate to reduce himself into a stupid muscle slut, capable of nothing but working out, orgasming and giving orgasms. “It’s true! It’s true, it’s true!”

And with those words, Chris’s reality began to realize itself. A piece of his brain did not disappear, but rather it shrunk into the size of a marble in the sea of his mind. It was his consciousness for a normal life, his thoughts about work and friends and everything outside of muscle and sex. It was still there, but so small it was practically invisible in the utter ocean of gleeful stupidity and horniness flooding him all at once. He no longer had any choice in what his body did, it was a complete slave to satisfaction. Every thought attempting to escape that marble of normalcy was drowned with lust.

Automatically, Chris followed his desire as he raced to rip his shorts and underwear off and jerk off. All he wanted to do was cum. The tiny shred of his regular self could do nothing but watch in disgust as his body instinctually began to approach the twink to pound. Still whacking his thick cock with one hand, he rushed to get any of the stranger’s clothes off and get his dick inside. He was nothing like Chris’s old type, but it didn’t matter anymore: Chris had gotten what he wanted, to be a brainless himbo jock, and he would never turn down sex again.

“I’m so big!” He cried as his dick slid in. “I’m so hot! Gotta fuck, gotta fuck, want sex, yeah! Yeah!” He flexed both of his thick arms as his hips instinctively thrust back and forth.

Chris’s body fucked and fucked, cumming three times before he slammed his meaty ass onto the stranger’s own dick, riding him for hours. “I’m just a whore, I’m a dirty jock pig aren’t I? Fuck yeah!”

The continually diminishing shred of him still capable of understanding what was happening fought and fought, but it was powerless, just smothered in his true desire to give himself over to pleasure. Even after the bastard who put this curse on him was gone, he was subjected to watch in horror as the actual Chris downloaded Grindr, begging anyone to come over and fuck. Men came and played with his juicy pecs, making him flex for them. “I’m the hottest dude on this planet,” he laughed as men in front of him squeezed his flexed arms and thighs. “Look at these muscles!”

It wasn’t long before even the little piece left of the old Chris was gone. He had quit his job and started professionally camming to make money. He did nothing but work out and suck and fuck all day. He couldn’t do anything without it leading to sex or a pump from the gym.

But every now and then, as Chris flexes, squeezing his arms together and tightening his abs, showing off his strong back and sculpted legs, a minor pang of the past leaps into him, calling for help, trying to get out, only for it to be put out by a dumb, masculine laugh as drool trails from his lips and he says, “I’m so horny man… hahaha…”

Next to him, a simple black tank top on the floor.

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revchainsaw · 4 years ago

Text

You're Next (2011)

Greetings Flock! Reverend Chainsaw here with another film review to feed your souls. Parishioners of the Cult of Cult should be familiar with todays offering, and that is good news for you shall find your hearts strangely warmed. Please join me as we dive into the Book of You're Next and renew our devotion to the Trinity that is The Tiger, the Lamb, and the Holy Wolf.

The Message

You're Next is definitely a tough film to review. For a movie as young as it is to have had such a strong and committed following speaks volumes and I believe you would be hard pressed to find a review by anyone who loves horror that is down on the film. While it can sometimes bring me great joy to review the awful films of the world, occasionally it is a pleasure to give honor to those films which deserve it.

You're Next is a film which fits neatly into both the Slasher and Home Invasion genres. The story centers around a vicious assault on a wealthy family by 3 masked men, all on the evening when our heroin, Erin, is meeting them for the first time. Avoiding the Slasher genre trope of generic murder lambs we are yet again faced with an excellent cast where not even the early victims are forgettable.

The movie opens with the grizzly murder of the Davison's nearest neighbors by our animal masked assassins, insuring that should anyone attempt to flee they will not be finding help any time soon. Then we get one hell of a title card before we find Paul and Aubrey Davison preparing to have their children and their respective partners over to their home to celebrate their anniversary. Aubrey is played by Re-Animators own Barbara Crampton. Foremost among the children visiting are their son Crispian, a college professor, and his Australian girlfriend Erin, who was once his T.A. This is a source of contention for Crispian when his siblings judge the professional nature of this relationship.

Two by Two the Children arrive. It is off handedly mentioned that the Davisons money comes from defense contracts, and that the family dynamic is particularly strained. An arrow from a cross bow pierces the window during a particularly tense dinner, and then the film enters full force into unyielding action. There are characters murdered by arrows, a gruesome slice to the jugular by some sinisterly placed piano wire (during what was ramping up to be a daring escape from the home), and of course axe murders.

Crispian manages to escape into the night abandoning Erin and his remaining family. At this point, Erin, who is revealed to have been raised on a survivalist compound begins to fight back. Erin goes full Home Alone on the invaders, and the hunters soon become the hunted. After Erin kills one of the villains It is revealed through the course of the night that the murder of the Davison family is an inside job. These men are paid assassins and they were hired by Felix and his gothy girlfriend Zee, whose macabre tastes include being sexually aroused by dead bodies. Once Erin discovers this fact she dispatches the rest of the animal masked crew as well as Felix and Zee with some very creative uses of kitchenware.

Just as we are about to declare Erin the final girl of this film Felix's phone rings, it's Crispian. When Erin answers Crispian reveals that he was the ringleader, but his weak constitution had caused him to flee the scene. Impatient when he doesn't here Felix on the other end Felix reenters the home to find a bloody Erin. He begs and makes excuses, promising Erin that she was intended to be a witness to the slaughter and was safe the whole time. Erin is having none of it, and ends the relationship once and for all with a stab to the neck.

The film ends with the arrival of the police who upon discovering Erin murdering Crispian set off one of her Home Alone traps and she is set up to be held responsible for the whole affair. Here's hoping we get the court room drama sequel that this movie deserves.

The Benediction

Best Kill: Erin, In the Kitchen, With the Vitamix It's not often in a horror flick that the best kill can be said not to have come from the hands of the monster, but from the heroin. Toward the climax of the film Erin has had enough and she expresses her self in glorious gory satisfaction with a blender to the skull of her lovers brother Felix.

Best Character : T.A. Taking Action Suprise! It's Erin. The best character is Erin. I really wanted to try and say that it was some more obscure character like snarky big bro Drake, but No. It's Erin, it was always Erin. She is the stand out feature of the film. The Lamb, the Tiger, and the Wolf masks were instantly iconic and sold in Hot Topic from the minute the movie made a wide release, but no one comes out of You're Next thinking about the mercenary assassins. We come out thinking about how the lass from the land down under turned the tide against the terribe trio. The audience wants more Erin.

Best Actor: We Came, We Got You, Barbara!

It's just so good to see Barbara Crampton whenever we can. It says something for a person to still be doing the Scream Queen thing for this long. She is not the most likeable character in You're Next but she is selling the fear, the tension and the goals of her character. I think it would be safe to say that the first act would not be nearly as effective without Barbara Cramptons performance.

Best Villain: Zee Nation

Zee was just something else. The Masked Trio of Home Invaders were sort of plug and play. The masks and tactical gear definitely sold the menace, but they were not really characters. They are given some slivers of back story and I don't think that it's really a problem that way. I've been happy with less before. It just sort of means that no one killer stands out in particular. Though the Lamb Mask is my personal favorite. For all the brutish merciless killing these three dole out to the Davison family it's really Zee who makes a splash in my memory. She's absolutely as gleeful as a deadite about all this bloodshed going on around her. She isn't just dark and edgy cuz it's a look, it seems like she really took that aesthetic to heart. The fact that you couldn't tell she'd happily tear your throat out by looking at her certainly makes her a bigger threat than she gets credit for.

Worst Character: Poor Little Rich Kid

All of the characters in You're Next work. Some move from grating to sympathetic, others from charming to pitiful, but at some point every character has a presence and a personality that the viewer can recognize. No Character in this film will receive worst character because they are poorly written, unneccessary, or just obnoxious. However, one character is consistently self-indulgent, cocky, sniveling, and has all the undeserved sense of superiority of a Kevin Smith protagonist, and that's Crispian. Fuck Crispian. He's a bad boyfriend, a bad brother, a bad son, and a bad teacher. He has so much that he doesn't deserve, and earnestly feels he's entitled to more.

Most WTF Moment: Crossing the Line

Was it Crispian's heel turn? Was it Felix stabbing drake? The realization that the family extermination was an inside job? Was it the twist that Erin was a bad ass? What single moment made everyone who's seen this movie go "WHOAH!!!" all at once? When Crispian was attempting to make his exit the first time he proposed he go and get help claiming he's the fastest, to which his overestimation of himself is comedically undercut by the fact that he is in fact out of shape and his sister Aimee used to run track. The family unanimously agrees they would put their lives in the hands of poor Aimee and her athletic past, but they also propose she back up and bolt out the front door the minute they open it up. The music swells, and Aimee makes a run for it. She is stopped short by a piano wire trap set by the mercenaries, as her momentum allows the wire to cut deep and clean into the meat of her neck. She is not decapitated but bleeds out on the floor of the house. It really catches the viewer off guard and is a very impressive effect. Not only is Aimee's kill the most WTF moment, but it is runner up for best kill.

Summary You're Next is hands down my favorite home invasion movie. It's wide appeal is undeniable. As of 2015, You're Next was predicted to be considered the best horror movie of the 2010s. Unfortunately for You're Next but how wonderful for us, the later half of the decade really ramped up the great horror films releases. I wouldn't call You're Next the best horror film of it's time, but it definitely deserves to be remembered. People's enthusiasm for the film does seem to be slowing and I think it would do our congregation a great service for us to continue singing it's praises.

Overall Grade: A

#You're Next #slasher #horror #home invasion #2011 #2010s #masked killer #wolf #fox #tiger #lamb #Final Girl #A #Grade A #(A)

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duker42 · 5 years ago

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Advice part 4: Now the girls ask y/N for advice. Levi hears them ask, gleefull that she is now in that uncomfortable situation. But y/n is totally not ashamed of anything, answering all questions detailed and with examples from her current relationship with Levi..... he is so embarrassed and even more when he turns around about to leave and finds the other brats laughing there asses of 🤣 I love the embarrassed Levi 😇

💜Her Advice💜

He stopped before he entered the kitchens, wincing as he heard one of the brats voices coming through the opened doors. He really wanted a cup of tea but from the sound of the voices it was all the damn girls in there laughing like idiots.

“So....Y/N.....Does size really count? ‘Cause I would imagine that the Captain would be a little lacking in that department, but you always sound so satisfied.” Mikasa’s voice was clear and had a bit of smug venom to it as she made a subtle jab at Levi’s height and now his.....size.

He closed his eyes and bit back a grin at the irony. Y/N was finally getting her own dose of bitter medicine. As many times as she had teased him about those shitty brats asking for advice she was getting her own comeuppance. He leaned against the wall and hoped that she was feeling the same damn horror that had coursed though him.

It would serve her right for suggesting maliciously that he should write a guide on how to please a woman. Fucking brat, she was lucky she was naked on his lap at the time, or he would have thrown her to the Titans.

He stopped grinning when she answered, no hesitation in her voice. “Levi might lack the height of most men, but he’s definitely not lacking in that department. Some might say that size doesn’t matter, but it’s much better when he can pound against your cervix relentlessly.”

Holy fucking Walls, she had no shame. There was a bit of huskiness as was obviously thinking about that morning when he had taken her against the shower wall and fucked her until her legs were trembling. Levi felt himself get a bit red in the face at his lover talking so blasé about their private life.

The girls giggled and he could just imagine the pouty look the moody brat was throwing. The quieted back down and he heard the clinking of the cups as they were obviously drinking tea while having their little chat.

“Should I bite it?” Sasha asked.

Levi flinched involuntarily and barely stopped himself from covering his crotch with his hand. Poor Connie, he never thought he would feel sympathy for the brat, but he must fear for his cock every time that brat came near it.

“Sasha, NO!” Y/N yelled at the food obsessed girl, laughing horrified at the question. “You treat it nice, if you’re mean to it, it won’t give you what you want.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Levi eyes closed in horror as Y/N went into detail. “You want him breathless and panting for you, not wincing in pain. Used your tongue and swirl it around the tip, and when you suck, don’t act like your trying to suck his soul out....at least at first. Save that for when he’s gasping that he’s about to cum and his hands are fisted in your hair.”

“Do you think they like having their nipples played with and sucked on like we do?”

Y/N laughed as she thought about that. Levi gritted his teeth, she better not fucking tell those brats about.....

“Yeah. Depending on the mood. Especially if you are rubbing yourself against his cock as you work your way down his chest. Kissing and nipping his skin. You can pull some interesting sounds from them the first time you latch your mouth on their nipple.” Y/N said smugly.

He felt like his entire body was flushing with embarrassment. Damn her for telling them about that. Even if she hadn’t said his name, they had to know that she was talking about him. Now the brats were going to be laughing about how the Captain like to have his fucking nipples sucked on. He was never going to live this shit down.

When he got Y/N alone he was going to spank her bare ass until it was as bright red as his face. He snorted quietly to himself. No use, she’d fucking love it and then beg him to fuck her, which he would because he would be rock hard by that time. Damnit.

The girls made ooohhh and aaahhhing sounds and he could only hope they were all thinking about their own lovers and not thinking about him. He never prayed before but he would get down on his fucking knees and start worshiping the walls if meant they weren’t thinking about him sexually.

Levi pushed away to retreat, not wanting to hear anymore of this shit. He didn’t need to not be able to look his damned squad in the eyes because they knew private details about how he responded to Y/N’s touch.

He stopped and his eyes narrowed as he found the four asshole boys of his squad standing behind him. He had been so caught up in listening and trying to quell his distress about Y/N so candidly talking about their sex life that he hadn’t heard them come up behind him.

Jean and Connie had their fists stuffed in their mouths, red and shaking from trying to hide their laughter, tears streaming down their faces. Eren and Armin were a bit better, still red but only wearing shit eating grins on their faces.

Even his darkest glare didn’t deter the boys amusement at the information revealed in the kitchens. He shoved them further along the corridor until they were out of hearing. “Say a fucking word and I’ll make sure that you are fed to a Titan, slowly. Eren, I’ll let Hanji experiment on your ass without supervision.”

He got a little bit of satisfaction from seeing the boys pale at his threats, restoring a bit of his former good humor. He ordered the boys to follow him, wanting to keep them well away from anything else Y/N might tell those damn female brats.

“Sooooo Captain...your nipples, huh?” Connie teased.

Levi didn’t pause as he strode out of the castle. He shot back viciously “At least I don’t have to worry about my dick getting bitten off during a blow job because she got hungry, baldy.”

The boy’s laughter followed him out into the courtyard as they ribbed Connie and hurried to catch up with his quick steps. He really was going to beat Y/N’s ass for her advice giving skills.

Mobile MasterList

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somethingjustsouthofbrilliance · 5 years ago

Text

Tears of an Angel (Crowley/Aziraphale)

Right... so I saw this beautiful, heartrending artwork post and... I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t think I could ever do this, but... I’m sorry. I am truly sorry.

Warning: Major Character Death

Tagging: @tonystark5ever @giulisetta @swanheart69

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Adam’s wedding day is beautiful – a gorgeous, sun-stroked jewel of late summer, imbued with an intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. Not a hint of clouds in the brilliant blue sky that smiles down at the happy mingle of guests: some chatting amicably with those around them, others indulging, somewhat furtively but with obvious pleasure, in the impressive spread of refreshments heaped onto the white-clothed tables, others still swaying blissfully to the soft, enchanting sounds of music.

It’s perfect. And Crowley wouldn’t have expected it to be anything but. Adam, after all, is still, to this day, the Spawn of Satan, whom he so bravely, so brilliantly rejected all those years ago. And that means, reality is very much still his to change the way he pleases.

Crowley can’t find it in himself to complain.

He leans casually back against the side of a gazebo, arms crossed on his chest. Smiles fondly as he watches Anathema drag Aziraphale out into the dancing area, the angel shooting a pleading look Crowley’s way before submitting to the inevitable with a resigned huff, hurriedly shoving the remainder of a strawberry tart into his mouth.

Oh, angel…

“Interesting setup you got here.”

He straightens out instantly, all sense of leisure gone from his posture, tension bleeding from every line of his body.

“What do you want, Hastur?”

“I’ve been watching you two,” the demon drawls out ominously from behind him – an oppressive, dangerous presence just off to the side, just out of his line of sight. And Crowley fights the urge to turn around; suppresses the frisson of unease the demon’s presence sends down his spine.

“What do you want?” he repeats in a growl of forced annoyance, even as his metaphorical heart clenches in mounting fear. Hastur’s been watching them. All these years. Does it mean he figured out their swap? Does it mean he knows?

“I know you tricked us,” Hastur answers his unspoken question, a note of smug satisfaction in his voice telling Crowley the demon noticed his panic despite Crowley’s best efforts. “I don’t know how you did it, but…” There’s an ugly bark of laughter – like a crack of a dry twig underfoot, followed by rustle of clothes and an overwhelmingly strong presence, dark, magical. “I don’t really care.”

And Crowley can’t help turning around now. Can’t help looking down at Hastur’s gloved hand, at the wicked-looking knife held cautiously in its grip. Can’t help the nasty, cold feeling that claws at his chest when he sees the flame-red sigils carved into the darkened blade.

“Oh, good, you recognize it.” Hastur’s smiling at him now – a dark, sadistically gleeful grin. Turns the blade in his hand in a mockery of awed contemplation. “A hellfire-forged blade with holy sigils – a perfect weapon against any being, ethereal or demonic.” Growls out low, his upper lip curling in predatory anticipation, “Heaven and Hell will be happy to see both of you gone. Me personally? After watching the two of you for a bit? I think killing just one of you will make for a far better torture.” He waves his free hand in the air, a look of almost blissful dreaminess spreading across his face.

Crowley grinds his teeth together in helpless rage, glances back out to where his angel is fumbling dreadfully across from Anathema in a poor imitation of dancing, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking only a few feet away. Flinches when he feels Hastur shift closer.

“I’m feeling generous today, Serpent,” he murmurs, the smell of swamp and rot wafting over the side of Crowley’s face. “I’m gonna let you choose.”

Choose. A bitter smile twitches at the corners of Crowley’s lips, his eyes never leaving the achingly dear white-haired form in a cream color jacket. What is there to choose, really? His choice has been made over 6000 years ago, standing on that wall in the Garden of Eden next to a beautiful, mystifying angel who gave away his sword to protect humans and then proceeded to shield a demon from the First Rain.

He doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Me,” he states calmly, ignoring the sharp pang in his heart at the thought that this is it for him, that he will never see his angel again. “Take me.” Turns briefly back to his unwelcome companion to glare murderously into the bottomless dark pools of his eyes. “But thisss isss it, Hastur,” he hisses, low and menacing, putting all of his venom, all of his demonic, serpentine conviction into the words. “After thisss our debt isss paid in full. Nobody touches the angel, understood? Not your lot, not the Heaven. And you will make sure of that.” He leans in closer, eyes bleeding a terrifyingly hypnotic, poisonous yellow. “You will make sure of that, Hasssstur, or I swear on all that is unholy, that I will find a way to come back, and I will make you wish you were the first one through my office door that day instead of Ligur.” He lets his upper lip curl, lets his fangs slide out in warning. “Undersssstood?”

Hastur’s lips twist in an echoing snarl, but Crowley can see the minute perturbation on the other demon’s face, knows his threat (bluff, yes, but Hastur has no way of knowing that) has hit its mark.

“Meet me in the cemetery behind the church,” the Duke of Hell spits out, nodding blindly in the direction of the small village church that hosted the wedding ceremony a mere hour ago. And disappears in a cloud of thick gray smoke.

Crowley remains where he is a moment longer. Lets his gaze linger on Aziraphale for one last time, drinking in the sight of his dancing angel – so blessedly carefree, so endearingly clumsy, so unfailingly good, so… so… beautiful. He sighs, smiling despite the traitorous, anguished tremble of his lips. Closes his eyes, letting that final image of Aziraphale become engrained in his memory. And follows Hastur to his doom.

He doesn’t see Aziraphale turning to glance in his direction an instant before he disappears from view.

***

He reappears but a moment later in the place of Hastur’s choosing. Stumbles a bit on the uneven surface of a freshly laid grave.

And gasps, his breath choked off and stolen, as sharp pain explodes below his ribcage, doubling him over with the force of the blow. A wave of power rushes through him – angelic and demonic, woven together to create a monumental, monstrous hybrid of destruction. Cold and fiery, deadly and unstoppable, sluicing through his veins to tear him apart, piece by piece by piece.

He reaches forward on instinct, grabbing blindly, convulsively for the support of the putrid smelling shape that materializes in front of him. Groans pathetically as Hastur shoves the blade deeper with a hard, vicious thrust. And shudders, his fingers unclasping, nerveless, from the demon’s sleeve, as Hastur yanks the blade out and steps quickly back out of reach.

“We are even now,” Hastur observes dispassionately as Crowley sinks to his knees before him onto the clumpy ground, one hand pressed uselessly against the bleeding gaping hole in his chest, the other seeking purchase in the loose dirt. Cringes with sympathetic fear as Crowley draws in another harsh, labored wheeze of a breath, face twisting at the ever-mounting pain.

“It was quicker for Ligur,” he notes darkly, sheathing the blade and putting it away into the folds of his coat. “Merciful almost, compared to yours.”

His cheek twitches minutely, a fire of grim satisfaction flashing in the black depths. Then, suddenly, he squats down before the injured demon, stares unblinking into the wide, pain-glazed eyes.

“But perhaps you can be thankful for a chance to say goodbye.” He cants his head to the side, nodding at something in the distance.

Blearily, Crowley follows his motion, and the cold that fills his chest no longer has anything to do with his impending death. Because there, weaving his way toward them between the maze of tombstones, is the angel, his angel.

No.

He grasps for Hastur’s coat again, gritting his teeth at the fresh flare of pain that rips through him at the unsanctioned movement.

“Your promisssse… re… remember your…,” his voice cuts out, his throat spasming from a sudden buildup of pressure that drowns the rest of his words in a vicious gurgle of a cough that spills forth in a spectacular spray of blood.

He gasps, breathless, against the intensity of it. Squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, missing the grimace of disgust that flits across Hastur’s face as the demon raises his hand to vanish the bloody splatter that carried from his former colleague to settle on his face and clothes.

“I have not forgotten, Serpent,” he grouches, extricating himself once again from Crowley’s feeble grip. Straightens back out, making a show of dusting off his forever-filthy coat. His cheek twitches again – a tell of discomfort, as he forces out the parting words of (questionable) reassurance. “Have a nice… death.”

A snap of fingers and the Duke of Hell vanishes from sight, and then the angel is there, kneeling on the ground before Crowley, hands pawing frantically at the darkened, bleeding hole in the middle of his chest; grasping Crowley’s shoulders as he sways alarmingly on his gradually weakening knees.

Crowley tries to steady himself, tries to look strong for his angel, but the devastating power ravaging his essence has already done too much damage, and he can’t help but succumb, slumping forward into Aziraphale’s chest with a helpless groan.

“Crowley?”

The angel’s voice trembles, tinged with desperation and fear, and Crowley can feel the same anxious tremble in the arms that wrap themselves around him; can hear the panicked beat of the angel’s heart. This will not do, he thinks, sluggish. He can’t leave his angel like this – so desperate, so panicked. He has to–

“I can’t… I can’t heal it. What…. Crowley, darling, please, what’s–?”

“Shhhhh….” He forces his head up, forces his weakened hand to move. Presses a shaking finger to the beautiful plump lips that he has been so fortunate, so privileged to taste in these past few years. How incredibly, insanely lucky he was!

“Shhh,” he repeats, running careful, gentle fingers across the angel’s cheek, wiping away a streak of golden tears that trails down the soft pale skin. Frowns when fresh tears begin to trickle down the same track. This isn’t right, he thinks. Aziraphale shouldn’t be… he can’t…

“Don’t cry,” he pleads, voice raspy and shaking with pain that is becoming harder and harder to conceal. But he will try. He has to try. For his angel. “S’okay… Zira… sss’okay. I cho…chose this… My choicssssse…”

Tear-filled blue eyes widen in understanding, the angel glancing briefly at a spot where Hastur stood only moments ago, before shifting his grief-stricken, horrified gaze back to Crowley.

“No…,” he whines, tears falling harder now, as his arms tighten around Crowley’s shivering form in mounting despair. “No, Crowley… Crowley, you can’t….”

Crowley blinks at him fondly, a faint smile pulling at his blood-stained lips. “S’okay,” he exhales, fighting to speak against the gradually thickening blanket of darkness that begins to weigh down on him, threatening to pull him under. He can’t let it happen. Not yet. He needs to get the angel to understand, needs to explain. He knows that, once he surrenders to that darkness, he won’t get another chance.

“I had to… They won’t… won’t bother you now. Not any…anymore.”

It’s important that Aziraphale knows this. Because it’s something that’s been bothering the both of them all these years – the fear that Heaven or Hell or both will be coming for them any moment. It dampened the serenity, the pleasure of that short time they spent together, forcing them to constantly look over their shoulders. But no more, no more…

What little strength he has left to keep himself upright runs out and he sags, boneless, in Aziraphale’s feverish embrace, their foreheads touching.

Aziraphale is saying something, the angel’s breath hot and suspiciously wet against his skin, but Crowley can’t hear him, not anymore – the darkness pulling at him, engulfing his senses.

“Kiss me,” he asks instead – a barely there whisper.

He can hardly feel his arms anymore, but he manages somehow to raise one, to hook it feebly around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, smearing blood onto the white curls. Tugs, trying to urge the angel closer.

There’s barely any discernible pressure behind his gesture, but Aziraphale follows it nevertheless. Surges forward with a choked off sob, closing the already negligible gap between their mouths, latching on to Crowley’s lips as a man wandering for days in the sweltering heat of the desert latches on to the refreshing watery escape of an oasis.

The fear of loss, the desperate denial, the frantic need to hold on, and the love – overwhelming, all-encompassing, unfaltering love: Crowley reads it all on the trembling, tear-stained lips that cling to his own. It’s warm, the angel’s kiss. So beautifully warm against the numbing, agonizing cold that fills his entire being.

He closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the kiss, trying to capture as much of that warmth as he can, to bask in his angel’s essence before darkness pulls him away for good.

It isn’t long now, he can feel it. Can feel himself falling, breaking will-lessly away from the soft anchor of Aziraphale’s lips – the warm light of his angel’s presence growing dimmer and dimmer, until only a tiny spark remains in the thick, stifling darkness that swathes his mind.

He latches on to it, weakly, stubbornly. Peels his eyes open, unsurprised to find the angel leaning over him, his face – a pale, haloed blur for his failing sight. But even now, faded almost beyond recognition, he’s still the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen.

He tells him so. Releases the truth of it on the final exhale his corporation’s lungs allow him. Along with a faint susurrant confession, “Love you… angel…”

A soft, wet splatter of a warm, golden tear on his ice-cold cheek is the last thing he feels.

FIN

#good omens #good omens fic #crowley/aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #hastur #character death #tragedy #angst #hurt #i broke them #i didn't mean to #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes #sjsob good omens fics

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sethrine-writes · 6 years ago

Text

Daughter of a Devil - Ch. 13

Main Characters: Father!Dante & Daughter!Reader

Words: 1380

Warnings: Halloween shenanigans

Summary: Being a parent wasn’t easy, nor was there such thing as being perfect at it. Good news for Dante, seeing as how he doesn’t have the slightest idea in hell what to do with a child. Sometimes, he was certain that fighting off a horde of demons was a far better match than keeping up with his own daughter. Well, at least he wasn’t going down without a fight.

A/N: It’s been a while! I’ve missed updating this fic, and I hope you guys missed reading it. Fun fact: when I first posted this chapter eight or so years ago, it was a Halloween special!

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Chapter 13 - Blood-sucking Fun (7 yrs.)

Halloween had to be one of your absolute favorite holidays.

It was one of the few times Dante let you out of the house for an extended period of time without him hovering over you like a hawk – you were eight, not two, as you liked to remind him, and since you were obviously almost an adult, you deserved some time to yourself. That didn’t mean you got it, but he at least made the conscious effort to give you some distance on longer outings, if you wanted it, and it made you feel like a grown-up.

Halloween was also a time for you to dress as one of the things your father hunted on a regular basis, and that brought on a whole new wonder of possibilities.

That year, you had decided to go as a Vampire Princess. The costume itself was mostly black and red, consisting of a flared, multi-layered tutu skirt and a top that was fancy looking and frilled at the sleeves. Atop your head rested a beautiful silver tiara with faux gems covering the shining metal. Small red heels suited for children your age adorned your feet, and a pair of specially made snap-in fangs completed the costume.

Make-up wise, Lady had applied a bit of dark eye shadow on your lids, a bit of blush, and deep red lipstick to your small lips. A slight mishap of the red color to the corner of your lips created the illusion of blood coming from your mouth, creating the perfect vampire look, in your opinion.

Dante, however, had simply thought you adorable, which had you pouting. You were supposed to be scary - regal, but scary nonetheless.

As a sort of punishment to your own father, you asked Lady to escort you to the Halloween party you had been invited to by a classmate instead of him; Lady found some sort of sick satisfaction from this and gladly accepted.

You had already been at the party for two hours, and it wasn't supposed to end for another hour or so. Since the announcement of the winner of the Halloween Costume Contest, in which you had won second place and earned a generous portion of candies and other goodies, you were finding little more interest in the festivities going on.

With a small hum, you gathered up your nearly full bag of treats and headed out while the parents chaperoning were preoccupied with some other game, too impatient on waiting for Lady or Dante to come get you. The party hadn't been too far away from the shop, and with the other trick-or-treaters running around with their parents and such, you figured it would be fine walking back on your own.

As you walked, you couldn't help the big smile that found its way to your face, giddy with the magical feel of the evening. You loved all the costumes everyone was sporting, delighting in the many different costumes of mythical beings, cartoon characters, and scary monsters sported by kids and adults alike. You had even been stopped and complimented on your costume a few times, which had you beaming with joy.

You were having so much fun!

"Well, what a lovely little girl you are! Oh, and what a lovely costume you have there!"

Stopping, you turned and smiled sweetly at a woman that was clearly an adult but looked rather young. She wasn’t dressed up like some of the other adults, but she did have the most interesting pair of glowing, violet-colored eyes, probably some of those fancy colored contacts you had seen others wear for their costumes.

Had you been paying attention, you would have noticed how oddly quiet the streets suddenly were, how strangely void of people the sidewalks were.

"Thank you very much," you beamed with pride over your own costume.

The woman smiled down at you, tilting her head just slightly to the side in what could have been assumed as curiosity.

"If you don't mind me asking, young one, just what have you decided to dress up as?"

You bristled just a bit at the question, though you remained as polite as possible.

"Well, I’m clearly a Vampire Princess, if you can't tell. I have this pretty tiara, and these pointy fangs, and blood right here at my mouth."

You pointed at all these features in hopes to convince the woman of your intentions for each article, even going so far as to make a scary face and showing off your fangs, but her following laughter made you nervous. It didn't help that you had noticed she, too, was wearing fangs despite her lack in costume clothing.

"How positively delightful! Such a fiery little vampire you are." She suddenly bent down low to meet you at eye-level, a wide smile twisting her lips. Even without dressing up, she was becoming quite scary, in your eyes.

"Would you like to know a little secret?"

Almost reluctantly, you leaned in, wary of the woman, but still so very curious of what her secret was. Suddenly, pale, clawed hands were grabbing your shoulders, forcing you to drop your candy bag and cry out at the rather rough force used to handle you. You struggled as the woman laughed once more, her smile sickeningly sweet, almost sadistically gleeful.

"I'm an actual vampire, my dear, and you’re going to be such a delicious little treat!”

You glared at the woman despite the fear making you tremble and continued to struggle in her grasp. You kicked out to no avail and thrashed your head back and forth, forcing your tiara to fall from your hair and fall to the ground with a tinkling sound. When the woman suddenly pulled at your hair and forced your head to the side to expose your neck, you did the only thing you could think to do at that moment.

"DADDY!"

The hands gripping at your shoulder and hair suddenly disappeared as the woman began hissing at an unseen force. You gave a startled yell at being dropped so suddenly, but you knew an opportunity when you saw one. You clambered to your feet and bolted down the block, refusing to look back until you were safely behind the locked doors of the shop and within the safety of your father’s room.

It wasn't but a few minutes later that you heard heavy footfalls outside your father's door. You dove under the blankets, peaking only slightly when the door opened.

"Squirt, Daddy's here."

With a relieved hiccup, you threw the covers from your form and ran into Dante's arms, sobbing as he wrapped an arm around your trembling body and shushed you gently. After a moment, he pulled away somewhat to look at your face, smiling while wiping away black-tinted rivers of tears from your face.

"I think you look scarier with these little black lines all down your face."

"That's not n-nice," you pouted while hitting at your father’s shoulder, though you couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. Dante chuckled while giving a quick peck to your forehead and then your cheek, sweeping back your hair from your face.

"You left some things behind when you ran off."

You gave your father a confused look as he shook something he had been hiding behind his back. He shifted, revealing the almost full bag of candy as well as your glittering tiara that had fallen from your head.

"We can't have such a scary Vampire Princess without her crown, now can we?"

Dante carefully placed the tiara back atop your head as he placed the bag of candy on the ground before you, sifting through it until he found one of your favorite flavored lollipops. He unwrapped the sweet treat and held it out to you, giving a flourishing bow from his kneeling position as well as flashing a devilish smile.

"Your scepter, my lady."

You giggled and gave a small sniffle as you took the lollipop from his hand and placed it in your mouth, the sweet flavor instantly taking over your taste buds. You smiled at your father as he returned the grin, a softer smile than the one previous. He always knew how to make you feel better.

"Happy Halloween, Daddy."

"Happy Halloween, Squirt."

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #devil may cry dante #reader #reader-insert #dante sparda #Daughter of a Devil

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johnny-and-dora · 6 years ago

Text

the more i grow, the less i seem to know

22. “it’s not heavy. i’m stronger than i look.” for the love of my life johanna @amyscascadingtabs <3 (in which jake is defeated by some flatpack furniture)

read on ao3 -

Amy Santiago is rarely certain of anything - in the seventh month of her pregnancy, however, she’s started to become very grateful for the few things she is certain of.

For example, she’s certain that their currently iceberg lettuce sized baby’s digestive tract is fully formed, because Jake cheerfully reassured with that over breakfast this morning as he excitedly read from his pregnancy app while she shoved as much granola into her mouth as physically possible.

She’s certain that she’s hungry all the time now, and exhausted, and eternally grateful for Rosa threatening to stab anyone who irritates her as she spends her precious few remaining work days waddling around the precinct yelling at everyone who dares evoke her wrath.

She’s absolutely certain that she wouldn’t know what to do without Jake somehow developing the magical ability to be by her side the second she needs him – he gives her shoulder massages and tries to cook dinner and practically sprints to the bodega the instant she so much as mentions a new craving.

He expertly comforts her whenever the mildest inconveniences or minor decisions move her to floods of tears, and he’s done it all without reservation, without complaint, proving all over again that he’s the best partner she could have possibly asked for.

Right now, though, as she watches Jake struggle to get the flatpack crib they just bought on an overly-emotional trip to IKEA through the doorway, she’s pretty certain of only one thing - for once, he might need more help than she does.

“It’s not heavy.” He says, aware of her concerns before she can even voice them - she arches an eyebrow, half bemused and half concerned (a feeling she’s become more and more familiar with over the last ten years of getting to know her husband).

She expertly deduces from the mumbled curses, panting and grunts that have been filling the short walk from the lift to their apartment that he might be not be telling her the full truth.

“I’m…stronger…than I look.” He’s pointedly defensive in-between whatever short, sharp breaths he can take, and Amy quickly realises this may be an issue she has to handle delicately – because apparently it was somehow inevitable that the love of her life had to be almost as stubborn as she is.

“Okay, babe. I’m just saying, Terry offered to assemble it if-“

“Ames, I can do it. I’m not going to be defeated by – by some stupid crib.” He’s so determined that she holds her hands up in surrender and backs off, busying herself with updating her to-do list and re-organising the hospital bag for the tenth time this week.

Fifteen minutes of masterful levels of self-restraint go by before she gives in and finally decides to follow him to what’s soon to be a perfect nursery (once she finds the exact correct shade of yellow), finding him sat in a chaotic, tumulus shipwreck of instructions and cardboard and what looks like far too many slats.

He looks up at her - partly frustrated, partly distressed, mostly adorably helpless - and she loves him more than anything else in the entire world. She’s been certain of that for a long time.

“There’s a possibility that I may have been defeated by the crib.” He says, and she giggles – but there’s not as much humour in his voice as there should be, and she can’t shake the feeling that it’s really bothering him.

“Why are you so worried about this?” She pushes, gently, leaning against the doorway – he sighs, clenches his jaw, deliberately avoids her gaze, and she feels something tighten in her chest.

“I just…I want to be a good dad, y’know?”

“Oh, Jake…”

“I know, I know It’s stupid – but, it’s like, furniture assembly is Dad 101, and if I can’t even do this then…” He trails off, fiddling nervously with the front cover of the instruction manual in his hands.

She takes the opportunity to ungracefully plonk her gigantean form beside him in the pandemonium of unassembled crib parts and grab it from him, setting it down beside her and reaching over to take both his hands in hers.

“You’re amazing, Ames. You’re a freaking actual real life superhero, growing this actual human being and dealing with all the craziness that comes with it…and it’s killing me that I can’t even do this one simple thing to help. I just want to be able to help.”

His hands are practically vibrating with nervous energy and his voice cracks a little on the last word and it’s enough to turn a tidal wave of emotion in her chest on a normal day, yet alone a day where she’s seven months pregnant and cried yesterday at a soup commercial. She holds herself together, for his sake.

“You are amazing. Jake, how much flatpack furniture you can assemble has zero correlation with your worth as a father.” Amy squeezes his hand, all worry and affection and frustration and endearment at once.

“You are helping, so much. There’s no way I could do this if I didn’t have you every step of the way, guiding me through - that’s not just going to stop when this little one arrives.” She gestures to her stomach – he gently rests his hands on her belly and she almost instantly feels a kick, still a surprise and source of novel joy to the both of them.

When he looks at her again his eyes have this gleeful shine to them that only serves to prove his fears and worries are unfounded.

“You feel that? She is going to love you so much - I can tell because she kicks me, hard, in the ribs every time she hears your voice. You are an amazing husband and the fact that you’re so worried about this means I know you are going to be an amazing father.”

She leans in to kiss him - the intent is to eliminate all space between them, but that’s becoming more and more difficult as her stomach swells larger and larger by the day. As a result, it’s cramped and awkward and her elephant like shape makes it almost entirely unromantic - but the way he smiles at her afterwards, all soft and sincere, is enough to completely melt her while also giving her the satisfaction of proving him wrong. Double points to Santiago.

“You are so wise. I have such a cool amazing human/genius wife.” He says, beaming proudly at her.

She’s about to kiss him again before she feels another kick and makes a face while Jake laughs, directing his attention back to her bump.

“Did you hear that, peanut? Your mom is so smart. With her brains and my insanely handsome looks, you’re going to be unstoppable. Right, Ames?”

“Right.” She agrees, smiling brightly, satisfied with her flawless reassuring wife skills. They sit in quiet contentment, dusty sunlight spilling in through the windows, and she just knows, for maybe the first time, that they can do this. That they can be parents, even though she still can’t cook and Jake can’t assemble furniture – none of that seems to matter anymore.

Amy Santiago is rarely certain of anything – but she’s sure, as sure as she is that she really needs to pee and that she’s due a much needed nap, that their baby is going to have the most loving, wonderful father that she could possibly ask for.

She can’t wait for her to love him just as much as she does.

#b99 #b99 fic #jake x amy #peraltiago #my writing #sian does prompts #it had to be pregnancy with a side for hurt/comfort for johanna really didn't it :)))#hope you enjoy!#shut up sian

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bride-and-bride · 6 years ago

Text

Memory

Wrote that fanfic, just as I threatened! It’s about time passing and the Crystal Exarch, and the impressions people leave on you, and some other miscellaneous musings.

Uhhhhhh it’s straight up about Defiant Bride as the Warrior of Light, and contains major MSQ spoilers up tooooooo... about 80? Early 80!

He hadn't realized he'd forgotten her face until someone asked what she looked like. The weight of it hit G'raha Tia in a rush; the guilt, the embarrassment, the disbelief... he was the only one alive who'd seen her face in person, and he couldn't even remember it.

He tried to explain it in his head... she had just been one of many, back then, after Operation Archon. A Warrior of Light, not The. One of many with Hydaelyn's blessing and ties to the Scions. There'd been at least two dozen who'd come along when it came time to explore the tower; people of all races and skills, each blessed with the power to try and fight where normal people couldn't. It was reasonable, he was pretty sure, to forget one face in all that.

It wasn't. It didn't feel right, and he didn't feel better for reasoning it all out. Even if there'd been others, hadn't he spoken the most with her? Challenged her, worked with her? He should be able to close her eyes and see her clear as day, like no time had passed at all.

Or maybe it was the tower? Perhaps his rest had messed with his memories, robbed him of this vital thing, and it wasn't G'raha's fault. Maybe that's just how it was, travelling suspended through time. No one was around to tell him otherwise, so he clung to the idea like a drowning man would to a raft.

It made it strange, then, to piece it together as if he was the same as the others, as if he'd only read about her deeds, heard the stories passed on through the generations as a way to keep the nights a little brighter. Here was a mention of her butting horn to horn with a dragon, and a little piece filled in... Yes, just one horn, the other a stump. Rare in au-ra. Her face wasn't symmetrical. There was mention of the sight of her facing down the Empire's Prince Zenos, the gap in height, and there'd be a trickle... she wasn't tall, looked unassuming, even had a small stance, right up until she drew steel and became a solid guardian to match any other.

It was those moments that he treasured, that calmed him when he faced his plans ahead. He could remember something of her that books couldn't... he had some tiny piece of the Warrior of Light that'd been lost to time.

He didn't really know why that felt important to him, but as he drew up plans with the Ironworks, as they took step after step to the end... it felt important. It felt vital.

It still felt important when he realized when he'd arrived and began to come to terms with the time stretched before him. There were plans to make, yes, but now there was no one but him who knew her at all. He had to remember, or no one would.

---

G'raha privately felt like it was forgetting that had caused the mistake. He didn't have the right image (maybe he never had it), and so when he tried to call to the Warrior, he instead pulled...

...not the warrior of light.

That, he was pretty certain on, fuzzy recollection or not. She'd been significantly less hyuran, for one thing, and definitely not pale.

Not that he wanted to admit the potential source of his failing to Thancred, even after the weeks passed and he came around to something like understanding. It was easier if the man wasn’t completely sure of how he was doing things, if there was some vagueness... he seemed the type to dig into things if given the chance, and he was hardly prepared to explain.

It gave him a unique opportunity, though. For the first time in a hundred years... he could speak to someone from his own world. From his own time, technically, though he knew Thancred came from several years after he'd sealed himself away. Being a man from the First gave him natural cover to ask about the Source and all it's people, and just hearing familiar names and places gave him a comfort he’d been denied for decades.

Thancred didn't mind telling him about Ul'dah and the Scions and Ishgard and Ala Mhigo, and G'raha still felt a little shock of excitement when he'd relayed the information. Yes, he'd known all of it, but there was something so different about hearing it from someone who's been there rather than relayed as history! Thancred was, of course, exceedingly sparse on details on what he'd actually been doing... so sparse that G'raha could only immediately hope he could get the man to do the same in the first, to equal effect.

He never had the chance to ask about the Warrior of Light. Thancred seemed particularly careful with details about the Scions, and her most of all, and when at last he departed the Crystarium, he took any secrets with him.

---

The next two had had many, many more secrets between them. Only one was willing to share any.

Y'shtola saw only in aether, he'd come to learn, and quietly he feared she'd seen something in him that had made her so prickly, so guarded around him. Every time they spoke he had this sense that she was prodding him, dipping in and around his words, seeking to pull out every bit of meaning from even that which went unsaid. It was a bit unsettling, like she was trying to read his mind.

Or perhaps she was just like that? That wasn’t much better... he never quite knew how to handle such direct people, and there’d been a touch of relief when she had worked out what she wanted to do on her own and seen herself out.

Urianger was easier, comparatively. He knew scholars... He was one, even if Rammbroes had to chastise him a bit more than the other Students of Baldesion. The man was a direct disciple of Louisoix and they'd spoken before, long in the past. He had a twisty, secretive personality... and after a bit of conversation, proved to be remarkably fast on the uptake. He'd guessed at a lot more than G'raha had been trying to reveal, and in time it had become clear that they'd do better working side by side than trying to hide things.

He still couldn't quite get himself to ask about the Warrior of Light. Urianger and Y'shtola both were perceptive people, and he didn't want to know what meaning they might glean from untimely curiosity.

---

His third and fourth mistakes he regretted so keenly it made him ache. Alphinaud and Alisaie, the Leveilleur twins, older than he'd last seen them and yet still so young. He felt like they shouldn't have to be part of this fight, like it was wrong of him to snatch mere teenagers to the first.

Of course, he knew exactly what kind of battles they'd been fighting in the Source, and they hadn't deserved to be there, either. And of course, he also knew what they'd accomplished and that if they hadn't been there, things would've gone far worse all around. It didn't entirely soothe his mind.

Nor did the enthusiasm the pair showed in working in the First. Oh, yes, Alisaie had been ready to cut him to ribbons on arrival, and Alphinaud had had dozens of pointed questions and looked so worried he felt extremely bad, but once things had been sorted... Particularly once the twins were together again, and had spoken to Urianger, they were ready to fight at his side. They shouldn’t really have had to fight.

They were talkative.

They admired the Warrior of Light, and he'd realized the first time Alphinaud had brought her up that they saw her the same way G’raha did. They spoke of her with plain admiration, a person they looked up to but a person. She wasn't just a symbol of hope or light, she was their friend. Their partner. (They missed her. They were so worried about her. They hoped she was well, but had to trust she was...)

The desire he'd felt when he scoured the pages of 'Heavensward' finally had a chance at satisfaction, in the tales they shared with him. It was if he had a woodcut, a stark, rough black outline, and he'd added his own details, but here... these two could start adding color.

The warrior of light was a Paladin without peer, winner of some grand tournament in Ul'dah that Alisaie had been extremely disappointed to miss. It was rare, you see, that she could see the woman fight seriously off the battlefield; she was nervous in spars, always afraid of hurting someone more than she planned to

The warrior of light got along with Moogles, Alphinaud had relayed with no small amount of awe, even the ones high in the mountains who faffed about all day making nuisances of themselves. She'd taken to a job as an assistant post moogle, for some reason, and assisted the fuzzy things in restoring some stonework in the Churning Mists that Alphinaud was dying to visit in person.

The warrior of light was kind, they said, in every story and anecdote and tale they shared to keep themselves going. She was strong. She was resilient, and kept going when others could no longer. She was brave, no matter the odds. She would keep going, even without the scions at her side, and she could be trusted to stand tall until the end.

She was Defiant, they said. And G'raha Tia listened, and he pressed his hands against the gates and silently begged them to part and allow him to save her.

---

Three thoughts had run through G'raha's head as he exited the Crystarium, almost certain that his mistake in aim had dropped her no farther than Lakeland.

The first was professional. It was time to be the Crystal Exarch, and to be him so much that she would have no way of guessing that they'd met before, even in passing. He needed her to be on his side, and to understand, and to trust the Crystal Exarch even from their first meeting.

The second was gleeful. A hundred long years and more in slumber in the spires of the crystal tower... years and years and decades and decades of planning and painful decisions and research and mishaps all to save the First. And the Source, and the Warrior, though he couldn't help but think of those as the secondary goals, now. He'd lived here too long and seen too much to not dream of the darkness alongside his people.

The third was a nagging terror, that while he'd gotten it right the last four times... this time he might've fucked it up and dragged the Warrior of Light to the first without any clothing.

He saw Lyna speaking to someone by the gates, refusing them entry, and he felt it before he saw.

She stepped aside, and the Warrior of Light looked up at him.

For a moment his mind went blank. All the planning, the years of preparation all fleeing him for the breadth of a heartbeat.

She was so much smaller than he remembered. Lyna towered over a lot of folks, where as G'raha was usually the toweree, yet he still managed to claim a few inches on her. And she was... Soft, his brain provided, after searching though and discarding a variety of adjectives. He didn't think she was muscular but neither had he recalled her being quite so... rounded.

She met his gaze, and her eyes were mismatched, and he remembered something long forgotten, some centuries old memory nudged free.

"W-we're kind of opposites, have you n-noticed?" She'd asked, as they waited for news on some surveying, sitting side by side on a relatively safe patch of crystal in Mor Dhona. He'd been confused in the moment, but she'd gestured to her eyes and then his own, smiling. "Nearly t-the same color, your right and mine."

And she'd been right. At the time, his Allagan blood still slept, and he'd never noticed they each had a blue eye until she'd pointed it out. There'd been some feeling he'd had, realizing someone had paid that much attention to him... enough to notice something so small.

It came flooding back. She didn't talk much when she was down to business, and people thought her calm and stoic, but it was because of her stutter. She favored a longsword that seemed too big for her, because she'd grown up among Hellsguard and never quite adjusted to having things the right size for her. She didn’t understand magitek in the slightest and her expression was polite and glazed when Cid tried to explain anything. She hid her smile with one hand when she laughed, most of the time, and fiddled with her armor when she was tense, and took her tea so hot that it burned everyone else's mouths.

Defiant Bride, the Warrior of Light.

There was no hint of recognition in her eyes, but he'd been preparing for that for over a hundred years. It was, in fact, what he wanted. It only barely stung.

#ffxiv fanfic #5.0 spoilers #shb spoilers #lil sister defiant #Crystal Exarch #do i need a tag for WoL au? I'm fine I think

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