#friends and foes may i present to you | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oxbellows · 9 months ago

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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neoplatinum · 10 months ago

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til' death do us part - part 1 | minatozaki sana

summary: sana minatozaki walks right into your life with a marriage license.

pairing: heiress!sana x reader

themes: arranged marriage au, fluff, angst, tension, lots of elitism, conglomerate power-hungry side characters, implied sex

wc: 5.0k

(series masterlist)

"the minatozaki's are waiting." you stare at the contract in front of you, frustrated at the idea of the family visiting. they sent the contract to you two weeks ago, and you knew that they were expecting a response, as in a signature. but here lays the contract on your coffee table, left to collect dust.

"let them in." you sit up from the couch, adjusting your shirt. you watch the maid let them in, timed steps in the long marble hallway. you hear their presence before you see them. then you see the matriarch of the minatozaki family step into the room. her head held high and proper, like a leader.

she reminds you of your own mother: the sharp tongue, quick judgements, and inability to let go of grudges.

then walks in sana minatozaki, the only heiress of the minatozaki group. she is not a stranger at all, but you havent decided if she is a friend or foe. when you were both younger, annual balls were centered around her. she always took those events in stride, while you enjoyed sticking by your mother's side.

you often remember watching sana dancing with anyone who would ask her; even from afar, you knew she was someone that everyone awed at. they treated her attention like a prize worth attaining.

"hello mrs. minatozaki and ms. minatozaki, please have a seat." you direct them to sit on the opposing couch. "how may i help you?"

they both get situated while you sit by yourself, feeling the weight of the minatozaki power firsthand. you watch your staff rushing to present them with tea, only for the two to dismiss them quickly.

"yes, we sent over a contract earlier last week, please sign it." the matriach points at the contract on your table.

"yes well, it is a marriage contract, a legally binding one. i need time to think it through."

"what is there to think through? you get to marry into the minatozaki group, and solidify your business with the backings of our family, i see no reason that it's empty now."

you frown at that, those were the exact words your own father told you over the phone, you called him immediately after receiving the contract, he told you the same exact thing, ending the call immediately after.

you dont disagree with the benefits, you would just rather marry someone else. someone that you could be in love with, not sana minatozaki.

"mrs. minatozaki, as much as i understand the power and backing of your family. i am rather old-fashioned. i only believe in marriage out of love." you nod solemnly to the older woman.

she lets out a trained laugh and holds her daughter's hands like they're her prize and tool. "love? you don't think that you could love my daughter?"

"mrs. minatozaki, i didn't mean it in that way-"

"so, what way did you mean it? my daughter sana," you say, watching as her daughter stands up from the couch, tall and proud, just like her mother, and smiling at you in that coy smile. "she has a line of suitors far longer than you could imagine; you should reconsider."

"mrs. minatozaki' please if i may-"

she holds her palm up, completely stopping you from speaking. "enough. here's what we're going to do: a three-month commitment. truly court my daughter for three months, and if you can honestly tell me you aren't in love with her, then i won't bother you with this matter for any longer."

"mrs. minatozaki, i think this is a completely archaic idea!" you exclaim, shocked to hear her say these plans. how quick she is to decide for her daughter's life.

"watch your tone. do not forget that your mother and I are well acquainted." she points her finger at you, and in a split second, she's back to that trained smile that is always so unnerving and threatening.

"i'm very sorry mrs. mintatozaki, please forgive my rudeness." you bow deeply at the woman. you return to your trained demeanor, letting mrs. minatozaki run your life for the next three months. who knows what she'll say to your mother if you decline?

both women get up promptly at the matriarch's signal, and you rush to walk them out of the manor. their resounding footsteps echo through the halls. the matriarch continues speaking of the three months of "dating," and you nod at every word in appeasement.

you assist them into their car, and soon they speed away from your manor. leaving you frustrated in your own driveway. by the time the sun has set, you finally return to your room.

the thought doesn't bother you anymore, while you were nervous at the idea of the minatozaki's pressing you on this marriage, you had gotten way too swamped with work.

in a week's time since the visit, you were giving a big presentation to shareholders and clientele. countless nights spent languidly going through the motions of collecting data for infographics and reports to extrapolate data. all part of your stressful day job.

a job that you take pride in, to take over the family business. dedicating years of your life to build the rapport needed for your father to put the company in your name.

you begin to wrap up on your final slide, indicating the prosperous quarter that your company has been seeing. beautiful graphics that display profit margins through the roofs. in every chair of that conference room sat a wide smile at your future projections.

"we expect to see a projection of 33% from our previous annual profits, along with more assets, and with the likes of a possible acquisition, this company will continue to flourish. thank you all for today." you conclude your presentation and smile to the many shareholders. they all stand and applaud you; you take a deep bow and shake hands.

the shareholders hound you, all gathered around in suits that costed more than the average house. they only bowed to the sound of money dropping into their pockets. so they push you, push your boundaries of how much you'll let them take.

mr. seki has always been the most persistent, asking for more money than he knew how to spend. so he stands before you, eyes twinkling and his grubby hands rubbing together like he found a gold mine.

you listen to him speak of the golden days with your father, business had little to regulations, making money was easier than breathing, but now he breaths down your neck for bonuses. the words travel in one ear and out the other, he forgets that you were a young child listening in to his discussions with your father.

before you know it, you hear that sharp clicking sound, the sound of sharp hard rubber hitting the tiled floor, you hear heels. short confident steps of a woman, and then you see it through the frosted glass, a womanly figure.

she's walking right into the conference room. then you notice the details: long brunette hair in waves, branded sunglasses atop her nose, a light pink suit adorned with blinding diamonds. behind her are bodyguards that tower over everyone. everyone's conversation stops at the sight of her, she stops right in front of you.

eyes strong and daring, she slips off her glasses and you recognize her, the woman of all your friend's dreams: sana minatozaki. more confident than ever, not being guided by her mother, she smiles that smile that you know your friends swoon over. delicate fingers slip off her glasses as she hands them to her assistant. eyes still focused on yours.

then she does it, grabs ahold of your tie, and slams her lips against yours. and you can hear it faintly, the sound of the shareholders all gasping, drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat. the searing kiss lasts so long, like a time loop. when she pulls back, you gasp for air, choking and doubling over coughing like you inhaled chili powder. all your presentation material spilling on the ground.

"sorry to cut the festivities short, gentlemen." she bows lightly, an amused smile underlying her sarcasm. "my fiancé and i have things to attend to, i'm sure you know how demanding your wife can be". she giggles at that, letting them all nod, and disperse.

"fiancé?" you cough out, still catching your breath. sana grabs ahold of your hand and drags you out the conference room, and out to the elevators. you watch her two bodyguards at your feet, ready to intervene with broad and thick builds.

they remind you much of your father's bodyguards. but you never wanted them because it just felt so unnatural to be followed by men who protected you.

sana stands before the elevator, and without missing a beat walks in, at the sound of the door opening. you get pulled by the two bodygaurds into the box. now you stand next to a smirking sana and two men who could break your spine ten times over.

you exit into the lobby, all the staff rising to their feet at the sight of you and miss minatozaki. greeting you all, as you rush to follow after sana. you have a sinking feeling if you don't that those two men behind you are going to toss you right into the ocean. right outside of the lobby, is the sight of the signature black marked sedan. a true sign of a minatozaki. like the fortress of a family, this car is far than capable of withstanding a nuke, how true this statement is? you never want to know.

sana is quick to sit herself inside, being guided by her chaffeur. you nod to him before sitting inside, seperated by the middle seat. the door closes and suddenly you feel claustrophobic.

the last time you spoke to sana was years ago, back in law school, you never did like her clique but they were everywhere. so you have interacted with her through case studies and presentations, steering clear of the intimidating minatozaki group. so much for avoiding them, now you're stuck in a car with the exact person you were avoiding all your life.

"mother is furious." she comments, grabbing her heels off her feet, tucking them into a compartment. you stare at her for a while, confused with what she means. "well?"

"miss minatozaki, i thin-"

"sana. just sana please." she corrects you.

"miss sana, please, you cannot barge into my shareholder meetings and attack me like that. that was unacceptable on all levels." you continue. loosening the tie that felt like it was choking you when she grabbed it. you slip it off your neck and into your pocket.

"i thought mother made it clear her expectations. you sign that marriage license, and we're good." she continues to correct you, disregarding your frustrations.

"sana. i apologize but i have been swamped with work, i cannot even begin to think about marriage." you complain.

"work? you marry into the minatozaki group and you'll never lift a finger. those infographics you put together were cute, but the minatozaki's never put themselves through work they can pass off to others. marry in, and we'll find a suitable ceo the second you say so." she is everything you stand against, a figurehead as the ceo is the last thing you want for your budding company.

"i think you are mistaken, miss sana. this company is me, i am this company, that will not change if i marry into the minatozaki group." you don't waver for a second, conviction running through your blood.

she smiles at that, "you are one of those. the ones that are married to their work before anything else." she takes a second to contemplate this thought, what would you bring to the minatozaki group? profit, drama, not a headache that's for sure.

"i'm going to let you in on a secret," she leans her head towards you. "like how you are married to your work, i am married to wealth. doesn't matter if you have a million mistresses, or a thousand bastard babys. as long as you don't smear the minatozaki name, you will fit right in."

"i do not think so miss sana. the minatozaki's are adamant about blood purity, they don't let bastards live." you explain. she smirks at that, you've clearly done your research about the minatozaki clan. "miss sana, please, me marrying into your family would not beneficial to you. i am too concerned with my own self to be a pawn for your clan." you finish, hoping they will let this issue to rest.

"you seem to know a lot about our family for someone who isn't interested marrying in." her eyebrow shoots up and with the snap of a finger, the bodyguard hands her a manila folder through the slit of the window.

"once again, we urge you to sign this. i hope we become lifelong partners, fiancé." she winks and steps out of the car. speaking to the chauffeur, and soon you're being driven by the minatozaki car, another car ready for sana in an instant.

now you're left with a manila folder, weighing heavier than anything else in the world. when you are sit in your armchair with the manila folder, nursing a nice drink to unwind, you finally untie the manila folder. opening the contents, you find the same contract on your coffee table. signed with sana's signature in the bottom, and another paper.

in a written letter from your own father, you nearly crumple the paper in your own hand. the clauses of placing your company in the hands of your father, all shareholder signatures at the bottom. indicating the removal of power. in another line it reads in big bold letters, date sana for three months or your company will be absorbed by your father.

you call up your father.

"father, this is ridiculous, you cannot do this to my company. why are you meddling now?"

"you insolent child, given the opportunity to grow your business, you choose instead to be selfish? i present to you the opportunity of a lifetime: marriage into the minatozaki group. and i've been told you're pushing their patience." his deep voice rumbles into the phone. "my final words are these: you want your company so bad, prove that you are committed to the minatozakis, then i will transfer the power back." he firmly states.

"i don't even have the time, father. my schedule is busy with the new year and final changes with new clientele."

"i've already spoken to your assistant, all work for you the next three months have been transferred to my coo. he will take over for the time being, i trust him to run my own company, so don't you go spouting nonsense about his credibility." you bite your tongue at the sight. how dare your father meddle in your company? one that you built up with your own hands. the only piece of yourself that wasn't controlled by your father.

"do not forget who raised you. i can take everything away." his voice booms through the speakers. he ends the phone call there. and you throw that phone like a baseball, shattering the device into pieces.

so you do date sana for three months, finding it absolutely absurd in the beginning. often visiting her wherever she traveled. when she was busy, you would send out bouquets in your absence. you tried your best to date her, devoting time to getting to know her better. she's like you remembered when you were younger, loud rambunctious and had an eye for all things expensive. you spent trips all over the globe within those three months.

it's a strange feeling. letting yourself rest, you can't remember the last time you went on a vacation other than in law school. here you are, lying in a lounge chair on a private beach in santorini. drinking mai tais while you stare into the horizon. confused with your own life right now.

it should've been the merger. you get antsy just at the idea of your father's coo leading the merger, but what can you do. that company is not "yours" right now. while you are trying to enjoy the sight of the bright sun and clear waters, you watch out of the corner of your eye as sana flirts openly with a resort worker.

hand on his bicep, leaning in to show more cleavage, all the while keeping a sultry smile on her face. you're done letting your life be decided for you. you walk over.

"hi honey, how is it going?" you smile towards her, leaning in for a quick kiss. holding her neck in place, as you watch the man walk away. you let her go.

"jealous?" she smirks.

"no. i need answers." you sit down in front of her. "why me?"

"what do you mean why me?" she sips on her cosmopolitan, not provoked by the question.

"why marry me? my father is well known, but we are not a conglomerate group, why do you wish to marry me? i provide nothing to the minatozaki group, it doesn't make sense. there's the watanabe clan, the abe clan, the ito clan. i really don't understand why my family."

"it's not your father or his companies, it's you." she points at you. still sipping her drink. she doesn't skip a beat, no hesitation in her words.

"i hold no power on the world stage, you would be well off marrying any clan." you try reasoning with her, beyond perplexed on why she chose you.

"the watanabe clan are dirty: plagued with dirty lust, the abe clan are ruthless killers, the ito clan has been known to kill their woman. so tell me, how much better off i will be marrying them?" she continues. face hardened.

"i see...they are not as great as their name." you stare at her. less perplexed but definitely confused.

"we all grew up together, all the heirs, i know them better than they know themselves. and i do not like what i see. but you and i didn't speak to each other." she signals for another cosmopolitan, thanking the staff member and digging through her bag. pulling out photos of you two when you were children at the annual balls.

"you are worlds better than all of them combined. i could see it in the way you never vied for my attention. they all were intact dogs, hoping to hump something by the end of the night."

"sorry for the assumptions," you offer. the way she looks away from you, watching the ocean. and letting out a long and heavy sigh. she tucks the photos away. "so, marriage out of convenience? is that all this is?"

"yes." she nods.

you grab the contract from your bag, signing it in front of her. and then placing it in her hands, "to a happy marriage sana minatozaki, i hope you can handle my snoring." you laugh.

she grins at the contract, and tucks it into her bag. "then i hope you can handle my kicking. you groan jokingly and laugh loudly, her joining you.

minatozaki weddings were no joke. halls lined with marble pillars with gold accents. dishes made out of the finest and purest porecelin. waiters dressed in their finest, not a single hair out of place. global leaders and their children attending, even if they had no ties to the minatozaki.

the grandiose hall with beautiful mirrors dating centuries ago. recovered artifacts from the edo period, adorning the shelves. the giant minatozaki family crest on the back wall. with long tables lined with wedding gifts. you stand next to sana as the reception procession continues into the night. many notable figures congratulating the marriage. as well as the intricate gifts being handed off to you. each gift being placed and documented by the minatozaki security team.

the minatozakis look happy, wearing traditional kimonos and inviting all the guests to talk about their daughters marriage.

even though the place is filled with laughter and happiness, you can't help but feel like you just entered a loveless marriage. where you are destined to avoid sana, she smiles at everyone, showering in the attention, while you can't wait to get back to work.

you had explained to sana you wanted a quiet honeymoon, one that was peaceful and relaxing. so you both went puglia, to enjoy the rich Italian culture and the beautiful greens and blues of the water.

sana spent nearly ever second of the day buying herself clothes while enjoying pestering you. often times dragging you along to carry her bags, and be at her beck and call. she calls it "conditioning for a happy marriage." you had rolled your eyes when you heard it, but you wanted a happy marriage too so you complied.

now you stand in the middle of puglia, taking photos of sana, at her request. for the third time that day.

"how many photos do you need sana?"

"as many as i want. stop talking, more clicking!" you get back to taking photos and letting her enjoy the scenery. it's quite nice being with sana, she may be a bit high maintenance, but she doesn' t overstep when it comes to your boundaries. letting you enjoy your own alone time and venturing through the city alone.

sometimes you bring back flowers or a small gift to her, all of which she happily enjoys with a warm smile.

after the honeymoon, its back to the real world. in which your father happily returned the company back to you. the merger had been successful, but you're still catching up on paperwork that only you could sign. in the coming months, sana has moved in.

living together has become a routine. when she moved into your manor, she claimed it was a nice change from her home. you were confused because her house was far more amenities, but you let her move in.

so, every morning and night, you spend time with her, sleeping in the same bed, drinking the same coffee, and sitting at the same dining table. you don't share more than a few words with her, but her presence has become a nice addition to your life.

she's made herself comfortable, her makeup products all lining your sink, heels filling the floor of the closet. her closet so big that she ordered construction to build her own walk-in.

often times you see her out lounging in the sun room doing yoga or pilates. or when she's in a good mood, she'll join you in your study room to do work herself.

she goes out at night frequently, so you make it a habit to stay up until she gets home. you know she's protected and safe with her trained bodyguards and chauffeur.

it just brings you a sense of comfort to bring her inside in case she's unwell. some nights she gets home with love bites all over her body, other nights she comes home drunk falling into your arms. you never comment on it.

she comments on your life first.

"do you...have someone special in your life?" she asks with a glass of wine in hand. you look up from your table, eyeing her in the doorframe.

"no, i'm married to my job." you look back at the work laid out for you, pushing glasses back up the bridge of your nose.

"have you slept with a woman before?" you stop your work, putting the pen down.

"sana, are we asking about each other's sex lives now?"

"well i can be curious, cant i? you always look so proper." she walks in to sit by you.

"well, yes in the past i have." you comment, a little thrown off with the line of questions. she nods her head and gives you her wine, you sip it and place it on the desk. "why do you ask?"

"we've never consummated our marriage, don't you think it's time?" she leans over, eyeing the work on your paper.

"what happened to marriage out of convenience?"

"marriage out of convenience could mean we're sex partners out of convenience," she smirks. she stands up, pushing the paper off to the side. you raise your eyebrow, trying to get her to stop messing with your work.

"sana."

"yes?" she takes the glasses off your face. a coy smile on her lips.

"we don't have to do this."

"i want to. do you?" she stands in your way, eyes trained on yours. a playful smile on her face. you get up to set your mind straight, no way were you sleeping with your non-wife.

"sana, please, you must be drunk." you walk past her, calling out to staff. "hi, could you please assist sana to bed." sana scoffs at you, flipping you off and pushing past the maid.

you return to your desk, eyebrows pushed together and a headache forming. but you can feel that spike in your stomach, you're sexually frustrated.

you've been actively avoiding being too close with sana. whenever she circles around, you scoot further away. opting for open spaces where she won't make sexual advances. rejecting her isn't fun either, she gets all pouty about it, but the way she makes you feel lately, has been dangerous. so you try your best to exercise restraint.

in the coming weeks it's harder and harder. some days she visits with your dress shirts tucked into a pencil skirt. walking in like a wet dream into your office. you will yourself to have self control but you can feel it slipping. the way you want to grab her, feel her skin under your fingertips, wanting to wrap around her.

today she manages to get under your skin. "darling, you must be so tired." she slides behind you. and starts massaging your shoulders, pressing the knots away.

you let her, feeling the tension release from your shoulders. her hands move expertly, and soon you feel more relaxed than ever. her hands begin to wander, sliding over your torso and frame. you turn to look at her, playful eyes staring back at you. you pull her into your lap, grabbing her neck for a kiss.

"i think it would be rather impolite of me to have our first time here in my office. maybe later?" you offer, playing with her pencil skirt.

"i don't care where we do it, as long as we do it now." she smirks and plays with your hair. you pull her up and place her atop your desk. walking quickly to close the door and drop the blinds.

she laughs when push her back, back hitting the desk, and then you lean over her. giving her a long kiss, before sliding your hands up her legs.

"come take what yours." she grins. you begin unbuttoning her shirt, hands trailing down until they reach her hips.

you kiss her fervently, moving towards her like a magnet. "yes miss minatozaki."

you might have to label yourself a sex addict, maybe a sana minatozaki addict actually. after sleeping with sana, you can't keep your hands off of her. often messaging her and taking days off to be around her.

it's unlike you, so unfocused and nonchalant about work. but you can't help it, sana feels like a drug and you need your supply. so here you are in your study, trying to clean up the smell of sex before your mother-in-law arrives. sana's an absolute vixen and trying to coax you into another round, but you know at any second her mother will walk into the house like its her own.

you spray a scent over top of the room urgently before closing the door behind you. a clingy sana kissing you deeply, trying so very hard to get you in bed with her.

"sana, no. your mother will be here any second." you force yourself to be the bad guy, pulling her arms off of you. to which she flicks your forehead.

"sana!" the sound of her voice booming like it's through a speakerphone. sana immediately tenses up, posture straight like a board.

"hi mother."

"glad to see you still recognize me." her mother chastises her. you watch the two woman, and you stay quiet. letting sana speak to her mother in a hushed tone, while you stand nearby.

it's hard to get a gauge on sana's mother, she's fierce and demanding. you also can't tell if she likes you, she keeps her distance. but you also can't tell if that's a good or bad thing. oftentimes she shows up requesting your presence at her events. but you play the part well as much as you can.

the older woman walks towards your living room, where she was months ago, and requesting you to marry her daughter. now she moves around your home like it's her own.

"now that you two have been happily married, it's important to discuss the next step." she starts. "we need heirs, multiple."

you and sana look at each other in horror.

"sana was the only heir in her generation of minatozaki's, i need you two to produce more than a single heir. to protect the minatozaki clan." she states firmly.

you groan into your hands, horrified at the conversation. and for the first time you see the matriach smile as she shows off photos of sana as a baby, cute as a button.

it does make you wonder about having a little sana running around, so you take the conversation topic in stride. letting the matriarch discuss traditions, schooling, extracurriculars and education to maintain the minatozaki standard.

sana is horrified to hear all this from her mother, but when she leaves, a light bulb turns on in her brain. then she smiles at you in that knowing smile.

"honey, come on, you heard my mother. we have to produce heirs. you know what that means?" then she wiggles her eyebrows as she drags you upstairs.

and you let her.

a/n: sana, sana, sana. she's been plaguing my mind recently. hope you enjoyed, proofreading is difficult work so i didn't do it. stay safe and stay healthy everyone!

#sana #twice #twice sana #sana twice #sana minatozaki #minatozaki sana #sana x reader #sana x you #kpop imagines #twice x reader #twice x you #neoplatinum

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rin-solo · 1 month ago

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Let's talk about "Monster" ... and one of Odysseus' criminally underrated traits: his lack of judgment.

I was re-listening to "Monster" the other day and it kind of just hit me... Overall, that song isn't my favorite (it's somewhere in B tier; the lyricism is great, and the part after "So if we must sail through dangerous oceans..." absolutely slaps, it's just not one that I go back to frequently.) But there are some things I genuinely adore about it because I adore the way it progresses Odysseus' character arc as clearly not a "corruption" and how this is conveyed through the way the song is set up and presented.

First of all, I simply have to yap about how Odysseus isn't justifying his foes' actions the way that I have seen some people falsely assume. He's describing what they did or do and essentially saying, "They aren't letting themselves be stopped by guilt from doing what they think they have to do, so why should I?"

Polyphemus doesn't overthink whether it's right or wrong to kill some people because they harmed him or his sheep.

Circe may deep down feel guilt but isn't letting that stop her from turning men into pigs to prevent any more harm from befalling her nymphs at their hands.

Poseidon isn't losing sleep over drowning a fleet because that is what gods do to retain their infamy and status.

Odysseus and the rest of his soldiers didn't use the Trojan horse tactic out of malice or bloodlust, but out of pragmatism. It was the most efficient way to win a war that would have only cost more lives on both sides if they hadn't ended it then and there.

You look at that and you may think, "That's all very fair, but that doesn't mean any of those actions are justified" ... and you'd be right. None of the actions above are actually right or justified.

But the thing about "Monster" that I love so much is that it's specifically NOT something like, "These people I've encountered are all evil and ruthless and they are right and justified in being that way; I'll be the same." It's actually, "These people I've encountered act with ruthlessness; it clearly aids them in achieving their goal, and they seem to have figured out how to not feel guilt over their actions. I want to reap those benefits too. So far, I've been acting with mercy, which seems to have disadvantaged me. If they can do it, I can and should do the same to level the playing field."

Odysseus isn't saying that their actions are right, wrong, or justified. He's simply exploring why these people act the way they do. And he does so entirely without judgment.

I'm not surprised about him not judging Circe; while she was still wrong since she went overboard and struck preemptively against people who were not guaranteed to ever cause harm, she was pretty much redeemed in the end and her point is the easiest out of these to understand.

But the rest? Polyphemus killed his best friend. Poseidon drowned his whole fleet. The Trojan horse? It never comes up anywhere else but since he mentions it here, I think it's safe to assume that Odysseus feels guilty for using a tactic such as this. And still... Odysseus talks about his foes' actions with understanding and an open mind. He acknowledges their points of view—all of them, even if none besides Circe ever acknowledged or understood his.

The only time we genuinely see Odysseus act out of resentment is when he tells Polyphemus his name... After that, he never shows anything of the sort ever again. If he ever held any resentment toward any of his foes, I feel like this is where he lets it go for good.

Hell, even Poseidon, whom he would have by far the most reasons to resent, Odysseus doesn't actually judge or resent. I wrote a whole mini-essay on why the Vengeance saga proves that Odysseus doesn't actually seek or want vengeance on Poseidon. One might argue that he sounded like he was avenging his crew in "Six Hundred Strike" but it's important to remember that he offered Poseidon forgiveness one song earlier. He didn't lead with vengeance or resentment, but he rekindled his anger when Poseidon rejected his mercy.

My point is that Odysseus doesn't judge or resent any of the people who attempt to stand between him and his home... which shows incredible character strength in and of itself. This occurs later, but he acts similarly toward Calypso in "Not Sorry for Loving You" as well.

This is such an underrated trait of his, especially considering it fits perfectly with EPIC's themes, which revolve around seeing every perspective and balancing between ruthlessness and mercy. Honestly, I don't think those themes would even work with a protagonist who isn't so open-minded.

Coming back to "Monster," as we've established, Odysseus doesn't pass judgment on his foes. Similarly, he isn't saying that his decision to embrace ruthlessness and "become" a Monster (read more to find out why I put that in quotation marks) or any of his future actions as this Monster are justified.

I genuinely despise it when people call his arc a "villain arc" or "corruption" because that's pretty much missing the entire point. He isn't actually becoming a monster, corrupting, or genuinely changing his personality—hence why I put those quotation marks earlier. He is deliberately choosing to embrace a certain ruthless way of acting, fully knowing that it is not actually right or justified. "So what if I'm the Monster?" is self-gaslighting. He knows it's not "so what?" But he's doing it anyway because he has seen this way of acting aiding his foes. He literally says, "I must become the Monster / And then we'll make it home." He is convinced that this is what he must become because he keeps being told this by everyone.

From the top, his values or person isn't actually being corrupted. He's not really internally changing. He's merely adapting a way of behaving because he thinks it's the only way he'll still get home, and only because of that. It's really f*cking sad actually. Especially because he is wrong; his not being ruthless is not actually the problem, as we find out later.

Genuinely, his monster act lasted exactly 3,5 songs; in the second half of "Mutiny" it's already all gone because he is so afraid for his crew and what they're about to do to themselves that he instinctively goes back to wanting to save them despite how they just led a mutiny, despite how they don't listen to him regarding the cows.

Odysseus' entire arc can be described as, "He tries out mercy, and it doesn't get him home. He tries out ruthlessness, and it doesn't get him home either. In order to get home, he needs to learn balance, in Hermes' words "Every trick in his domain"." And that is also, as I believe, the main theme of EPIC: Neither ruthlessness nor mercy by itself is the solution. Both have their place; one needs balance. Or: treat people as they ask to be treated.

Only by the time of the Vengeance saga does Odysseus seem to have finally figured this out, and that's where he genuinely starts succeeding.

So no, Odysseus is no longer "The Monster" by the time of the Vengeance saga, no matter how much the visuals in "Six Hundred Strike" try to convince us otherwise. But he isn't "Just a Man" either. Did anyone besides me notice how he stopped calling himself this or justifying his weak moments like that in "Monster" and how he doesn't go back to it even after dropping the monster act?

And here we have the perfect segway into an essay I haven't written yet that might answer the question, "If now he's not a man and not a monster, what is he then?"

Well, technically Odysseus told us himself that one time he acted out of resentment... "Neither man nor mythical." But that's an essay yet to be written... I'll get to it soon, and there we might answer what actually happened in "Six Hundred Strike" and why the line "If you dance with fate I know you'll enhance your state", that I see is mostly overlooked, matters so much more than we probably all think.

Until then, know that I am not actually the first one to address the "Neither man nor mythical" significance. Credit goes to @glisten-inthedark; coming across her post on this matter genuinely enhanced my understanding of what happened so much and I need all of you to read it because it's a truly brilliant conclusion. I'll write my own essay on this topic soon, I promise. But without that post, I would've probably not come to this realization for a long while.

Either way, we end this essay with words that I will never tire of repeating: Stop villainizing Odysseus, y'all. It's not cool, not only because it's undeserved but also because it pretty much shows that you have successfully missed the point and core theme of this musical.

... See you when we inspiration for another essay strikes me. In the meantime, have a brief introduction to what that essay will cover in meme form because I can.

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endereies · 2 months ago

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BREAK UP DRUG - MS

No Nut November - Day 16

NNN Masterlist...

-➤ Matt has to choose between his income and 'family' or the love of his life

“You heard me right, Sturniolo. I don’t care if you love the girl or if you hate her guys but you need to sort this shit out.” His words came out cold. All he did was stand in front of Matt, the extra inch or two in height being pushed to it’s advantage.

“It was jus-“ He cut Matt off again. “You’re losing focus Matt, get your head out that girl’s ass!”

Matt just stood; his arms crossed defensively across his chest. This was meant to be a typical deal, but after Matt got distracted on the phone and grabbed the wrong parcel, that fell apart. He was calling you, listening to his favourite sound as you rambled about this new nail set you got. Every detail was planned out in the design. And somehow the pink chrome was all his eyes could focus on, ending up in him grabbing a package with a whole other content.

It held heroin and he had to deal coke. A busted lip later, Matt had angry members surrounding him along with the pulsing ache of his skin. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t wanted to. Once again, he caught too wrapped up in you and the innocence you stood for.

Matt often claimed how pure you were, not in a craze for corruption, but a sense I’d admiration that you hadn’t fell into why he had. If the saying opposites attract was true, all anyone had to do was pick the pair out in a crowd.

“Matt. Are you even listening. It’s either the girl, or us. Friend or foe.” Matt grimaced hard.

“She isn’t a foe.” He took a step towards Matt, further pushing his boundaries.

“She may not be. But she is causing us to make a ton, we aren’t compromising ourselves because you’re pussy whipped.” Matt wanted to make a comment but held back behind gritted teeth.

“Fine.”

He walked away without a decision made. How was me meant to pick between the love of his life and his family he gains an income from. He felt like he couldn’t live without either of them, or it simply messed with his head.

Matt returned home, eager to forget everything. Finding you kicking your feet as you lay on his bed made this chest tighten. He couldn’t let you go but fuck the danger you were in around him was wrecking his mind.

Everything clouded his choices. He needed both. His only income, with a criminal record he was able to bag. After being with those people for years made him felt like be belonged, the rush was a bonus. And then there was you, a girl from the otherwise of town who was unfamiliar with the harsh settings. The window visits to you. The deals and risk of getting caught by police. He was fucked.

“Baby! You’re home.” Your whole body perked up at his presence and you pushed yourself up.

“Yeah... how are you, love.” You just beamed him a smile, holding your hands to present your nails. It was obvious you were satisfied with them. “Better after these, I’m obsessed.”

To be honest, he wasn’t even looking at the nails as you rambled again about them and the appointment. Matt was staring at your features, the small freckles that dotted your face, your nose as it scrunched after certain words, the loudness yet sweet tones of your voice. He couldn’t get sick of any of it. How the fuck was he meant to decide.

If Matt fucked up one more time, he was either out for good or he’d be holding your hand for the last time.

“They are beautiful, pretty girl. You happy?” He took his placed alongside his love, your eyes longing into his. Your hands traced the light stubble on his jawline, letting him feel your new nails. The sensation made him relax. Yet he felt it wasn’t enough anymore. Previously, he could ignore his worlds colliding. It was a secret to you, the drugs, the everything. He just couldn’t taint the image you provided yourself because he wanted to get high.

Whether she smelt it or not, it was never mentioned. Neither was going to his side of town. The window trips into the night weren’t just a romantic gesture. They were a way of always bringing the couple to your house, where no one knew Matt. It was safer.

Safer.

That’s all he ever wanted, you to be safe. If you were with him, you wouldn’t be. If he ever cut ties with the gangs and affiliations, the past would follow him. He’d seen it before, and it wasn’t pretty. It was the average movie stereotype of ‘beating them to a pulp’. Matt had information about the business, the connections and that was enough. It followed him in his shadow.

“Baby.” Your mouth stopped moving as silence fell and Matt closed the distance, his hands running down your sides to reach your hands. “We have to break up.”

Your hands fell flat, not holding his anymore as your breath swallowed. “What. Where is this coming from, Matt...” You spoke through gritted teeth before stepping out of his.

“I...” He paused. “I can’t tell you why” With the nickname that came moments before you had begun to think it was a joke, until your gaze held strong with Matt’s. It was reserved, blank of any prominent emotion other than resentment. To you.

“Wait. You’re serious?” You looked up to him ignoring the tears in your eyes. His own looked down to you, down on you.

The truth wasn’t easy. But having to lie to you felt almost worse, knowing he had no initial doubt until it concerned your danger. He’d risk his job a thousand times before considering you out in the open.

“Yeah, I’m serious. This just isn’t working; this can’t work out for us.” Only one truth hid in those lines. It couldn’t work out, not when he was so enamoured by everything you did.

“I don’t understand Matt. What isn’t working for you, I can change it, please.” You stare at him intently, hoping for any kind of remorse to peek through. He couldn’t understand why he was in this position. One minute, he is selling a bag to his deal and return adequately to class. Yet now it was the cause.

It wasn’t one part of you that he hated, it’s impossible with the amount of care he put into you. “Unless you plan to change into another person overnight so that I don’t care about how I see you, then no. You can’t.”

“Is that it?” minimal word choices seemed to be the pixel catalyst of panic in your mind.

He didn’t want it to be, never. You were the girl he imagined so many experiences with, the one who supported you through college and coursework. As soon as you stormed away he knew it was really over. There simply wasn't any room for jokes, no room in her bed for you.

The choice had been made for his future and he hope that he made the right minds. Their hearts have it in them to pure, no matter how low.

The next step was trying to discreet you from his mind. Fuck.

@melliflws @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @bueckerrss @worldlxvlys @raysmayhem-72 @patscorner @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07 @luverboychris @jnkvivi @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @shorthairchris @colorthecosmos444 @anabethinking @zay-sturns @anyaa2s @emilyfaith2003 @jassturn @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @sturniolosiphone @ribread03 @slutf4rmatt @spaghetti835928383

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imagine-you · 4 months ago

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and that's why I fear it won't do [Logan/Reader]

Summary: Part 5 of my Home 'verse. You're on the slow climb to recovery after finally ridding yourself of Sinister. Wade gifts you with a generous birthday present, allowing you and Logan to get some time away from the city and spend time alone together. You've started to heal, happy with the knowledge that your family has your back in more ways than one. But you never realized just how fragile your newfound peace is until a familiar foe from your old universe shows up, threatening to destroy everything you've fought for since escaping from Sinister. Word Count: 11.1k Author's Note: This chapter may contain: Fluff, Angst, A New Villain!, Surprise Cameos, An Old Friend, Familiar Faces, Kidnapping, A Tiny Bit of Spice, Healing, Reader Whump, Birthday Presents, and Wade Being the Best. Home 'Verse Read on AO3

You knelt at Sinister's side, clutching his hand tight. His smile was edged in blood and he let out a laugh, wicked and devious. "It won't be the last time you see me, Y/N," he swore, his gaze never once leaving yours even as his grip slackened. "I'll always be with you."

You shook your head, defiant and sure. "You're dead," you protested, the memory of driving your hand right through his skull coming to mind.

"Didn't I tell you that you were mine? My experiment, my toy, my weapon," he hissed, his grip tightening, painful and constricting.

Between one blink of your eyes and the next, he was standing, his regenerative ability kicking in except for the hole right through the middle of his forehead. A bit of his brain oozed out of the wound, but he didn't seem to care.

You were still on the floor, but Sinister reached down, brushing his fingers almost lovingly along your jaw.

"I'll break you after all," he promised, sure and resolute, as he pulled you up off the floor.

"Y/N, get away from him! He's--" Logan started, suddenly appearing across the room, before Sinister turned towards him.

"I've had enough of you," Sinister snarled before snapping his fingers. Logan was suddenly gone, a pile of adamantium bones and blood and viscera splattered across the floor. "I think I have someone more suited for you," Sinister continued, barely giving you a moment to grieve before another Logan appeared before you.

You knew, without having to have it confirmed for you, that this was the wrong Logan. The other Logan. The one who had left you so desolate and broken that you ended up leaving your universe just to escape him.

There was a disinterested look on his face as he reached out to touch you. You flinched away, backing up until you ran into someone else.

Nathaniel's voice was in your ear as wrapped his arms around you, restraining you.

"First we'll break you," he whispered into your ear. "And then we'll remake you. You'll be ours forever." He looked up at the other Logan, sharing a grin with him, before the other Logan stepped forward. His hand was outstretched and getting closer to you.

Panic lodged itself high in your throat and you could feel a scream building. "Go away! Don't touch--"

"--me!" You yelled as you sat up, breathing heavy and heart pounding furiously in your chest.

"Y/N?" Logan called and you looked up to see he was standing several feet away from the bed. His hand was up, stopped short by the forcefield you had erected in your sleep. The nightstand was left in a broken heap of wood on the floor, and you wondered if your forcefield had shoved Logan off the bed this time.

You dropped the forcefield, bringing your knees up to your chest and curling your arms around them. You were aware of Logan cautiously approaching the bed before he sat down on the edge of it.

"Another bad one?" He tried when you didn't say anything, watching you from a distance.

You shook your head, finally looking over at him. There were so many things you wanted to say.

He was there again.

He killed you.

The other Logan was there.

Will it ever stop?

What you settled on was: "I need you."

You suddenly desperately craved the touch and reassurance of your Logan. You wanted to be consumed by him. You wanted your thoughts to be a blanket of love, want, need, and Logan. Just Logan.

Logan watched you for a moment before he nodded his head. He crossed the distance between the two of you, pressing himself to your side. "I'm right here," he assured you before pushing gently at your shoulder.

Logan was being so careful, but you didn't want that. You needed to feel the pull of him, drawing you in until you had nothing else but him.

"C'mon," you urged, tugging at his t-shirt. "C'mon already. I need you now."

Logan seemed to get the hint, because he covered you with his body, letting you pull up his shirt while pushing down his pajama pants. He managed to get his shirt up over his head before he started kissing down your neck. You gave up on his pants, since they were already halfway down his thighs, and grabbed the hand that had been clutching your waist.

You placed it on your stomach before encouraging it to dip below the waistband of your shorts. Logan hardly needed any more encouragement to press lower, his fingers ghosting over you, leaving you aching and wanting. His other hand traveled up until it was curled lightly around your throat. You usually loved just the slightest pressure, the reminder that Logan held you so completely in his hands, but there was a buzzing at the back of your mind that gave you a momentary pause.

You pulled at his hair, prompting him to direct his kisses back towards your mouth, letting his tongue sink in and taste you. His hand was still at your throat, the touch firm, but still easy and unrestrictive. You were more aware of it than you usually were, and you tried to throw yourself into the kiss, wanting to ignore anything that might make you stop.

It wasn't until his thumb swept over your pulse that you realized why it felt wrong.

"Wait, wait, stop," you breathed as you turned your head to the side, breaking the kiss. You felt all twisted up inside, knowing that the moment you were sharing with Logan was meant to be full of the love you shared, but all you could think about was Nathaniel holding you, constantly analyzing you.

"What's wrong?" Logan asked, immediately moving to sit back, taking his touch away.

"When I was...away," you tried, knowing that Logan would understand, "he just, and I, I just can’t..." You offered Logan a helpless look, not sure how to convey what was on your mind.

Logan knew you, though, which was why he gave a determined nod of his head and then suddenly you were on top. You felt a rush as you adjusted to the new position, a surprised laugh startled out of you.

Logan smirked up at you, outright pleased with himself. "Do whatever you want to me," he proposed, arching an eyebrow at you. "I trust you."

You shook your head, overwhelmed with how much you loved Logan.

"Use me however you want," he added, his voice low and dangerous, making heat pool low in your belly. You felt yourself began to tremble as he grabbed one of your hands, placing it at his throat. "I'm yours."

You let your fingers briefly dig in before you replaced them with your mouth. You ran your tongue along his flesh before following with your teeth, delighting in the way it made Logan moan. You gave him all your attention, making a path from his neck to his chest.

When you started lower, he shook his head, bringing you back up towards his mouth.

"Tonight's about you," he rumbled before pressing his thigh between yours. "You go first."

You felt yourself flush before you nodded your head. You brought one of his hands up to grip your hip, steading you as you writhed on his thigh, chasing a release you had only started to pursue. His other hand came up, his nails scratching lightly along your back. There was pure adoration and worship in his gaze, and you didn't know how you had gotten so lucky. Logan gave up control to you like it was nothing, but you knew it was everything.

He had spent time as a lab subject for Stryker. If anyone knew how you felt, then it was him. He knew exactly what you needed, and the fact that he was providing it for you only turned you on more.

You were close, but you knew you wanted more. Logan didn't protest when you rose on your knees, but he shot you a bewildered look when you grabbed his hand and tapped his knuckles.

"Rip them," you commanded, pulling his hand to rest at your waistband. You knew that you could just as easily get up and take off your shorts, but you were desperate. You wanted Logan now. Any second that passed between the two of you where you weren't sharing the same breath, space, body just wasn't worth it.

Logan easily obeyed and it took you no time at all before you were finally seating yourself, sinking down to feel the full weight of him inside you. Logan's hands were gripping your hips. He didn't urge you to move, but you could feel the way he was practically shaking beneath you, pent up energy begging to be released, letting you know that he was just as gone as you were.

You pressed yourself closer to him, enjoying the feeling that had started to build low in your stomach. It was warm, molten, and spreading through you, begging to be set free.

Logan let you set the pace, his hands wandering from your hips to your thighs and then lower back. You could tell he was beginning to lose himself, his head was thrown back and he was panting up at the ceiling. His fingers were now clenched tight in the bedsheets and you could hear the fabric begin to rip.

"C'mon, let go," you urged, chasing your own end. “I want to feel you.”

Logan was stubborn, though, and refused to fall without you. He brought one of his hands up, drifting his fingers around your knee, before slipping between your thighs. You felt pleasure shoot right through your core and you could feel yourself ascending higher, faster, with each sweep of his fingers. You rocked your hips into his touch, and it only took one look at his face, the way he bit his lip as he watched you lose yourself on him, before you tipped over the edge.

It was a freefall, dizzying and breathtaking, and as you grasped at Logan, you knew he was right there with you.

Awareness teased you in little moments as Logan took you in his arms. He put you on your side, facing him, carefully slipping free. He trailed kisses along your jaw up to your lips, waiting for you to come back to him. When you responded in kind, you felt the pleased rumble in his chest and couldn't help but laugh into the kiss.

"What's so funny?" He asked, barely pulling back to look at you, his breath ghosting across your lips.

You reached up to tug at his hair, delighting in his growl of protest. Sometimes, the line between Logan and Wolverine was blurred, and you loved him all the more for the distinctions between the two. "Next time," you whispered, brushing your lips against his, "you should wear the cowl in bed." That thought wasn't what made you laugh, but just the idea of it had a little thrill shooting through you, and you pressed your thighs together, savoring the feeling.

Logan let out a low chuckle before he wrapped an arm around your waist, encouraging you to move closer, as if you weren't already pressed together. You let your right leg come up, hooking around his calf, before you pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

Silence drifted between you, and you were half-torn between staying in the moment for as long as you could or finally letting yourself drift back to sleep.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Logan sounded cautious, unsure, and you knew he was worried about breaking the contentment between the two of you.

"Not right now," you answered, shaking your head. "I don't want to think about him or any of them right now."

Logan didn't press you for more details. He simply swept his hand up and down your back, doing his best to comfort you. When he stopped, his hand resting at the small of your back, you chanced a glance at him to see that he was asleep.

You let your head rest on his shoulder before you stared at the wall opposite you, trying and failing to forget about Nathaniel and the fear he had instilled in you.

It was going to be a long night.

The next couple of months were spent with your family. You had never felt so indulgent with your time, and while you had stepped back from being a hero, you knew that day by day, you were healing. Sinister had nearly succeeded in unleashing a much darker part of yourself, and while you knew you couldn't simply sweep the feelings he had evoked away, you were going to have to learn how to assimilate them.

You let yourself do anything and everything you never had the time for before. You took Laura to the movies and amusement parks and on picnics. More often than not, Logan and Wade joined you, along with random guests. Wade was slowly but surely making progress with Vanessa and had opted to bring her along when you went to an arcade. You noticed their flirting, but when they disappeared for half an hour, clothing rumpled and Vanessa's hair tousled upon their return, you knew that they were back together. You had offered Wade a high-five, laughing in delight when he pushed your hand to the side and barreled forward with a hug, practically lifting you off your feet.

It had been easy to add Vanessa to your little family. Once you got to know her, you knew why Wade was so in love with her. Lovely wasn't enough to describe her. She was gorgeous, clever, generous, and a whole host of other attributes that summed her up.

She quickly became one of your favorite people and you knew without a doubt that the nightmare reality Nathaniel had painted for you would never come true. Wade had been right, Vanessa accepted you and if you were ever in need, she would never let Wade turn you away.

You also set about giving Laura as much of a childhood as you could give her within a few months. She had been forced to fight practically her whole life, and while she acted like the family outings were stupid half the time, from the little delighted smiles on her face or the way her eyes lit up when you dared her to go on rollercoaster after rollercoaster, you knew that she was having fun. You supposed, in a way, you were also reclaiming a part of your past you had never gotten to experience.

You had manifested at a young age, and it wasn't long before Charles and Erik recruited you for the X-Men. You had felt like you had been poured right into the hero role from birth and missed a lot of milestones on the way. Now, facing another birthday, you were glad that you had taken time away from saving people. It had given you the time to realize that you were the one in need of saving and you had your own team of superheroes who were all willing to rescue you from your own mind.

Logan had also decided to bench himself, no longer caving when Wade came to him with a new problem that needed his claws. With time, Wade seemed to even understand, even if he didn't think it was a good idea.

"I get you want to take a break," Wade said, letting his shoulder bump against yours. "I think this needs to be higher," he grumbled before climbing back up the ladder, helping you adjust the banner he had made for your birthday party. It was pink and sparkled with glitter and you knew that Wade was proud of it. "Look, all I'm saying is I took six years off after I lost Vanessa, got her back, got rejected from the Avengers, and then lost Vanessa all over again. And I was fucking miserable, even though I convinced myself I was fine. I don't want that for you, baby bird," he continued before jumping down from the ladder, steadying himself by putting a hand to your shoulder.

"It's not forever," you protested, knowing that even to you the denial sounded weak. "It's only been a few months."

"And that'll turn into years," Wade pointed out, turning back towards the table to grab streamers. "I swear to God, if I see you so much as look at a job application for Drivemax, I'm going to throw you at the nearest villain and let you fight it out of your system. That really did wonders for me." When you didn't respond, Wade sighed before throwing an arm around your shoulders, the streamers slipping to the floor. "I know you're scared after what that fuckbag did to you, but he's not coming back. And I don't want to see you suffer because of him."

"It's not that I'm scared," you started, unsure if that was even true. "I just don't trust myself." The confession lifted a bit of the weight on your shoulders, but you knew it wasn't everything you were holding back. "How do I know that what he did to me, what he convinced me I was capable of, won't show up the next time I'm trying to play the hero?" You were worried that you would flash back to that moment in Sinister's reality where you had been ready to strike down someone innocent. When you had been ready to kill a little piece of yourself because he had gotten so far into your head and convinced you it was okay.

"Allow me to paraphrase the ever-wise words of Chumbawamba. You get knocked down, you get up again, and you'll never let them keep you down. That Sinister fuck might've knocked you down, but you've got to get back up again. And as long as I'm around, you're never going to get knocked back down. I'll run every motherfucker through with my sweet katanas if it means you don't fall back down again. And maybe you don't trust yourself right now, but you can trust me. Hell, trust the munchkin and angry bear too. We've got your back."

You turned to consider Wade, knowing that he was right. All three of them had been incredibly attentive, barely letting you get a moment alone unless you asked for it. Even then, they were close by, ready to back you up if anyone decided to attack. You knew you had family, and you knew you weren't alone, but you were still waiting for the other shoe to drop. You still expected to see Nathaniel again, but you just weren't sure when he was going to hit again, despite the fact that you had literally been covered in his guts at one point.

"Now," Wade said, clapping his hands together, "I know technically you're supposed to wait for the party before giving out presents, but this one is just too good to hold back. And it's only so long before all the other fuckers get here or the munchkin and angry bear show up with food, so I should do this now."

"Wade, you didn't have to get me anything," you tried to protest, but Wade shushed you.

"Here, baby bird," he said, reaching out to grab your hand before depositing a folded-up piece of paper in it.

"Uh," you started, staring down at it in confusion. "What is it?"

"Fuck's sake," Wade groaned before reaching for it and unfolding the paper. "Ta-da!"

You read the words on the page before quirking an eyebrow at Wade. "How the hell did you even pay for this?"

Wade waved a hand at you. "Details don't matter. Let's just say Gambit knew he owed you one and he put his thieving ways to work to steal 'ol Chuck's credit card."

"Wade," you admonished, but you couldn't help the laugh that broke free. "A B&B in Vermont?"

Wade shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, you and Logan can commune with nature, do some meditation, get the angry bear to give it to you real good without the munchkin overhearing, and I'll babysit so you don’t have to worry she’s run off into traffic. And when you get back, we'll be a team again, right?"

You realized then that Wade might have had more than one motive for getting you back into hero shape again. "We're always a team, Wade," you assured him. "But thank you, this is sweet," you told him before leaning forward and placing a kiss on his cheek.

Your lips were still on Wade’s cheek when the door opened, and Laura and Logan walked inside carrying bags of takeout from your favorite restaurant.

Wade gasped, pretending to be shocked to see them. "You weren't supposed to see such a blatant display of our love affair," he groaned at Logan. "Now he knows about us," he hissed at you, grabbing your shoulders and putting you in front of him facing Logan. "If you're going to get claw happy, you're gonna have to go through Y/N to get to me."

Logan rolled his eyes before setting the food down on the table. "Bub, if Y/N ever left me for you, then hell must've frozen over, because there's no fucking way that's ever happening."

Wade acted hurt, bringing a hand up to clutch his chest. "Oh, that really stings." Wade suddenly turned you around, gripping your shoulders and making eye contact. "I'll have you know I'm a very generous lover and I give good cuddle. Just ask Vanessa," he continued, ignoring Logan's irritated growl.

"Ask Vanessa what?" Vanessa questioned as she stepped inside the apartment. She had an envelope in her hand and didn't look concerned at all that her boyfriend was completely in your personal space.

You shook Wade's hold off and turned towards her. "Does Wade give good cuddle?" You caught Logan's eye roll, but you couldn't help the grin on your face. It felt so good to have your family in one space, and knowing that there were even more people on the way, all to celebrate you, gave you a nearly giddy feeling of anticipation. You loved your little fucked up family and you couldn't believe that they were all yours.

"Oh, he's fantastic," she answered, reaching out to give you the envelope. "You should give him a try some time." She stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. "Happy birthday, by the way," she told you.

You shot Wade a devious smirk before pulling Vanessa into a tighter embrace. "You know what, I think I'll trade in Logan if you trade in Wade, and then we'll get together."

Vanessa laughed, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "I think I'm onboard with that," she mused, turning a thoughtful look on Wade, pretending to consider the offer.

Wade strode forward, hastily separating the two of you. "You get your own goddamn girlfriend," he uttered with a scowl, ignoring your amused laugh as he pointed a finger right at you.

Wade pulled Vanessa away towards the food and Logan approached you. He stood at your back, winding his arms around your waist and tucking his chin over your shoulder. You brought a hand up to rest over Logan's arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

"I like seeing you like this," he whispered, making sure his observation was just for the two of you.

"Yeah?" You asked, turning a smile over your shoulder at him. "Well, you'll really like this," you told him, showing him Wade and Remy's birthday gift.

Logan raised an eyebrow, a bemused look on his face. "Just the two of us?"

You nodded your head, shivering when he brushed his lips against the back of your neck.

"A little romantic getaway," you mused, bowing your head to give him better access.

Logan placed a kiss just beneath your ear, following it up with another at your jaw. "Just the two of us," he repeated, sounding pleased.

You couldn't help but chuckle. "Is that what you're so excited about?"

"No Wade showing up at the worst fucking times just to talk our ears off about inane bullshit? No responsibility or worries or having to worry about anyone else but us for a couple days? Yeah, I'm fucking excited to get you all to myself," he rumbled low in your ear, his grip on you tightening.

"Hey, I'm about ready to stab myself in the eyes," Laura called, disrupting the two of you. There was a look of near disgust on her face, and you knew it was only because she wasn't completely fond of seeing her pseudo-parents ready to make out. "Want to get over here and cut this cake, or what?"

It was then that you noticed the rest of the guests had arrived. Most of them were talking and laughing while Vanessa lit the candles on the cake. Alex Summers had arrived with Piotr, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio. You and Alex had managed to bond over how much Nathaniel had truly managed to fuck over your lives and you were glad that he was another person to add to your little family. Blind Al, Dopinder, and Shatterstar had also shown up, even though you didn't know them as well. Dopinder had handed you a pair of airpods with a wink, prompting Wade to swipe them, muttering something about banning gifts covered in stranger's earwax.

They were an odd group, but so full of love and understanding, that you felt honored they had let you slip in so seamlessly, as if they had been leaving a place for you all along.

"We've been summoned," you muttered to Logan, delighting in the soft huff of his laughter against your skin.

"Then let's not keep them waiting," he said, pressing a hand to the small of your back to urge you towards the group.

Later, as everyone stood around the table and sang, wishing you a happy birthday, you couldn't understand how you were so damn fortunate. You were surrounded by people who had all shown up for you. Even if most of them started out as Wade's friends, you knew that they were now your friends too. You felt so complete, so involved, that you didn't know how Nathaniel had ever managed to prey on your own insecurities.

By the time you were going to bed that night, ready to embark on your getaway with Logan in the morning, you felt so wholly loved. Everyone had stayed well into the night, sharing laughter and stories and memories. Once everyone had trailed out and Laura went to bed, Logan had pulled you into his embrace.

“Let’s go to bed,” he suggested, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “We’ll clean up the mess in the morning.”

You readily agreed, leading him into your bedroom and shutting the door behind you.

"I'm exhausted," Logan grumbled once he was lying down, throwing at arm over his eyes to block out the light.

You reached out to turn off the lamp on your nightstand before crawling into bed. You rolled onto your side, throwing an arm over Logan's waist.

"You're sure you're going to be ready to go in the morning?" You asked him, running your fingers lightly along his stomach.

"I'll be ready," he assured you, stilling your hand with his only to lace your fingers together.

"Good," you breathed, soaking up Logan's warmth. You felt your eyes slip closed, exhaustion creeping up on you. You wanted to tell Logan so many things like you were proud of him and you loved him and you couldn't have done any of this without him. Instead, you pressed a brief kiss to his chest, hoping he would get the message.

From the way his fingers flexed around yours and the pleased sound he made, you knew he did.

It was just before you were going to traverse the space between awake and asleep when another thought came to mind. "Logan?"

"Hm?"

"Make sure to pack the cowl," you told him, feeling a grin tug at your lips when he let out a surprised laugh.

You didn't realize how much you truly craved having a couple of days carved out for just you and Logan. You arrived at the B&B feeling lighter than you had since everything that happened with Nathaniel. You were eager to check in and spend the next few days fully emersed in him.

The B&B was beautiful and somehow Wade made sure that no one else would be there to bother you. The owner had left a key hidden in the mailbox for you and no other guests had rooms booked.

The B&B was secluded, with trees backing the property and land spread out in every direction, unblemished by other buildings or people. A pond sat off to the side with a bridge that crossed the middle of it, before the grounds spread out into several walkways, encouraging guests to either take a nice stroll through pastures or trek through the woods. The air smelled clean, fresh, and you took in deep lungfuls of it once you stepped out of the car, disbelieving that you were getting the opportunity to have the run of the place with Logan for a weekend.

There was only one winding road that approached the property, nearly a mile long and offering you something you never really got living in a big city.

Privacy.

One space that was only for you and Logan.

You shuddered to think how much Charles had inadvertently spent on the getaway.

You assumed you wouldn't even leave the bed the whole time you were there, but you ended up spending most of your time outside.

You explored the woods with Logan and spent a night enjoying the sight of the night sky, content to simply lie on the ground and gaze at the stars. You watched as Logan took morning jogs around the property, sitting out on the porch in a rocking chair and grinning whenever he passed by.

You even enjoyed a picnic by the pond with him as well. You made out with Logan on the grass, making a mess when you accidentally rolled over onto the pasta salad. You teased Logan, slowly pulling off your shirt before letting your pants follow, throwing them to the side. Logan tensed up before practically pouncing, sharing laughter and kisses before he grabbed you by the hips and trailed his mouth lower and lower until you were gasping and clutching desperately at his hair, using him as an anchor to keep you tethered as you fell apart.

After, you pushed him into the pond, just to see him come up out of the water. His shirt was clinging to him, and his hair was a mess, and you had never been more in love with him. He growled, playful yet undeniably sexy, before chasing you back towards the B&B. You felt light, free, and you let Logan take you apart again and again, knowing that when you crashed back into your body with his touch guiding you, you would feel complete.

You spent your last night at the B&B tangled up with Logan, so desperately enamored with him that you felt like you could hardly breathe with how much you felt for him. He had so wholly consumed your mind and your body and you didn't know what to do when he wasn't touching you, worshiping you with reverent kisses.

In the morning, you knew that Wade had been right. You did need the time away with Logan, and thinking about going back and playing hero again didn't feel so terrifying anymore. You felt like you were ready to conquer anything as long as you had Logan at your side.

The car was all packed up and Logan was waiting for you in the car. You locked the front door, before walking down the stairs towards the mailbox that was positioned just beside the porch railing. You left the key along with a thank you note inside before snapping it closed.

You turned and took a step towards the car before you froze in your tracks.

There was someone else watching you from just a few feet away.

"Apocalypse," you breathed, terror climbing dizzyingly fast through you, sending your heart racing.

Apocalypse merely regarded you with a cool expression, but you felt like you were about to lose it. Logan was already out of the car, but you didn't want him anywhere near Apocalypse. You instinctively raised a forcefield, cutting him off, keeping him safe.

"I've been awakened years before my time," Apocalypse stated, studying you with interest. "My followers have informed me that Sinister has fallen and the world needs me now more than ever."

You weren't sure how to process seeing Apocalypse again. You thought of the last time you had seen him, back in your old universe. He had left Scott crumpled on the ground, never to get up again, and Jean had unleased the full force of her Phoenix power, ending Apocalypse with Erik's help. Apocalypse had killed not only your universe by destroying its anchor being, but your old life as well. You knew the power he wielded, and you knew you weren’t nearly strong enough to combat it without a team.

But now, it was just you against the one villain who had managed to take out the leader of the X-Men. He had killed countless others in your old universe and you would be damned if you let Logan become one of his casualties.

"Why are you here?" You found yourself asking, knowing that Apocalypse must need something.

It was when his gaze drifted towards Logan that you felt like your world was about to slide to a halt all over again.

"I came here for my Horseman," Apocalypse claimed, not bothering to look at you, even as you shifted on your feet, readying yourself for a fight. "My Death," he continued, setting off a sinking feeling in your gut.

"You can't have him," you snarled, beginning to form another forcefield. You were starting to panic, indecision weighing heavy on you, urging you to get Logan far away from Apocalypse. You let the forcefield begin to form around Apocalypse, intent on either collapsing it and hoping it left him a broken heap on the ground like he had done to Scott, or maybe using spikes to impale him.

You didn't even get to figure out what you wanted to do, because suddenly you were on the ground. There was a forcefield surrounding you, pressing you into the walkway. You turned your head to the side, struggling to pull in a breath as it kept descending. You could feel it pressing into your ribs, feeling like they were going to crack at any moment.

You cast a panicked glance over to see that both your forcefields were gone and Apocalypse held his hand out, obviously casting the one that was moments away from crushing you.

"Stop!" Logan pleaded, rushing towards Apocalypse. Apocalypse easily threw Logan to the ground. Logan cast a fearful look at you before turning his attention back towards Apocalypse. "Let her go and I'll go with you."

"No!" You cried out, but it came out weak and strained. You could hardly breathe, and you couldn't even move anymore. But you would rather die than let Apocalypse take Logan away from you.

You felt one of your ribs give way and you didn't even have the breath to scream. You knew it wouldn't be long before the others followed suit, likely puncturing your lungs and killing you. You imagined your sternum cracking before piercing your heart, leaving you just as broken and lifeless as Scott had been.

Logan was trying to get at Apocalypse, relentlessly attempting to attack him, but when he realized it wouldn't work, he rushed towards your side. He slashed and swiped at the forcefield with his claws, but it stayed intact.

"Leave her alone!" He roared, panic in his eyes when he realized he couldn't save you. "I'll go with you. I'll be your Death. But you spare her!" He demanded, turning a wild look over at Apocalypse. "Let her live and you can have me."

"No," you tried to deny, but it only came out as a wordless whimper.

Logan stared down at you, terrified and heartbroken, and you couldn't believe how unfair life was being to the both of you. Logan was so willing to sacrifice himself just to see you live, but you didn't think you would live without him. You didn't think Logan would live without you either.

"Very well," Apocalypse allowed before he dropped the forcefield.

Logan was quick to try to scoop you up in his arms, but you hissed in a pained breath, every movement sending fire through your chest. He settled for letting his hands hover over your side and chest, as if he could simply will you to heal with only the power of his mind.

"Don't go," you begged, attempting to sit up, even though it caused little black dots to dance across your vision. "Don't leave me," you reached out to grab his hand. "Please stay with me."

Logan held on tight as Apocalypse reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll find my way back to you," he promised just as he shuddered. He threw his head back, gasping for breath, before he trembled. His head dropped back down and when he met your eyes, there was no recognition.

His expression was blank, and you had never managed to realize that Logan always looked at you with longing, want, love in his eyes until it was gone.

"Come with me," Apocalypse ordered, prompting Logan to stand.

You reached out for him, your fingers only just brushing against his calf before he was gone.

You stared at the spot where Logan disappeared, hoping he would somehow materialize again. But you remembered how Apocalypse operated. First, he found his Horsemen, and then he wreaked destruction on the world.

You knew you were in shock, and you knew you needed to get up, but you couldn't move. Injuries aside, you couldn't believe that Logan was being ripped away from you again. You had just gotten back on track and now you had stumbled off again, directionless and getting farther away from where you wanted to be.

A raindrop broke you out of your stupor and you turned your head to look at the sky. You didn't even notice the approaching storm, but even with the threat of rain, you couldn't bring yourself to get up.

All you could think about was Logan. Logan, who now didn't remember you and was going on Apocalypse's crusade to rule the world. Logan, who had held you so lovingly in his arms just hours ago, telling you he loved you. Logan, who had promised to return, but with each second and minute that passed, you knew he wasn't coming back.

By the time it was pouring and your clothes were soaked and you were in so much agony that you were shaking, you finally forced yourself to stand. You stumbled over towards the covered porch, a hand pressed to your side, and climbed the few steps that would take you to the rocking chair you had favored since arriving. You let yourself fall into it, sucking in an unsteady breath. You made yourself slip your phone out of your pocket, the screen cracked from Apocalypse's forcefield, but still working.

Your fingers were numb and didn't want to cooperate, but you finally managed to scroll through your contacts and stop at 'Papa Deadpool.' Wade had been the one to enter his number in, but you never thought to change the name he had given himself.

You listened to ring after ring, terrified that he wouldn't pick up. Your mind was spinning and you couldn't land on any sane thought that wasn't Logan or fear or heartbreak. But one thing was so ingrained in your brain by now that you were glad it had stuck despite the panic you were feeling.

When your back was against the wall and you had nowhere else to go, you could always count on Wade.

"Y/N, what the fuck are you doing calling me?" Wade asked, his voice playful and such a relief to you. "I thought I gave you explicit instructions to let Logan fuck you stupid, so this better be a butt dial. Although, if it is and you're doing what I think you're doing, then I don't want to know why your phone is anywhere near your ass. Unless it feels amazing, and you think I should try it on Vanessa. You know, I've always wondered, if you and Logan are fucking and you go invisible, then can Logan see--"

"Wade," you whispered, heartbroken and desolate.

Wade fell silent on the other line. "Y/N?" He tried, his tone now serious. "Where are you?"

"At the B&B," you managed, wishing that you could stop shaking. You could feel your teeth begin to clack together, and you weren't even sure if it was because you were now freezing and soaked or the shock of losing Logan that was affecting you. "Logan, he's--"

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Wade asked, turning away from the phone to shout something at Piotr. He sounded cautious, a bit disbelieving, but you knew that if there was a world where Logan hurt you and you told Wade, he would have your back without a second thought.

"No," you got out, having to choke back a sob. "He's gone, Wade. He was taken. And now I can hardly breathe, and I can't drive like this, and I just need your help. I have to find him."

"Piotr," you heard Wade snap. "Put that down and get us wheels up in ten," he commanded, tone brooking no argument. "Because it's the baby bird and she needs wings," he barked, before turning his attention back to you. "Who took Logan? What happened?"

You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Every pull of breath stung, and it felt like your chest was constricting, running out of air.

"Y/N?" Wade tried again, his tone nearly pleading. "C'mon, baby bird, you're scaring me here. I'm gonna need to hear you talk."

"Apocalypse," you breathed, feeling another swell of anxiety threaten to drown you. "Apocalypse took Logan. I couldn't stop him. He's too powerful. Last time I fought him, I had a team. I had...," you trailed off, not wanting to admit that it had taken Jean unleashing all her fury on Apocalypse to take him down. Erik had helped, but you knew Jean had dealt the brunt of the damage. She had been blinded with rage and kept at Apocalypse until he was nearly reduced to ashes. Erik had helped contain Apocalypse, but you were sure she would have been the one to deal the killing blow no matter what.

"Shit," Wade groaned. "Alright, listen, I'm going to get Piotr to steal the X-Jet and we'll be there soon, baby bird. Hold on tight for me, okay?"

You nodded your head, knowing Wade wouldn't be able to see the reaction, before hanging up.

You weren't sure how long you sat there, watching the storm unfold before you. You tried to take steady, even breaths, ignoring the pull of pain and the way you were wheezing. You would need someone to help make sure your ribs could heal on their own and you would need to make sure more damage hadn't been done. Your thoughts were on Logan, so you didn't realize you weren't alone until Wade was kneeling in front of you, his hands on your knees. You realized he had been calling your name, trying to get your attention for a while.

"Ah, fuck, what the hell happened to you?" He stood when he noticed you were finally looking at him and not through him. He reached out and grabbed your arm, pulling you to your feet.

You cried out in pain, clutching your side. "Broken ribs," you gasped, letting yourself lean on Wade.

"Let's get you out of here," Wade said, nodding at Piotr who was at the car. He was getting into the driver's seat, intent on driving it up the ramp that had descended from the back of the X-Jet. "And once we get you inside, you can tell me what happened."

You let Wade lead you into the X-Jet. It wasn't until you were in a seat, Wade fussing over you, that you realized there was a stranger sitting in a seat on the opposite side of the plane.

"Uh, Wade? Who's that?" You asked, pointing at the guy in a red and blue spandex suit with a black spider on the chest.

"Huh? Oh! I picked up this kid in Queens. Thought we might need reinforcements," he claimed, glancing over at the guy.

"Hey," the stranger said with a nearly bashful wave of his hand. "I'm Peter?" His voice sounded unsure, and unmistakably young, and you were starting to suspect he was a teenager.

"Wade," you said, shooting him a disappointed look. "Did you kidnap him?"

"What? Tony Stark did it in Civil War," Wade argued, gesturing at the kid. "We needed a team, right? So, I scooped up the little rugrat and brought him just in case we needed a little, y'know," he said before holding out his wrist, his middle and ring finger tucked under his thumb as he made a soft whistling noise.

"Take him home," you demanded, shooting the kid an apologetic look. "He shouldn't be here."

Wade groaned in frustration before nodding his head. "No, you're right. He's more sequel material, anyways."

Once Peter was dropped off back in Queens, the kid even yelling out a ‘thank you’ with a wave of his hand, it wasn't long before Piotr was landing the X-Jet at the mansion. Wade helped you inside, and you were surprised to see Alex pacing in the foyer, obviously worried.

"What's going on?" You wondered, knowing that it couldn't have anything to do with what happened to you. You had gotten closer to Alex, but you didn’t warrant nearly the level of concern he was showing.

"Two of the X-Men were taken yesterday," Piotr explained, shooting Alex a wary glance.

"Who?" You couldn't help but wonder, thinking it must have had something to do with Apocalypse. Had he already found his Horsemen? How long until you were all doomed?

"My brother," Alex snapped, not bothering to stop pacing. "And his girlfriend."

"Jean?" You had only seen this universe's Cyclops and Jean once and it had been enough for you. They were young, barely in their early twenties, their whole lives still ahead of them. They weren't nearly as powerful as the heroes you had known in your universe, but you hoped that they might have been able to help a little with the Apocalypse situation.

"We have no idea where they are," Alex growled, visibly distraught. "The Prof has been trying to reach them, but he hasn't been able to yet."

"Fuck," Wade moaned, glancing around the foyer as if he would find an answer to all of your problems somewhere. "We can't just catch one tiny break. It's like the author wants us to suffer."

"Logan was just taken from me," you admitted with a wince. It was half from the pain and half from the thought that you would have to explain the situation to Laura. "Where's Laura?" You asked Wade, letting him start to lead you into the sitting room just off the foyer.

"When I left her, the little munchkin was kicking Blind Al's ass at Mario Kart," Wade assured you, pressing a hand to your lower back, attempting to help you settle on the couch. "Do you guys have a medic or something? She's got some broken ribs that might need to get looked over. Make sure she doesn’t pop a lung or something."

"I might be able to help with that," a voice volunteered.

You froze at the voice, recognizing it as one of the last people you wanted to see at the moment.

"Remy," you greeted, not even bothering to turn to look at him.

He rounded the couch before sitting on the coffee table, ignoring Piotr's noise of protest. "Hello, chérie," he drawled, smirking at you.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You asked, glaring at him. "I thought you would've been long gone by now."

Remy shrugged his shoulders, studying you. "Now that I'm free, I need a place to stay. Somewhere Sinister's friends won't bother looking for me."

You scoffed, grimacing when pain shot through your side.

"Let's get you fixed up, hm?" Remy asked, standing and reaching out to help you off the couch.

Wade went with you, keeping an eye on Remy, as if he didn't trust him.

"You know how to fix some broken ribs?" You checked, skeptical that Remy had any sort of medical training.

"I've been injured enough times to know how to mend a few things, yes," Remy allowed with a grin. “It’s really not as bad as all that.”

Wade helped you follow Remy, his arm gently wrapped around your waist, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs.

"Why are you helping me now?" You couldn't help but wonder. Wade was your best friend and you knew that he was fiercely protective of anyone he considered part of his family. But Remy had kidnapped you and left you to become Sinister’s experiment. You couldn’t trust Remy just yet, but at least you could trust Wade to shoot him if Remy so much as looked at you funny.

Remy shot you a glance over his shoulder, his eyes flaring red, before continuing to lead you downstairs. You knew he was heading for the infirmary, and you wondered just how long Remy had been staying at the X-Mansion. "Because of you, the Gambit works for no one but the Gambit now."

You heard Wade snort. "Someone's still full of himself," he muttered, keeping his voice low.

"Because of you," you snarled, wishing you weren't injured and worried about Logan, because you would have certainly been ready to fight Remy. "I can't get Nathaniel out of my fucking head. Because of you, I feel like he's always in there, ready to tear my mind apart all over again. Because of you--," you cut off with a whine of pain, agony flaring up from your side into your chest.

"Easy now, chérie," Remy warned, stopping at the door to the infirmary. "You'll be of no use to your Logan if you hurt yourself even more."

You wanted to argue and tell him that it was none of his damn business, but the fight had drained out of you. Now, you were exhausted and starting to ache from keeping yourself as still as you could, not wanting to aggravate your injury.

So, you submitted to Remy's exam, aware that Wade refused to leave your side. When Remy lifted your shirt to get a better look at your ribs, Wade slapped his hand away, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"You keep your damn hands to yourself, buddy. She's taken," he snapped, staring Remy down.

Remy rolled his eyes before holding his hands up in surrender. "Do you want me to help her or not? I'm sure your friend would love that you let his girlfriend suffer."

"Wade, it's fine," you sighed, inching your shirt up yourself. Your side was already bruised and even though the movement sent a blinding white light shooting across your vision, you were ready to let Remy help. The sooner you had a better range of movement, the sooner you could set about finding out how to get Logan back.

Later, after Remy felt along your side, confirming that your injury was serious, but not fatal, he grabbed you an ice pack, advising you to press it to your side, and some pain medication. “You’ll need rest,” he warned you, “but seeing as your Logan is missing, I’m sure you’ll ignore that. Try, at least, yeah?” And then he was gone, leaving you to lean into Wade’s side.

"Some help he was," Wade muttered, kicking his feet lightly before jumping off the exam table. "I could’ve figured that out by checking WebMD. Let's get you upstairs. Maybe we can figure out what the fuck we need to do to get angry bear back."

When you got back upstairs, total chaos had descended on the mansion. Tensions were already high with two X-Men missing, but now there was yelling and Alex was cursing before something shattered.

Wade led you into the sitting room from before and you froze just inside the doorway, staring at the five new people who were now there.

"Cable?" Wade laughed before moving forward, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "Where the hell you been, loca?"

Cable shrugged off Wade's hand, ignoring him.

Your attention had been caught by the man lying on the couch. He was cradling a broken arm and littered in cuts and bruises. There was a deep gash along his side that was still bleeding onto the towel that had been placed under him.

"Erik?" You called, cautiously approaching him.

You had never seen him look so defeated.

Charles was now situated near Erik's head, watching him with concern. There was also a boy and a girl, who looked like they were no older than twenty, sitting in armchairs by each other. The girl had red hair and the boy's hair was silver. The boy was angled in his chair, as if trying to shield the girl from the strangers in the room.

Erik glanced up at you, frowning. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm--," you started, before realizing it was useless. He wasn't your Erik and he wouldn't know you. "Never mind," you waved off the question. "What the hell is going on now?" You directed at Cable, growing weary of the questions piling up without receiving any answers.

"En Sabah Nur," Cable answered, his voice gruff and irritated. "Or Apocalypse, as others might know him, has risen and taken a Horseman."

"My daughter," Erik supplied, struggling to sit up, despite Charles' worried glance. "He took Lorna away from me, and when I tried to stop him, his beast did this. I needed to find somewhere safe for my other children," he added, nodding at the girl and boy. "I couldn't risk them either."

"Apocalypse took Logan from me," you commiserated, "and broke my ribs in the process. He would've killed me, but Logan stopped him. He let Apocalypse take him in exchange for letting me live." You knew without a doubt that Logan had been the one to hurt Erik and you hated that Apocalypse was using him as his puppet.

You felt your lips twist to the side, an instinctive reaction to the lump you felt forming in your throat. You wanted to cry and scream and throw a fit, because life was well and truly throwing you back towards rock bottom after you had worked so hard on clawing your way free.

"Why is Apocalypse taking people?" The boy piped up, ignoring the girl's hiss of 'Pietro.' "He forming his own team or what?"

"Something like that," Cable allowed with a nod of his head. "He finds his Horsemen and uses them to accomplish world domination. Apocalypse, if left unchecked, will rule well into the future. First, he'll take New York, and then he'll take the world. He'll set off an evolutionary pattern in which mutants are the ruling class and humans are merely subordinates. We have to stop that from happening."

"How do you know so much about him, huh?" Pietro asked, tilting his chin up, defiant. "You two buddies or something?"

Cable smirked, but he wasn't amused. "Apocalypse kidnapped me when I was a baby and infected me with a virus that was meant to kill me. In the future, he will slaughter millions, humans and mutants, just to ensure that he's holding the reigns. He's obsessed with the ideology of survival of the fittest and he'll do everything in his power to adhere to that, despite the body count he'll leave in his wake. So, no, we're not buddies."

Pietro simply nodded his head, letting out a soft 'oh,' before going quiet again.

"We know why Erik is here," you started, nodding at Magneto. "But why are you?"

"He saved us," the red-haired girl chimed in. "Apocalypse was about to kill us all when Cable showed up and got us out of there."

"And you knew somehow? That he was back?" You couldn't help but wonder, shooting Cable a questioning glance.

"Yes," Cable answered. "Apocalypse wasn't set to wake for several more years. I wanted to find out what caused him to rise early."

"When he took Logan, he mentioned that Sinister's death triggered it, because his followers woke him early. He wanted Logan for his Death, and now he's taken Lorna, so if he's using her as a Horseman, then he only needs two more. And if he's got Scott and Jean, then he might be ready for the next stage of his plan. It won't be long after that until he gets the power he's seeking. That's all he really cares about, right? Power and mutant supremacy. Once he has that, it'll be nearly impossible to stop him."

Everyone was watching you with interest, including Wade, but it was Cable who spoke.

"Apocalypse hasn't woken in over a century," Cable started, taking a step towards you. "How do you know so much about him?"

"We faced him in my original universe," you confessed, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest, knowing it would only hurt. "He...," you trailed off, shooting Alex an apologetic look. "He killed Scott in my universe. And then that Jean Grey and Erik Lehnsherr killed Apocalypse." You shared a look with Remy, forgetting for just a moment that he was in the room. He would have known all about you and what happened in your universe with Apocalypse, since he stole your TVA file. "Apocalypse might not have succeeded, but he still destroyed my universe."

"Fuck," Alex snarled, turning to hit the wall, his shoulders drawn tight with anger. "We have to get my brother back."

"Well, how the fuck are we supposed to do that?" Wade wondered, gesturing towards Erik. "Jean's kidnapped, Magneto's useless, and Apocalypse, in case you haven't been paying attention, is powerful as fuck."

You took a moment to consider Erik where he was on the couch. His face was twisted up in pain and Charles leaned over to murmur something to him. You could try to defeat Apocalypse with the team you had now, but you were terrified that it wouldn't be enough. This Erik wasn't in any shape to fight Apocalypse, but you hoped that you knew an Erik who could. If you missed the mark on this, then Logan might be lost to you forever.

You couldn't let that happen.

You turned to face Cable, knowing that you had already made up your mind. "I need a favor," you told him, knowing that if he refused, you would have nothing else. "I need you to contact someone from my universe. Magik," you added when Cable didn't reply, simply staring at you with an unnerving intensity. "Tell her that Y/N needs her. And to bring Erik, <i>my</i> Erik, with her. He stopped Apocalypse once, he can do it again."

"And Jean?" Cable suggested, raising an eyebrow at you in question. “It sounds like she also had a hand in destroying Apocalypse.”

"Leave her homewrecking ass at home," Wade scoffed, shaking his head. "We'll do this without her, right?" Wade asked, bumping his shoulder companionably into yours.

You did your best to keep the wince off your face, both from Wade's words and the pain that shot through your side.

"Tell Magik to bring anyone willing to help," you conceded, knowing there was no way in hell Jean would care enough to get herself mixed up with Apocalypse a second time. You never wanted to see her again and you were sure the feeling was mutual.

With any luck, it would just be Illyana and Erik, and you hoped that was all you needed. Illyana was incredibly powerful in her own right, and you knew that if you got the chance, you would ask her to get Logan away from Apocalypse, since she could simply grab him and teleport him away. Multiversal travel, while potentially dangerous, might just be the answer you needed to save Logan.

Cable finally dipped his head in a nod. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said before stepping back, giving himself enough space to consider the device strapped to his wrist. "Don't do anything stupid until I get back," he shot at Wade, ignoring Wade's indignant snort, before he disappeared.

"Well, this just got anticlimactic," Wade muttered, nudging you towards the only free armchair. You shot him a grateful look as you dropped down into it, careful not to bend your torso too much.

Wade left you with a pat on the shoulder, moving over towards Piotr. Erik and Charles were locked in a heated discussion and Remy seemed content to stand with his back to the wall, observing everyone as if he thought someone might attack at any moment. Alex had already stormed out of the room, but you knew he would come back. He wasn’t going to pass up any opportunity that might save his brother.

"You mentioned Sinister," Erik's daughter pointed out, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turned to look at her, seeing that she was already watching you with interest. "I did," you confirmed, wondering why she had latched onto that.

"We knew him," she admitted, with a wry twist of her lips. "He experimented on my brother and me." She brought her hands up, palms facing each other, before slowly pulling them apart, a red glowing ball of energy appearing between them. She let it dance between her fingers for a moment before she waved it away. "Our father found us in a lab and took us away."

"The Maximoff twins," you remembered, thinking of Nathaniel listing his greatest experiments when he had you strapped to a lab table.

"Wanda," she introduced, gifting you a small smile. "I take it you were acquainted with him as well?"

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "You could say that. He was a fucking psycho."

"And he's dead? Truly?" Wanda insisted, leaning over in her chair to consider you.

"Killed him myself," you assured her, meeting her relieved grin with one of your own.

"Good," Pietro piped up, sporting a pleased expression. "That fucker was sadistic."

Your laugh was cut off by Cable reappearing in the room.

You stood, disregarding the twinge of pain, as you faced him. "Well? Did you find her?"

"He found me," a voice called from across the room. You turned to see Illyana standing there, her portal still open behind her. "And I brought company."

Erik stepped through the portal next. His expression was grave, and you knew he had been clued in on Apocalypse's emergence in this universe. He spared a brief glance for Charles and the other Erik, who were both watching him in fascination and wariness respectively, before he approached you. He drew you into a hug, gentling his touch when you went stiff in his arms.

"So, Apocalypse is back and your brute has been marked for Death," he murmured, leaning back to get a better look at you. "And you're injured. I don't know why I ever let you come back here."

"Because I'm happier here," you reminded him, "most of the time. I just need to get Logan back," you added, knowing that you weren't going to be able to stop until you were dead, or Logan was by your side again.

Erik frowned at that, and he grew tense. "Listen, I need to warn you--"

Erik's words were cut off when the portal rippled and a woman walked into the room. She was wearing a yellow and green suit with a brown leather jacket. Her hands were covered with yellow gloves and there was a black 'X' emblazoned on the chest of her suit. But the most distinctive part of her appearance was the white strands of hair that framed her face, a shocking contrast from her natural brown hair color.

"Rogue?" You wondered, shooting Erik a questioning look. "You had to warn me about Rogue? We weren't exactly friends, but it's not like I hated her either. She'll be a good addition to the team," you mused, already thinking of ways she might be useful in the upcoming fight with Apocalypse.

"No, not Rogue," Erik allowed with a wince and you suddenly knew why he had tried to alert you about what was about to happen. "Cable said you were looking for volunteers and I don't know why, but they both were adamant about joining us."

You wished Magik had closed the portal after Rogue, but you knew she was keeping it open for a reason. You had been stupid, naive, to think that it would be so easy. You had never once been fully granted a wish without multiple strings attached and as the air around the portal rippled, signaling another newcomer, you knew your plan was about to come crashing down around you.

You felt your breath leave you all in a rush when Jean stepped through the portal. She was no longer pregnant, and she had her shoulders squared, as if ready for a fight. You hoped, prayed, that the portal would seal itself, but it allowed one more person through.

The other Logan stepped into the room, coming to a halt at Jean's side. Magik closed the portal, sealing them off from their universe and effectively trapping them in yours. You felt yourself freeze, as if trying to evade a predator's sight, but both of their gazes unerringly found you. Jean looked nearly disinterested, but the other Logan's eyes flashed with something you didn't want to name.

"Damn," Wade sighed before he whistled, shooting you a disbelieving look over his shoulder. "Now that's a cliffhanger." Author's Note: So, there's a very real chance that this fic is going to end after this current arc. I'm not sure if that means the sixth one will be the last or if there will be an epilogue, but I'm sure this will have a sequel eventually, so I might nix the epilogue idea since it would be pretty final for this 'verse. That being said, I am working on mini fics based on the idea that the-gentle-spirit had with each Logan having their own Y/N. I'm hoping to post the first one (Old Man Logan) for my actual birthday later this month. I also have a Wade/Reader/Logan fic planned and I'm excited about that one. If you would like to be tagged in the sixth (most likely final chapter), let me know! If you want to be tagged in all my future Logan fics, let me know! I've got ideas, y'all, so this won't be the last time y'all see me posting about Logan. I think I just need a break from this 'verse since reader engagement has waned a lot since the first couple chapters. That being said, thank you to everyone who has shown this love and left me all types of amazing support and feedback. Y'all have really kept me going. Taglist: @wonderfrost @mrsyixingunicorn10 @blackbleedingrose @arrozyfrijoles23 @elianamarie-blog

@sarahskywalker-amidala @whiskytoast @shizzybarnaclee @zbeez-outlet @halepack2011

@facelessfionna @i-left-my-cat-on-the-stove @whyam1heree @serendippindots @janilovecookies

@4ria790 @lollipopsandstuff @jtthompson @id-rather-be-in-middle-earth @the-gentle-spirit

@hazel2928 @gothicknightz @mkay33 @bibblesdiscordkitten @albiofay

@songwizard // @kailera // @zeeader // @amandarobertsboyce // @shilohh28

@astudyoftimeywimeystuff // @whatthefawk-isthis // @loonalockley // @newromantics98 // @cherrypieyourface

@gigabitemyass // @yyhdl // @lunaticgurly // @starbuni // @quinnlyyy

@i-wear-wet-socks313 // @itsspiderluv // @slightlymediocree // (I just checked my tag list form, sorry y'all)

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #deadpool #deadpool 3 #wade wilson #logan howlett imagine #imagine #reader insert #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #wolverine imagine #logan x reader #my fic #when i'm with you i'm home 'verse

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 5 months ago

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Dame Aylin does not worry; she strategises.

This is something I started as part of a little examination of writing Aylin's voice, but think might be neat as its own post. It does provide a nice quick look at how she constructs her glorious dramatic proclamations and when exactly she refers to herself in the third person.

So I give you, directly from the game files: every time Dame Aylin says Dame Aylin.

To kick it off, the line she has if you attack her in camp:

You defile our alliance with violence. A disappointment - but not a threat to Dame Aylin, immortal.

Some lines from the end of Act 2, the Moonrise debrief, and the first time she comes to camp:

You have defeated Ketheric Thorm, yet you who were content to leave Dame Aylin in his thrall until it served you best. How do you account for it? But Dame Aylin's life is neverending. And she does not forget. Now - I believe Isobel asked a question of you. We will meet you in your camp - is it agreed? Do not speak so abruptly to the mate of Dame Aylin, daughter of the Moonmaiden, paladin of - You would deny Dame Aylin, daughter of the Moonmaiden, paladin of the selfsame Selûne? And you - Sharran. Cleric of the Lady of Loss, who is so much more than she appears. You and Dame Aylin have dangerous ground to tread. Moonmaiden, I ask you to cleanse the wickedness in the heart of the slayer of Ketheric Thorm! Forgive them the sin of sending Dame Aylin into his foul clutches! Hmm. Ketheric Thorm. Father of my one and only love. Enslaver of Dame Aylin. Why, she already has. She has brought her sword to your side. Dame Aylin.

Moving on to Act 3, talking about Lorroakan looking for her (and possibly discussing Aradin and his fellow mercs as well):

Is he indeed? Pray tell, what does he seek from Dame Aylin? Let them come, and let them find me. Dame Aylin will strike down any who seek to bring her to harm's home. Do not speak false to Dame Aylin. Not after all we have endured. Dame Aylin will face him. You will wield your glorious might at her side. Let us split him, crotch to crown, and let his twin halves fall where they may. Your intuitions are my lodestar, darling. But consider: now that Dame Aylin has returned to the fold of time, she could use allies and interlocutors. Hmm. If you judge him worth the endeavour, then I will do as you say. Now that Dame Aylin has returned to the fold of time, she will need allies and interlocutors. But Dame Aylin's deeds are great; her presence - present. Sooner or later, he will discover that the daughter of Selûne lives. Dame Aylin does not worry; she strategises. Our camp has been besieged by bribelings. And Dame Aylin is the prize that seduced them. There can be no doubt about it. But even Dame Aylin experiences lapses in her fine judgement. To Ramazith's Tower they were meant to take me. Ho! Won't Lorroakan be surprised when Dame Aylin trounces him in his own citadel. Oh, I hope he tries. Please, Lorroakan, come to me with your magicks and your flaccid charms. Attempt to lay one hairy finger upon Dame Aylin, daughter of Selûne most high.

Then, the showdown in Ramazith's Tower proper - first two if you side with her, the rest if she is betrayed:

Magicians and their plans for Dame Aylin. Predictable; sadistic; flaccid. Dame Aylin is watching. She is indomitable. And when her face lights the shadows of your wrongdoing, you are broken by its beauty. Dame Aylin does not go anywhere quietly. Do not tell Isobel what fate has befallen Dame Aylin. She must not enter this viper's den. When next we meet, no words will cross Dame Aylin's lips, but her sword will find your flesh and make of it her sheath.

Post-wizard camp conversations:

Set your mind at ease, my friend. Dame Aylin is more well now than she has been this past century. Ha! I am not surprised. You have a great talent for tearing down Dame Aylin's enemies. Thank you, my friend. From the bottom of my heart. But fear not: When the time comes for you to face the foe of foes, Dame Aylin will stand at your side.

A couple of battle cries - first one from the Act 2 final boss if you don't free her until then, and the second from the Act 3 final battle:

MOONMAIDEN, HEAR ME! DAME AYLIN IS FREE! Dame Aylin will not let this place fall!

I'm also going to include her introductions, though that's obviously a bit of a different case:

I am Dame Aylin. Out of this hellish realm I carry my sword by the blessing of my mother, Selûne. I am Dame Aylin. Daughter of the Moonmaiden, Selûne; champion of her causes in this fine realm. You will address me with due deference. I am Dame Aylin. And you are a whelp without honour, without pride, with nothing but a tower full of trinkets.

And, finally, we have a couple of written notes - very, very different in tone. First, a threatening, ominous promise she leaves behind if you betray her to Lorroakan, but he dies and Rolan fails to bind her:

Dame Aylin has never had an enemy She did not destroy, A traitor She did not undo. Dame Aylin has never died And stayed dead. No, she waits, waits, until The one she hates sleeps, alone, in bed and then and then she strikes.

Chilling, and calls to mind her vows of vengeance if you mess with her in the Shadowfell. I don't know if I'd find it scarier delivered in an angry scrawl or with some perfect fancy penmanship.

The second note is, alas, her epilogue letter if Isobel has died:

Ally mine, It has been a full half-year since last we spoke. Your great victory against the wicked brain of brains still plays before my eyes by nights; ho, it was a sight I'll cherish for the remainder of my infinite days. I hope these last turns of my mother's face in the sky have brought you rest and peace. But rest has not found Dame Aylin, no - I pursue the heels of a villain no less foul than the so-called 'Absolute'. An assailant who has targeted Selûnite enclaves across the coast. But fear not! Dame Aylin will find them. And you have seen yourself what she does to those deserving of her boot. The road is long. It is lonely. And I have not forgotten all I've lost. But I cherish what I have found, too. Yours eternally, Dame Aylin Daughter of the Moonmaiden Selûne The Nightsong-no-more Anon and Everlasting

And finally, to end this post on a high note, the beautiful PS she adds to Isobel's epilogue letter:

P.S. IT IS I, DAME AYLIN! I SEND MY REGARDS!

There you have it! Hope at least someone finds this amusing and/or useful.

#dame aylin #my beloved #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #datamine #she just can't help being absolutely iconic can she #i just love that this giant resplendent serving of distilled essence of Paladin was added to the game out of love for me specifically #HO!

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quirkwizard · 5 months ago

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So between the popularity of the last D&D post I did and the upcoming revisions to D&D 5E, I thought it'd be fun to talk about Class 1-A and D&D again. This time, instead of playing D&D, this will be students in D&D. For this, I will be picking out classes and races that I believe fit them the most based on the descriptions and lore presented in the books. Official material only, so no Blood Hunter Tokoyami. However, characters and their "stats" will take precedent over Quirks. The Gravity Wizard is a thing, but I don't think that Uraraka would fit as a Wizard.

Sato-Half Orc Berserker Barbarian: A perfect encapsulation of Sato. A big ole beefcake that runs up, hits stuff as hard as possible, and then immediately burns himself out because that's all he can do.

Mineta-Kender Rogue Thief: The classic "jerk thief" archetype with a set of quick hands and mobility options to replace his orbs with. And like Mineta, Kender are also a small race that everyone despises, so it's fitting.

Aoyama-Eldarin Warlock Celestial: A natural fit for Warlocks. He only shoots out beams, gets tired after a few big attacks, and owes all his power to a patron. Eldarin are just extra Elves, so that works out as well.

Mina-Satyr Bard Dance: The class is a pretty obvious choice given Mina's natural charisma and acrobatic abilities. I was tempted to pick Yuan Ti for the poison abilities, but I figured that Satyr would fit her look and character better.

Denki: Dragon Sorcerer Dragonborn: Just going all in on the lightning damage here. Denki is someone coasting entirely on talent, fitting with a Sorcerer, and everything else is letting him gave off as much electricity as possible.

Ojiro-Harengon Open Hand Monk: Open Hand Monk is a pretty obvious fit given Ojiro's martial abilities. As for the race… Look, there isn't any race that uses a tail. Harengon was about as close as I was going to get with it's other abilities.

Hagakure-Fairy Arcane Trickster: Rogues are good at sneaking and Arcane Tricksters can reliably become invisible. Fairies fit well into the sneaky part of it and their generally cheery disposition fits even better with Hagakure's chipper personality.

Kirishima: Goliath Battlerager Barbarian: A race that is made out of resilient rocks, a class that's all about getting and taking hits, and subclass that is all about being covered in sharp armor. It's great. You can even have the Rage be his Red Riot: Unbreakable move.

Koda-Firbolg Shepard Druid: I know I did this before, but it's too perfect with his role as the friend to all animals. Firbolgs are the soft, gentle giants of the forest and the Shepard Druid fits nicely with his tendency of overwhelming foes with countless animals.

Jiro-Tiefling Glamour Bard: No surprise with the class and the subclass fits with her role as punk rocker. Tiefling may seem like an odd pick, but I think that her generally closed off disposition can fits well with how Tieflings tend to be characterized.

Sero-Tabaxi Fey Wanderer Ranger: Hands down the hardest person to pick out for this. His abilities and personality don't fit a lot of races or classes that much. I just went with this set up for his pension for movement and trapping as well how personable he can be.

Momo-High Elf Artillerist Artificer : A natural builder that can create whatever she wants, especially her powerful canons. The elf part was mostly for personality given how distant Momo tends to be from other in terms of wealth and overall intelligence.

Tokoyami-Owlin Fiend Warlock: I know the Kenku is right there, but I believe that Owlin fits Tokoyami better. And with how his power comes entirely from a monster and how much it protects him, the defensive abilities of the Warlock Fiend fit well.

Tsuyu-Grung Cleric Peace: Grung is obvious since it's literally a frog, but her class may be confusing for some. I did consider Monk, but none of the subclasses fit her that well. I just thought that having her be a Peace Cleric fits with her wise and supportive nature.

Uraraka-Halfling War Cleric: I honestly went with Cleric because fit her general disposition. That kind of support centric person with a few fighting options that come with the War Cleric. The Halfling was mostly because she's very brave and focused on her family.

Shoto-Half Elf Lunar Sorcerer: Sorcerer is an obvious pick with how much of his story is tied to his ancestry and divided nature, complimented further by the Half Elf race. I went with Lunar Sorcery since it multitude of options works with his multifaceted power.

Tenya-Wizard War Magic Warforged: I was tempted to go with Paladin for him, but I believed that Wizard fit better with his natural intellect. Having him be a War Magic Wizard seemed like a good comprise. And of course Warforged fits him nicely.

Shoji-Simic Hybrid Astral Self Monk: Shoji fits in well with the reserved and disciplined types that often make up Monks, especially with how many times he can punch, but the real flavor comes from the Simic Hybrd. A terrifying monster of a man with gliders and tendrils? It's perfect.

Bakugou-Fire Genasi Eldritch Knight Fighter: I believe that Fighter fits best with Bakugou's upfront and aggressive way of fighting as well as his immense physical resilience, with the subclass fitting with his intelligence. And the Fire Gensai was just made to be Bakugou with it's firepower and hyper aggression.

Izuku: Variant Human Devotion Paladin: I was tempted to go with Wizard here, but I think that Izuku's unwavering devotion to a cause and heroic spirit fits too well with a paladin. Plus, you could easily reflavor all of his smites as smashes. Because I don't care what they say, you can smite with your fists.

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mrfartpowered · 7 months ago

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you don’t hate Howard, you hate fatphobic tropes

Here at Mr Fart Powered Dot Com, I’m a long-time hater of the “fat best friend” trope and a long-time lover of jerkass characters, so I think I’m uniquely qualified to comment on this LOL

The biggest critiques I see of Howard are as follows: he’s gross, he’s stupid, he’s selfish, he’s lazy. Below the cut, I deconstruct each of these four criticisms not as faults of Howard, but faults of the writing, largely as a result of fatphobia.

These are all traits associated with the fat idiot trope, popularized by Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin. Think about any other character who possess all of the above characteristics. Far more often than not, they’re a fat character. Plenty of non-fat characters possess any of those traits individually — selfishness, stupidity, laziness, and grossness are not exclusive to fat characters. Nor do they inherently make a character 'bad,' irredeemable, or otherwise unlikeable! But all too often, especially in dated media, we see this flimsy, weak writing apply to the fat villain...or the fat comic relief...or the fat best friend.

Howard falls victim to these ugly, annoying 'fat guy' tropes whenever the writing is in need of a cheap laugh, or when they need to make Randy look extra good. Howard does have unique, interesting traits, but they are painfully underutilized in exchange for role fulfillment as the comic relief.

Stupidity

Contrary to what the show wants us to believe, Howard is not a complete idiot. His intelligence may not be of the academic variety (and even this is debatable), but I would argue he is more clever than Randy. Of the two of them, Howard's got more common sense. Randy misinterprets almost every lesson the Nomicon gives him, while H quickly understands each riddle he gets the chance to know about. (See “a ninja’s choice must be chosen by his own choosing,” “don’t go in someone else’s house,” “when facing an unfamiliar foe, seek an unlikely ally.”)

You could argue against this point in Shloomp! There It Is, where he literally gets to see the lesson as it is presented in the nomicon and doesn’t get it. But I’d argue that this was purposeful mischaracterization in order to further the plot, a point which will unfortunately recur in this essay. The writers care more about Howard as a tool than as a character, but instead of using the capabilities they build within him, they default to stereotypes.

Where conventional academics are concerned, we have one concrete example of his abilities: Howard is incredible at chess. It’s the iconic nerd game; it requires strategy, careful thinking, and the ability to predict your opponent’s moves. Who cares that he doesn't know the pieces' names? Who cares that he doesn’t abide by typical strategies? He can kick artificially-intelligent ass at the game, not to mention follow someone else's plays the way most people follow a football game.

And he's got street smarts that save Randy's ass on multiple occasions. He's more sociable, a better liar, and a quick thinker in stressful situations. Much of this particular point is pulled from @cunningweiner ‘s brain, who pointed out that Howard is really well-received by crowds (Heidi’s MeCast, the talent show, the Tummynator). Another interesting instance of this is Howard’s time as the Ninja — both the fake monster drill ninja, and the actual Ninja. He may not have accomplished his duties as a hero, but the onlookers Absolutely Ate Up his crowd work. He’s not the most physically willing guy around, but he knows how to appeal to an audience. His major flaw in remaining a well-liked public figure is that his ego gets real damn big, real damn fast. But he’s 15! If you blame a teenager for having empathy and esteem issues, I don’t know what to tell you.

Despite his emotional immaturity, Howard is wise beyond his years as a businessman. Before we move forward, I need to tell you: look at this section purely from a business standpoint. You have to forget morals, you have to forget standards, this is Disney XD meta and we are analyzing a man named Weiner, okay?

Okay. Howard embarks on a total of three business endeavors throughout this show, and each one is highly successful. Ninja Agent, weapon reseller, and McFist-o-plex manager. He embodied “work smarter, not harder” every time. Being an agent takes social skill and smooth talking, and clearly he appealed to a wide range of clients (not to mention earned their trust! What would you say if someone called you up and said “yeah, I manage Superman. Want him to appear in a commercial for you?”). Being a manager requires delegation skills and good memory. Reselling Ninja weapons is honestly just genius and I can’t believe he’s the first guy to do it.

Everyone around Howard, and Big H himself, views him as a dumbass. But time and time again, the episodes show us his mental capabilities! Imagine how much fun the writers could’ve had if they’d leaned on a lazy genius trope instead of a fat idiot.

Grossness

I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t think of a single thin character who relies on gross-out humor. Take, for example, Total Drama, a franchise with a bodily diverse cast and a heavy emphasis on gross-out humor. I mean, there’s an entire episode in the original season where every single character pukes onscreen. TD overall utilizes irreverent humor, but while grossness is a major player, it is not the only source of comedy.

And then you’ve got Owen, the only fat character in the original cast. His whole shtick is being fat, greedy, and nasty. Other characters will fart and burp and overeat — all things that Owen does frequently — but they also have other gags. Maybe they’re bitchy, or they’re geeky, or they’re a literal convict. Owen does not enjoy the luxury of character depth. He is only good for grossing out the audience. (Side tangent: Owen has notably made me laugh out loud a handful of times over the course of the four seasons he featured in. But guess what! Every single one of those laughs was begotten from a rare moment when, instead of farting or burping or eating something he shouldn’t, the writers stepped outside the ‘Owen zone’ and gave him a joke unrelated to his fatness. Fatphobic humor is truly a plague.)

I know I’m being a bit heavy-handed, but I want to emphasize how similar that is to RC9GN! Randy does schnasty shit too sometimes, but he gets to be funny in other ways. Grossness is Howard’s primary mode of comedy. During my first watch-through of the show, I remember being outraged at Howard’s tendency to eat Randy’s food, which, of course, was followed by digestion noises or farts. I was too angry to write down which episodes, but I counted four separate instances where they used that exact convention specifically to get Randy angry at Howard, thus catalyzing the episode’s storyline. (At some point I will have to go back and fact-check that, but we’re 900 words deep at this point and this has been in my drafts for over a month, so we move forward for now okay!!)

We do get to see flashes of other humor from Howard, especially into Season 2! His cleverness and apathy make for hilarious setups. But even these instances are undercut by something foul. An example that comes to mind is Fear Factor, a perfectly fine episode — one that I love quite a lot — except for the very last gag. Really? Howard gets to be normal-funny the entire episode, until the last minute? The idea that his biggest fear is running out of food literally only works because he is fat. Had this joke been given to any other character, it probably wouldn’t have even made it to storyboards. Even worse, if Howard had not been fat, this joke would never have been conceptualized in the first place. It is almost as if the writers are trying to hit a quota of gross-out jokes for Howard. At a certain point, my anger morphed to pure disappointment. That’s how disheartening it is to see.

Selfishness

Okay, Howard Weinerman is selfish. I'll give you that. But just because he's self-centered does not make him a bad person. May I bring to mind Gumball Watterson, Marcy Wu, Louise Belcher? All are textbook examples of selfish characters, and frequently act in their own best interest, but are ultimately good people. I mention them as proof that characters can have negative defining traits without sacrificing the audience’s sympathy.

Here's where I really get frustrated with RC9GN’s writing... They want to portray Howard as a jerk with a heart of gold — such as in Debbie Meddle — but they always undercut his few selfless moments with a gross-out gag, or a rude offhand comment, usually directed at Randy. Sometimes, Randy will reciprocate, in which case I give it a pass. There, the grossness or general assholery showcases their friendship, instead of putting Howard down for a stale laugh.

But like I said, that’s the ‘sometimes.’ The ‘often’ is every time we see him almost embody the ‘heart of gold’ part of his attempted archetype, only to be thrown out the window for a lame gag. A specific example is in “Bro Money Bro Problems,” where Howard has cash to spare for once. He immediately opts to spend it on Randy!….until Randy shloomps into the nomicon, then comes out to find that Howard spent everything he had on the Food Hole’s dinner menu. Sure, this was used to set the rest of the episode in motion. They run out of money, but they need more, so they go out and sell ninja weapons. But here’s the thing: for the rest of the episode, Howard spends his money on both him and Randy, rather than just himself, effectively making that dinner menu joke inconsistent with his characterization.

“Well how else would they set the episode in motion?” They could spend it all on arcade games. Or they spend it all at the boardwalk both times. OR, they are just excitable teenagers who realize, hey, this shit is lucrative! Let’s go get rich! Boom. Fixed your episode, fixed your Howard, fixed your fatphobia.

Laziness

Over and over again, the show tries to tell us that Howard is a lazy piece of shit. Other characters regard him as such, and honestly, so does Howard himself. But I would argue that he is no lazier than your average teenager — not to mention, no lazier than Randy! The difference is that for Howard, the writers intertwine his laziness with his alleged stupidity. They try to convince the audience that Howard is too stupid to care what’s going on.

However, this trait is unique from the other three, because I think this one manages to give him depth. Or at least, in my heart of hearts, it has the potential to do so. This characteristic lends to Howard’s most clever jokes, I think, because ultimately:

Howard is capable, but apathetic.

From the earliest episodes, it is established that he aims for minimum effort, maximum benefit. There’s the bit where Randy asks Howard to come up with the plan for once, and they both laugh at the idea of Howard doing the heavy lifting. Or even all the way into “Mort-al Kombat,” he says people are ‘really handing him the answers today’ when Randy puts in the work to get Howard ungrounded.

But just because Howard prefers not to do any work, doesn’t mean he won’t! And when he does put in effort, the results show that he is damn good at what he does. His time as Le Beret more than proves this point: from his ability to work under the radar, to the plans he forms, to the knowledge he has about Mort’s job & McFist Industries that allows him to get all the cool equipment he uses. We also see his skills and capability in “Debbie Meddle” (the ninja dummy), “Viva El Nomicon” (learning Spanish quickly), “Secret Stache” (commitment to the bit), “The Ninja Identity/Supremacy,” and more.

He very much operates under the mindset of ‘work smarter, not harder.’ He’ll get the job done if he has to. He’ll excel at the job if it benefits him. This is a really interesting character mechanic that would have been so much fun to explore. Like I said so many times above, though, the writers most often choose to undercut his abilities in favor of comedic expense.

Conclusion

Howard, in comparison to Randy, is obviously a lot harder to root for. Overall, Randy is a more conventional character with conventional flaws. Like most duos in media, the sidekick juxtaposes the hero — I would even argue that Howard, in some ways, is Randy in reverse. Randy is highly moral, but still has a lot of learning to do skill-wise; Howard is already extremely capable, but also very amoral. Because of this, the narrative places Randy at a higher value than Howard — which, yknow, fair enough! He is the protag, and that’s a great setup for a protagonist. But simply by virtue of being fat, Howard is not treated with the same level of respect as other sidekick/best friend characters.

For all his quirks and flaws, Howard is not a supremely unique character. His basic core aligns with so many other characters. But because the writers lean on his fatness, instead of leaning into his potential and his complexities, it is much harder to root for him — and it strips him of originality. I love this show with all my heart, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t mind the way it treated Howard. He had so much potential, even as the show was airing, and I will forever be upset that the crew squandered it on fatphobic tropes.

#howard weinerman #rc9gn #randy cunningham 9th grade ninja #character analysis #rc9gn meta #also I HAAAATED howard for most of s1 it took me a long time to warm up to him #trust that I have really mulled this over #this isnt randy hate either btw. dont anyone go putting words in my mouth #UPDATE: dudes…..I’ve been working on this for over two months now #on and off #and I’m STILL not happy w it 😭😭#but I have GOT to post it so. PLS lmk ur thoughts ur comments ur questions….#I loooove ninja meta. teehee #ninj-originals

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chocsra · 1 year ago

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"Sweep Me Off My Feet, Honey-coated Words."

Chuuya x fem! reader oneshot - 'My Demon' inspired (kdrama)

a/n: i haven't wrote like this in a while! lmk if u want this as a series!! ALSO THIS IS BASED OFF MANGA CHUUYA. NO BLUE EYES 🤕🤕

summary: after being chased by a mysterious killer, a gravity manipulator saves you, only to switch abilities with you, leaving him powerless unless you two touch.. but apparently, you've met before?

Who is a friend and who is a foe?

Misty skies flow through the light air of dark streets. 11:34 AM, that's enough to feel the pit of your stomach drop in fear, absolute horror. You feel your feet being dragged across asphalt streets even if you stumble or feel tears falling along the way. Just a few hours ago, you picked up an Uber sleepily, wandering a cold beach, another figment of a lonely night.

When you found yourself waking up on a dark road still seated in the car, the loneliness dropped for a second, goosebumps rose and eyes scanned. The mysterious Uber driver adjusted his cap so that it covered his face in the car's front mirror, you opened your phone hesitantly to check the app, only to find that your selected uber was 32 minutes away.

A disoriented stare ran from your phone to the back of his head, fear coursed through every vein, a lump caught in your throat, fuck.

Through a punch and a kick, you dashed out of the car and took rugged steps for preparation as you see your driver pull a sharp blade out, a box cutter. Rugged steps turned into uneven running as your feet clashed harshly onto the asphalt, sucking in sharp breaths, exhaling even sharper ones; the dry air piercing out could slice skin itself.

A dead end arose as you ran, hopeless dread pulling at your feet, the once fiery and piercing breath turned shallow as you trembled. The cold, dark air preparing you for an even colder blade piercing.. God knows where.

Then you saw him, him.

A man, not so tall, who drenched from the dark, emerged from the shadows. It was as if the glow of the moon reflected off his ivory, smooth skin. There was something about him that seemed so.. foreign. To his silky copper hair, bangs that framed his face messily, and a few specific locks that rested on his left shoulder - such an unusual haircut, one that showcased slight sweat and a disehelved look despite his fancy attire.

He had eyes that naturally seemed low-lided, tired stormy grey eyes that you could make through his long lashes; a shine that was printed on his undereyes, one that presented the curves of it. His pinkish lips were tugged into a soft smirk, his hands stuffed in pockets.

The man walked ever so carelessly, as if he were used to lurking in the dark, and watching others drown in it. An expensive raven fedora adorned his hair with a pristine chain hooking around the piece, along with a black bolo tie, a leather choker, and white button up shirt. A long overcoat was thrown loosely over his broad shoulders, with a fitted grey vest and black blazer underneath. You took in his black dress shoes and matching slacks, before he halted, almost making you.. choose between them.

Something about him was also off, incredibly off, one that made your insides swirl and rummage for an answer. So, who is a friend and who is a foe? Crime inhabited every street and alleyway in Yokohama, there may be no safe option, but there is safer.

"Help me!" You run up to the suited man, adrenaline coursed through every vein, pumping to your pounding heart. "He's.. he's trying to kill me!" The man averted his stormy eyes to you, on you, tilting his head as if he were trying to clarify your statement. "And what do I get in return?" A crisp, raspy voice rolled off his tongue like candy, but his words were anything but sweet.

You dart your eyes back to the walking killer, face contorting in confusion, "Consider it a favour." he rasps, sleepy cat-like eyes barely gazing at you. "A favour?" your brows furrow in disdain and repulsion, what kind of life threatening situation deserves a deal in return? A mere business exchange?

"My boss told me we needed more men for infiltration," he clicks his tongue, the glint of the sharp blade inching closer.. and closer. "I think you're perfect." He explains ever so vaguely, "I can't just agree to something so vague.." you purse your lips, head turning as time feels so slow, so slow and so dangerous, "Do you want to live or what?" the man downright scoffs. "Fine." you mumble, biting your inner cheek before he nods his head arrogantly, like you made a respectable, good, choice.

"Noted," the man responds as the criminal behind you lengthens the box cutter to it's max length, you whip your head around in fear before a crushing force pierces the man's chest, dropping the box cutter in the process, blood coughs out of his mouth as his back clashes into the car's front window. Glass shatters and the dashcam runs crushed, lines of blood dribble out the killer's temple and forehead, body disehelved and messily thrown. From the corner of your eye, you see the same shine of the redhead's dress shoe, perfectly angled at the fallen man as he chuckles darkly, hands still shoved in his pockets.

"We've been waiting for you," He inquires, casually striding to the bloody man, "You have a debt to pay." the words roll off his tongue so perfectly, each consonant, vowel, each felt dipped in honey, even as he grabs a fistful of the man's hair, baring his teeth in a smirk devilishly.

'You have a debt to pay' rang in your ears almost irrevocably, there was a catch to his deal, isn't there? A mystery man whose bones crushed under his foot so casually, the wet stainted lips the redhead had, it was covered in lies, deceit, wasn't it? So, who is a friend and who is a foe? If there's one person to trust, it's yourself.

Your feet broke from the shackles holding you in place, from the feeling of your gut, you should've trusted yourself from the beginning, you should've decided what you wanted for your fucking self. You took your feet and ran away from them both, whatever debt he has to pay, he could pay it, whatever deal you had to go through, could suck your fucking dick.

Crash.

The beaten man was thrown right in front of your path of running, landing harshly onto the road; you halted immediately as the pavement cracked and debris emerged. The stormy-eyed man kept his gaze set on the half-dead one, his bones were messily twisted, a look of agony and hatred sent like fluid to each of his veins.

"Miss," you heard a familiar, sugar-coated voice dripping to your attention. The man again, smug, arrogant face dropped for a second, not with a look of sincerity, but rather seriousness. It overtook your breath with the smell of his musky colonge and cigarettes.

"we had a deal too."

You stopped for a second, maybe more than that - he finally stuffed his hand out of his pocket and extended it to you, revealing a gloved, large hand. His fashion was intricately overdressed, you could see from head to toe, he was dripping in a virginal assortment of accessories - rich in flavour, and extravagant in taste. He extended his hand gentle but firmly, undertones of something more lurking under his refined gloves, as if grasping his hand would seal your unknown deal. You stared up at him through your lashes; unbeknownst and rather innocent.

Time is wasting, but is 'waste' a proper word for a moment so enchanting?

Then, a sudden roar of a car's lights awoken and came crashing onto you two, the man, clearly taken off-guard, grabbed your hand, and pushed both of you off the road. Suddenly, you feel the once enamouring misty air blind you as you feel a firm hand grasp onto your wrist, another arm wrapped around your shoulder. A limp, fleeting rush of air flew past you two, as you crash into the lake below you.

Dim shines of city lights prick through the surface of the airy water. Lukewarm but cold quivered and raked through your skin as your hair splays in the lake. Dark corals of reefs peek against your vision as you turn your head around, only to see the same man, your saviour, sinking in the water asleep, his grey eyes were closed shut as his long lashes compliment his skin underneath the shimmer of the moonlight, along with a glow of red outlining his features. His fedora was nowhere to be found, only revelling his silky copper locks. He, without the fedora looked familiar, a little too familiar.

Wait.

You remember him now, all too well.

Chuuya Nakahara.

"I'll be honest, I think blind dates are completely useless."

An elegant man dressed in a fancy black tuxedo had his arms folded in the chair across from yours, almost sleeping in such a fancy restaurant. He had glowly copper hair with bangs that framed his face quite nicely, the sunlight from the open window shining through his locks delightfully too. The man's hair was on the longer side too, so he had it pushed into a half-ponytail, how pretty.

"Since when was this a date?" a raspy, no nonsense voice grumbled from his pinkish lips, his eyes still pinched shut. "I'm sorry?" you scoff, "Didn't Mori set you up with me?" you scan your eyes around the restaurant intently, the whole place was empty, it seems that the restaurant was reserved empty just for this 'date'. "Mori?" the redhead perks his head up, now setting his undivided attention towards you, "Yeah.. Mori." you nodded your head slowly, hinting that your fellow classmate set you up on a blind date with one of his friends.

"Why? He's not really into stuff like that." his brows furrow at you, leaning forward in his seat, now manspreading. "He said that you were.. 'a ladies man.' I guess he thought we were a good match." you inhale deeply, leaning back onto your chair. "Tch," he scoffs, turning his head to the side, still smiling,

"I guess you could say that."

"So how did your date go?"

you were currently walking on campus, your classmate, Mori, bumping into you. "Like shit. You were so lying about the whole ladies man part!" you snicker, still slightly irritated, your friend looked a little offended for his friend, but sighed. "Looks aren't everything, y'know, he's a really good guy when ya get to know him."

You quirk a brow at your friends revelation, "Huh? Looks were all he had! He was cocky, an asshole, had the worst manners, the most secretive bitch I've met, and talked about some secret occult society he was in!" counting the amount of times your date pissed you off on your fingers, if you kept going, you would need more than two hands.

Your friend beside you raised a brow more than once, "Hold on, what the fuck are you talking about?" he motioned harshly, "That's what I'm asking you!" you halt your steps, turning to face him. "Why the fuck did you set me up with him?!"

"Relax, what was his name? Was he the guy with glasses, tall, black hair?" you dart your eyes around your surroundings completely confused, "What? His.. his name was Chuuya Nakahara, I think." your friend pulls out his phone to show a picture of four friends having a drink at a bar, one matching exactly his description. "That's him. Who the hell did you go out with?"

Well shit.

'Seriously?! That crazy bitch from the cafe?' you thought, submerged in water, bubbles floating from both of your mouths to the surface. Excruciatingly and hesitantly enough, you pulled his wrist from the sinking body of water, and swam to the nearest surface of land. Barely noticing the red outline of his body travelling to yours.

Chuuya awoke on a shallow pile of land, surrounded by the lake's water. He rubbed his temple sleepily as he groaned, seeing your sleeping figure through lazy eyes. What did he get himself into? The redhead pushed your hair out of your face to get a closer look, not minding when he sees your eyes fluttering open. Then, he saw a poking tattoo of black ink written across your neck.

A5158.

Several pants of flashbacks flow through his head, you rise disoriented, rubbing your head as you look up at him. He looks at you with discontent, eyes that usually told a powerful story, every speck of grey took you out of the honey he dipped his words in. But now, he looked shocked, almost unreadable; enigmatic.

"..What happened?" you mumble, unaware of the glowly red outline running along your figure, to each strand of your hair, to the curve of your arms. The redhead firmly held your wrist, the lines of red connecting to him, the curve of his shoulder, the juncture of his neck, even the sharp line of his jaw. A large wave of clear, water splash behind you two, filtering the gaps of sunlight capturing the slope of his cheek. Chuuya stammers, an unreadable desire chasing from him to you.

"What.. did you do to me?"

taglist: @sstarshroom @soleelia @tomiroro

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