#he's been trying to do all the legal ways to get this ancient item back | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strawberrysoup · 4 years ago

Text

Pocketful of Posies || Chapter 6

You’d been hiding for years and years now; from your family, from society, from alphas and packs. Suppressants were dangerous but effective and necessary for an omega who refused to be owned—but no suppressants were strong enough to fool the nose of a super soldier, who together with his pack would stop at nothing to bind you to them forever.

pairings: dark!Avengers x reader

word length: 2.9K

chapters: 6/?

warnings: A/B/O dynamics, power imbalances, noncon and dubcon sexual situations, loss of autonomy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat — this is a dark!fic, read at your own risk. more detailed content warnings are included at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers, click through the read more, CTRL + F “content warnings”.

notes: slightly shorter than my usual, but i needed to get some stuff fixed up. if ya’ll like my stories please consider donating to my ko-fi— a bitch is poor lmao

Steve swept you up in his arms and turned to deposit you on the landing upstairs, evidently trusting the others to keep you contained for a moment. There was an audible scuffle going on in the den, Bucky would be heard growling from outside—snapping at someone who made the mistake of asking how he’d gotten out there so fast? Tony was growling at Peter who looked seconds away from begging for forgiveness.

“You guys made it safe, I’m happy to see you Nat,” Steve drew the redhaired woman into his arms and sighed in relief, but you couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement; honestly you were having trouble thinking, your brain clouded with the sudden onset of absolute and uncontrolled panic.

The moment the black-haired man had been pulled away by the delta currently stomping back up the stairs, clarity had returned to you like a slap in the face. The golden fog that obscured your vision immediately dissipated and just as quickly you’d been overwhelmed with gut wrenching fear. You didn’t actually remember kicking Steve in the face or making a break for the stairs, but evidently you had and you cursed your hindbrain for running towards the stairs—you should’ve jumped straight out the window; you had a better chance at out running Bucky and whoever else was down there than the two alpha primes and their surrounding packmates.

Before you could even take a step towards the still wide-open window, the black-haired man appeared with a green flash and wrapped around you tightly. “Shhh , pet, no. No windows for you, darling, come now—back to your nest.”

In a moment of truly unusual harmony, your consciousness and hindbrain agreed that the bed was the last place you wanted to be. That wasn’t your bed, the omega hissed tearfully, you’d never made a nest—that wasn’t yours. It could barely be called a nest, even. There hadn’t been any careful consideration regarding the placement of the pillows and blankets, there were no articles of clothing or soft items that had been scavenged or stolen to elicit a feeling of safety or comfort. Worst of all was the way it smelled. Obviously, it didn’t reek, the mix of individual scents wasn’t a bad conglomeration, but your hindbrain whined at the unfamiliarity. This wasn’t your pack’s scent.

The cohesion was jarring, and you groaned. Regardless of the reasoning, your hindbrain was aware that you didn’t get to have a pack and that reminder always hurt. It desperately desired one, but an omega’s primary objective was survival.

After all, you in all of your fully conscious state knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you would never have a pack—it wasn’t a matter of wanting or not wanting at this point in your life. You were too old to be regressed into the type of omega that packs wanted, your body too badly reliant on the chemical reactions produced by suppressants after fifteen years to stop taking them. At your age, to be found by a pack meant death.

They would get sick of trying to fix you. You’d die from quitting the suppressants cold turkey. They’d beat you for disobedience until your body gave up. You were nearly thirty and that was ancient for an unbound omega and you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Especially an old dog who was bound and determined not to be taught.

“LOKI!” Bucky bellowed as he stomped past Steve and the redhead on the stairs, looking three shades past furious.

The man holding you let go very quickly after that, spinning you away and moving to intercept the furious delta with an equally unpleasant expression. Why couldn’t you have just fucking kept it together upon meeting Bruce—that blood in the water, shark nosed asshole, if you had reigned in your panic there was no way he could’ve scented you through your suppressants. Steve was a different story, but if you’d been quick and calm you probably could’ve made it.

You scanned the room quickly; Bruce was on the bed, checking on Wanda. Bucky and Loki were on the floor fighting, half entangled with Peter and Sam who were doing their best to put their own fight aside to keep the deltas from killing each other. Steve was still halfway down the stairs with the other redhead, talking to her quietly. Tony was—

“Okay, princess, okay,” Tony was wrapped tightly around you from behind, carefully keeping your head braced between his chin and shoulder when you tried to thrash. “This isn’t fair to you, you’re way too fragile for this right now. Put your head here, breathe with me.”

“Please let me go,” you didn’t realize you were crying until you spoke, words coming out in sobs. “I don’t want to die like this, please—”

“You are not going to die, little love,” Thor sounded so sad from where he came to stand in front of you. “I’m not going to bond you, not while you’re so upset. But the results of the tests Bruce ran showed that you are in danger. I cannot allow that and no matter how angry you are with us, we will not let you suffer needlessly.”

“I’m not suffering! I swear, I swear I’m not suffering I’m, I’m happy! I’m happy living my life the way I have been. Please, let me have the choice, I want to be alone, it makes me happy!”

Trying to explain to a literal God why you deserved personal agency was an exhausting business, especially when said God was as condescending as Thor. His indulgent and sad smile was nearly enough to tip you over the edge, but there really wasn’t a point in getting angry—he obviously couldn’t even fathom the concept that what he was doing was wrong. It’s not like you could do anything anyway, you weren’t built for violence but for running away. Every bone in your body vibrated with rage; the injustice was overwhelming.

For fifteen whole years you’d been just fine. You would’ve continued to be just fine, if it weren’t for some super nosed freaks crossing your path. What were the odds of the only people in the world who could scent you from beneath more than a decade’s worth of suppressant use would have a cabin in Quebec that you happened to clean—and run into said people because they happened to show up early; an incredibly unusual situation.

It made you think about Mrs. Hunt. She’d only called to give you a heads up because of the last time, when the homeowner had tried to assault you even while he’d thought that you were a beta . You wondered how long it would take her to realize something was wrong; it was getting late and you’d yet to return her cart despite telling her you’d be there shortly.

The real question would be whether she tried to help or not once she discovered your presentation. She could try to help, try to stick them with omega theft, but they could claim civic duty like Peter had earlier. Besides, that was contingent upon her wanting to help you considering you’d lied to her for so many years.

“You’re so distressed, won’t you let me purr for you?”

“Don’t! Don’t you dare take away—”

“Little love, please—”

“Don’t call me that. You don’t even know me,” you spat, turning to address the room at large. “What kind of fucking superheros are you? Let go of me! Let me go!”

Tony sighed and hefted you up into his arms, one wrapped around your torso while the other hooked under your knees and pinned you carefully across his body. You struggled uselessly against his strong hold; he wasn’t as strong as Thor or Steve, but his bicep was massive next to your head and you could feel his muscles through his clothes as he walked to the bed.

“We can’t, princess,” he murmured into the side of your head as he lowered both of you to the bed, sitting propped against a mass of pillows in the corner. “We’ll never find an unbound omega in your age range again. Plenty of omegas have been offered to us, but they’re all practically children. You’re our last chance—”

“There are plenty! You said plenty! Pick the oldest who wants to be in this fucking shit show and leave me alone!” Everyone tensed when the tone in your voice approached a shriek.

“We’re not taking an omega who’s not even legal to drink—”

“That alpha is like eighteen!” You tried to gesture to Peter, who gaped at you like you’d wounded him, but your arms were still pinned tightly to your sides.

“Peter is twenty-four, actually,” Tony spoke with mirth when Peter jumped onto the bed and crawled until he was pressed against Tony’s side and your back. “And before you ask, Wanda is twenty-six.”

“We’re so lucky to have found you,” the alpha half purred, pressing his nose into the back of your neck. “We’ll make you happy, happier than you are now.”

“It’s gonna be a rough start,” Bruce laid down in the nest a few feet away, welcoming the woman you recognized as the Black Widow into his arms when she slithered into the bed. “We have to balance your hormones, or you will die. You wouldn’t have lasted another year on those suppressants.”

“Death would be a reprieve,” you hissed shortly, freezing when the tone of the room immediately changed.

All attention was suddenly on you, Bruce still making direct eye contact with those sad puppy eyes, “I know that feeling, sweetheart—”

“We will do it another way then,” Thor interrupted, sending Bruce a quieting but loving look. “I said I would not bond you while you are in distress anda I will never break a promise to you. Open your mouth, this will be quick.”

Steve seemed to sigh in response and followed to stand next to the other prime, “I lost my chance. You’ll help her?”

Thor leveled the shorter blond with a careful look before nodding, both showing signs of deference and affection and respect that you did not care for. The rattle of a belt prompted Tony to turn you, setting you carefully between his legs while continuing to hold down your arms with what could appear to be an affectionate bear hug. He even linked his fingers with yours, squeezing gently as you tried to squirm.

“No. No, no no no, that’s disgusting, I won’t—”

“Shhh , I’ll do all the work little love, all you need to do is swallow.”

He was jerking his cock carefully, a flick of his wrist near the head catching your eye. That was a dangerous weapon, the same way you’d come to learn Steve’s was and you had no intention of letting it anywhere near your mouth. You clamped your lips shut, teeth grinding.

“Stubborn,” Peter snorted a laugh and you would’ve snapped at him had his hand not dove between your thighs, fingers gliding through the slick lips of your cunt until he found your clit.

You had to stop yourself from screeching, the head of Thor’s cock directly in front of your face. “Very. Come on now, open up.”

The fingers pinching your nose shut came as a shock, you’d crushed your eyes shut out without realizing it and they snapped open when your face was assaulted. Steve was kneeling on the bed, carefully cutting of your air supply with one hand and stroking your head with the other.

“Come on, precious, you’ve gotta breathe,” he stated softly, smiling when you were forced to pull your lips back to gasp for breath—until he realized your teeth were still locked together. “Really ‘mega?”

The next thing you knew his thumb was shoving against your molars, literally prying your jaw open. There was no way to fight it without hurting yourself, especially once he wedged his thick thumb between your top and bottom teeth. You barely had a second to anticipate the horror before an unnecessarily large cock found it’s way between your lips.

You tried to shriek, your brain finally catching up to the whole series of events, but it was no use. His scent was overwhelming and his dick stretched your lips, your jaw forced completely open. Thor groaned, a triggering noise as he very carefully pressed forward until your mouth was completely full and he was settled against you tongue.

“Suck for me, little love, just a little,” he grunted, just barely working his member between your lips while his huge hand stroked the rest.

It took a surprisingly small amount of time for a massive load of cum to shoot into your mouth. It was thick, and the way that Thor growled immediately made your pupils blow wide like you’d done a line of coke.

Your body went lax immediately and you swallowed on instinct when a hand gently rubbed your throat. The fuzz in your brain was the result of arousal, a brutal orgasm that rocked your body at the sound in combination with your body’s sheer delight at the taste of alpha cum. Somewhere you realized that was disgusting but the haze in your brain made you more focused on the hand between your thighs rather than the indignity.

“Man, this shit ain’t fair,” Sam complained, panting from the exertion of trying to prevent Loki and Bucky from killing each other. “They get to cuddle and we—Hey! Quit that, man!”

“All of you stop fighting,” Steve’s alpha order was brutal and effective.

The sounds of scuffling from behind Thor stopped immediately and there were huffs and snarls and low grumbles but the nest started shifting all around you. You were dropped back to lay against Tony’s chest, having inadvertently swallowed the entirety of the god’s massive load.

“She’s so cute,” Wanda cooed from somewhere to your left.

“We’ll need to go over what we’re doing from here,” Steve sighed once everyone had settled, still watching your dazed expression with a small smile. “But let’s just… nest for a bit, okay?”

The word nest triggered something in your half alpha-cum stoned brained and you looked around the den with a displeased expression. It was a terrible nest; all of the pillows and blankets were in weird heaps and the scent was so wrong. You didn’t really want to nest here, your hindbrain grumbled in agreement, but you’d fix the damn thing. You whined and wriggled until Steve gave Tony the go ahead to stop fully restraining you.

The bed was incredibly soft, which was an upside and crawling across it was like sinking your knees into clouds as you collected the soft heaps of blankets and pillows as you went. You wanted everything off so you could start from scratch, brain muddled by the wrongness of the current layout. You wanted to wash the sheets, the pillow cases, the blankets, all of it. The scent wasn’t right.

“Help her.” It was a quiet request from the Black Widow, who’d also started shifting around to remove the items. “She doesn’t like it like this.”

It was easier to get everything pushed away and in neat piles with the packs’ help, everyone immediately moving to help organize the pillows. You only snapped at the blond beta—Hawkeye, your memory supplied— once for putting a soft blanket on the pile with the not soft blankets. He immediately gave an apologetic burr to which your hindbrain purred back instinctually; evidently a good reaction.

“Why does she like Clint? They haven’t even spoken.”

“She doesn’t like him, she snarled at him!”

“She hasn’t purred at anyone else!”

“Shut up, fuckin’ idiot.”

The noise you made was one of discontent and disdain, the arguing deltas immediately quieting. You didn’t argue with the chirping growl that meant displeased omega, not in a real pack where the goal was to keep omegas pleased and docile. Somewhere your brain reminded you that this wasn’t your pack but the alpha hormones filling your blood and confusing you and yet somehow all you could focus on was whining and pushing at pack members to get them out of the way as your rearranged; clicking your teeth grumpily when you were handed a blanket instead of a pillow or vice versa.

You found yourself being corralled back into the corner, where Natasha and Wanda immediately wrapped themselves around you. Thor had found Bruce and settled beside and settled near your feet where you’d built an intricate nest wall of pillows and blankets. Two of the deltas, Tony and Loki seemed to be glaring at each other—even as Tony laid himself completely on top of the other and they both relaxed into comfortable holds.

It was interesting, watching the pack dynamics as they moved between each other. Clint wrapped around Natasha from behind the same way Carol found her way behind Wanda. Peter had weaseled his way into curling against Loki’s side while tossing a leg over the man’s hip, subsequently laying it over the backs of Tony’s thighs. Sam, Bucky and Steve all found their way into a neat grouping on the bed closest to the stairs, piled as close to the subsequent piles of superheros as possible.

There was some sort of pattern beginning to form in the back of your brain but you were still too confused, too sucked into your own omega hindbrain by the overwhelming introduction of alpha hormone to your system. Instead of following the thought through to the end, you found yourself warm and comfortable and full and falling asleep tucked between the groupings of presentations as if it wasn’t totally, 100% against your will.

content warnings: forced cum eating, chemical manipulation, dead dove: do not eat

#avengers x reader #steve rogers x reader #thor x reader #bucky barnes x reader #tony stark x reader #carol danvers x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #bruce banner x reader #clint barton x reader #peter parker x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #sam wilson x reader #dark!avengers #dark!AU #pocketful of posies chapter 6

687 notes · View notes

dilfbane · 3 years ago

Text

Your Weeping(Your Need For His Touch)

Summary: When things go south on a mission, you have to confront more than just the sketchy town, cartoon villains, and one-bed hotel room you’re forced to share with Loki. You have to come to terms with not only the consequences of being captured, but also the God of Mischief’s feelings for you - Because for all that he might be an asshole, sometimes, he really does have a heart. Written for the Picture Is Worth A 1,000 Words 6k Follower Writing Challenge by @startrekkingaroundasgard

Pairing: Loki/(Female)Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and medical treatment, as well as discussions of the inevitable mindset around sacrificing oneself for the mission that I feel like being part of the Avengers would entail. Also swearing, because at its core, this story started out as a bit of a crack! fic.

Word Count: 7.8k.

A/N: So apparently when I have mental breakdowns they result in me writing crack-fic that takes a 180 veer into angst and fluff for absolutely no reason. For the sake of the crack-fic, in this timeline Loki was forced to help the Avengers take down bad guys directly after the end of the first Avengers movie, so… Is that a confusing plot hole I didn’t know how to account for except by making this AU? Maybe. Did I do it anyway?…. Yeah. This really was meant to be a crack-fic about Loki and the reader confessing their feelings set in the bizarre world of meme culture, I didn’t realize there were going to be feels in it until it was three in the morning and all of a sudden this happened. That being said, your girl went there, so enjoy!

“Oh, shit,” You say, as you take in the grimy hotel room. The walls all smeared in what looks like dried blood, the putrid smell of rotten eggs, a crack-screened television with a fine dusting of some suspiciously white powder. And, of course, “There’s one bed.”

“Hmm?” Asks Loki, turning towards you, briefly, from unpacking. He had dumped his suitcase(Magically plucked out of a chaotic liminal space) unceremoniously on the bed’s scratching, pilling coverlet without so much as a second glance at the rest of the room. And why do you need a suitcase, anyways?? You wonder. It isn’t like we’re planning to be here that long. In fact, you hoped with every fiber of your being that you’d be here for as little time as possible, because this town might actually be the sketchiest place you’ve ever seen in your life; no small feat, for a bona-fide member of S.H.I.E.L.D.

You’ve kicked alien ass on a mutated purple Mongolian death-worm three thousand feet over New York City. You’ve run reconnaissance to rescue debatably-magical items sequestered away in an ancient cave labyrinth plastered in paintings and untranslatable runes, gunfire and what could only be described as the baying of hellhounds in the near distance. You’ve fist-fought a gigantic hive-mind robot in a field of artificially sentient feral steel suits - You’ve even survived Tony’s parties.

Yet none of those scenarios hold a candle to this fucking town.

And Loki, the asshat, seems utterly, competently - no, maniacally - unfazed.

“There’s one bed,” You repeat, into the air.

“Ah,” Says Loki, straightening.

“You don’t see that problem with that?!”

“Should I?” He asks you, walking across the room in long, graceful strides to stand in front of you. He wears the same expression he always wears, amused and indifferent, but this time with the addition of a single, elegantly-arched eyebrow. You drop your head, refusing to meet his somewhat-curious gaze. It physically hurts, how attractive Loki is. Not for the first time, you curse whatever god decided that you and him would once again be mission partners - in this case, you belatedly realize, and choke back a thick laugh, said god is, unsurprisingly, Thor.

If you survive this, you make a note to beat his head in with Mjolnir. As it is, you are here in this room with Loki, with perhaps twenty IPP agents and a reckless poisoner dogging your every move, and there’s a high chance that you won’t live long enough to navigate whatever the hell sleeping with your crush-who-has-murdered-men. Ok, so ‘murdered men’ isn’t entirely accurate. More like ‘caused the murder of men inadvertently through his schemes’. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, right now.

And what about Loki? He is still staring you down, like you’re some wind up toy moments away from going off. Funny, that, you think. If ever there were a time to not have a mental breakdown, it would be here, with him. You’ve crossed a lot of moral lines in your life, but you will be damned if you let Loki Laufeysson see you cry. Loki is graceful. Composed. Sarcastic. Lithe. Rolls his eyes at almost every statement that comes out of somebody’s mouth. But he is, also, beautiful. Shockingly comforting, in his own nihilistic way. You don’t know what it says about you that you find comfort in statements like, Try not to die, you know that I hate funerals. Part of you - most of you - doesn’t want to. But it gives you strength, somehow, to shrug off the day and ground your flailing mind in evading Loki’s calculated manipulation. I won’t show you my weakness, you think to yourself. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

“No,” You tell him - too quickly, he’ll pick up on that - “You’re right, you shouldn’t. It’s fine. We have - a lot to deal with, is all.”

Loki nods, seemingly accepting your answer, but his eyes are still narrowed, watching you like he’s calling your bluff. You talk right past that look - have to, to keep yourself sane, to not think about the one bed that looms large over this entire conversation. It doesn’t even look like a comfortable bed.

“We have two days,” You say, to stop yourself thinking of it. And, also, to talk your way through your disarmingly disjointed thoughts. Loki nods. It would really help if you said something, you think. Swallow the thought, hot and thick, down your throat. What’s the point of a mission partner if you can’t even soundboard off them? “The Pink Cobra could strike anyone, anytime. The IPP is planning something in New York - “

“Isn’t everyone, these days, planning something in New York?”

He sounds regretful, and for half a second you want to offer him the reassurance that his very presence offers you. But you are sure he doesn’t know what he does to you - with his words, with the sidelong glances that you’ve felt linger on your form far too long in the heat of a fight. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Loki worries about you.

“We have to shut him down,” You say. Focus on the Pink Cobra, because honestly, that’s easier. “Find out where he manufactures. Not get poisoned,” You add, at the end.

“Yes,” Loki says, tone dripping with sarcasm, “We should certainly try not to get ourselves killed. Failing that, I suppose, we can at least request that no one in H.Y.D.R.A gets autopsy access.”

“Loki?” You ask. Rhetorically. “You’re not helping.”

He smirks at you, then. He knows.

“What do you propose that we do then?” He asks, taking a step towards you, getting so close that you can feel his hot breath. “About the Pink Cobra?”

“Find him.” You say, fumbling, blush rising high on your cheeks.

Tonight?

One bed?

You are screwed.

***

When you were a kid - think really little, Capri Sun pouches and still believing that true love wasn’t complicated - your father told you that every story needed a good supervillain. You aren’t sure if the Pink Cobra counts as a good supervillain, but he’s the least confusing one that you have to deal with - and, as far as villains go, a fine enough challenge to face. He’s like a madman out of some high fantasy novel, with dark eyes and a sable-sewn cloak and a penchant for poisoning. He is adept in all the arts of the woman’s murder; he has a keen grasp on the side-effects of arsenic and camphor and tansy and cyanide and strychnine. He’s been found to have dropped crystal phials filled with belladonna and ricin while fleeing a scene. If all else fails, he’s more than practiced with daggers.

In other words, he’s the kind of villain that none of you, with your flying suits and telekinesis and super-strength, are anywhere near prepared to waylay.

The plan, as far as team Avengers is concerned, is easy:

You and Loki. This town, where the webs of his manufacturing production and the few glimpses of information that Thor has totally legally excavated out of his captured minions has led to. Two days until some undefined grand attack bears down on the city you live in. Two days to find the Pink Cobra and kill him. The more time passes with no headway, the more you think that this is an impossible task, but you know what Tony would say. We have our best minds on it.

The thing is, you aren’t sure that that’s true. The minds that have been set to this task are you and the God of Lies. It’s hardly the best they could have come up with, considering your track records. Actually, you take that back - Loki was a good choice for this mission, because, not three hours after arriving in this hellhole of a city, he seems to have somehow developed the ability to read minds. More specifically, yours. And that could prove stunningly useful.

The scene, as it stands: Loki, sprawled across the lumpy bed, three pairs of crisp white shirts, a plaid scarf, and a full set of Asgardian battle armor neatly hung in the mothball-infested closet, flicking through channels on the grain, cracked television with an apathetic expression and one arm thrown haphazardly over bent leg. Propped up in such a way that he could jump or spin or parry at a moment’s notice, yet perfectly, devastatingly languid, leafing through Nick Fury’s dossier on the Pink Cobra. He looks at you like a god, you think, and then remember. He is one.

You, on the floor, because on top of all the other things this hotel doesn’t have, like two beds, there isn’t anything even resembling a desk, shifting through a glowing, holographed file archive from headquarters that barely runs on your severely outdated laptop. It’s a point of pride to you, keeping the laptop - not because it’s good, but because it’s survived five years of being an Avenger, which is something not even all the Avengers can claim to have done. You’re also fairly certain that Tony’s attempts to update the firmware had infested it with some sort of renegade virus. Elevated above your screen, the files are split into two groups, the sum total of everything that you know about both of the groups that are avidly trying to kill you.

There’s the wealth of information containing the Pink Cobra’s poisoning sprees, but those aren’t the files that interest you, and you know that Loki’s not much interested in them either. That honor falls to the fanatics at the IPP, the Imminently Predictable Psyops organization, which you know even less about than you do about the Pink Cobra, chief among which the fact that they need a new name. Imminently Predictable Psyops?, Tony had said, when you’d finally apprehended one of their proxies. What do they think this is? Some type of ARG?

What you’ve gleaned, from months worth of studying the network, is that they operate as a sort of cringe-oriented death cult intent on ‘reshaping the universe through meme agents’. They’d been on S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a long time - upwards of a year - before anyone at team base learned they existed - which, you can almost hear Loki saying, was a failure in the extreme. Currently, it was your job to obsessively worry over whether they were going to send ‘meme agents’ to bust through the door of your seedy hotel room and off you both. You hated - truly loathed - how casually Loki was taking it all.

He’s acting like nothing was wrong with this situation, when, in fact, you’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that this night will end up with one or both of you dead. It is, to say the least, disconcerting.

Kill switch, the holograph files read. Cross-referential Neil Cicierega acoustic weaponry. Your mind sees the words, but doesn’t comprehend them, and you run a hand up to rub at your bleary eyes with annoyance. You risk a glance upwards; on the bed, Loki scans page after page after page with disinterested nonchalance, punctuating the flipping over of each document with a noncommittal hum; as if to say, I understand you. As it to say, This could be worse. You try to slip into that mindset. Certainly, things could be worse.

Actually, though? Not really.

Because, for all the world, the holo-file in front of you just said ‘Pepe The Frog Chaos Banking Laser Initiative’.

“What the fuck does that even mean?!”

“Sorry?”

You whip your head around. Loki, raising an eyebrow. Damn that - perfect - eyebrow.

“Sorry,” You echo back at him, rubbing your eyes again, perversely glad for the break, even if it is this awkward. “I … said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Marginally,” He tells you. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” You - well, it’s not a whine, not exactly. You’re tired, and there’s no way you’re going to sleep tonight, so you feel like your tone’s justified. “I didn’t mean to do that. I think I’m just - this is. Completely nonsensical.”

“Show me?” He asks, and you snort. He could totally just look up, but -

“Do you have a P.h.d in memes?” You ask him, and, before he can answer, “Because unless you have a P.h.d in memes, I don’t think you’ll be able to help.”

“You’d be surprised,” Loki says. Vaults over the bed with the speed and grace of a panther, filling the air with a cringing wheeze as the rusty springs bend underneath him, and landing in front of the holo-file, pushing you aside slightly to get a better view. When his fingers brush against your side, cool and firm, you flinch.

“Tired,” You offer, when he shoots you a momentarily concerned look. “Just. Need to sleep, later, I think.”

But Loki is already scanning the file, and when he looks up, not five seconds later, you want to hit somebody. Preferably, you think, him.

“I would assume,” Loki says, “That they’re using time travel in order to obtain and store monetary value by way of a Pepe-the-frog inspired laser array.”

“Oh,” You say. You blink once. Blink twice. Still have no idea what that means. “Right.”

“Do you not know your memes, love?” He asks you, smirking. And oh, if you don’t feel things.

“I don’t go on the internet, much,” You tell him. “Too busy, you know, trying not to get killed.”

Loki shrugs. Sidles away from the file. The groan and squeak of those springs tells you he’s back on the bed, giving you some well-needed space, but you can’t bring yourself to look.

“You can sleep,” He says, “If you want.”

“Ha!” You yelp/choke/embarrassingly bleat out into the room’s stale silence. Underneath the rotten eggs, you catch a whiff of bong-water. “No.”

“There’s a bed,” Loki says, cocking his head pointedly and patting the lumpy covers.

“Yeah, that’s - kind of the problem.”

“Why?” He asks you.

“You - really?”

“I was only asking,” Says Loki, re-focusing his attention on whichever Pink Cobra document’s next in the folder. “If you aren’t comfortable telling me - I merely thought, seeing as you were tired, you might take this opportunity to rest.”

“Yeah,” You tell him, “Of course, that’s - nice of you.”

It comes out stilted. Patently off. If he notices, he doesn’t say.

“Are you going to - um. Do you need help, with the rest? The ones I have seem kind of hopeless. I mean,” You say, when he doesn’t look up, “I don’t think that we have to worry about getting demolished by trans-dimensional Agarthian wormholes.”

“Of course not,”” Loki says, scoffing and incredulous, gaze, you are sure, on his page. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d send someone with a gun.”

In reality, it’s several someones.

***

“You jinxed it,” Is the first thing you tell him, when the men leave you. They’ve thrown you into a one-room warehouse, rickety shelves stacked with cartoonish tubs of green goop and mildewing boxes filled with grenades and machine guns and what appears, at second-glance, to be twelve-fingered latex gloves. You’re tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and your throat feels uncharacteristically parched. Fear, you tell yourself. Apprehension. “Can’t you just - use your seidr to magic us out of this?”

If you could see him - which you can’t, because you’ve been tied back to back - you’d swear that Loki was glaring.

“Do you - do you have a plan?” You ask, after a moment.

“I’m working on it,” He says.

“That’s all?” You say. “We were dragged out of our drug-dealer’s hotel room by a bunch of robed men with guns and the only thing you have to say is ‘I’m working on it?’”

“I’d get it done faster,” Says Loki, “If you wouldn’t interrupt me.”

“Ok,” You tell him, “No interrupting you. Got it. That’s - Alright.”

Unfortunately, not interrupting him is easier said than done, because without the sound of your voice, you are left to your thoughts.

The men had broken in nearly immediately after Loki’s glib, sardonic retort to your worries, shooting the glass out of the room’s already half-smashed-in window and kicking the door in simultaneously. A bit much, isn’t it?, Loki’d asked, and you had wanted to smack yourself on the forehead. Really not the time, you had hissed, but Loki hadn’t seemed to hear you. Do you do this with everyone they send you to assassinate?, he had asked, instead. The men had been dressed in long, billowing cloaks of bright red, embroidered with orange snakes framing a picture of Beaker from the muppets with early 2000’s emo hair. Chaotic meme agents, you had thought to yourself. So that’s what they’re supposed to look like.

You hadn’t picked up, until now, on the snakes.

“They’re working together,” You say, when you can’t stand the playback of Loki being disarmed after spinning and tossing his silver daggers at the men, of the men kneeing him in the balls and twisting your arms behind your back, holding a gun to your head to stop you from trying to fight. Waking up in the back of a van that smelled like microwaved fish. Being tossed like garbage onto the floor of the warehouse, painted in bruises and cuts from the small pieces of glass that had dug their way into your skin. “The IPP and the Pink Cobra.”

“Obviously,” Loki says. Sharply.

“Did Tony not -“

“Stark,” Loki practically growls, and, ok, you’re not losing it but that did make you jump in your skin, “Is an idiot. He wouldn’t know how to connect the dots if they were presented to him in a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode.”

“That’s - You had that on Asgard?” You ask him, momentarily distracted. You wish that you could see Loki’s face, and are very glad that you can’t.

“That isn’t the point,” Loki says.

“I know,” You tell him. You’re scared that your voice is trembling. Scared that he can tell, even though he’s not facing you, how badly your fingers are shaking. Scared that he knows your worst, biggest secret -

That, despite being an Avenger, you are anxious. That, despite him being Loki, despite him being here, and wonderfully, infuriatingly himself, he cannot help you, this time.

You are going to die, covered in cuts and abrasions, on the floor of a meme network’s headquarters, at three a.m in the morning. They are going to come in with umbrellas that shoot poison darts or the ex-presidents Point Break masks and mow you down, and Loki has no fucking plan. You feel the ropes tighten where they’re knotted, itchy and fierce, and you have to fight to keep yourself from whining in terror and nerves. Whining isn’t what Loki needs right now. Whining’s not going to save you.

What is going to save you, you try and remind yourself, is Loki. If you can shut up. If you can let him decipher what needs to be done. If he can figure out some way to do it before the blowtorch-wielding robed vigilantes or some disincarnate meme god comes back and draws their electronically-sharpened fingernails across your throat hard enough to split skin and sinew, send waves of blood down the front of your shirt like a river of sweet, thick red honey and toss your corpse in a ditch by a highway and -

“Y/N?” It is foggy, barely-heard. Posh. “Y/N!” Louder, this time. There are fingers on your wrist, bent backwards to grip you. Squeezing, insistent and there. “Breathe.”

Fuck, you think. You’d started to hyperventilate. To shake, with a full-body tremor that forecasts a great, unstoppable wave of sobbing panic. And Loki had noticed. “I need you to trust me,” He says. “Trust me to get us out of this. Can you do that for me, darling?”

He has never called you darling before, but God how you’ve wanted him to. You feel like you’re being stabbed in the heart - because there is no way he means it, no way that this is anything other than a desperate and cruel attempt to get you to calm down. Something that belies how obvious you are. How needy you are. How pathetic. And yet -

And yet, he doesn’t say it meanly. He speaks like he cares about you, and in the face of your impending death, you want to think Loki cares. You’d let him say anything, do anything to you, right now. More than that, though, more than any of that - as you think back to meeting him, to your blossoming late-night friendship and twitchy banter and the quiet moments you’ve shared with him in-between battles -

“I trust you, Loki,” You tell him, and feel your breath quiet in you. Feel yourself growing still and calm with the certainty that Loki will do as he’s said.

That you will survive this.

That -

“Good,” Loki says. Not relieved, but determined. Leaving you no room to argue.

“So what do we do?” You ask him.

“Nothing,” Says Loki, and you can hear his wide grin.

“Nothing?” You ask him, gawking.

“Nothing,” Says Loki. He gives your hand a tight squeeze.

And then the Pink Cobra walks in.

***

This will end badly, you think. It’s about the only thing that you can think, preoccupied as you are with -

It might be easier not to -

Fuck.

The thing is - and you really do try not to move, not to groan, not to scream - the thing is, you thought that when Loki said he had a plan, that said plan wouldn’t involve you being collateral damage for a LARP-er who’d most likely broken out of an asylum. I wish that we could be back in that shitty one-bed hotel room, you think to yourself, and - alright, not the best timing, but it rips a laugh out of you, spiraling and unhinged, before you feel the Pink Cobra, resplendent in coral cloak and villainous swagger, slug you one in the jaw. It hurts worse than you’d thought it would - you’ve never really gotten injured on missions, you’re usually good at talking yourself out of things, which is why the Avengers keep you around. You can speak any language, as long as you’ve heard it once, and your customary daily awkwardness can shift into persuasion like flicking a light-switch on.

Usually, though, you had an opportunity to speak, and weren’t rendered speechless by -

Loki, if you’re being honest. How much you want to kiss him. How much of an asshole he is. Trust me, he’d asked you. Can you do that for me? The Pink Cobra’s grip is sharp and bruising on your side; he’s slipped his fingers up your shirt and is pressing the point on your side that threatens to make your knees buckle, making bile rise up in your throat, driving you wild with the aching need to flee. He has one hand clasped over your mouth, now that you’ve quieted, and you can feel something - pain, and a pill - pressed snugly into his palm. He will force it down you, you know, if Loki so much as sighs wrong.

You’ll never trust him again.

You wish that you knew what the time was. If you end up dying at 4:20, you’re going to throw fists with somebody in hell.

You wish, also, for aspirin. Avengers training has left you woefully unprepared for the reality of getting punched in the face. You can already feel your jaw starting to swell, taste an egregious amount of blood. You’re pretty sure that the force of the blow knocked a tooth out.

What strikes fear into you, though - a fear somehow deeper than the absolutely bone-chilling, blood-curdling knowledge of what the Pink Cobra might do to you - is the look you’d seen on Loki’s face in the seconds after he’d grabbed you, before it fell into practiced, amused apathy. He’d gone white, and his eyes had blown wide. His fingers had spasmed with anger.

He’d looked as scared as you feel.

And you have no idea why.

It isn’t like you’re anyone special. Not any more than the rest of the team. Less so than most of them. You aren’t a god, like Loki and Thor are. You don’t have stealth-assassin training, like Bucky, or super-strength like Steve. You can’t seamlessly pilot mechanical suits over the New York skyline like Tony, or use a crossbow like Clint, or beat thirty people in single-hand combat like Nat, or change into a nitro-fueled rage machine like Bruce.

You can’t do anything, much.

Except, apparently, die.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not letting yourself look at him. You won’t let Loki’s disinterested face be the last thing that you see. It makes the Pink Cobra’s words all the worse, when he speaks. His voice is dark and sick and timbered, and you feel maggots crawling over your skin as he slots you closer to his body, tightening his already painful grip on you so that you can’t move even an inch away from his tensed, coiled muscles.

“So,” He says, “You are superheroes? How long did it take me, to apprehend you? Ah - three and a half hours? Tell your boss-man, do better next time.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Loki says. His voice sounds different. You can’t place why. Still won’t look.

“You won’t,” The Pink Cobra says. You can feel his shoulders rise, then fall. Feel him smirk. You love Loki’s smirk - secretly delight in drawing it from him, sometimes - but the Pink Cobra’s only fills you with yet more terror. You’ve pursed your lips tightly shut against the intrusion of his hand, but when Loki speaks he forces your bruised, bleeding jaw open and shoves the pill into your mouth. The pain of your injury tears through you like white lightning and you thrash, trying to escape. A keening sound claws its way out of you, fevered and anguished, and you feel your hands, still bound up in ropes, trying in vain to push off and away. The man behind you sighs, and then aims a swift kick at the back of your knees, which sends you down before you can so much as yelp. Your knees hit the floor, and he’s holding you by your hair now, twisting it so hard that you’re almost sure he’ll scalp you. He’s pulled something - too big to be be a knife, some kind of shortsword?! - Out from beneath his cloak, and is pressing it up against the column of your throat. You feel the weight of the capsule between your teeth heavily now, and realize what it means in the split-second before the Pink Cobra bends and whispers, Your choice; stale and rancid into the shell of your ear.

Next, he addresses Loki.

“You’ll be wanting to know what our plan is,” He says. Our, you think. We were right. “Hmm? I know how you people are. Always wanting to know. Tell me this, Mischief Man. What will I get, if I tell you? What price are you willing to pay?”

You know what this is. You know it like the ache in your heart when Loki brushes you off. Like the safety you feel in his arms. You open your eyes. Take in Loki’s face - he’s trying to hide, but you know, you know how he feels. You know what he’s going to choose.

And you know that you can’t let him choose it.

“You’ll let her go,” Loki asks, “If we let you leave here?”

“The thing could be managed.”

No, you think. No, Loki, don’t! Whatever the Pink Cobra’s going to do, whatever the IPP’s planning, knowing’s worth more than your life.

“One thing I want to know,” Loki says. He’s twirling a knife of his own, a slim silver number he keeps on him at all times, and you feel the blade on your own throat start to dig in - not enough to draw blood, but enough for you to feel it. The threat of it. The promise of it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal. “You and the IPP? How does it fit?”

“You want information from me?” The Pink Cobra asks. Lets his blade bite you, just barely, and the strength it takes for you not to scream is more strength then you’d known you possess.

“Yes,” Says Loki. “It’s not like I’m asking for much.”

He meets your gaze. You meet his. You hope that he cannot read it. His eyes are so worried, so desperate, you nearly break down.

“I suppose,” The Pink Cobra says, “That you’ve earned it. Getting here - getting this far - it must have been no easy task. Fine. There is no Imminently Predictable Psyops organization. They were a - what do you call it? Red herring? A scent of blood for the shark.”

“You fabricated them,” Loki says. “Why would you fabricate them?”

He is losing his composure, you can tell. You will never be ready for this. He will never be ready for this. You hope that he will forgive you, and you know that he never will, and you swallow the pill in your mouth.

“Because it was fun,” The Pink Cobra says.

And then your body knows pain.

***

“He didn’t think I would do it,” You say. Your mouth feels thick, clotted with blood and shock, and your body is one raw, gaping wound, but the giddy feeling of victory has begun to course through your veins. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline. You had waited for the moment of death to come, and it hadn’t. The pill is fake, your mind had screamed. But there’d been one thing left, that might work. You had breathed as slowly as you possibly could, forced every muscle of your scared, writhing body into single-minded limpness, rolled your eyes backwards into your head, drew one last breath in, and fallen. Twitched, for a few seconds, like a rag-doll. Then made yourself still.

Loki had slit the Pink Cobra ear to ear, beaten him within an inch of his life as he bled out, screaming like a man deranged. He’d left him a wet, bloody mess on the floor, and the blood had run down the not-quite-steady plane of it, pooling around you and mixing with the blood from your jaw, from the evening’s earlier glass cuts, from the deep, burning stab wound the Cobra had got on your arm.

You breathe, and your body knows pain.

You look at Loki, and your body knows pain.

He is shaking. Visibly shaking. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he looks as pale as bleached bones. His eyes are shot red - he had sobbed, when you fell, and a howl had torn through his body. You don’t know what to do, what it means, what the hell even to say to him. His cheeks are tear-stained, his breaths ragged.

You blink, and your body feels pain.

“We won,” You croak out. “Loki, we won.” It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. “I think he broke one of my ribs.”

You don’t mean to say that last part, but you do, and you are the one crying now, because it feels like he probably has, and you can barely even stay awake through this pain. It feels like the Hulk is pulling you limb from limb. Like all of those nightmares you’ve had where Loki decided to leave you - to go back to Asgard, and never speak to you again.

Stupid, you think. He won’t, again. Not after this.

Loki still hasn’t spoken. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are wild. Desperately, jaggedly roaming your body. His fists twitch with every new part of your body they land on.

“That bad, huh - Oh, fuck.”

And just like that, the tension leaves Loki’s body. The dam that had held him firmly in place is broken, and he’s running towards you with none of his usual grace. Dropping down by your side. He hoists you, and you hiss, and the tears won’t stop coming, so you bury your face in his shirt, nose pressed at the crisply ironed collar. Don’t care that it’s bleeding, because Loki’s here now. Holding you. Keeping you real. He’s got one hand stroking your hair and his touch feels right, nothing like the Pink Cobra’s, and he’s whispering: You brave, precious, idiot, how dare you, how dare you throw your life away like that?!

“It worked,” You exhale - it’s the most you can manage. You would laugh, if it wouldn’t shred you to pieces. Loki cradles you fiercely, hands grasping at the sweat-and-blood soaked fabric of your shirt, running over you as if he doesn’t believe you’re alive. “It - hurts,” You get out. Barely. “Loki, it - I can’t -“

“Don’t,” He tells you. His voice has gone brittle, choked with thorns. “Don’t talk. Don’t - Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me? You will never do that again.”

If I need to, I will, you think. And you wonder if that’s why you’re here. Wonder if that’s why you’re strong. You wonder, and hurt, and believe. Feel the strength of him, clutching you like you’re the only thing in the world, taking in greedy lungfuls of your weeping, your need for his touch.

You can’t talk, anymore. It hurts too badly. But you surge, upwards, up into where he’s holding the back of your head, pressing your forehead into the dark, warm space under his jaw that smells like smoke and peppermint. Loki is taller than you are - you fit right into the curve of his neck, and his long curls curtain you in a bubble of warmth and content.

“Promise,” You say, but it comes out unintelligible, and Loki’s hands are running, so gently, over your skin.

“What was your plan?” You ask him, forcing it out of your body.

“Hush,” Loki says, “Later.”

There might not be any later, you think. Not like this.

***

In the hotel room, an ocean of scattered pages and ceiling mold and blessed privacy, you balance, cross-legged, on the bed. The wind blows wet and cold from an earlier rain through the busted out window. You have managed this out of sheer stubborn-ness, because it is the most that Loki allowed you to do. You’d passed out, twice, on the journey back - he had magicked you there, though it had taken a considerable amount of effort that you weren’t sure you really deserved - and had immediately propped you up on the pillows and stooped to ruffle through his suitcase, emerging not long after with binding tape, cat-gut thread, and a needle so sharp you could feel it slicing your flesh. You had opened your mouth to protest, but Loki had silenced you with a glare that could fell Director Fury. So you had gone quiet, and caved, letting him kneel over you on the distinctly lumpy mattress and begin inspecting your wounds. It had taken a few tries and a Please to convince him to let you sit on your own, and it hurt much more than the manner in which he’d arranged you. You were starting to, slightly, regret it.

“You don’t have to do this,” You say, pulling it from bleeding lips. He shushes you with a harsh, stern tut. “You’re not my mother,” You tell him.

“You could have died,” Loki says. There’s a snarling undercurrent to it that you can’t even start dissecting. “What were you thinking?” He asks. It is easier, though still painful, for you to answer him - he had used nearly half of his Thor-limited magic reserve to perform a basic stasis spell on your injuries, but the spell wouldn’t last forever. You’ll need stitches, he’d said, choking it out like he was the hurt one when he’d seen the number the Cobra’s blade had done to your arm.

“I’ve had worse,” You say, grinning weakly.

“Are you lying to me?” He asks you, with the tone of someone who’s distinctly not in the mood for joking.

“I thought,” You say. Steel yourself. “I thought you weren’t going to do what needed to be done. So I - Did it myself.”

“What needed to be done.” Loki says, enunciating every word.

“We couldn’t let him walk away,” You say, meeting his eyes. Emerald, clouded with fury. You don’t let yourself flinch from that anger. You don’t let yourself run from your choice. “You know what he would have done.”

“I don’t,” Loki says. “I know nothing. I know - I know that you think that your life means so little I wouldn’t care if you were gone. That I could - Live, without you.”

That’s… different.

“And I know,” Loki continues, “That I told you to trust me, and I meant it.”

“I do,” You say. There is no hesitation. “I trust you - Loki. Of course I trust you. It’s not - it wasn’t -“

“Stop talking,” He snaps. Gentles, when you jerk your head away, blink back a fresh wave of tears. “You need rest,” He says. “And - This is. This is going to hurt.”

You nod.

“Best get it over with, then.”

“You should keep your eyes closed,” He says.

“No! I want - I need to look.” You bring your eyes up to your arm, which he’s settled onto bed’s chewed, scratchy quilt without you realizing, but Loki tilts your head up with a barely-there graze of his fingers, achingly gentle to avoid aggravating your swollen jaw. He holds your gaze for a long time. Doesn’t look mad, anymore.

“Are you sure?” He asks you. Like all of this could be over with, if you wanted.

“How bad it could it be?” You ask back.

The injury is horrendous. You’d thought - honest-to-God, you’d thought the pain was terrible, but you weren’t ready for what your arm has become. The line of the wound runs in a craggy jigsaw from just under your shoulder to the tip of your elbow. Small wonder you can’t move it, can barely think through it at all.

“Y/N?” Loki asks, “Are you -“

“Fine,” You say. Blink, and your body knows pain. Try not to let how scared you are show, when you look back up at Loki. The Pink Cobra’s dead. You shouldn’t be scared, anymore. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Loki sighs. Long and low and sad.

“Will I have to - “

“Bite,” Loki says, and shoves something - the sleeve of his shirt, crusted in blood which you realize, sickeningly, is yours - into your mouth. “It’ll help.”

It doesn’t, but he holds your hand through it, hushing you through the pain with furrowed eyebrows, thread and needle flying deftly through skin, air, skin again. His fingers move precisely, deliberate, quick, and when, on one stitch, you audibly whimper, he pauses to lean down and press a soft, utterly unexpected kiss to your hairline. You are unable to fully express how much it means to you, so you do the next best thing and kiss him yourself, pressing him back once he’s finished the last of his stitches and breathing all the the words you can’t say into him. You press every fear and gratitude and lingering nerve into the warmth of his lips, wending your fingers through his dark hair despite the pangs of agony still thrumming through every inch of your body. Your face hurts, but the kiss is all you’ve ever needed and more, and Loki is so, so gentle with you, pulling away with creased eyebrows and a look of genuine concern.

“I wanted to,” You tell him, mustering all of your strength. “It didn’t hurt.”

“Stop,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Stop lying.”

“I’m not,” You say. “I wanted to, Loki, I did.”

“And you wanted to -“

“No.” You are vehement about it, for a broken-ribbed, broken-jawed, freshly-stitched person coming off the high of his teeth and his tongue. “Not that, I swear, never that.”

“Why did you do it, then?” Loki asks. He has steepled his fingers under his chin, and his narrowed eyes pierce through you to the soul. You couldn’t lie to this man, you think, if your life depended on it.

You know that you have to tell him, this time. Really tell him. You don’t.

“”Why didn’t you use your magic?”

“You know why,” He says, and you do. You’d remembered it as the white pill turned to white powder in your gums, as the Pink Cobra’s knife had carved its way into your flesh. Thor had put a set limit on it, as condition of Loki’s release - Proof, he had said, We can trust you. Loki had thought to save it for later, that you wouldn’t need him right then. He had thought you’d talk them out, to safety.

You’d failed him.

“You didn’t,” He tells you, voice raw. He goes to grip your chin, to force you to listen to him, but with a glance and ill-concealed wince at your purpled jaw he thinks better of it. “You think that you failed me? You let yourself be - be beaten and stabbed - just so people you’ve never met in your life wouldn’t die, and you call that a failure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Bites back a snarl. Drops your arm. “I need you to listen to me,” Loki says, “Very, very carefully. You’re going to tell me why now, love. And then we’re going to fix it.”

You raise an eyebrow. Worse than he does, you’re aware.

“Sleep,” He amends, with a pointed look at the bed underneath you, “And then we’re going to fix it.”

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, “And I feel like I just got run over by a truck.”

Loki huffs, a puff of warm air that you feel, from how close he still is. A grin twitches at the edge of his lips. It sets off sparks inside you.

“I thought -“ You say. Shake your head, and restart. “You would have let the Pink Cobra attack. You would have let him just walk away, and I couldn’t just - let that happen.”

“Enlightening.”

“No,” You tell him, “I mean it. I couldn’t - I’m not - I’m not worth more than anyone else. We’re the Avengers. It’s our job to save people, Loki.”

He’s regarding you carefully, eyes still narrowed, all vestiges of softness gone from his face. When he opens his mouth, it’s to close it. Form thoughts. Discard them. Exhale.

“My mother once told me,” He finally says, “That I would never know what it meant to be human until I found the person who made me want to bleed the world dry. Take all of its’ suffering, all of its’ cruelty, and leech it out of the very fabric of time, just to keep that person from anguish, from harm.”

“I don’t -“

He holds a hand up. You still.

“She never said they would infuriate me,” Loki says. “She never said they would make me laugh, or smile, or question my sanity on a regular basis. She never said that they’d try and get themselves killed, and that I’d have to watch, and that I would feel like my heart was being ripped from my body and torn to a bloody pulp; that I would make the sky rain blood and fire at the sight of it alone. But she was right about one thing - Many things, but also this. She told me that it wouldn’t matter. That I would - love you - anyway.”

“You don’t,” You say, not daring to hope. It’s an automatic retort.

“Foolish girl,” Loki chides, and you blink back fresh, stinging tears. How long have you wanted to hear Loki say that to you? How many sneaky looks have you stolen in the heat of your missions, just to see his smart mind and tricky magic at work? How many nights have you sat up together, sequestered from your insomnia in a bubble of hard-earned banter and peppermint tea, fighting the tight, coiling urge to push aside your steaming mugs and pull him into your needing?

He could not - he can’t - feel the same.

“Loki,” You say, stumbling over the words, “You can’t - This is - This is me we’re talking about.”

“Is there anyone else here,” Loki asks you, “That I could be talking about?” He seems nonchalant, now, as if this - this cruel fucking joke, when you already feel you’re on fire - is merely a fact of his life. “We’re going to leave this excuse of a town, and get you - proper care. Fix it. Because I will not, on my honor, watch you suffer in pain. But first, you’re going to sleep.”

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, and feel your resolve as it shatters. You cling to the statement like it’s the last remnant of the girl you were and the woman that you’ll never be, “And the shower doesn’t work. And I’m covered in blood.”

But when you look at Loki, his eyes twinkle, mischievous.

“Will you stay with me?,” You ask him, biting your lip.

“You astound me,” He tells you, and rolls his eyes, and it feels - it feels normal. Good. A tender heat unfurls in your heart like orchid petals in the sun, numbing the persistent ache in your ribcage. “To even think that I would do anything else.”

Later, you will ask him why. Why do you love me?, you will ask, and Loki will hum, low in his throat, curled around you just like this first night; your back pressed into his chest, your legs tangled up hopelessly, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns onto your spine in the dawn-light’s syrupy gold. Because, he will tell you, trailing a line of soft kisses up the scar on your arm - an ugly thing, but it functions, mostly, and only ever seems to hurt on the days when he isn’t there - I was given no choice.

But if you’d had one?”, You will ask, and spin around, propping yourself on your elbow.

You tempt me, He’ll tell you, baring his sharp teeth. Shouldn’t you know better than that?

You will lie there, next to each other, not needing a single word. Because you will know. Because he will have told you, a thousand times, a thousand ways, exactly how he feels about you.

Tonight, though, isn’t that night. It takes a moment to get settled in his hold, and the rain spits and drums against what glass remains in your window, slicking the carpet with dark, greasy splotches. It figures, you think, that even the rain in this city has the smell and the texture of oil. You feel like a bag of bones, stretched too thin. But safe, in his arms, in a way that you’ve never felt, before now. Loki is with you, you realize. Wrapped around you like a traveler’s cloak, the comforting weight of a slim, balanced blade at your side in a fight. He is cool, around your afraid. Warm, where his clever fingers whine and needle their way through your skin to your heart.

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?”

Loki laughs, a deep, rumbling purr.

“Go to sleep.”

#picture1000wordswc #pic 4 #loki/reader #female reader #crack #so much crack #just a lot of references to bad memes and cringe movies that turns into all the angst #because for some reason i’m like this #guess which character from another popular franchise i based my crack villain off #soundtrack to this was 800 percent mouth moods #in all seriousness though huge congrats to @startrekkingaroundasgard #you deserve all the love #unfortunately i showed my love by writing insane crack fic but HEY #loki is in it so hopefully that makes up for the c r i n g e

42 notes · View notes

primatechnosynthpop · 3 years ago

Text

Wow! Against all odds, I finally got around to actually writing the follow-up to I'm Gonna Be The Anti-Hero that's existed exclusively in my head for months! Well uh here it is :3

---

The secret underground room beneath Plymouth rock was dark and silent as always, save for the faint dripping of water through a crack in the ceiling. It figured that, after living there for countless centuries, the structural integrity would finally begin to erode. That dripping sound, although highly irritating when it first started a month or so ago, had now settled into background noise which John Smith paid no attention to. He was a pilgrim, not a witch; it wasn't like the water could hurt him.

Then again, he realized a few moments too late one rainy spring day, perhaps he should have reevaluated that statement. He was minding his own business sitting in his chair and reminiscing about the very old days (that was the only thing he could really do anymore, slowly decaying as his body was) when the soft and steady dripping suddenly escalated at an exponential rate into what sounded like a small waterfall. He turned his head to see a semi-transparent humanoid figure taking shape out of the water pooling in the corner--strangely tinted red, as though the water were mixed with blood. As the old pilgrim watched, jaw agape, the figure strode purposefully toward him, taking on a more solid form as it did so.

"What are you doing here, intruder?" John Smith demanded, one hand tightening around the hilt of his sword while his other hand reached behind his back to fumble for his musket.

"This secret underground room isn't government sanctioned," the stranger hissed. (Although... was he a stranger? John Smith somehow felt that he'd seen this youngster once before, but he couldn't quite place where or when.) "And you have no official identification registering you as a legal citizen. Not to mention, you haven't been paying taxes... disgraceful."

Before John Smith had the chance to concoct a retort or draw either of his weapons, the masked man's hands were around his throat and crushing his windpipe with a force that could only be driven by an inhuman amount of bloodlust. And within seconds, the life of a pilgrim that had been extended for centuries past its expiration date was finally put to an end.

"I can't believe they want us to make a clown movie at a time like this."

"I can believe it," Neil replied without looking up from the shopping list in his hand. "The studio wants a lot from us, remember? They're not going to care how sad we are. Anyway, it's been four months--" The emotions bubbling up within him refused to let his voice stay level, so he gritted his teeth and hissed out the rest of his sentence rather than let himself start crying in the middle of the dollar store. "We should be over it by now."

"Neil..." Kevin began in the way he'd often addressed Neil over the past few months--brow furrowed, voice edged with an obvious and vaguely patronizing concern--only to trail off and shake his head with a sigh. Apparently he'd finally given up on trying to make Neil feel better, which was just fine by him, because things are never gonna go back to the way they were before and it's my fault and I don't deserve to feel good about it.

"Anyway, we've got what we came for," Neil muttered, waving his hand in the general direction of Kevin's shopping basket without looking him in the eyes. "Let's go."

At the checkout counter, the cashier frowned and shook her head when Neil offered her a five-dollar bill. "Sorry," she told them, "But all this is going to cost $29.99."

"What? But we don't have that kind of money!" Neil lamented. "And we got this stuff from the clearance section... plus this is the dollar store, so shouldn't everything just cost a dollar?"

For a visual aid as he spoke, he grabbed one of the items they were ringing up--a bargain pack of multicoloured clown wigs--and shook it in the cashier's face. Apparently unmoved by his bargaining, she pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

"Maybe you should have checked the price tags first, sir."

"Huh? But, but..." Neil trailed off when he looked down at the price tag on the item in his hands. The bright orange tag had the original price, $7.50, crossed out and replaced with $2.35... but then below that, scribbled in tiny and barely legible font, it read "just kidding, it's actually eleven dollars now." "Aw, man," he groaned, tossing the pack down on the conveyor belt and sticking his hands in his pockets. "Just our luck."

Kevin had a thoughtful look in his eyes while he drove them home empty-handed. When he pulled up outside the clubhouse a few minutes later and they climbed out of the truck, he suddenly laid a hand on Neil's shoulder.

"Say, Neil, let's not get discouraged," he said. "I've got another idea for how we could get our hands on some props."

"Really?" Neil asked, perking up despite himself. "How?"

"Well, I think--" Kevin broke off as unexpectedly as he'd started, encouraging smile briefly dipping into a grimace. "...You know what, I'll take care of it myself. You can hold down the fort here, okay? I won't be long."

Neil's brow furrowed. "Okay, but what are you...?"

Without explaining himself any further, Kevin clapped him firmly on the back, hopped back into his truck, and drove off. Neil watched him recede down the road with bewilderment. Being all secretive like that wasn't like Kevin... Unless he's trying to protect me from something, he realized with a twinge of bitterness. That would be just like him, the way things had been recently. Ever since the past winter, and what had happened with Ryan, Kevin's latent big-brother-ish tendencies had escalated; now he watched over Neil like a hawk and freaked out every time he so much as stubbed his toe. Under different circumstances Neil would have relished being fussed over, but now it was more annoying than anything else. The thing was, he didn't deserve it. If anything... his fingers strayed up to absentmindedly fidget with the four-leaf clover pinned to his shirt. I deserve to have bad luck. I deserve to suffer, after what I did to Ryan.

Still, there wasn't much he could do about it now, and he wasn't going to say no to having the clubhouse to himself for a while. With a sigh, he disentangled his fingers from the clover's leaves, ran a hand through his overgrown bangs, and turned to head inside. Maybe he could play cards or something to pass the time.

A thick layer of dust had settled over everything in Ryan's house. That made sense, of course. It had been four months--no, five, since Ryan hadn't come home once while he was being a vigilante--since anyone had set foot there. Even so, Kevin was unprepared for the full-scale assault on his lungs when he opened the door, and promptly broke into a coughing fit.

"Man, good thing Neil stayed home," he thought aloud as he batted thick, swirling clouds of dust and spiderwebs out of his face. "The way things have been going for him lately..."

He'd probably choke to death on all this dust, he thought but didn't say aloud, and then felt bad for thinking it in the first place. Kevin didn't understand what had happened to Neil in the course of the past few days, but ever since picking up that clover, he seemed to be having a run of uncharacteristically bad luck. Whether it was random chance or something more suspicious was afoot, it sure wasn't doing much for his already thoroughly frayed nerves.

"Alright, calm down, James," he muttered to himself, shaking his head to clear his thoughts and ideally dispel the rest of the dust. "Focus. Concentrate. What are you here for? Props for your webisode. Right."

Keeping that objective in mind, he made his way past the front entrance and into the living room. There, a few objects were strewn around that caught his eye: a mannequin bust wearing a colourful wig; an eccentrically patterned jacket draped over a chair; a brush dipped into a rusted metal container filled with what he hoped was red paint. After looking around a little more he found a large cardboard box filled with mutilated stuffed animals, which he mostly emptied out and started filling with the useful items he came across.

All the while, a persistent feeling of unease stirred in his gut, becoming increasingly hard to ignore with each belonging of Ryan's he packed away. This is wrong. I shouldn't steal from him. Kevin paused and looked down at the box in his arms with a frown. One of the items sticking out the top, a blank-faced doll head, seemed to stare accusingly back at him. For a moment he saw it not as a plastic figure, but as a human form encased in ice and then broken apart. He blinked and the illusion quickly vanished, but an unsettling feeling remained in its wake. Neil was right; it had been months already. So why did going through Ryan's things make him feel so dirty? Ryan didn't need any of this stuff anymore. He was gone. Wasn't he?

With a weary sigh that, had anyone been around to ask, he would have accredited to the physical exertion of carrying heavy stuff around, Kevin set the box down and stepped back to survey the room he was in now. If he remembered right, this kind of room was called a study--there was an armchair with a few suspicious stains lurking beneath the dust, a desk strewn with papers all scrawled full of nonsense like the ravings of a mad scientist, and an ornate bookshelf. He wandered over to the latter furniture piece and ran his hands along the spines of the books, letting their leathery texture ground him in the present. He noticed several unusual bibles and other ancient texts, and a stash of calendars, some of which he was pretty sure had originally belonged to him or Neil; the up-to-date calendars and one of the more normal-looking bibles went into the box, while he decided everything else was better left where it was.

There was one other set of books he recognized: a teen fantasy series that Neil had often gushed about. Thinking back to the previous fall and all the events he normally tried not to think about, he experimentally lifted one of the fantasy books off the shelf. At once, just as he remembered from when Neil showed him, the bookshelf rumbled to the side and revealed a narrow staircase descending into the basement.

If anyone asked him, Kevin couldn't really say what compelled him to go down those stairs. The secret chamber was as empty as he remembered, with nothing down there that could possibly be of use for the webisode. And without a lantern, he could barely even see the only things that were there to speak of: the paintings of Ryan's ancestors.

"Ryan..." The name manifested on Kevin's lips unexpectedly as he stared, squinting through the dust and darkness, at the row of portraits grinning lopsidedly back at him. He knew the paintings couldn't hear him--hell, they weren't even paintings of Ryan himself, just his relatives. But their faces were practically identical to him, that face he hadn't seen in person for nearly half a year, and that alone was enough to clog up his throat with unbearable emotions.

The thought of It's a good thing Neil isn't here for this surfaced again, and this time Kevin had to agree with himself. Losing a close friend was... well, there was no way not to take it hard. But Neil seemed to have taken it particularly hard, even blaming himself, to the point where any mention of Ryan would immediately send him straight back into a depressive spiral no matter how happy he'd been a moment earlier. That was why Kevin had kept this idea a secret from his friend in the first place--that, and he wasn't sure if it was going to pan out and didn't want to get Neil's hopes up. He figured that if Neil asked where he got all the stuff he'd found, he'd just say it was from a garage sale.

Now, looking into the achingly familiar manic blue eyes of those portraits mounted on the wall, Kevin thought of those news reports about the mysterious killings that had been going on around town. If that really was Ryan, and he was somehow still alive...

"Why?" he whispered. Without really thinking, he reached out and pressed his hand against the painting as if to cup its cheek. "Why haven't you come home, Ryan? Where are you?"

The target was at home, alone in her bedroom playing video games. Casual, unbothered by any harm her actions may have caused. Shameful. In an icy swirl of perhaps not-so-righteous fury, the vigilante took form in the corner of her room and crept up behind her. With an average build and no weapons at the ready, she would be no trouble to dispose of.

"Playing dead in order to toy with an innocent man's feelings," he growled. "Some people would call it ghosting. I call it a crime punishable by death."

"Jesus christ, what the fuck?!" Wendy yelped as she spun to face the vigilante. "How'd you get in here?"

"You shouldn't worry about that," he told her, gloved hands already flexing in anticipation of tightening around her neck. Or perhaps this time he'd thrust his hand straight through her chest and rip out her heart--an appropriate punishment for her crimes. "You'll have plenty of time to figure it out once I send you to hell."

"Okay, seriously? What is happening here?" Eyes narrowed, Wendy put her game on pause and got to her feet to stare the vigilante down. "You said something about me playing dead..." Her eyes suddenly widened with recognition, and the vigilante waited for the fear to set in along with it, but instead she shook her head and laughed. A pitying laugh. "Wait, you're not friends with that, uh, that filmmaker guy, are you? Geez, I seriously must have dodged a bullet there."

"Filmmaker..." the vigilante murmured as the word echoed in his mind. Yes, that's right. The man she stood up was a filmmaker... of a sort. (How did he know that? How did he even know who this woman was? Those questions weren't worth dwelling on, he decided.) "You may have thought you dodged a bullet back then, but I'm here to see that the bullet circles back around and destroys you like you deserve."

Wendy crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow, any trace of fear on her face outmatched by her sad, pitying smile. "Sure, keep the edgy sayings coming, Mr. Hot Topic. And what's with the getup, anyway?" she added with a nod to the vigilante's predominantly dark outfit. "Must be kinda warm."

Warm? The vigilante snorted derisively. No, of course he wasn't too warm. His blood, as it always had for as far back as he could clearly remember, ran cold like that of a snake. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been warm. And he certainly couldn't remember a time when he'd worn anything other than his current ensemble. Rather than waste time telling this insufferable woman as much, though, he simply took a few purposeful strides to close the distance between them, hands extended and more than ready to kill.

"Ugh, get away from me, creep!"

In a startlingly swift motion, Wendy's leg shot out and connected with the vigilante's ankles, sending him toppling to the floor. He hissed in irration, though not in pain--when his sensations were already perpetually numb, it would take a lot more than that to hurt him--and got to his feet, dusting himself off with a scowl. In the few seconds this took, Wendy grabbed a baseball bat from the corner of the room. Now she stood brandishing it in perfect athletic form with a battle-ready glint in her eye.

"Not another step, you hear me?" When the vigilante didn't dignify her with a response, she gritted her teeth and gave the bat a twirl--attempting to show off, it seemed, but her hands shook slightly and she nearly dropped the bat, only barely managing to regain her grip on it. "My mom is in the other room right now, and... well, she hasn't done anything wrong, so you don't want to punish her, right? And if anything happens to me..."

He stiffened at Wendy's mention of her mother. An innocent citizen? That was the type of person a vigilante was meant to protect at all costs; otherwise vigilante justice was no better than the police. But no one is innocent in this city. Even so, he understood the implicit threat--not that Wendy's mother would bring him down herself, but that either woman could very well call the police. And the last thing he wanted was to get law enforcement involved.

"...Fine," he snarled at last, turning on his heel with a twirl of his vigilante cape. "You can live a while longer. But I'll be back, and then you'll regret your sins."

He heard her gasp but didn't bother sparing her another glance as he let his form dissolve into a splash of red-tinted ice, sinking through her floorboards and off to thwart another criminal.

Slowly and carefully as a technician deactivating a bomb, Neil set the three of spades down across the top of the three other cards he'd lined up on the table. The humble beginnings of a tower stood for a moment, and he held his breath eagerly as he reached for another card to place on top, only for it to suddenly shudder and collapse like an anime girl who'd stood in the rain for too long.

"Dang it!" Neil threw his hands in the air in exasperation. When he did, a droplet of his own blood landed on his glasses, and he realized with a start that his hand was bleeding--just a paper cut, but still, he'd better wash up.

As he ran his hand under cold water, transfixed by the sight of the blood swirling down the drain, a sudden cracking noise rang out just above him. His head snapped up to stare at the spontaneously cracked bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back, stricken and gaunt, as shards of shattered glass rained down into the sink, where they mixed with the water and the blood. Neil shivered, his breath quickening.

Icy water... ice, blood, broken mirrors. All mixed together. Shattered. Blood, guts, ice, mixed together, down the drain. My fault my fault my fault my fault--

"No," he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his nails into his scalp as hard as he could. "No! I didn't do it, I didn't... I didn't mean to..."

Deep breaths, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. It sounded like Kevin's voice, worried to the point of being slightly patronizing. Neil grimaced, annoyed at his own brain for manifesting its self-preservation in such a way, but he complied nonetheless. Keeping his eyes wrenched shut, he took several deep breaths in and out until his heartbeat slowed to normal--he hadn't even noticed it speeding up--and his hands didn't shake when he lowered them away from his head.

"Hey, you know what'd really make me feel better?" he said aloud to nobody in particular, putting on a broad smile and wiping his hands off on a towel. "A nice hot bath! Yep, that'll counteract my blood running cold, alright..."

He ran his hands up and down his arms as he spoke, although he didn't know who he was trying to fool; the chill that had settled into his bones had nothing to do with the temperature. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure who this whole performance of forced cheerfulness was meant for... the studio, maybe. He wouldn't put it past them to hide cameras everywhere. Either way, even if it wouldn't fix his psychological issues, a bath really would be pretty nice. He put the plug in and started running the tub, with the water temperature set just hot enough that it would scald him a little at first.

He wasn't sure exactly what happened when he sat down on the edge of the tub to take his socks off, whether he slipped on something or leaned too far back or what, but suddenly he lost balance. And by the time he realized he was falling backward, he only had a split-second to curse his rotten luck before his head connected with the wall and he blacked out.

In the end, Kevin managed to get a pretty good haul from Ryan's house. In addition to the stuff he and Neil could use for their webisode, he'd retrieved the calendars and a couple other things it looked like Ryan had stolen from them, as well as their old communicator wristwatches. (He wasn't sure if the watches fell into the camp of things Ryan had stolen, or if they'd just brought them over to his place for a sleepover once and forgotten them there. Either way, Kevin figured it could come in handy to start using them again.)

"Hey, Neil," he called as he stepped into the clubhouse with the box in his arms and kicked the door shut behind him. "I'm back."

There was no reply. Frowning, Kevin set the box down with a slight grunt of effort and wandered through the living room and down the hall. There were a few playing cards scattered on the table, suggesting that Neil had been trying to make a house of cards but given up halfway. Kevin couldn't really blame him for that; assembling cards in such a way that they'd actually stay upright was yet another thing that had been more in Ryan's ballpark than in either of theirs. Still, that didn't explain where Neil was now...

"Neil? You there, bud?" Still being met with no answer, Kevin came to a stop outside the bathroom door, which was ajar with water pooling out from inside. "Oh, man, that's not a good sign..."

He gave a tentative knock, and when there was still no response, grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. The sight that met his eyes when he did so immediately made his breath hitch and his blood run cold. The broken mirror over the vanity reflected his slack-jawed expression as he stared at the overflowing bathtub, the pair of still-clothed legs dangling over the rim, and the smudge of blood on the wall leading down to the head of the man those legs belonged to, slumped inside the tub with his head submerged in the water.

"Neil!!"

Kevin sprinted across the room to lift Neil out of the tub. It then took him a few seconds longer to turn off the faucet and pull the plug, as by that point the shock had turned to dread and his hands were shaking. Once the water was slowly starting to drain, he fell to his knees and pulled Neil tight to his chest, one hand clutching at the back of his soaked-through t-shirt while the other fumbled across the back of his head searching for the source of the blood. It didn't take long for him to find the slightly matted patch of damp hair indicating where Neil had banged his head against the wall. Kevin swallowed hard as dread leapt up to claw at his throat. The only question is... how long was he submerged?

"Neil," he whispered, and was almost embarrassed to hear how hoarsely his own voice came out. "Wake up. Please."

No response. Kevin reluctantly pulled back to hold Neil at an arm's length, and shuddered at how limply his friend's body flopped forward. He noticed, with a white-hot jolt of irrational anger, that the four-leaf clover was still in place. Fat lot of good that thing's done for him. He grabbed the clover and crumpled it in his fist, all the while tears pressed against the back of his eyes; he struggled not to let them fall. Damn it... first Ryan, now Neil... What kind of protector was he? What kind of friend?

He slammed his fist, the useless clover still clenched within, against the drenched floor tiles. At that moment, the lightbulb above his head exploded and sent sparking wires raining down around him. As soon as electricity met water, it sent a nasty shock through Kevin's veins; he screamed out of equal parts surprise and pain and scrambled up onto the countertop, which was barely wide enough to support him.

On the floor below, Neil's body convulsed. Then his eyes snapped open and he drew in a gasp that turned into a scream halfway through. Although touching his friend's hand sent the current through his own body for a moment, Kevin was quick to grab him anyway, and he managed to pull Neil safely out of the electrified water and into a fierce embrace. Neil kept shrieking, and he squirmed frantically around, not seeming to recognize his surroundings at first.

"It's alright, Neil," Kevin assured him despite how hard his own heart was pounding. "I've got you."

"Oh..." Neil's body slackened, and he pulled back to blink slowly at Kevin, realization dawning in his eyes. His cheeks coloured with embarrassment and he ducked his head. "Uh, thanks."

Neither of them said anything else, for lack of ability or perhaps willingness to put it into words. After a moment, Kevin realized he was still holding the clover, and he handed it back to Neil, who took it with a dip of his head and a murmur of acknowledgement, and pinned it to his soaking wet t-shirt.

Somehow out of everything in the room, themselves included, that little scrap of plant matter was still intact. And although he wasn't superstitious, that simple fact was what would stick in Kevin's mind for the rest of the day, turning it over until he could only conclude: Yep, there's definitely something weird going on with that thing.

Despite the many months he'd prowled the city, this was the vigilante's first time in the hideout of a proper gang. It looked about the way he expected: dimly lit, no windows, weapons hung up on the wall and cigarette butts littering the floor. The gang members, dressed primarily in leather jackets with a few in denim, lounged in chairs leaning too far back, or on top of tables, or on their motorcycles parked right in the middle of the room. Most of them didn't even notice the vigilante as he approached. They were too caught up chattering and cackling amongst themselves like a nest of overgrown crows. The one gang member who did seem to notice the vigilante from the get-go simply looked up at him with raised eyebrows and addressed him once he got close enough to strike.

"Hey, haven't seen you around before. Looking to join the club?"

"Hardly," he snarled. "This whole place is crawling with criminals."

The whole room broke into laughter at that. The vigilante gritted his teeth, fists clenching at his sides. These people were different from the criminals he'd taken down before; between their numbers and all the weapons they had easy access to, they might just pose a serious threat if he wasn't careful.

"You're the ones, aren't you?" he went on once the laughter had died down and the gang members were all watching him with a mix of bemusement and curiosity. No trace of fear amongst them yet, but that would change... "Throwing bricks at innocent people, even seeking to damage their property. Absolutely detestable."

"Woah, hang on," another of the gang members cut in sharply, reaching for a weapon as they stood. "First off, the whole brick throwing thing was months ago. Second of all, we never did that to innocent people, you know!"

"Yeah!" yet another gang member cut in, pumping her fist in the air. "Only to those losers who blew up our boss!"

...Boss?

The vigilante slowly turned, a deeper chill than normal running down his spine, as a strangely familiar smug cackle echoed from behind him. He came face-to-face with a man in a tank top and baseball cap, sneering at him with his arms crossed. Max. Gulping, the vigilante took a step backward. He's their boss?

(How did he know that name? How had he known Wendy's name either, for that matter? Why, out of all the criminals in the city, did a select few ignite disproportionate resentment within him? He'd dealt with some of these people before, he knew, but when he tried to remember when and how it all just turned to slush in his brain.)

"Yep, those losers got what was coming to 'em," Max said. "Except not really, 'cause they didn't suffer enough. But it's okay, we'll get 'em extra hard next time."

"No..." For reasons he couldn't quite explain, the vigilante's voice shook with equal parts fury and sudden fear. "Don't you dare hurt them."

"Huh?" Max tilted his head, already slightly squinted eyes narrowing further. "Heyyy, wait a minute, aren't you one of--?"

Before he could finish that thought, the vigilante was upon him with a karate chop to the windpipe. It was a more reckless attack than he'd planned, and even as Max stumbled backward coughing, he could hear the rest of the gang grabbing their weapons and running up behind him. But it was fine; the vigilante could take them all on and then some. He could kill any number of people if it was for the sake of defending his friends.

(Friends? Did he have friends? Somehow it felt that he must have, once. But that was strange, because the only thing he could clearly remember himself ever being was a cold-blooded vigilante.)

"Don't you see? Society's the one to blame! It's society's fault that he had no choice but to become this way!"

As Kevin delivered this speech, waving his arms dramatically toward the focus of the scene, Neil spun the video camera around to point it toward himself. Hopefully the studio would think of the disorienting cinematography for this webisode as a bold artistic choice rather than thinking of it as amateurish and embarrassing. He then leapt back, breaking into maniacal laughter with his prop gun raised in the air. Under ideal circumstances, this role might have been better suited to Ryan, but... well, they couldn't stay hung up on him forever; they had a job to do.

"Eh-heh-heh! Thanks to society, I have the urge to kill!" Neil twirled around to show off his clown costume, while just out of frame, Kevin hastily put on a wig and fake mustache. "And now... I'll kill this innocent man, who's different than the guy who was talking a minute ago!"

(It was fascinating--fascinating and dumb--how a broken mirror and a bit of blood could set him off, but something as heavy as a gun in his hand only brought him the faintest twinge of discomfort, easily ignored for the sake of making a webisode. After all, as Kevin had assured him many times over the past few months, it was the gun and its villainous weilder who were to blame for what had happened to Ryan. On an intellectual level Neil knew that was true--and besides, if he hadn't deflected that bullet, all three of them would have died. But knowing that did nothing to redirect when and why the darkness in his brain manifested.)

Now, much to Neil's surprise as he took aim with his prop gun, Kevin shouted "Cut!" and walked across the abandoned lot they were filming in to turn the camera off.

Neil lowered the gun, confused, as his costar removed his costume with that now all-too-familiar look of concern etched across his face. "What's the matter?"

"I don't know... somehow I've just got a bad feeling about this," Kevin muttered. "Maybe try firing into the air a couple times first."

Neil complied, and was met with the expected result from the prop: a couple of clicks indicating an empty chamber. "You worry too much these days, Kev," he said as he fired one more blank into the sky and then lowered the prop again. "It's not a real gun; it can't--"

As he spoke, his finger accidentally pressed the trigger again, and he broke off with a yelp at the sudden burst of pain in his right foot. He dropped the apparently very real gun with a clatter and clutched at his injured appendage, losing his balance in the process. Kevin swore under his breath and rushed forward to catch him. Before his friend could reach him, Neil's other foot came down on a wide crack in the pavement. A chill ran through him, momentarily distracting him from the throbbing pain, but it passed as quickly as it arose without seeming to trigger any effects.

"By god, what's happening to you?" Kevin exclaimed as he grabbed Neil by the shoulders and held him upright. "You've been so unlucky lately, it... it almost seems like a curse."

"A curse?" Neil stiffened, but quickly forced himself to shrug and morphed his grimace into a dismissive eye-roll. "Pfft, what are you talking about? There's no curse! I've just been, y'know, having an off-day..."

"Neil." There was that concerned look again, that almost parental tone of voice, as Kevin stared him down and tightened his grip on Neil's shoulders. "A couple hours ago you almost died, and now... you can tell something weird is going on, right? And, look--" He sighed, gaze darkening. "I don't exactly know how to fix it, but whatever's happening, I can't just sit back and watch you succumb to it. I can't lose you, too, Neil... not after..."

He trailed off with a faint warble in his voice, lowering his head. Neil gulped, a heavy weight surfacing in his chest. It was true; though he hated to admit it, at this point it was hard to deny that he was cursed. And yet, even as his foot throbbed around the spot where the bullet was lodged and his shoe was slowly stained from within by his own blood, it was hard to convince himself that he should accept help. On some level, didn't he deserve this? Wasn't this a fitting comeuppance for getting one of his friends killed?

Yet here was his other friend, clutching at him ever tighter to the point where his grip on Neil's shoulders was nearly as painful as hitting his head or getting mildly electrocuted or shooting himself in the foot. I'm not the only one who lost Ryan, he reminded himself--another thing he knew perfectly well on an intellectual level, but easy to forget in practice. Kevin is hurting too. I shouldn't make him hurt any more.

"Fine, I admit it," he sighed, letting his tensed-up shoulders slump. "I'm unlucky, okay? And if you think it's possible--" He tore the clover off his shirt and glared down at it-- "then we're going to beat this thing."

For as tough as the gang presented themselves, it must have been most of these people's first time in an actual fight. The vigilante swerved to avoid weak punches, clumsy kicks, poor attempts at stabbing. It all blended together after a while, and he stopped thinking of the gang members as individuals; they were just an indistinguishable swarm of insects whose attacks were easily dodged. Unimportant, save for their leader.

The vigilante had Max pinned to the floor now, holding his thrashing form in place with one arm while he brought his other fist down on the ruffian's face, over and over, as hard as he could. Not every blow connected cleanly, and Max had managed to bite him several times already, but that was irrelevant. Criminals must be brought to justice. That was why the vigilante hated these people, wasn't it? Because they were criminals. Yes, what other reason could he have, when this was all he'd ever been?

And then, just as he managed to land a blow to Max's jaw that left him defiantly spitting out blood and a couple of teeth, the vigilante's spine snapped.

It took a moment for him to register what had happened. He just heard a loud crack, and a sharp pain shot through him, and suddenly he couldn't hold his legs in place and collapsed. Max wasted no time taking advantage; he delivered a kick to the vigilante's gut that sent him flying back across the room, where he hit a wall and slumped to the ground, gasping in breathless agony. At once the other gang members closed in on him. Grimacing, the vigilante drew himself up onto his hands and knees, then braced himself against the wall and, with a far greater strain of effort than expected, dragged himself upright. By the time he'd managed to get to his feet, dozens of knives were inches away from him.

Then, to his surprise, Max pushed through to the front of the crowd and held his arms out to hold back his underlings. "Nuh-uh, this one's mine," he told them, sneering as though oblivious to the blood dribbling from between his lips. "I said I'd get him twice tomorrow, and I meant it."

The vigilante flinched as Max took a swipe at him. But rather than a fist connecting with his face, he was met only with the shock of exposure as the bully grabbed his mask and triumphantly yanked it off his face. He was left dumbfounded, blinking, as his vision readjusted to the light.

Wait a minute, I remember--

And then came the punch, square in the nose. Ryan yelped, pressing his gloved hand over his nose to stop the bleeding. When he dodged another punch, his body failed to cooperate and he crashed to the ground again, back aching furiously and heart pounding against his ribcage.

How and why his back had broken, he couldn't say, but one thing was clear: he was horrendously outmatched. Max was saying something now, gloating as he advanced on Ryan with a dagger in his hands, but Ryan couldn't make out the words over the blood rushing in his head. Why on earth had he gotten into a fight like this in the first place? What was he doing? He had to get out of there!

With that thought, yet another thing happened that Ryan didn't entirely understand. (Ryan didn't understand, but the vigilante did. It was one of the few things the vigilante knew: dissolve, reform, enact ruthless vengeance, dissolve again.) His body shuddered, and suddenly he found his solid flesh and bone giving way to a slurry of blood and ice that slipped through the cracks in the floor and disappeared. Then he was formless, freefalling through the dark, or at least that was what it felt like. When he took shape again it felt like dragging himself out of quicksand. Yet when he raised his slowly resolidifying head and looked around, he found himself in the basement of his own home, staring up at the portraits of his ancestors that had started it all.

No. Not started it all. "I had a life before this," he whispered, voice raw with the shock of memory and too many months spent speaking in an inhuman growl. "My name is Ryan, I have a life and a job and friends, I..."

Yes, that's right. Friends. Where were they? He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Each recent memory that took form in his mind was accompanied by a crashing wave of guilt and regret, and soon his body shook and tears pricked at his wrenched-shut eyes. That's right... I became a vigilante, and I teamed up with such a horrible person, let him manipulate me, all because I was too afraid to go back and apologize. And then...

The last thing he remembered, just after the flash of light and shock of paralyzing cold, was the sound of a gunshot, something shattering, and Neil screaming.

"Oh, dear god," Ryan whispered. He raised his head, opening his eyes and lowering his hands from his newly tear-stained face, and sat back on his heels as though worshipping the paintings before him. "What have I become?"

The ropes were just slightly too tight around Neil's limbs to be comfortable; he couldn't resist squirming a little as Kevin laid out the open bible on the end table next to his proton pack and began reading from it.

"Okay, um, let's see... ex-or-ciz-amus te, omnis immunde spiritus..." He squinted at the yellowed, faded pages, biting his lip. "Omni satanica pot-es-tas, omnis incurs--incursio infernalis adversarii... uh..."

"You're doing great," Neil called from his position tied to the bed frame; Kevin gave him a weary smile and thumbs up.

As Kevin continued reciting the verse, occasionally stumbling over a particularly tricky Latin word, the room's temperature eventually dropped a few degrees. Neil shivered, but his heartbeat picked up in excitement. He could feel something stirring in his blood like ripples on a lake, and when the furniture in the room began to quiver, so too did his body in eager anticipation.

"...Crux sacra sit mihi lux! Nunquam draco sit mihi dux..." A chill wind swept through the room; Kevin gritted his teeth, one hand pressing down on the bible to hold its pages in place while he grabbed his proton pack with the other. "Vade retro Satana! Nun-quam-suade mihi vana!"

The furniture rumbled louder. Neil's eyes widened as an entire bookcase lifted off the ground. "Kevin, watch out!"

"Hang on, Neil, I'm almost done. Uh, where was I... sunt mala quae libas..."

"No, Kevin, the--"

"Just one more line, okay? Ipse ven--"

"KEVIN!"

That last terrified yell was what it took for Kevin to finally turn, just in time to see the six-foot block of polished oak fly directly into him. Neil shrieked and thrashed against his bindings with all his might, but even if he weren't tied up, there was nothing he could have done. The bookcase came crashing down, its contents spilling out onto the floor around it in a flurry of paper. And when the dust settled, Kevin was pinned beneath it, unmoving.

"N... no..." Neil whimpered. Dread tightened like a noose around his throat as the horrible thought seeped into his mind: This is because of me. Now I've gotten them both killed.

"Oh, yes, what a tragedy... just your luck, isn't it?"

Neil's blood ran cold. He raised his head to see the translucent, smoke-shrouded figure of a giant clover looming over him. Its four leaves, dark green tipped with crimson and speckled with barnacles, opened down the middle to reveal a row of needle-sharp fangs. For a second, "Where did you come from?" was on the tip of Neil's tongue. But it was just as well that he was too terrified to speak, because no sooner than the question appeared in his mind, he realized the obvious answer. Oh, right. This is the demon that cursed me.

"Don't worry, your friend is alive... for now," the demon jeered. "But that could change. It's so easy for accidents to happen, you know?"

As if to demonstrate, the demon's leaves fluttered and suddenly a fire sprang up dangerously close to the scattered pile of books on the floor. When Neil screamed in protest, the demon laughed, and part of the ceiling gave in, sending down a controlled shower of debris to put out the fire before anything flammable could catch.

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Neil exclaimed with a shake of his head; he'd be almost exasperated if he weren't so terrified. "You're really powerful and want to hurt people, geez, not exactly a challenging concept. So, what do I have to do?"

That question seemed to give the demon pause. "...Do?"

"You know, to appease you or whatever. If you're threatening me with Kevin's life, then there must be something you want from me, right?" An idea occurred to Neil just then, and his already hammering heart beat even harder, to the point where he hoped the demon couldn't hear it and tell how freaked out he was. "Hey, it must suck having to be a clover. What if a lawnmower or forest fire had gotten to you before I did? And if you like hurting people so much..." He paused, smirking as the demon leaned toward him with obvious interest. "Wouldn't it be easier just to possess my whole body instead of wasting time messing with my luck?"

"That's..." The demon hesitated, its leaves curling up in what looked like excitement. "Ah. Ah-ha-ha! You're a clever little mortal, aren't you?"

"But don't get it twisted," he put in, glaring defiantly up at the demon despite hardly being in a position to threaten anyone. "You have to promise not to hurt anyone else. Especially not Kevin."

"It's a deal!"

Before Neil could stop and reconsider whether this was really a good idea, the demon dove toward him, row of fangs wide open as though it were going to bite his head off. He flinched a split-second before something cold and stinging like nettles clamped around him.

When he opened his eyes again, the world was tinted dark green as if viewed through a dingy screen, his head felt hazy... and he couldn't move, at least not of his own volition. Even opening his eyes just then wasn't his decision. He heard himself cackle, felt his arms and legs flex far harder than he'd known he was physically capable of flexing, breaking the ropes that bound him to the bed frame and setting his body free to do whatever the demon wanted.

"Hah..." the demon muttered in his voice as it made him walk over to where Kevin lay, still trapped and unconscious. The demon knelt down and poked experimentally at Kevin's shoulder and forearm. "This one has more muscle. It might have been a better choice for possession, if it wasn't so damaged already..."

For one petrifying moment, the demon grabbed Kevin's head and stared intently at him, stretching Neil's face into a grin so wide it made his whole face ache, and Neil's mind raced with horrible thoughts of things the demon might make his own hands inflict upon his poor helpless friend. But the demon simply laughed and dropped Kevin, who let out a low groan as his head lolled to the side--an indication that at least he really was still alive. But all of a sudden Neil had trouble believing that small mercy was really worth it.

"Ah, well, this body will do," the demon decided. "Let's take it out on the town and see how long it lasts!"

This time when the vigilante materialized in Wendy's room, she did little more than roll her eyes and move to grab her baseball bat. However, rather than try to attack her or even growl out any threats, the vigilante took two shaky steps and then collapsed, catching himself against her dresser. Wendy's eyes widened as she took a closer look at his face. His mask was off now, revealing a pair of striking blue eyes glistening with obvious distress, cheeks flushed with exertion, and a streak of half-dried blood running from his bruised nose. And when he spoke, it wasn't in the gravelly tone she'd heard from him before, but in a quiet higher-pitched voice--almost a whimper.

"Please... tell me..."

Wendy hung back, caught between a sharp tug of sympathy in her heart and a very rational wariness based on their previous encounter. The vigilante tried to walk again, and again nearly fell; his face wrenched up and he let out a pained hiss. At that, sympathy won out over rationality. Wendy edged toward him with her baseball bat in hand, and when she was close enough, held it out to him.

"Hey, uh... here. It's not exactly medically sanctioned, but maybe you could use this like a cane?"

"Oh... good idea, thank you!" He broke into a grin, and Wendy shivered; somehow he was far scarier when his eyes were bright and cheerful. "Terribly sorry for how I treated you last time, by the way. I really wasn't myself."

"Uh-huh?" While the vigilante tested out the makeshift cane, Wendy sat down on her bed, arms crossed. "And who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Ryan... or at least I think I still am." His smile faltered, and he looked away, anxiously running a hand through his hair. It was starting to come unpinned, and his hat was askew; evidently he'd been through a lot in the few hours it had been since their first encounter. "It's been... strange, lately. I don't think I'm entirely human anymore, if I ever was. But I came back here because there's something I want to understand."

"You want to know why I ghosted your friend?" It was just a guess, but Ryan nodded; Wendy smiled privately to herself for having figured it out. "Alright, I can tell you..."

She uncrossed her arms and leaned back on her bed, thinking back to the disastrous date she'd gone on several months prior. It was a story she'd recited many times to friends, relatives, other first dates as sort of a half-joking warning ("So, as long as you don't blow it as much as that guy did, we should be good...") and the more she told it, the more warped and exaggerated it became within her memory. But when she really thought back on it now, it hadn't been so disastrous at all--pretty damn awkward, sure, but not even close to the worst date she'd been on.

"Kevin actually seemed really sweet," she recalled, smiling despite herself at the memory of his big dorky grin. "I would have gone on a second date with him. But then, first thing the next morning, I read in the news that some guy got arrested right outside the restaurant while we were on our date. And the criminal's name? Neil. Same name as the 'friend' Kevin had said was helping him out." She shrugged, lips twisting into a frown. "I just got kinda freaked out, you know? Like, 'oh geez, did I go on a date with a drug dealer or serial killer or something?' Of course it probably wasn't anything that serious, and pretending to be dead was probably an overreaction, but... well, what's done is done."

Wendy was so caught up in her own memories as she explained all this that she wasn't really observing Ryan's reactions. Once she concluded her story, she glanced over to find him sitting on the floor with his legs tucked up awkwardly beneath him, the baseball bat in his lap; he was staring at the floor, expression unreadable. He stayed like that for a long moment, not seeming to notice that Wendy had stopped talking, until she cleared her throat. Then he jumped to attention, eyes flashing like those of a woodland cryptid in headlights.

"Ah! Yes, of course... well, I still don't entirely understand, but I think I resent you less now." Ryan tilted his head and shot her another shiver-inducing grin. (Whether it was supposed to be threatening or not, she had no idea.) "And you're right; I almost forgot--we're all criminals too, Neil and probably even Kevin and especially myself! So how can I be a vigilante?" He answered his own rhetorical question with a shake of his head, manic grin softening into a melancholy smile. "It's ridiculous. I've been so foolish."

With that, his body began to ripple, losing a little of its solidity. But before he could break apart and dissolve through the floorboards like last time, a chirpy little beep-beep-beedle-beep noise rang out. Ryan's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced down at an accessory around his wrist... Wait, is that one of those communicator watches like the one Kevin had?

If it was, Ryan wasn't quick to answer it. He simply stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at the beeping device in silence. Although she knew even less about Ryan than she knew about his apparently only slightly more normal friends, and she didn't normally care to get too involved in the personal affairs of strangers, he was still in the middle of Wendy's bedroom. And the longer that little jingle repeated, the more annoying it got. So she cleared her throat again and asked, in as polite a tone as she could manage given the circumstances,

"So, are you gonna answer that, or what?"

It was a stupid, pointless idea. Not an idea at all, really. Just the last scraps of... not even hope, that was pretty much deplenished at the moment, but effort. The effort not to let everything fall apart even further than it already had.

Kevin had woken with a throbbing pain throughout pretty much his whole body. Judging by the crushing weight pressing down on his torso, he was lucky to have woken up at all. The only parts of him not pinned down were his head and right arm, and even those hurt to move, though at least the spinning in his head put some degree of separation between himself and his broken body. Forget about trying to wriggle free when it hurt just to breathe.

So there he was, stuck, the shelf slowly crushing the air out of him, and Neil was gone. Where to, he didn't know. When he craned his neck he could see the empty bed frame, and the ropes broken and discarded at the foot of it. The bible he'd gotten from Ryan's house was facedown beside the tipped-over end table, next to a crushed and twisted lump of metal and plastic that he was horrified to recognize as his beloved proton pack. So wherever Neil was now, he must have still been cursed... or worse. And there was nothing Kevin could do about it.

Unless. Grimacing at the way his joints twinged, he raised his unpinned arm above his head. There on his wrist, perfectly intact despite everything he'd been through, was his communicator wristwatch. In all the hubbub of that day, he'd never gotten around to mentioning them to Neil, so his friend wouldn't be wearing his. But what if...?

It was stupid. It was pointless. There was no way in hell. But it was the only thing he could do. In a display so lacking in dignity that he was grateful nobody was around to see it, Kevin used his teeth and tongue for lack of a free hand to dial in the frequency and send off a signal. The watch's screen flashed in affirmation; he let his head flop against the floor with a weary sigh. Now all he could do was wait.

When he was at Ryan's house going through his things, and he found those communicator wristwatches, he'd only found two of them. And although that could have meant a dozen different things, there was just one wild, far-fetched possibility that any last semblance of hope now rested upon: that the third watch was missing because Ryan was alive, and he was still wearing his.

He didn't expect to get a response. By the time he did, he was struggling to stay awake--funny thing, trying to breathe with fifty pounds of wood pressed directly on your chest really takes it out of you. But he snapped to attention, or the closest he could get when his head was swimming and his body was beginning to go numb from lack of circulation, the moment he heard that voice crackling through the speaker.

"H-hello? Kevin?"

The relief that coursed through his veins was so overwhelming, especially on top of everything else, that he could only laugh--only for it to quickly turn into hacking as his ribs offered a sharp jab of protest. He raised his sleeve to wipe away a streak of blood that dribbled from his lips before speaking into the watch.

"Ryan. Where are you?" He regretted wasting time with that question the moment he asked it; he could tell from the way his organs felt like they were curling in on themselves as he spoke that he didn't have the energy for a full conversation. So before Ryan could stammer out a proper response, Kevin continued: "Neil is in trouble. You've gotta help him."

"What?" The shrill uptick of anxiety in Ryan's voice was palpable, and even just hearing that voice in and of itself stirred up a whole miasma of feelings that there was no time to properly react to. "What's going on? Are you okay? You sound--"

"I'm fine," Kevin lied through gritted teeth. "And... I don't know exactly where Neil is, but I know he's in trouble." A choking mix of emotions and his own blood swelled in his throat as his slowly blurring gaze wandered to the facedown bible. "I've tried to do some stuff today that I couldn't do without you. I-- we need you, Ryan. So, please... help."

With that final plea, something broke within him like a dam that he hadn't even realized was cracking. His arm flopped to the ground, wrist landing near his ear, where the communicator watch kept emitting Ryan's voice as it slowly rose in pitch until he was almost shouting. But even as his friend called frantically out to him, Kevin found it harder to make out the words. He groaned, letting his head loll to the side and his eyes fall shut. The last sensation he was aware of as darkness closed around him was that there was something wet on his face.

"Kevin, are you still there? Hello? Kevin!"

He wasn't responding. Why wouldn't he be responding, if the situation was so urgent? Maybe because he couldn't respond. Because he was--

"What are you going to do?" Wendy's voice cut into the swirl of panic Ryan was rapidly descending into. She hovered over his shoulder, peering down at the watch with wide, anxious eyes. The watch's screen had gone dark. No signal. Yes, indeed, what to do?

"What else? I have to save Neil."

If Kevin didn't know where Neil was, then there was no way that Ryan should have been able to instantly find him. But when he closed his eyes and let his vigilante instincts take over, he found that he didn't have to know where someone was. Whatever dark magic was infused in him now, letting him exist in this not-quite-human state even after what should by all accounts have been his death, it was hardwired for vengeance. And saving Neil meant exacting vigilante justice on whoever or whatever was harming him. With that in mind, the vigilante dissolved in a flurry of blood-tinted ice and reformed seconds later in the place it somehow knew it needed to be.

The first thing Ryan noticed when he appeared on the rooftop was the storm brewing overhead. He raised his eyebrows at that; earlier that day there hadn't been a cloud in the sky--and for that matter, when he looked around, it appeared that most of the sky was still perfectly clear, with the storm clouds being localized around this building. The second thing he noticed, upon peering over the edge of the roof, was that he wasn't on just any rooftop, but a skyscraper that towered above every other building in the vicinity. Lastly, he noticed a flagpole at the far corner of the rooftop, several feet away from him. And that was when his gaze fell upon Neil.

Neil was laughing as he swayed back and forth, clad in a brightly patterned jacket that wasn't his usual style at all, his arms and legs wrapped tight around the tall metal pole. Above him, the dark clouds lit up in a flash, followed almost instantly by a rumble of thunder. Although these particular stormclouds didn't come with rain, Ryan shivered. An incredulous exclamation was on the tip of his tongue (What on earth are you doing, stop it, you'll be killed!) when Neil locked eyes with Ryan, and he realized with a jolt of horror that this wasn't Neil at all--his body, yes, but someone or something else was controlling it. His mouth was stretched into a grin far wider than what a human face could normally achieve, and rather than their usual brown, his eyes glowed a sickly shade of green.

"Why, if it isn't my dear friend Ryan!" Neil--or whatever was piloting him--called, raising one arm off the pole in an exaggerated wave. "Oh boy, the guy I got this body from is sure surprised to see you alive! And as much as I'd love to send you plummeting off the edge of this building, I did promise not to hurt anyone else, so..." He waved his hand in a circle, unnaturally glowing eyes crinkling with amusement. "How about instead I pull you in a little closer so you can get a nice good look when your friend's body fries?"

With that, a sudden gust of wind blew into Ryan from behind, sending him stumbling forward. When he attempted to regain his footing, his broken spine betrayed him once again and he flopped to the ground with an undignified oof just a few feet away from the base of the flagpole. Grimacing, he pushed himself up and crawled the remaining short distance to grab Neil's ankle. As he did so, he noticed there was a bloodstained hole in his friend's shoe, and that his pant leg was slightly damp and already bore a few singe marks. Between that and whatever had happened to Kevin... he shuddered at the thought of what his friends had gone through in his absence.

"Nice try, vigilante," the thing in Neil's body jeered. "But I've gotta say, you don't pose much of a threat since I broke your spine."

He stomped his other foot down on Ryan's hand; Ryan yelped and instinctively released his grip. And at the very instant he let go, in such perfectly unlucky timing that only a supernatural entity could orchestrate, the stormclouds above them opened up with a searing, crackling, blindingly bright lighting strike.

Neil tilted his head back and laughed at the top of his lungs as countless volts of electricity tore through him. That horrendous laughter drowned out Ryan's screams of protest, not that there was anything he could do anyway in his current state, when he couldn't so much as get to his feet. All he could do was lay there and gape in horror as Neil's body shuddered and his flesh began to sizzle and burn.

Though it felt like an eternity of torture, the lightning strike couldn't have lasted for more than a few seconds. When it ended, Neil dropped like a ragdoll into Ryan's arms. Ryan, too stricken to even check for a pulse, simply stared blankly into his friend's glazed-over eyes. Then Neil blinked, and his eyes were glowing green again, and he laughed, the sound rougher now that it was being produced by a charred set of lungs.

"Ah-ha-ha-ha! I wasn't expecting this body to survive that! Can you believe Neil is still kicking in here?" He tapped a finger against his head, then sat up with a playful kick of his legs. "...Or is he? It would be just like a demon to lie, wouldn't it?" He grabbed Ryan's chin with his burnt and blackened fingernails and forcefully tilted his head up so their gazes met. "You can't tell, can you, vigilante? So, how hard are you willing to throw your broken body around to try and save someone who might already be toast? Maybe you should just give up and go on with your day, hmm?"

While the demon taunted him, Ryan's mind raced to concoct a plan. Some miraculous last-minute solution that would fix everything... Neil would be able to think of one. Perhaps he already had. But that wouldn't do them any good when Neil was trapped and helpless within his own mind. If this really was a demon, and a powerful one at that, the only thing that might work was an impromptu exorcism.

"Crux sacra sit mihi lux! Nunquam draco sit mihi dux! Vade retro Satana!" Reciting the passage from memory as rapidly as he could without tripping over his tongue, Ryan grabbed Neil by the wrists and held him tight while he hissed and tried to jerk away. "Nunquamsuade mihi vana! Sunt mala quae libas. Ipse venena bibas!"

An ungodly noise somewhere between a shriek and a roar erupted from Neil as he tossed his head back and convulsed. It was far too visually similar for comfort to his electrocution less than a minute prior, and Ryan wondered if the demon was doing it that way on purpose in an attempt to scare him into stopping. If so, it wouldn't work. Even if this process was as painful for Neil as it was for the demon possessing him, it had to be done.

Sure enough, as the final line of the chant echoed across the rooftop, Neil shuddered and slumped to the ground next to Ryan. When their gazes met this time, the demonic glow was gone, but Neil was breathing fast and shallow and his eyes were wide with lingering terror.

"Ryan," he whispered. "You're... alive."

"I think so," he replied with a tentative smile. "It's all a little confusing. But we're going to be okay now, Neil."

However, no sooner had those words left his mouth than Neil stiffened up again, eyes momentarily flashing green. "No," he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as if to dispel the demon's grasp. "Not yet. Still gotta... get rid of it..." He grabbed Ryan's hands and held them desperately tight, like a scared child clinging to their parent or older sibling. His eyes flashed once more, and this time when the glow faded, his face bore a strained smile. "I've got an idea. Ryan, don't freak out."

And with that, before Ryan could process what was happening and reach out to stop him, Neil sprung to his feet and took a running leap off the edge of the building.

For a while now, Neil had been having unusually vivid dreams. They weren't always nightmares, but they often were. Dreams about different worlds, different realities, different lives. Ones where him and Kevin and Ryan weren't all friends. Or worse, ones where they still were, but that wasn't enough to save them. One of those recent dreams, which began as an exciting fantasy only to devolve into a nightmare, was about some kind of flying vehicle. Ever since having that dream, Neil had made two vows to himself. Firstly, that as soon as he gathered the funds to afford it, he'd go back to school and complete his aeronautical engineering degree. Secondly, to always carry a parachute, just in case.

But the demon possessing him had no way of knowing that, now did it? And it wouldn't want to still be trapped inside a host body that was splattered all over the pavement. That was what Neil was banking on, at least. Otherwise he might really be in trouble.

As he fell, a stinging sensation rippled through his body. He shuddered, yet there was a smile on his face--no longer a grin stretched unnaturally wide, but an expression of his own volition--and his heart pounded not with terror but with exhilaration and boundless relief. Sure enough, the demon leapt forth from him and departed in a swirl of green smoke. And with it gone, he wasted no time in engaging the parachute--just in time to slow his acceleration enough that the fall wouldn't kill him.

Admittedly, he didn't exactly come down gracefully. He landed in a tangle of limbs and fabric that he had to shrug off the borrowed jacket, parachute and all, in order to escape, and the landing was just rough enough to deliver a painful reminder of the electrical burns covering the better part of his body. Still, Neil couldn't stop grinning as he gingerly picked himself up and dusted himself off. He was alive and no longer possessed; that was a win in his book.

When he craned his neck to look up at the roof, he thought he saw Ryan still sitting there. Neil grimaced as he recalled what the demon had said about breaking Ryan's back; hopefully that injury was undone with the demon being vanquished, but since Neil's injuries were still there, maybe that wasn't so. Either way, he couldn't just leave his friend up there alone.

As quickly as he could run with a bullet wound in his foot, he entered the building and took the closest elevator to the rooftop. But by the time the elevator chimed and its doors slid open, the rooftop was abandoned, with no sign of Ryan save for an abandoned hat, cape, and gloves, and a slowly fading dark red stain.

If Kevin hadn't already been surprised to wake up alive the first time, he sure as hell was now. The only reason he knew he was alive at all was the deep, persistent ache that wracked practically his entire body. That, and the warmth of the hand laid atop his own.

Forcing his eyes open with a pained groan, he turned his head to see the man sitting at his bedside. Ryan squeezed his hand and flashed him a sad smile when their eyes met. His vigilante costume was gone, traded for a simple dress shirt and tie, and his hair fell unpinned around his visibly tired face; the chair he sat in, upon closer inspection, was an old-fashioned wheelchair.

With some effort, Kevin pushed himself into a sitting position. Looking around, he found that he was laying on the couch in the living room with his chest bandaged. How Ryan had managed to pull him out from beneath the bookcase, he had no idea, but he sure wasn't going to complain about it.

"Ryan, you... you're hurt?" It was a stupid question--why else would he be in a wheelchair? "Did the demon...?"

"It's gone now," Ryan responded. "But..." His gaze lowered, and he dropped his hands into his lap to fidget with the blanket draped over his legs. "It was a costly victory, I'm afraid. In order to defeat the demon, Neil--"

His tearful speech was interrupted by the distant bang of the front door being thrown open.

"Geez, you could've told me you were going straight home!" Neil's indignant voice rang out down the hall. "I wandered all over town looking for you."

Ryan's head snapped up, and he and Kevin turned in unison to see their friend running toward them with a slightly crooked gait. With a cry of joyous disbelief, Ryan opened his arms, and Neil tackled him in an embrace that nearly sent him toppling over; Kevin had to lean forward to grab the back of Ryan's chair to keep him upright as he and Neil clung to each other.

"Neil, you're alive! I-I thought..."

"It's okay, Ryan," said Neil. Then, pulling back and glancing at Kevin with a melancholy smile: "I think we're all going to be okay."

"So, what do you think?"

As the ending credits rolled on their latest webisode, Neil and Kevin turned to face Ryan with matching expectant grins.

"Well..." Ryan drummed his fingers against the keys of the laptop and tried to think of something positive to say. "The costumes you used were a lot more fashionable than usual--wait, hold on. Weren't those my clothes?"

They were in Kevin's truck parked outside the studio's headquarters, with Neil in the passenger seat and Ryan in the back. It had taken a little over a week for them to recover to the point where they could comfortably climb inside a vehicle, let alone Kevin being able to actually drive, and the studio had already sent them several notes warning them that their pay would be docked for submitting their webisode behind schedule.

"Ah, yeah, sorry about that," Kevin muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"To be fair, if he hadn't broken into your house and stolen a bunch of stuff from you, he couldn't have called you on your communicator watch," Neil interjected cheerfully. "Or tried to do an exorcism... but I guess that didn't really work out for him anyway."

"Hey, c'mon, it wasn't stealing!" Kevin gave Neil a gentle shove, prompting him to briefly wince but laugh anyway. "If we'd known you were still alive, we wouldn't have taken your stuff, Ryan, honest."

"Ah, I'll have to remember that for next time," Ryan quipped. He closed the laptop and handed it back to Neil, who tucked it away inside an oversized shoulder bag. "Well, that may not have been the best webisode we've made, but I can tell you two did your best."

"Yeah, it'll be way better once we get back to making them as a trio," Neil said.

It was still amazing to Ryan that his friends were so quick to accept him back after all he'd done. If anything, it made him feel worse about his prolonged absence, because he knew now that he could have come back at any point and they would have been glad to have him. It was easy to fall into regret when thinking of all that had gone wrong, and all that could easily have gone even worse. But the fact was, they were together again now--altered by what they'd gone through, and not entirely for the better, but still themselves.

And despite it all, the preceding events and the possibility that another horrible thing could happen to them in the future, he found himself agreeing with Neil's hopeful statement.

"Indeed..." Ryan reached out and took Neil and Kevin's hands in his own. They smiled back at him with the same residual traces of relief in their eyes that Ryan had felt every so often over the past week--relief that they were still there to smile at each other. "Gentlemen, I look forward to working with you again."

¤--END--¤

#epic gamer protip: plot something out and then mentally tweak it for the whole summer and then when autumn rolls around #write the whole thing in the span of like three days. works like a charm #hey did you know that i write stuff sometimes?

11 notes · View notes

gwenbrightly · 3 years ago

Text

Redwall Falls Chapter 2

“He’s looking at me...” Brome heard his sister whisper to herself. She was not so inconspicuously watching Martin, one of the Mystery Shack’s teenaged employees, while she cleaned bobbleheads made in the image of their Great Aunt (or Graunt) Polly. The siblings had been put to work helping out around the tourist trap as soon as they’d had some time to settle in.

“Why don’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him?” he suggested with an eye roll. Rose stared at him.

“After what happened last time?” she cringed. Yesterday, when they’d met him (and the handy-squirrel known as Feldoh), the mouse had introduced himself before saying something about a “rosty nose”, which had taken several minutes to decipher. Brome still wasn’t sure what that was about, but it had definitely been awkward.

“Well, he’s proven that he can speak coherently,” Brome observed, nodding his head at the customer Martin was currently ringing up, “so maybe this time you guys can make it through an entire conversation without crashing.”

“I... Don’t be so pushy, Brome. These things take time. And besides-” Rose’s protests were cut off by Graunt Polly’s appearance from the back room.

“All right, all right, look alive, everybeast. I need someone to go hang up these signs in the spooky part of the forest,” the mole announced, displaying several signs that had advertisements with question marks and directions to the Mystery Shack on them. Rose, Brome, Feldoh, and Martin all glanced at each other.

“Not it,” Rose said quickly.

“Not it,” Brome followed suit.

“Also not it. You needed me to switch out the lightbulbs upstairs, remember?” It was Feldoh, this time. Graunt Polly looked annoyed.

“Martin, go hang these signs.” She ordered. “Oh, I would, but it’s so far. And I just realized I never had my lunch break so...”

“I’d fire all of you if I could,” Polly complained, frowning at Martin’s lame excuse. Her statement didn’t seem to have the desired effect, for she looked rather disappointed when no one took the hint and volunteered as tribute.

“Fine, then. Guess we’re gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way,” she said, “let’s make it.. Eanie, meanie, minie… you,” she pointed a paw at Brome. He groaned in dismay.

“What? No. Graunt Polly, there’s something off about these woods… they’re creepy and I always feel like I’m being watched.”

“Noonvale doesn’t have much in the way of real forests, Brome. It’s gonna take some time for you to adjust to, well, the great outdoors,” Polly told him, giving his headfur a ruffle. He looked to Rose for backup, but she didn’t offer anything.

“I’m telling you – there’s something weird going on in this town. Homesickness can’t explain why the mosquito bites on my arm spell out ‘beware’.” Brome pointed out, rolling up his sleeve to show the others. Feldoh made a gagging noise. Rose raised an eyebrow and said,

“It looks more like ‘bewarb’ to me, and that’s really only if you squint.”

“Look, kid, that whole ‘monsters in the woods’ thing is just a local legend drummed up to attract more tourists,” Polly tried to assure him, but Brome wasn’t convinced. He had only been in Gravity falls for a day and he’d already seen bizarre glowing lights, heard strange noises, and been accosted by possibly radioactive mosquitos.

“But...” he protested as Graunt Polly plopped the signs into his reluctantly waiting arms.

“Stop being so paranoid and try to have some fun with this, eh, Brome?”

_______________

“No one believes anything I say,” Brome muttered to himself as he nailed a sign to a tree. It felt like he had been out in the forest for hours. All by himself. With no one to talk (complain) to. Was it even legal to send children out into the forest to perform manual labor without supervision? He’d have to check the local child labor laws once he got access to wifi – yet another thing the Mystery Shack seemed to be lacking in.

“Ugh!” he cried. “Stupid Mystery Shack! Stupid signs!”

Kathunk! Brome kicked the next tree he came to and immediately recoiled. He yelped in pain, then cocked his head. Trees didn’t make weird echoey noises… did they?

“Weird…” he commented, dropping the remaining sign on the ground so he could investigate further. Rapping gently on the tree – he didn’t want to hurt himself – Brome listened to the oddly metallic sound the tree made on impact. Something was definitely off about it. He took the sleeve of his sweatshirt and rubbed away at the trunk. Textured brown paint and a healthy coating of dirt and grime gave way to old metal. Ahah! The entire tree was fake. In full detective mode, now, Brome examined the tree until he spotted a small handle.

With slight apprehension, for there was always a chance his actions would activate an army of laser equipped robots, he grasped the lever with both paws and yanked it down. Nothing happened. No grand reveal. No explosion. Just the sound of birds chirping in the distance.

The young mouse huffed in disappointment and turned to leave, wishing he hadn’t gotten his hopes up. All his Sci-Fi TV shows and books had lied to him. Cool things never happened in real life. The world just didn’t work that way. But then, the creaking of a rusty hatch forcing its way open somewhere nearby caused him to stop in his tracks.

Brome circled the area, searching for the source of the sound. The switch must have done something, after all. He checked every nook and cranny, below each bush and on top of every rock and stump. His query remained elusive. Whatever the lever had opened was clearly well hidden. Brome took a step backwards, hoping the action would give him a different view of this patch of forest.

In a way, he got exactly what he wanted; the fallen tree he tripped over certainly forced him to see the area from a different angle. But the unexpected fall wasn’t very pleasant and Brome couldn’t help but wonder how badly he’d have to hurt himself before his parents would let him come home. He lay on the ground for a moment, half tempted to sink into the dirt and become one with nature. Thankfully, such drastic actions did not end up being necessary.

It was no wonder Brome hadn’t noticed the bizarre hole the switch had uncovered. Half buried by the log and built from camouflaged materials, he would have missed it completely if not for the fact that he’d practically fallen right on top of it. He sat up, thoughtfully. Whoever had installed this hidden treasure trove obviously hadn’t wanted anyone to find it. How long had it been since someone sat where he now sat? Since somebeast had peered into the hole to examine its secrets? Brome gently removed an object wrapped in old newspapers, bursting into a fit of sneezes at the resulting cloud of dust that had floated into the air.

It was old. Old-old, as in more than just a few years old. The newspapers were from several decades ago. Their edges had curled with age, and some of the lettering was too faded to be legible. Fortunately, Brome had little interest in the newspaper; the item it protected was far more intriguing. A journal. And journals always had juicy secrets written in them – he’d learned that from snooping in Rose’s bedroom (though this journal would inevitably be much more interesting than his sister’s diary).

The journal’s design was simple enough. It was made of thick brown leather with the insignia of a paw print on the front cover. Brome wasn’t sure what kind of creature would have an entire extra toe. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. What if the journal contained something bad? Something he wasn’t supposed to see?

It must have been hidden for a reason, after all. The young mouse sat for a moment, pondering his options. He could, of course, bury the journal and get back to work hanging Graunt Polly’s signs. He could also take his chances and open the book regardless of ancient curses or government Intel. It was a difficult choice.

“Alright, mystery beast. Let’s see what you’ve been hiding,” Brome muttered when his curiosity finally got the better of him. He hummed thoughtfully and flipped through the first few pages. They were covered with sketches of creatures he had never seen before. Detailed notes and memos accompanied many of the sketches.

“It's hard to believe it's been six years since I began studying the strange and wondrous secrets of Gravity Falls,” he read aloud from the page that had the most writing. Six years was a long time to be stuck in this place. The author must have had an awful lot of spare time on their paws to create such an elaborate journal. Flipping through the journal some more, Brome found himself growing more intrigued with each page he read.

Eventually, the writing and sketches grew increasingly erratic and less caretakingly organized. Notes that made no sense lined the margins in some places. One page in particular had the words Trust No One scrawled across its top in large lettering. Brome read the rest of the entry with bated breath, “Unfortunately, my suspicions have been confirmed. I'm being watched. I must hide this book before he finds it. Remember: in Gravity Falls there is no one you can trust." He paused, confused. That seemed… harsh. But if Gravity Falls really did have a dark side-

“Watcha doin?” someone said, sending Brome into a frenzied attempt to hide the journal behind his back. He groaned when he realized who it was. His sister gave him an awkward wave.

“Rose! Thanks for that. I really needed a heart attack today,” he stated flatly.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Rose told him, sitting down on the fallen tree, “Graunt Polly sent me to check on you.”

“Oh,” he said. He felt a little foolish for being so easily shaken. The journal’s tone was clearly getting to him.

“So… what were you reading that you didn’t notice me coming your way?” she asked.

“It’s nothing,” Brome said quickly. Rose hummed in response, clearly skeptical.

“Seems like pretty interesting nothingness. You were really invested in it.”

“Well… it’s not nothing nothing,” he admitted, “Just not something I should show you out here where anyone could happen to walk by. Let’s go somewhere more… private.”

“Alright. But now I’m curious. This better not be evidence of aliens, or I’m going to be very insulted that you didn’t show me right away,” Rose teased, ruffling his head fur. Brome winked at her and stood up. He waved the journal at her before taking off in the direction of the Mystery Shack as he said,

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

After all, surely the book journal hadn’t meant sisters when it said trust no one… right?

#redwall #redwall fanfiction #myfics #gravity falls #laterose of noonvale #martin the warrior #brome the worrier

7 notes · View notes

translations-by-aiimee · 3 years ago

Text

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 13

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 13 - Doubt

In the archaeological internship Lin Yan participated in, the Ming Tomb was undoubtedly a very peculiar place. The excavation work lasted three months. Before the excavation started, Lin Yan didn't even get any relevant background information. He asked his professor several times but never got a response. When he was told that would be staying at the tomb for only a week, he thought he was coming to be the team's water boy. Instead, he was unexpectedly sent to the site as soon as the plane touched down and was given one of the most important jobs of cleaning the body found in the main room of the tomb.

It was a medium-sized underground mysterious tomb. Bluestone blocks were built into arches. The apse in the room was about forty meters long. A large black lacquered coffin left slightly ajar rested peacefully on the stone platform. Lin Yan and the rest of the crew held their breath together. When the golden nanmu wood coffin lid was slowly lifted, and the gold, silver, jade and rosy brocade around the corpse were exposed, a soft cheer erupted from the tomb. Everyone couldn't help but celebrate that they found such an magnificent mausoleum that had been left completely untouched by tomb robbers. After a long while, all nonessential personnel evacuated one by one. Lin Yan remembered that the professor was the last one to leave the scene. When he left, he rested his hand heavily on his shoulders, as if he wanted to say something but never ended up getting anything out. In the empty and dark main room of the tomb, only Lin Yan and a few lights, both bright and dim, were left. Sometimes, the miner's lamp was often extinguished inexplicably. He later recalled that the owner of the tomb might have been watching him ever since then.

The corpse in the coffin had rotted into a skeleton, but the hair that remained was soft and shiny. However, when Lin Yan sat alone by the coffin and skimmed through some history books, doubts arose. The identity of the owner of the tomb was like the bronze of this mysterious palace, unrecognizable under the green rust. There was no record, no genealogy, nothing even mentioned in town and county chronologies. The tomb's eternal light placed in front of the coffin had long been dried up, and a two-foot-long black name card behind it was coated with thick old blood. The place where the name should be written was empty, and it turned out to be a non-character memorial tablet.

When the last artifact in the coffin was successfully taken out, Lin Yan was told he could return. It only took them seven days and no one had ever told him about the origin of the tomb that whole time.

The sun was shining on Friday morning, and the roses in the flower bed were rushing to bloom. There was a soft fragrance of something oily like burning opium in the air. Lin Yan parked his car at the school gate and hurried through the small square in front of the building to get to the professor's office. He was in such a rush that he went through the ground fountain in the square. After he took a few steps, bells and drums started playing and spurts of water shot from the jets, the surrounding area immediately turning into a forest of water columns shooting up.

"Shit. . ." He couldn't dodge them and got completely soaked. Lin Yan internally cursed as he rushed forward, wringing out the hem of his shirt. A few school girls had just come out of the main entrance of the building and giggled at the embarrassing scene.

Lin Yan blushed a little.

Shiny drops of water splashed off his hair and a droplet fell into his eye. When he raised his hand to wipe it away, his wrist was caught by someone. The cold fingertips wiped the drop off one of his eyelashes. Lin Yan blinked and stood there silently.

When he walked up the steps, he saw a new large poster on the left side of the automatic door. A gentle-looking middle-aged man with glasses was holding a pen, and his demeanour resembled an unopened folder in a stationery store. There was a large line next to him: Chen XX, a well-known Chinese history professor, is coming to our school to give a lecture. All students are welcome to participate. This will be a great chance to interact with the professor.

The tune played was one typically used by the Propaganda Department, the following rows of small letters are written with the specific time and content of the event. Lin Yan struggled to twist the hem of the wet T-shirt and walked towards the hall, muttering that this was probably the reason that the fountain suddenly turned on. Turning back, he frowned and stood in front of the poster for a minute. He always felt that the man on the poster was a bit familiar, but he couldn't remember who it was. After thinking about it for a while, Lin Yan shook his head and stepped through the hall.

The professor's office was on the fourth floor.

"Professor, are you kidding me? From the preliminary preparations to the end of the tomb excavation, so many people participated in it. How could it be possible that nothing about the tomb owner's origins could be found until now?"

"That tomb was already considered to be average to wealthy for the time period. Even if the owner of the tomb was not of official origin, there is always a record in historical records for wealthy businessmen."

University institutions were never busy on Fridays. Everyone was waiting for the weekend. Lin Yan’s professor was no exception. He was sitting in the office with his legs crossed when the drenched student burst into his office. Behind the table, he held a heavy purple sand teacup in his hand. Because he often went to the West in his early years, his skin was wrinkled by the wind and frost. His midsection was blessed by some middle-aged fat, and the bags under the eyes were hanging loosely behind the glasses.

The professor grew impatient with Lin Yan's aggressive tone, and patted a stack of books on the table: "Isn't that so? You see, I'm more worried about writing a report on the excavation. I've been busy for more than a month and I haven't made any progress."

Lin Yan leaned forward impatiently with his hands on the glass plate of the tabletop: "The mausoleum was left untouched. The body and burial items were intact. Isn't it possible to determine the identity of the tomb owner?"

This student had always been known for his politeness and patience. It was rare for him to be this anxious.

"That's the problem. Comparing the data compiled based on the unearthed cultural relics with the records at the time, I can only say that he's completely unknown." The professor put down the cup and tapped his finger on the cover of the book a few times: "Ming Dynasty history is not my specialty. Tell me, why don't you do some research yourself? The students in our school must be able to research independently. You should make good use of the school library resources."

Lin Yan shook his head disappointedly. Just like the professor said, there was a lot of historical data to go through. He wouldn't make any progress in the next three months. Even three years might not be enough time to go through all the information. By then, he would have run out of ten lives. What's more, he has searched through the relevant history books of the library for the past week and even asked Yin Zhou to search through the database in less legal ways, but the strange thing is that no matter what keywords they use - the age, name, location - he couldn't find any information. It was common sense that, in ancient times, even a talented person would be written about somewhere in the county annals, but this Xiao Yu was like a person from another world. The records passed over him like he had never existed.

The faint scent of book pages and wood was floating in the air, and the light blue shutters broke up the rays of sun leaking in. Lin Yan subconsciously glanced back, as if there should be a companion waiting to respond to his doubts. But Xiao Yu does exist, he thought.

Trying his best to stay calm, Lin Yan lowered his head and lowered his voice: "Teacher, this is really important to me, can you help. . ." While speaking, his gaze was fixed on the table. Under the glass plate were many old photos of the professor when he was young. There was a row of people wearing work clothes and hard hats in the black-and-white pictures. Compared to the middle-aged man with swollen eyes in front of him, there was a strange sense of contradiction in the gray-headed but happy-looking man in the pictures.

Time really did wonders.

The instructor tapped two fingers on the table. He didn't look at Lin Yan when he spoke. His eyes were a little dodged: "Why do you need to know the owner of the tomb? Do you need to write a paper?"

Lin Yan took a deep breath. He had always had a keen insight into people's emotions. When he had been sorting through clues last night, the situation that occurred in the tomb flashed in his mind. He had already had his doubts at the time, but he was so nervous and excited that he didn't think too much of it. For example, ever since he joined the team, everyone had been keeping secrets, and the professor also looked at him with that dodgy look when the excavators all left the tomb. The whole thing seemed to have been arranged long ago, so Lin Yan hadn't cared about interrupting the teacher's off-time and grabbed the phone to set up a meeting time.

"Professor, you should know why; this is a matter of life and death." After hesitating for a moment, Lin Yan frowned and said this sentence with emphasis. He pressed his hands on the table hard and turned away.

When I walked to the door of the office. He paused, one, two. . . Lin Yan counted silently in his heart.

Three.

"Wait." The professor's voice sounded from behind.

"Lin Yan, this project isn't under my control. I just heard that a lot of strange things happened when the tomb was opened. Someone came to me and asked you to go. I didn't agree with it. . . If you really want to know more, you can go ask the coordinator of the excavation yourself." The finger tapped twice on the desk. "His name is Chen, he'll be at our school next Monday for a lecture. There are posters downstairs." After speaking, he took a few volumes from the neatly arranged books and put them back on the table, gesturing that he could leave. "You can get more out of him than me"

"Last question." Lin Yan held the door frame and poked his face in: "Teacher, do you know Xiao Yu?"

"No, I don't." The answer was quick this time: "Who's that?"

Lin Yan sighed and held the railing as he quickly walked downstairs.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost #dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #chinese novel #chinese bl #english translation #yaoi novel #yaoi

11 notes · View notes

imagination-is-key-in-my-world · 4 years ago

Text

Lockdown

Authors Note: I am a British writer and luckily enough I have never actually had to experience something like this happening. I cannot imagine what it must be like. There is reference to the ‘shooting’ during the fanfiction, therefore, I do not blame anyone if they differ from reading this. Nothing is graphic and if anything it only gets mentioned for a small portion and there is no one hurt either. I would really like to do a part two. Let me know if anyone is interested.

Summary: It was just a normal day in Beacon Hills. Y/N and her friends were going about her business when a gun threat disrupted the balance of things. Strangers and potential foes grew closer as their lives hung in the balance.

Warning: Gun Threat, Swearing, Adult Language and Themes

Pairing: Reader x Stiles Stilinski

Word Count: 3,787

“You can not tell me that you didn’t just see that look he gave you?” Jackson brushed up against my side as I tried to jot down the new notes that Coach was terribly transcribing on the chalk board. I mean was that even spelt correctly, how did this man become a legal teacher?

“It is probably just in your head Jackson.” I counter.

“No he is seriously giving you the stink eye. What is McCall’s problem?”

I shrug him off as he is up to his typical shit stirring mode. Jackson and I are neighbours and long-time friends. Since I was nine, we were barely ever apart, we shared our biggest secrets with one another. Mine was that I am the daughter of two illusive demon hunters. I am the only person who knows that he has been pretending to be someone who he is not. Jackson has been in a secret relationship with Ethan. Deep down Jackson was a sweetheart. A sweetheart who cannot control his mouth or fists but Ethan and I are working on that.

“Come on Y/N!” He bumped my arm which made my hand jerk and my notes start to resemble that of Coach’s horrible penmanship. If there is one thing that I hate, its when my notes are not written one hundred percent perfectly. I slam down my pen and turn abruptly in my chair to face Jackson, which sparks some attention from the brunette boy on the table in front. He did not fully turn his head around which was lucky for me as my cheeks immediately go red from embarrassment.

“What is your problem Jackson?” I enquire, nostrils practically flaring which only invoked a chuckle from my best friend.

“Take that chip off of your shoulder and listen to me would you.” He countered as he pushed a note into my hand. “Read this and tell me you wish I left you to copy down that gibberish from the board.”

I huffed and started to carefully unfold the piece of paper. Coach didn’t really care if we showed up to the lesson, let alone if we were actually listening. I read it three times before I actually registered what the words were telling me.

Hey Y/N If you could would you be able to meet me in the west stairwell after 3rd period? You look really pretty today, btw

“Jackson, who is this from?” The boy shrugged and dropped his head to focus on the words coming out of Coach’s mouth. “Don’t pretend like you care about what he is saying” I gesture to the shaggy haired man “now tell me at least who you got this from.”

Jackson pointed to Lydia who was not at all aware of the two pairs of eyes on her as she casually scribbled in her journal. “But I have no clue who had the note before her. It was probably that McCall.” He sneered. I exhale disappointedly, as much as Scott was a nice guy and all, I don’t want this to be from him. I do not have anything against the guy, he is just not someone who I would want to be interested in me. He seems to always be around trouble, and that is something I cannot be involved in.

“Why don’t you just go and see who it is. I will go with you and if it turns out to be McCall, I will rescue you.” He gave my hand a slight squeeze for reassurance and gazed down at my notebook. “By the way what did you get for number four?”

I laugh a little too loud which causes the brunette to turn around and give me a quick glance that I couldn’t translate in time before he was facing the front again. Again, my cheeks flared, the same way that they do every time his eyes meet mine. I shake the thought away and turn back to my friend. “Jackson, did you think this was a test the whole time? Number four is literally asking you to write down your height.”

_____________________________________________________________

I was packing my stuff into my bag as the bell rang. “So, are you going to meet this mystery person?” Lydia enquired as I put my water bottle into the slot at the side of my bag, looping the strap over my one arm.

Lydia and I do not really talk, but considering she was my only lead on who this note could have been from, I bit the bullet and spoke to my lab partner. As we were filling the beakers with corrosive liquid, I came straight out with it. “So, about this note you handed to Jackson for me? Do you know who it was from?”

Lydia shook her head, a little startled that I asked her a question that wasn’t ‘can you pass me the pipette?’ “No, to be honest I can not even say who had passed me the note. When I looked down from the board it was just there lying on top of my journal. I am sorry Y/N, I wish I were able to help more but I honestly wouldn’t be able to say who gave it to me.”

I was a little discouraged by only knowing what I did during first period and it was now third. I was meant to meet this person in only a matter of minutes. Lydia and I continued to talk throughout the class. She was really nice to talk to, but I could sense that there was something about her that wasn’t normal. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something.

“I have no clue if I am going to go or not.” I admit, letting the anxiety slip in. It would be hard enough for me to go through with it even if I knew who it was I was going to meet up with. This person said I was ‘pretty,’ for all I knew this could be a joke. That’s all I needed, I was already the girl with all the ancient supernatural protection runes all over my person and possessions. My mum and dad are hunters, and I have been brought up in a world where I cannot go anywhere without some protection. The salt and holy water in my bag is proof of that.

“Well, I hope whoever it is, knows how amazing you are. If he doesn’t, he will have me to deal with.” She bumped my hip with hers and waved as she left the lab.

I picked up the last item on the table and turned to leave the classroom when I was knocked onto the floor, landing hard on my butt. At first, it felt as though I had walked straight into an invisible force field. Little had I registered that it was a person.

“Oh shit!” It was the brunette from this morning. ‘Dammit’ I thought. I could already feel my cheeks start to turn red. Why did this always have to happen. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to; I wasn’t looking where I was going.” The brunette boy bent down to help me up from the floor.

I brush off my jeans once I am back on my feet, avoiding making eye contact with the boy in front of me. He too looked really nervous as if this incident was his worst nightmare. “I- it’s o- okay.” I stutter. Really voice, of all the times you want to fail me, it’s now. “I w- was just going.” I try to walk past him when a blaring siren started ringing throughout the school.

Panic flashed across my face and his too. Everyone’s worst nightmare, a gun drill. The siren was one hundred percent recognisable. “Get down!” The brunette boy threw himself at me as I yet again landed flat on my backside but with him on top of me this time. We were both frozen for a couple of seconds, my eyes locked on his and it might sound girly, but I could literally lose myself in them.

Finally, he lifted himself up off me and slid underneath one of the tables. I copied and mirrored him under the table in front of his. “I’m sorry, I thought I saw someone walk past the window inconspicuously behind you. I just panicked.” His eyes searched my body, the way that I was now hugging my legs, resting my chin on top of my knees. “Oh God, did I hurt you?” Fear flooded his face at the thought that he may have caused me any pain.

I shake my head. “No.” I whisper. “I’m okay, thank you.” My hand instantly goes to play with the locket that hung around my neck.

“What’s that?” His eyes caught my fingers tracing the metal details.

I freeze. “What’s what?”

The brunette flicked his head towards the chain that was between my fingers.

“Oh, it’s a necklace my dad gave me, to protect me.”

The boy smiled. “That’s cool. My dad gave me a baseball bat to protect me.” I felt the corners of my lips rise into a slight smile.

“I bet you wish you had it now?” I enquire.

The boy sniggered. “If only a bat was an equal match.” I knew what he was on about. A bat could not compare to a gun. “Wanna know something funny?”

“Something funny would be great right about now.” I could feel my foot start to twitch the way that it did when my mum and dad were out on a hunt. Total and utter uselessness. I was a sitting duck.

“My dad once told me that I am always at the centre of some drama.” He let out a sigh. “That wasn’t really that funny was it?”

I shake my head but smile. “Your dad seems like a smart man.”

He smiled and raised a hand to ruffle his hair. God why did he look so good when he did that. “He has to be, I mean he is the sheriff.”

“You’re the sheriff’s son?” I question my eyes went wide in shock. I had heard a lot about this boy. He was best friends with Scott McCall and his dad is right, he always seemed to be in trouble.

He smiled beautifully if that were possible during a terrifying circumstance. “Yeah, you didn’t think it was a coincidence that I am called Stiles Stilinski and there would be no relation to Sheriff Stilinski?” His smile and baffled tone made me smile back at him. “It’s not as common as most surnames. I mean what’s yours?”

“Winchester.” I reply.

“Now that is not a common surname.” He leaned out from under the desk with his arm stretched out. I took his in return. “Nice to meet you Y/N Winchester.”

“You too Stiles Stilinski.” My eyes locked onto his and our hands clung to each other. It felt like we had been holding hands for hours, completely frozen in each other’s gazes.

Suddenly there was a loud pop that rang throughout the building. This tore our hands apart finally. I retreated under the table and moved my legs back up to my chest, creating a shield. Stiles did the same but did not take his eyes off me. I started gripping onto my locket as my breathing became more rapid. I was normally better at threats, my parents dealt with the supernatural world. They battled ghosts, demons, vampires and even werewolves and yet a civilian with a gun going around the school, finger on the trigger, changed me into a nervous wreck.

There was this scuffling noise and suddenly there were arms around me holding me tight. “Shh, its okay Y/N.” Stiles was holding onto me, trying his best to soothe my breathing down. “Breathe with me okay. Copy me. Y/N, you need to look at me.” His hands were either side of my face as he whispered to keep our location a secret. “You can do this. Ready?”

My eyes locked onto his, tear stains running down my cheeks. I watched him attentively as he took each breath. I copied never losing eye contact with those light brown eyes. “That’s it. One more time okay?” His thumb caressed my cheek as I nodded. My breathing finally falling back into place. I take my last breath and let it fall. “That’s it.”

I thought now that my breathing was back to normal that Stiles would release me, but he didn’t. He held his grasp onto my body and did not look away. “Are you okay?” He whispered, his voice getting caught in this throat. Part of me wanted to say yes, to pretend that I was this tough girl. But the boy had just seen me during a panic attack. Me saying that I was not okay wasn’t going to come to be that much of a surprise. I shake my head.

“It’s okay not to be okay sometimes.” I went to wipe a tear that was falling from my cheek but Stiles was there before I got a chance. “Do you want to know a secret?”

I nod, dropping my legs from my chest. “I’m afraid of a lot of things. My friends and I, we face a lot of scary things and for most of it, I feel like I will die. But the thing is, we could die. But that could happen any day and at any time. I believe that we live through the scariest moments in our lives so that we can tell people about them.”

“What was the scariest moment in your life?” I ask, my voice all croaky from holding back the tears.

“Well apart from this one?” He pauses as he gathers his thoughts. “The scariest moment in my life was the day that something possessed my best friend and it led him to almost commit suicide.” I gasp, shocked by what he had just confessed.

“What happened?” I have dealt with possessions before, that wasn’t the part that shocked me.

“Well we went on a school trip and there was something supernatural that had possessed my friends, they were driven to madness. Scott picked up a flare, he was covered in gasoline, it was all around him.” He broke off as his voice cracked. “I walked over to him and held his hand and the flare. I told him that if he needed to do it, then we were both going to go. I was and always will be by his side.”

I took his hand this time and I felt him jump. “I had no idea. I am so sorry that that happened.” Stiles was staring at our entwined hands.

“But the other scariest moment in my life was when I wrote you that note.” I felt a sharp thump to the chest. I was so stupid, how did I not know it was the cute boy who sat in front of me in practically every class that we had together. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” I respond. Stiles had not lifted his head since our hands connected.

“Were you going to come and meet me? I mean obviously before all of this happened.”

I stop and think. Was I? I hadn’t given that moment another thought since the siren went off. It felt like days ago I had been handed the note. “I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Stiles’ tone was defeated and sombre. His grip on my hand also weakened the minute my response registered. “I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just thought that if I was going to take a jump and finally try to ‘make my move’ as they say.”

“Stiles, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture-“

“It’s just you don’t like me. I get it. I actually get it a lot.” His head dropped and he tried to pull away. I feared that he was going to leave me alone under the table and return to his own.

“No stiles it wasn’t that-“

“Is it cause I’m weird looking? Dad and Scott say I look a little odd.” The boy was rambling.

“No you’re not weird looking-“

“Then it is because of the way I talk isn’t it?”

“No it-“

“It’s my clothes then isn’t it? I dress in a lot of tartan. You know some people say-“ I grab the boy, placing a hand behind his head I pull his lips towards my own. Stiles’ eyes widened the second my lips connected to his. But soon enough his hands drifted from his side and tied themselves in my hair pulling me deeper into the kiss. It was as if Stiles had come alive once we kissed. Our lips moved in time with each other almost as if they were made to do this and only this. The shy boy became more confident and definitely more dominant as his tongue lightly brushed my bottom lip. I let his tongue meet my own, and his moan vibrated against my mouth.

Our bodies moved in sync with each other. My one hand entwined in his hair while the other draped down his back. His were on my hip and the back of my neck as we both pushed ourselves closer together if that were possible.

When I broke the kiss, his pupils were wide in surprise and desire. “Why did you stop?” Stiles questioned, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“I would have met up with you Stiles.” I whisper into his ear. When I pull my head away from his neck his eyes were wider than they were when the kiss broke apart. “But maybe next time, you should author your notes, perhaps?”

A cheeky grin spread out across his face as my words registered. “Wait, does that mean I forgot to say it was from me, that you’d be meeting me.” I nod as the boy put the puzzle pieces together. “I am an idiot.” The boy slapped his own forehead at his carelessness. “Can I ask you another question?” I smile and nod. “Can we do that kiss again? I really liked it.”

The smirk on his face was enough for me to give into his charms. Before I could lean in, Stiles had grabbed me by my hips and pulled me onto his lap. I hooked my arms around his neck and allowed his lips to connect with mine, his hands firmly on the space between my hips and my ass. It was a bit of a squeeze under the table, the top of my head was rested on base of the table. I was aware that I may have gum in my hair because of this, but I didn’t care. Hearing his moans as my hands trailed from the back of his neck and down his spine was enough for me to crumble within his arms.

Stiles’ lips drifted away from my own but instantly connected into the crook of my neck. This time it was my turn to let out a moan. “Stiles.” I sighed when he hit the right spot and began to suck on it with his hot breath spreading across my skin.

Both of us jumped apart when we heard a cough from the front of the lab. There stood Scott McCall. I was just thankful that it wasn’t Coach or any other member of the School Faculty. I looked back at Stiles who for once didn’t seem happy to see his best friend. “Not exactly what we were taught to do during a school shooting, Stiles.” He nodded towards me “Y/N, Jackson is worried about you, he said you were not answering your phone.”

Stiles detangled me from his lap and helped me to my feet in front of the table rather than being under it as we had previously been.

I pulled out my phone and funny enough there was sixteen missed calls from Jackson and twenty-two messages from him as well as a couple from my own father. Not cool Jackson do not get my dad involved in this.

“What are you even doing out in the open, Scott?” Stiles grilled. “There is a school shooting going on you know.”

“Dude that ended about twenty minutes ago, your dad came arrested the guy. The teachers announced that we could all go home. I was on my way home when Jackson came up to me and asked me if I had seen Y/N. When I told him no, he went into panic mode and started running up and down the corridors.”

I felt my phone vibrate in my hands, Jackson again. “Hello?”

“Oh my God. Thank God you’re okay. Are you still in the school? Where are you? I will come and get you and take you home.”

I look up at Stiles who held onto my hand and gave me the sweetest smile. “Jackson I am okay. I think I am going to get a ride with someone else. Thank you for always looking after me. I love you.”

“It’s my job. Who are you with so I know you are safe, put them on the phone?”

I hand the phone over to Stiles who takes it apprehensively. “He wants to make sure I haven’t concocted some excuse to avoid listening to Taylor Swift in his car, again.”

“Hello?”

“Oh my God, Stilinski? What are you doing with Y/N?”

Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear and places a hand over the microphone. “I don’t think he is too happy that you’re with me.” I laugh and he put the phone back up against his ear. “Jackson I will look after her, I promise. Enjoy Taylor Swift though. I really like the one she sings with Ed Sheeran.” He pulls the phone back and hits the end call button on the screen.

Scott looks questioningly between the two of us. “So, what is going on between you two. Is this going to be a normal thing now? Am I going to have to write up a schedule for who gets Stiles during the week?”

Stiles slaps his friend’s back. “You still got me. But now she has me too, only she gets more kisses than you. I mean we could add more kissing sessions when we are together if you would really like?”

“I think I will pass.” Scott announced.

“Good because there would be no competition.” Stiles twirled me so that I was now pressed against his chest and laid another kiss on my lips. When he pulled away, his head was bent down to mine, eyes locked on my own. “You ready to go home?”

Part 2?

31 notes · View notes

surveys-at-your-service · 3 years ago

Text

Survey #423

“i won’t think about you when i’m older / ‘cuz we never really had our closure”

Are you better at cooking dinners or making cakes/biscuits/sweets? Neither. Have you ever cut someone else’s hair? No. Who was the last guest in your house and what were they staying for? My late grandmother's husband stayed overnight when he was driving from New York to Florida or the other way around, idr. How many long term relationships have you been in? Two. Do you sleep with all the lights out, or do you leave a lamp or even the television on? My snake's heat lamp stays on. Who is one person you have forgiven, but still have not “forgotten” what they have done? My dad. Are you a fan of Lana Del Rey? I don't think I've even heard one of her songs. Do you know your blood type? A-. Do you know your mother’s birthday? Yes. Have you got your period at the moment? I haven't had my period since I started TMS. It's honestly so fucking frustrating that it obviously had an effect on my body, but not my depression. I've officially finished TMS as of a few days ago and now I just feel so void of hope. Have you ever been pregnant? No. How old were you when you first went on a plane? Idr, I was a little kid. Have you ever had to take out a loan for anything? Not me personally, but my parents have for my education that I threw away. Are both of your blood parents still in your life? Yes. I don't see my dad a lot, but he's still in my life regardless. When was the last time you went apple picking? I’ve never been. Someone asked you what you wanted, what would you say? Happiness. Have you ever been drunk at school or work? I have not. How many bedrooms are in your house? Three. Are you smart about computers? Not really, no. Have you ever played Just Dance for Wii? Yes. My sister loved them, so we have a few. Do you own a Xbox 360? No. I'm a PlayStation girl. Would you ever do a sex tape for a million dollars? No. I'd be mortified. So, do you need a nap? I really should take one. I slept like... maybe three hours last night. I was up most of the night having a fucking life crisis. What would you rather be doing? Something fun. What sport are you the best at? I haven't touched any sort of sport since I was a teenager. Do you have a little sister? What’s her name? Yeah, Nicole. Do you complain a lot? Kind of, but I generally try to keep it in surveys nowadays. I'm just tired of shit. Would you rather go to an authentic haunted house or an ancient temple? Ohhh, tough pick, but I've gotta say the ancient temple. Do you like fruity or minty gum? Both, really. Are you looking forward to any day of this month? Well July is practically over, so I'll answer for August. I'm looking forward to my nephew's birthday. Have you ever gotten detention? A few times for getting too many morning tardies in high school. Is there a traumatic event that you’ve experienced that’s changed your life? Definitely. Do you buy a majority of your clothes from a certain store, or do you just pick out items of clothing you could see yourself wearing, not caring about the store it came from? The latter. Have any of the artists you’re fond of released new albums recently? Powerwolf did recently. Would you ever keep your favorite animal as a pet? I could write a college-length essay on why meerkats do not make good pets whatsoever. Do fucking not get one. I can barely fathom how it's legal in some countries. Ever cried so much you threw up? No, but I've gagged. Who is your best guy friend? Girt. What do you two do when you hang out? Mostly just watch TV and play board games. What is a movie that you thought you would hate but you ended up loving? I dunno, really. Do you even like horror movies? I love horror movies. Do you live in the country? I wish I still did. :/ Me and Mom hate hate hate living in these suburbs. What is your favorite accent? British. Have you ever had a boyfriend your parents didn’t like? No. Do you drink Pepsi or Coke? Coke. Pepsi is gross. What do you plan to do on your 21st birthday? I was literally in the psych hospital for my 21st birthday lmao. It's kind of a painful memory, but I also won't forget the love and kindness people showed me. I especially remember the friend I made there getting the lunch lady to literally go and buy me a slice of cake. Everyone also sang happy birthday to me and gaaaah I'm getting emotional. Do you have any person in your family with an addiction to beer? That was my dad's drink of choice when he drank. Do you take a lot of pictures? Unless I have my camera and am somewhere pretty, no. What kind of face wash do you use? Water, lol. Does drama always seem to follow you? Nah. Does anybody in your family race? No. Are you closer to your mom or dad? My mom. How much money did you used to get from the ”tooth fairy?” Uhhh... I want to say $2 or something? I might be way off, idr. How long do you want to live with your parents? I WISH I could have moved out with an s/o already, but that's just not how life's worked out. Do you have a laptop or desktop? I have a laptop. Do you like your parents? I love them. Do you secretly like someone? It's not a secret, no. Would you ever date your best male friend? Tried that once and it didn't work out. I liked him more as like a brother. What are you currently listening to? "Better Than Me" by Hinder. I really need to turn it off, but I can't make myself. Do you want to be single? I really wish I had a partner to love and motivate me to strive to do better, but I know it's better I'm single right now. I'd just relive the Jason situation, I'm sure. I'd just drag the person down and lose them. Did you go out or stay in last night? I'm almost always at my fucking house not doing shit, so. Have you pretended to like someone? No, that sounds pretty stupid... How is your heart lately? Hurting. A lot. Are you wearing socks? I hate wearing socks and I'm in bed anyway, so no. What do people call you? Britt, mostly. Do you get stressed out easily? VERY. Have you ever been taken to the emergency room in an ambulance? No. What is wrong with you right now? Where the hell to begin. Do you own something from Hot Topic? A lot. Would you rather sleep with someone else or alone? With someone, so long as the bed is big enough to comfortably fit two of us. Do you still talk to the person you last made out with? No. I'm certain he wants nothing to do with me. Have you ever seen your best friend cry? Sadly. Did you get any compliments today? Definitely not. I look and feel like a wreck right about now. There's nothing to praise me about. Have you ever gone to a beach? Many times. What would you say if someone asked you to get high right now? Unless it was an edible, no. I'd do almost anything to try and make me feel better right now, even if just for a little while, but I'm unwilling to smoke anything. Do you believe that everything happens for a reason? HELL no. Have you ever done volunteer work just because you wanted to? Honestly, no. Do you have long nails? No; I never do because I have an awful habit of picking at them. Do you like the gender you are? I don't like or dislike it, honestly. I'm just neutral. Do you generally look nice in photos? HA. Have you ever had a stick insect as a pet? No. What colour are your father’s eyes? They're dark brown. If I handed you a concert ticket right now, who would you want to be the performer? Ozzy, duh. Name three facts about your family? We're very, very spread out geographically, some of us (in other words, me) are emotionally distant, and uh... idk. Would you ever get into a long distance relationship? Only if it was a certain person, our lives were more on track, and we were making plans for either of us to move soon. What’s the most thoughtful present you’ve ever received? Probably this really long letter my mom wrote for me on my bday a couple years ago. What’s your favorite hot beverage? Hot chocolate. Did you ever play an instrument? If so what? I played the flute for many years, all through middle school and through much of high school. Would you rather carve pumpkins or wrap presents? Carve pumpkins, for sure. Do you think you’re important? I don't fucking know. Probably not. What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received? Idk. Have you been diagnosed with any mental disorders? *hands over thick book* Have you ever moved to another state or country? If so, how did it feel to be new? No. Do you know how to properly eat food with chopsticks? No. My hands are way, way too shaky to ever accomplish that. Are you more of a leader or a follower? Definitely a follower, but I can step up in certain situations. What was the first thing you ate today? Well, I was seriously depression-eating last night, way past midnight, and had a peanut butter sandwich. If you could spend the day, doing absolutely anything, with anyone, anywhere, what would it be like? LET'S NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT RIGHT NOW. If I were to ask you how you are doing, and you were only able to answer completely honestly, what would come out? "Falling apart." I've lost direction, motivation, strength, hope, just everything. What is the one thing that you have been avoiding that you should do? I need a fucking shower so bad that it's embarrassing. I just can't move. I have no energy, emotionally or physically. I just can't make myself do it. Is there anything that you wish you could take back? So, so badly. What, in your mind, could make you truly happy? Actually reaching goals. Losing weight. Healing my legs. Knowing with certainty that I wasn't emotionally abusive to Jason. Moving out of this town and back into the country. Financial stability. A job I thoroughly enjoy. I could go on, but let's not. If you could change one conversation in your life, what would you say differently? Would it have REALLY made any difference? God, let me take back shit I said in that fucking letter to you-know-who. It's so hard to believe I once thought it perfectly justified and realistic. When is the next time you’ll change your hairstyle? Will you color it? I don't have any plans of changing the style in the foreseeable future. I want to color it BADLY. To just SOMETHING. Do people normally say you’re a fast typist, or are you rather slow? I'm like, a lightning-fast typist. Have you ever been considered the ‘smartest person in school?’ No; my best friend in HS was, though. Her GPA was fucking insane. I was in the top percentile, though, so I was up there. What the hell happened to that girl. How many drugs are in your system? If we're including prescriptions, a whole hell of a lot. What’s on your schedule for tomorrow? Jack shit. Like usual. Do you currently have any bite marks/hickeys on your body? No. Do you call anyone baby? Excluding my pets, no. What’s your current mood? lol if you've gotten this far reading, you can make an educated guess. Do you think you are a good person? Bro I just don't know. What were you doing before filling out this survey? I was playing WoW. How late did you stay up last night? Like, 4:30 or so. When was the last time you cried really hard? I wanna say like a week ago? Is your hair longer than your shoulders? No. It still badly needs a trim, though.

#survey #surveys #random questions #lyrics: ''better than me'' by hinder

3 notes · View notes

amoralityplay · 3 years ago

Text

I keep mentioning the way Audrey gains and then loses most of her money, so I figure I should tack down the details of that in a post.

Phersipnai is basically limitlessly wealthy. I'm not gonna say she's a billionaire, but she's had 2600 years to accumulate her wealth and she isn't a big spender. Inflation increases her fortune exponentially. Audrey doesn't want for anything as she grows up, but she wants to be seen as independent and wants to be able to say she has her own money, so she starts looking for ways to build up a fortune; this is the 19th century, working is not an option for her and the way Phersipnai and Lavinia built their fortunes--owning and farming land--isn't an option because she would have to borrow the money from them to buy her own properties (and Audrey has just about zero interest in agriculture, anyway). It's very common for vampires (especially young, female vampires...and tbh it's not even that uncommon for mortals to do this, either) to take mortal spouses that they plan to kill for the inheritance or insurance policy; the 1800's are RIFE with this sort of thing. In Audrey's case, the marriages are strictly legal and none of them are consummated (she never even kisses any of these men, despite rumours and vampire gossip to the contrary), though she can be very sweet and charming and each man genuinely thought she adored them.

So, when another vampire suggests this to Audrey, she agrees to be set up with a mortal man in the 1860's. He's very elderly, in his 80's (ancient by that period's standards), and owns a bank. He has no living relatives and isn't particularly well-liked by others, so he's an ideal target. He's not very kind but is in poor health and mostly seems to just wanted some company in his last days, which Audrey agrees to provide, and she thinks of his impending death at her hand as more of a mercy killing; he's also the first mortal she kills on her own. Keep in mind, she's very young at this point, only in her sixties, and hasn't really had to be on her own before. Of course, she'd fed on other mortals but never without another vampire (usually her mother or one of her grandparents) doing the bulk of the work.

Audrey smothers him in his sleep with a pillow after lightly drugging him three days after they get married, which seemed to her to be the kindest way to go about it, and she drains his corpse dry afterwards (vampires do need to be careful about drugs that get into the bloodstream, and she dosed him with laudanum since it was readily available at the time, but not enough to significantly affect her after she fed on him). After she liquidated his belongings and transferred his accounts into her name, she had a fair-sized fortune...by mortal standards.

By vampire standards, it was still a pittance, so Audrey does this two more times, with her final husband being an industrialist in the early 1900's. She's actually a little fond of that one; he's in his 60's, younger than the other two and a little more friendly, and initially seemed to take an interest in her mechanical prowess (he asks her to marry him after she is able to make a repair to his car). He ends up mocking her heron automaton, however, because it's a machine that won't actually produce anything (unlike the machines in his factories) and he thinks it's silly and novice and typical for a woman to make something to be beautiful but useless; to him, it's just a toy. Suffice to say, her feelings are hurt. So, like the others, Audrey kills him. By that point, mortal record-keeping is getting better, and the risk is beginning to outweigh the rewards, so Audrey doesn't marry any mortals again, although she talks about it in the 1960's (which is what spurs Phersipnai to find her a match). Combined with inflation and the fact that a significant portion of her wealth is literal gold, Audrey is doing quite well for herself by the mid 20th century and has purchased several properties (the brownstone in Boston, which is her main dwelling for most of her life after the 1860's, a lavish apartment in Kiev near her grandfather, and a large villa near Naples) and made some small investments in valuable antiques and art. She also collects rare books, though many of them are not initially considered collectable when she obtains them, it's simply as time passes books in her collection start to accrue value. This all comes screeching to a halt in 1987. Despite being warned against it, Audrey invested heavily in the stock market, converting much of her gold into stocks, and when the market crashed, she lost a massive amount of money. Most of it, even (again, she's hardly hurting by mortal standards, but to other vampires she's practically destitute). She's living in Kiev at that point and has to sell her apartment there and move in with her grandfather, and also sells the other properties except the Boston one. She also has to liquidate many of the items she'd collected over the years. The result is that her home in Boston looks pretty bare by the time she returns from Kiev; most of the antiques are gone, a fair part of her book collection, and the platinum pieces she'd had made so far for the heron automaton have all been sold off. Most of what's left is furniture (she refuses to part with the Federalist style furnishings that her mother had made in the 1700's), clothing, and select items with sentimental value or that were gifts. Part of why she chooses to live in such a terrible apartment in Tokyo is that she is desperately trying not to spend money and she is feuding with Phersipnai and refuses to ask for help. Then Nate happens and she goes back to California with Rowan and...well, waiting to see how that thread shakes out since it has already veered waaaaaaaaaaaay off from what I expected and had plotted.

#[lore]#[Audrey]#[It's 3am and I hope this will make sense still when I read it after I sleep]

1 note · View note

ayarnofpearls · 4 years ago

Text

Nolanverse Crane X Reader

Since I couldn't make a whole fic out of this scenario I'll put it down here. I just love me some Nolanverse Crane. This got weirdly fun.

For Jons plans work he needs complete access to the basement, for the most part no one goes down there except for the file wrangler (that's you).

You manage the patient files for the entire asylum, you spend your days down there, near the 'cage' the nickname of the archives room. It's situated behind a locked door, full of filing cabinets to the ceiling. Most people call or email you the requests for files, you work alone because the current patient files are all digital. If you turned right from the elevator that's your office, to the left is where eventually the water pipe is dug up. Jon knows he needs to secure your cooperation. One way or another.

When you hear the esteemed Doctor Crane knock on your squeaky door you aren't suspicious. It's rare that people come down to your drafty office but not unheard of. You take his list of files he wants and lead him back to the cage.

With Jon it's all about the mind games. He needs to establish his superiority in every relationship he has, after all he *is* the smartest man in every room. Plenty of people have tried to bully him and they all need to know their places.

You ask him to hold the ladder as you book it on up for the files on the tip top of the cabinets that he requested. Bad move. He holds you hostage up there, shaking the ladder until you cooperate. He knew the names on the files would send you high up.

You have to deal with his visits after that. He speaks to you like you are both a fool and yet worth his time distracting. He spends a few hours in the morning sitting across from your desk and ancient computer, talking about nothing but also he has a undercurrent of threatening. What he's waiting for is you to prove he should just remove you from this whole situation, but the fall out might be a even bigger pain in his ass. Still he studies you.

His attempts to undermined your self esteem is almost cute, sure you are in a shitty situation but you play it cool. You evaluate things, as it stands no one would believe you, you know is a matter of staying level headed.

He can respect that. You aren't designed for these unsavory dealings. Eventually the prisoners start digging and you find yourself having to run past them, purposely pushing out any chatter they have. If things go south you know it's going to include you. The guards with guns and the chatter leave you unsettled and still, Jon shows up acting like nothing is weird.

The strange intimidation tactics that Jon uses on you eventually just pisses you off, before he can even show up, you head to his office. You notice his office is lacking any personalization. Your office in contrast is covered in sentimental items. It unsettles you. Adding to your anger as you tell him that he doesn't need to play these games. You know you're screwed so just stop dicking you around. You think he's gonna loose his mind, but he takes it well. Raised eyebrows and a curt dismissal. He has even more respect for you after that.

There's a incident, you hear yelling and you run out, one of the workers got a chemical burn and you quickly apply first aide. You get thank yous from some of the other inmates (co conspirators really) and from the masked guards.

The first time you think he flirts is when he brings you a rabbit toy. "Left over from our plans, you seem the type to enjoy it." You end up putting the toy with your small collection. Toys that represent your graduation, a party for a niece and other such moments, you should throw it away but you allow it. You try not to think that his weird eye shift meant anything.

The next day one of the guards gives you blue flowers as thank you. Jon arrives later and is extremely uncomfortable. You keep things neutral, you notice when his eyes look back at the flowers.

"Be careful what weeds you keep around."

He's not angry, angry leads to carelessness. The league sent those guards to watch him and oversee the progress of accessing the water line, if they want to waste time giving you, a no body their flowers it was none of his concern. But of course it was, he spots you hanging the blooms to dry out, the point at which they could be ground up to create hallucinations. You keep them around on purpose to test his reactions. They disappear one day and you can't help but pin it on him. The one thought that keeps coming back is that he is jealous. Or trying to push your boundaries, but nothing else was touched or moved.

He disappears for a while, court dates, increased patient load, he had gotten to be an expected part of your life but you can't dwell. You immediately figure one of the guards is watching for you to step out of line.

In cases of emergency you are to hide in the cage, lock it from the inside and wait for the all clear. You get shoved into the cage and Jon takes your key. When you get freed, a police officer, you can't possibly know it's a undercover league member. You go home and only after it all do you get a full picture, the narrows turns into a war zone and you watch it on tv. In the early dawn you find him on your balcony, beat up to hell. Why he came to you was confusing until he started muttering, small parts of things you've said before to him during your meetings. You leave him on your couch.

You think over the way things have been reversed.. You went from vulnerable to in control and you find yourself waiting. When he finally gets his wits back you pretend things are totally fine making chit chat with him. Once again you find yourself having to assess the situation, to evaluate the danger you are in.

"Why'd you come here?" "Our little talks are a comfort, in a very uncomfortable world."

Any sense of vulnerability is an illusion, at least that's what he wants you to think. His eyes have always been a traitor to his thoughts. He takes off, and you over think the legality of housing a wanted criminal. Of how in your home he had become a familiar shadow.

He's on the news every now and then and out of the blue he shows up, more like he was at the asylum. Confident, but now he doesn't pretend at being a polite member of society and seems to lack a filter now.

"Why aren't you more afraid of me, I could kill you, you know." "Yes, but you love the company too much to do that."

By the time Bane shows up you think you've gone slightly mad. You listen to him complain about Batman and you try to pinpoint the moment that this started making sense.

It's a dance of thoughts, you wouldn't say of brilliant minds or of wits, but of mutually obtuse ramblings. He’ll go silent and just watch you, and you refuse to be intimidated and pretend he isn’t staring. Maybe he’s waiting for you to toss him out. Call the police or something. Which you don’t. For his part he might have new odd habits but for all his delighted speeches about fear and control he hasn’t actually earned your fear. He’s odd and benign. You suppose that’s some kind of affection from him.

Before total immoral anarchy takes the streets of Gotham you go with him, the chaos that follows amuses him endlessly. You should fight it, argue about the morals and ethics of it all but you find yourself thinking you need his protection. He’s happy to give it. Are you trapped? Did you walk into this by not turning him in?

You decide you like his company, this strange mutual companionship. The world might end but you can at least snark the master of fear.

#mod post #jonathan crane scenario #he primarily flirts through subtle threats #but i am an awkward duck so hopefully someone likes it

2 notes · View notes

mercheswan · 4 years ago

Text

Dig a Little Deeper

Thanks for the tag @impractical-matters ❤️. Sorry I didn’t do it sooner, last week I went to the beach with my family and I didn’t pack the computer. To do this type of long tag games I need it 😅

1. do you prefer writing with a black pen or a blue pen? I use blue pen 90% of the times.

2. would you prefer to live in the country or in the city? City 100000000%. I can’t help it... the countryside and me do not get along well haha

3. if you could learn a new skill, what would it be? I would to know how to play an instrument. Guitar or piano.

4. do you drink your tea/coffee with sugar? Oh! I drink sugar with tea yes 😊. (Yep, I wrote it right 😂)

5. what was your favorite book as a child? Ohh I was never a big fan of reading, but I loved a book series called Lilli the Witch (in Spanish the girl’s name was Kika, I’ve just discovered that she had a different name in every country and I’m looking at my books with a sad and betrayed face haha. Why did you lie to me about your name Kika! Why!?)

6. do you prefer baths or showers? Oh I remember the moment my parents told me that I was old enough to take showers haha. I hated them! And now I don’t recall the last time I took a bath, I alway shower because it’s faster.

7. if you could be a mythical creature, which one would you be? I would like to be a witch, because I like the idea of being able to do magic.

8. paper or electronic books? I can do both. If it’s to study and memorise them I need them in paper though.

9. what is your favorite item of clothing? Dark blue jeans.

10. do you like your name? would you like to change it? I love my name. It’s my mom’s name and when I have a baby girl I would like to call her Mercedes too. It’s kinda a tradition in my family.

11. who is a mentor to you? Oh... well at the moment, I guess it would be my private tutor for the Judge exam. He is the one who controls that I study and who prepares me to pass the exam.

12. would you like to be famous? if so, what for? I do haha, I guess everyone does in some way. I would love to live the celebrity life, like a singer or an actress... but I don’t think I’m very talented for that so... 😂.

Maybe I would like to be “famous” when I become a judge because of one of my sentences. Like doing something meaningfull that could change something for the better because of it, I don’t know...

13. are you a restless sleeper? Yep haha I have trouble sleeping. I have always had.

14. do you consider yourself to be a romantic person? In a way... the problem is that I’m not very affectionate. I don’t usually do hugs and holding hands and stuff like that haha. So I guess I can look like a cold person from the outside, but deep inside I do want a love story that fills me, and someone to share my life with.

15. which element best represents you? Water. It can be cold or hot, calm or agressive. I don’t know I have always liked water more than the rest.

16. who do you want to be closer to? I guess my family, I’m very close to them, my family is my everything, they are the people I love the most in the world.

17. do you miss someone at the moment? I really don’t, I’m lucky to be able to talk or visit the people who mean the most to me.

18. tell us about an early childhood memory. I remember playing with my little brother in the living room. We have two big sofas and we used to take the cushions that they had and create a fort with them. Playing also the floor is lava and jumping form one sofa to the other.

19. what is the strangest thing you have eaten? Cocodrile, Zebra and Kangaroo.

20. what are you most thankful for? My family.

21. do you like spicy food? Nop. I hate it haha

22. have you ever met someone famous? Well... I have met famous people in Spain, like some reality TV people and also Politicians and Judges from the Spainish Suprem Court.

I also when to a CD signing of Ashley Tisdale (I’m a big fan of High School Músical 😂), i managed to get a photo with her. And I do have a CD signed of Miley Cyrus and her father.

23. do you keep a diary or journal? No, I tried once but didn’t last a week.

24. do you prefer to use pen or pencil? It depends. If it’s to take notes on the side of a book, it has to be pencil. If it’s to write in a paper, I use pen.

25. what is your star sign? Gemini

26. do you like your cereal crunchy or soggy? Crunchy!

27. what would you want your legacy to be? As I said in Q12, in the profesional department I would like to be recognised as a judge who helped make my country a little bit more fair.

I also want to be a mother someday, I would want my children to remember me fondly.

28. do you like reading? What was the last book you read? As my life consist on memorising and readings laws all the time, I don’t really read novels, only fanfiction 😂🤷🏻‍♀️

29. how do you show someone you love them? I tell them or do things for them, try to help them in any way I can.

30. do you like ice in your drinks? Yesss

31. what are you afraid of? Spiders. Like... terrified.

32. what is your favorite scent? Vanilla

33. do you address older people by their name or surname? In Spain we use (or at least I do) the word “Usted”. In English the word “you”, can be translated in Spanish as “Tú” which is informal or “Usted” which is formal and commonly used to address older people.

We also use the word “Don” if it’s a male or “Doña” if it’s a woman, followed by the name (ex: Don Fernando) to adress people in a more formal way. I used to call my college teachers using the Don/Doña + Name formula 😂.

34. if money was not a factor, how would you live your life? I would buy a big house. I would stop studying and create a law firm (I would still want to do something and help people with their legal issues)

But I would live the good life... hahah traveling, buying expensive things... 💁🏻‍♀️

35. do you prefer swimming in pools or the ocean? In pools. I’m not afraid of water but I can see that the ocean it’s more dangerous than a pool.

36. what would you do if you found $50 in the ground? It depends. If I know the person who lot then I would return it. If I don’t I would keep them haha

37. have you ever seen a shooting star? did you make a wish? I don’t think I have... ive seen rainbows... 🤷🏻‍♀️🌈

38. what is one thing you would want to teach your children? I don’t know... I would tech them to be responsible and good people.

39. if you had to have a tattoo, what would it be and where would you get it? I don’t like tattoos for me, so it would be something very little in the feet haha

40. what can you hear now? The shower. My brother is in it and my room is near to it.

41. where do you feel the safest? In my house.

42. what is one thing you want to overcome/conquer? I want to be a little bit less shy... like try and get out more and do more plans so si can meet new people.

43. if you could travel back to any era, what would it be? Umm. Ancient Rome, I have studied it a lot in School and in College (we study roman law because it’s the base from Spanish and many European countries’s law) and I have always been fascinated by it.

44. what is your most used emoji? 😊

45. describe yourself using one word. Honest

46. what do you regret the most? I don’t really regret anything to the point of being very sad that I didn’t do something. Maybe... not fighting to keep a friendship, but the other part didn’t fight either so...

47. last movie you saw? Ironman 2!

48. last tv show you watched? The Vampire Diaries.

49. invent a word and its meaning. Rebozeision - Action that consist of, while being in bed, covering with a blanket creating a burrito with you in it, and rolling from one side to the bed to the other. Usually done in the mornings, while trying to accept the fact that you have to get up.

I tag @sunel0 @msmischief101 @thiamislove18 (ignore it if you don’t want to or have already done it!) and whoever wants to do it! ✌🏻

#tag game #tag challenge #get to know me #this was fun #dig a little deeper #answering questions

6 notes · View notes

idealistsinc · 4 years ago

Text

04 // clinch

wc: 2,097 content warning: abuse, suicidal ideation

The study door was locked that day.

There were once times when Father never barred that door. By his word alone he kept his wayward sons out of his possessions, his authority a fortress more impenetrable than any ordinary lock and key; to enter the study without Father’s express permission was a transgression akin to desecrating some holy grounds of old Gelmorra, if the pricelessness of the artefacts Father housed there was to be believed. But he had done away with those days of unlocked doors, explicit trust, his status as his father’s unseen-unheard right-hand man.

Rin drew a shaking breath. “Father?” he said.

A silence. Eventually, Senan’s voice wafted from within. Rin imagined him immured at his desk among dusty tomes and crumbling papers, nursing a cup of tea. “I am working, Rin.”

“It’s important.” Please.

Rin could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his heart beating a cannonade in his chest. He forced himself to calm. Finally, a book slammed shut. Footsteps padded softly from the desk to the door, and it swung open to reveal his father, brow furrowed, nursing not tea but an after-dinner cognac that, judging from the scent that lingered about his clothes, had actually been more than one. Behind him, documents flooded his behemoth of a mahogany desk. Although Senan’s manner was as cold and restrained as it ever was, the subtle pull of his mouth indicated his impatience; Rin knew he expected an explanation for the interruption at once. He did not waste any time.

“My sister Luma—Isha’a found her. She’s in Limsa Lominsa.”

But his soul sang, She’s alive.

He had been called into Mr. Kawaguchi’s office at midday. Isha’a’s former Doman teacher, the Roegadyn ferried Isha’a’s messages where he could, as Senan would not allow him to speak to his brother since the incident; this day, he had handed Rin Isha’a’s letter and then, unusually, left the room to preserve Rin’s privacy. It was a moment of astonishing foresight in retrospect. Rin had only gotten as far as the first line before, rocked by the tidal wave of feeling he’d stymied since the day his sister was taken from her family at the tender age of fifteen, he had started to cry.

Rin had no expectations as to how Senan would react to the news. Senan had never met his half-sister, and he did not generally think well of their mother’s side of the family. But what he wasn’t expecting was for Senan to say, in a tone like a droning lecturer, “Our arrangement was that you were not to contact your brother.”

“I—” Shock lamed his voice. “I don’t see how that’s relevant. He had to contact me. Father, I have to go see her.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Senan. There must have been something horrid in Rin’s expression to match the roiling storm in his gut, because Senan softened. “I understand you’re relieved that she’s well. So am I. But your marks have yet to recover from last term’s failures. You’ve not the time to travel.”

Isha’a had said once, before he realized his complaints fell on his brother’s deaf ears, that arguing with Senan was like trying to argue with the Twelveswood’s elementals. Rin hadn’t understood what he meant, then—in fact had taken such violent offense to the comparison that Isha’a had never dared to mention it a second time—but he did now, with the dizzying sense that he was staring up into the distant canopy of those warped and ancient trees, and no matter how loudly he spoke or how much he prayed, the deity with aegis over his life would never hear.

“But—but she’s my sister.”

Rin never argued with Senan. An imperiousness crept into Father’s bearing. “You stole from me, you’ll remember. You betrayed my trust. Travel is a privilege; I thought we agreed that you do not currently possess that privilege. I’m sorry.”

Senan began to close the door. Father had spoken, and it would be done, and it didn’t matter that it was his sister, it was Luma—Luma who took him aside and showed him the shapes and colors of the forest, Luma who danced like she would die if she didn’t, Luma who loved him in violet—and before Rin knew what he was doing he had jammed his foot in the doorframe and followed Senan into the study, something hot and sick and brittle crawling up his throat.

“Privilege?” said Rin, in a voice he barely recognized as his own. “Father, I thought—I thought she was dead. And you’ll not allow me to see her, on account of a bloody emerald and an orchestrion roll—”

“You’re acting like a child, Rin. It’s a punishment.” He scolded him like an errant toddler; though there was beginning to be a hint of irritation in his voice, Rin noticed his father’s tail didn’t so much as twitch. He’s still in control, Rin thought. When he shouted at Isha’a, he was always— “Do not whine as though I am being unfair; you agreed to my terms.”

“Perhaps if the punishment was at all proportionate to the crime—”

“You had the opportunity to make your appeals. The matter is closed.”

Somewhere else, Rin was thinking, Was Senan in control then? When he had screamed in his face about the emerald, threatening to cut him off, threatening to pursue legal action against him, threatening to send Rin an itemized bill of every gil Senan had ever spent on his upkeep until Rin was a sobbing puddle on that plush Thavnairian carpet, had he even been angry? Or had he simply used his anger the way he used everything else—as a tool to get what he wanted?

“If you are truly repentant, tell me how you should be punished.”

“Please, Father—”

“Tell me. Tell me right now, or you will not be welcomed back in this house.”

“Appeals!? This isn’t a courtroom, Father! She’s my fucking sister!”

The study rang. Somewhere else, Rin looked upon himself as though he were a stranger—the flush of his face, his panting breath, anger a heat that boiled the blood in his veins, and knew with the cynicism of experience that none of it mattered. This game they played, the dance he’d danced for a decade to earn his father’s acknowledgment—none of it would have ever made any difference.

What Isha’a had learned long before he did: that anger simply didn’t work.

“If you are going to speak to me that way,” said Senan, low, “we have naught to discuss. You are dismissed.”

And yet…And yet Father was still a person.

“Wouldn’t you have dropped everything to see grandmother again?”

Senan had told him the story once and only once in a tenuous string of intimacy, on a day Rin had cried for Luma’s loss when he was yet a little child, home- and heartsick for the life he had left: a long time ago, Senan’s mother had vanished upon visiting family in Gyr Abania, walled off from Eorzea and almost certainly killed in Garlemald’s lust for conquest. Rin knew he should not have mentioned it, and knew it better when Senan suddenly grabbed him about the shoulders as though to shake him, his countenance a twisted ruin of something Rin had never seen before on his father’s face: grief.

And then just as abruptly Senan released him, the mask once more in place, emotions contained. Rin recognized it, because he had done it himself as often as there were grains of sand on Hydaelyn.

Gods, I am really…

“No,” said Senan, finally, like a glacial wind. “That woman abandoned her family for the sake of a few xenophobic and ignorant tribespeople who would have just as soon eaten their own shite as bring themselves out of their squalor—as your brother has done. I would not mourn for such people.”

Rin understood, then, why he was not permitted to leave.

When he was very young, Mama used to tell him and Isha’a the story of their birth. The labor pains had come upon her, she said, and she’d barely had the time to so much as rest her back against a withered pear tree before they were out of her, first one and then the other. “How you shrieked!” she had laughed, ruffling their hair. “Nobody could hold just one of you; it had to be both, or you would just cry and cry and cry.”

His brother. His twin. Senan feared Rin would follow in his brother’s footsteps—and he was right to, because even after years of distance, after years of Rin doing his damndest to make Isha’a hate him, Isha’a had been there when the scaffolding collapsed underneath him. Isha’a had held him like when they were children and still shared half a name, and he had told him, with all the patience Rin didn’t deserve, “Senan is hurting you.”

What Rin thought Isha’a had meant to say, now: “He had hurt me, too.”

Had Isha’a felt like this? When he fought with Father, had Isha’a wanted to shout his voice hoarse? Had he wanted to knock all the Gelmorran artefacts from the etagere just to get Father to say something, to show something other than that indomitable mask? Maybe it had been like that for him, too, the crushing pressure in his chest in front of an examination he knew he’d fail, long hours spun out staring at the ceiling, vomiting dinners into wastepaper baskets and the miserable daydreams of throwing himself off the bell tower just to get it all to stop—

And it was that last thought, that thought and the sudden accompanying horror that perhaps Isha’a had felt that way, had stared down that same dim hallway and made the only choice he could live with, that made Rin say, from the depths of a well of bitterness so deep and so dark it would have taken him ten years to plumb to the bottom, “My brother wouldn’t have left at all if you had been a better father—”

Senan slapped him hard across the face.

His head filled with static. Rin staggered, more from surprise than pain, and saw Senan stagger, too—saw the flush of rage in his cheeks drain white, saw his lashing tail still, saw something terrible come into his eyes as he realized just what it was he had done. It was the most feeling, he thought, he had ever seen from Senan in his entire life.

“Rin,” said Senan, after a silence that might have spanned a year and in a voice that did not sound like Senan at all. “Rin, son, I—”

They stared at each other as if across a great divide. Rin brought his hand to his face.

He felt—he—

He could not rationalize this away. So Rin did what he had always done: he pushed it, pushed it all down, down, down into that rusted old lockbox at the bottom of the well. A distant part of his mind was astounded at how easy it was for him to feel absolutely nothing about this development, as though Senan hitting him was simply another characteristic of their relationship to one another, as though this transpired every day (because that’s what Father had taught him to do—)

Rin straightened. Then he said, very evenly and as though nothing at all had happened, “I’m going to see my sister in Costa del Sol. I’ll need gil for an airship ticket.”

Senan didn’t respond.

“Father, I said—”

“I heard you.”

There was another beat of hesitation. Finally, Senan moved to his desk for the gil he kept in the left-hand drawer. He moved very oddly—in a shuffle, like an old man with too many moons weighing down on his shoulders. Somewhere very far away, someone was screaming in a high, sustained note. Senan handed Rin the pouch, too full for Rin’s purposes, and said again, “Rin—”

Rin left the room. As far as the stairs, he walked with all the dignity he could muster, back straight chin up ears alert, until at once some critical faultline cracked within him and he ran, sprinting out the doors and gulping in the balmy sunlight of summer’s last gasp, clutching the gil and saying to himself, Luma, Luma, Luma. He had it. He had gotten what he came for. But the sun seemed a cold and distant thing, just then. And as he looked about him, the whole world was as a stranger.

Though he didn’t know it yet, Rin would never return to his father’s study again.

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxiv #ffxiv rin weise #my writing #well this is a thing that i wrote #poor baby ;u;#not totally happy with it but que sera sera

2 notes · View notes

courage-a-word-of-justice · 5 years ago

Text

Uchitama 7 - 8 | Eizouken 8 - 9 | ID: INVADED 8 - 11 | Iruma-kun 22 - 23 (FINAL) | BnHA 82 - 83

Uchitama 7

Lemme guess…this is the ve-Yep.

The name of this segment is Ottamake. The ke means fur/hair, but it does seem like it’s referring to Tama otherwise.

For some reason, Bull’s really into cats…

LOL, you can see the cat food right there is a real brand. I dunno how they got away with that.

Hmm, this show has something to say about idol business…and it does it better than some of the human idol shows! That says something.

It even comments on the “graduation” system. Whaddaya know.

Welp, I never thought an anime could pull off this with a commentary on gender presentation, to boot. (It’s not as pervasive as Stars Align’s, but it’s still one of the better ones. I guess I shouldn’t expect it as a norm though.) I thought Kai was a dude though and so Bull’s interactions came off to me as massively gay. I’ve been thinking, maybe he’s pan? Can dogs be pansexual???

Why do I get the feeling Kai is going to be introduced into 3-chome? Update: Doesn’t happen.

This song sounds very idol-like.

Uchitama 8

Aww…I feel like we’re going to learn Nora’s backstory soon. I think it’s going to be real sad.

…Yup, there goes my kokoro. Smol Nora is cute~!

Genki can mean “healthy” as well as “energetic” – the latter is why it’s translated as “spunky”.

Why do I get the feeling Nora’s owner died…?

Oh, smol Nora has a bandaid on his leg.

Let me ask the essential furry question – they hav human ears and animal ears. Which of those sets of ears do they hear with?

Yuuki Kaji does a good job as Nora.

This song’s so sad, it almost got me crying…

Eizouken 8

This anime is like something from Studio Trigger!

The magic of Eizouken is that you get sucked into the anime they make and never look back.

Tomodachi vs. nakama, I think it is.

Id: Invaded 8

Lately, I’ve been thinking about practical cosplay (everyday wear that also doubles as a cosplay outfit). So basically, I’ve been thinking about Sakaido and El-Melloi II’s outfits a lot, since they’re rather practical while still looking cool. All I’m missing for El-Melloi’s outfit with the red jacket is a black button-up shirt, for El-Melloi’s outfit with the black jacket I’m missing a red scarf and I’m missing a brown button-up shirt for Sakaido’s (although the yellow scarf I got today to get one step closer to two of those isn’t the right mustard colour, it’s more of a lighter yellow).

Also, I noticed it’s (according to the katakana) meant to be “Id: Invaded”, but heck, it’s been ID: Invaded for so long for me, I don’t care either way.

Kiki was born in Fukui.

I always thought Mister Fixer sounded sad and now I think I know why…the bit I remember the most (the line that goes “Mister Fixer” and the bit around it) sounds like the singer is lamenting their life. Now that I see the visuals again after a few weeks (I’d get fatigued if I watched all that Fate/ and still managed to keep up with simulcasts, so I’ve been taking the simulcasts in a few eps at one time), Mister Fixer does quite sound like a crime drama song, but not as much as Thought I Knew (from Stand My Heroes).

I’ve seen images of Anaido and Sakaido in the same well for a few weeks now, so this cooperation bit is no surprise at all.

I believe Fukuda is asking why Narihisago is a –san to her even though they’ve worked together a while.

The words “data profile” are in one corner of the titlecard.

Does Anaido remember who he is in the ID Well? I presume not, but it’s hard to tell since we haven’t had as much time with him as we have Sakaido (not to mention I’ve been regularly filling my head with Fate/ and other things as well lately…so it’s hard to remember).

It’s interesting. Fukuda has the same piercings as Anaido (and even a ring on one pointer finger that matches them!), so he must’ve tried experimenting with…more legal holes, to put it one way…before getting his most iconic one.

Kaeru’s nails are chipped. Hmm.

In #Brake-Broken, which I read the first chapter of earlier (there’s a sample on the Young Ace website), Sakaido notices he doesn’t have a phone with him to call anyone or a licence (because in that manga, he wakes up in a car). It’s likely this will work the same way and Anaido won’t have any possessions on him, aside from the clothes on his back, accessories and the item that was stolen from his wrist/s.

Rings on both fingers…so I should be talking about them in plural. Update: I like how Anaido’s off-the-wall thought processes break up the inherent seriousness of Sakaido’s deductions and utilitarian way of doing things.

Anaido, you grimdark f***er. Update: For trying to eat a dead girl.

Okay, so for the sake of my practical cosplay, I knew I’d need this episode. Sakaido wears a long-sleeve brown shirt with some kind of shirt under that (either brown or black), plus a mustard-coloured scarf. (Note El-Melloi II wears a black shirt under his black button-up shirt, so I went with black as well.) In Brake Broken, I also noticed he wears dark socks (or that could be the leggings) and runners with a lightning bolt on them (I had to make do with generic black runners with a white stripe on the bottom), plus the iconic brown shorts over those (with a triangle pattern)…Why does Sakaido have a scarf anyway, versus Anaido and Miyo who don’t? As much as I like scarves, especially where colder weather is involved, getting a specific colour scarf was a bit of a headache to be honest, since I took 3 trips before deciding on the one I was going to buy (and even then, someone got it before me! The scarf I have now was my 2nd choice). Update: The shorts, leggings and undershirt are black, but I don’t know if Sakaido is wearing any socks or if they’re black too.

Just to note what Anaido has as well (although a coat like that, with the red detailing and flaps, would be hard to find…), he has a blue coat, suspenders, a white button-up top, a string tie (had to google what that was called, although its name is pretty obvious now that I know), black pants (which kinda look like leggings, but they’re not) and leather boots.

Now Sakaido can go into the loony bin…he’s talking to Kaeru.

Is Anaido going in circles? Sakaido caught up real fast…

Um, hey, protip: When stuck in quicksand, try to “float” on it. If you move, you’ll sink into it more. I don’t know how I know that, but I did stick it into my mind for times like this.

Notably, Anaido is about a head taller than Sakaido. Either Sakaido is unnaturally short and Anaido is average…or Anaido is just tall in that way some men are.

Did the bird get to this dude…?

There appears to be a man with a bun facing Hondomachi in the ED, although you can’t tell who it is from silhouette alone…Maybe he hasn’t appeared in the show yet. (Can’t be Matsuoka though. Might be the old guy who’s the head of Kura, actually.)

Update: Is the dead guy Momoki…?

Id: Invaded 9

It’s the familiar ceiling scene from Evangelion! (Okay, I’m kidding, but it’s a similar deal.)

I think the rules of Fate/ are “do it all, until you can no longer do it” (i.e. Everything is the same, until it’s different). It seems it’s the same here too.

Huh? Momoki?

“It doesn’t seem friendly.” – Yeah, and people die whe they are killed…in murder mysteries like this, usually speaking.

I noticed Narihisago’s tie is the same colour as his Sakaido jacket, if not the shirt under that.

Where did the Challenger’s clothes go after he took them off??? Hyperspace??? He wasn’t shown tossing them.

So Kaeru was Asukai all along, huh?

“Look at this.”

“It makes me think about him.” Subbers, that’s two mistakes in less than 1 minute…

I saw a fanart where Narihisago had his arm broken. I didn’t know why, but now I do. Also, TV Tropes is bad if you want to avoid spoilers…I know that already, but I go there anyway sometimes...

“It makes me wanna puke.”

Iruma-kun 22

The anime’s final episode is next week…but there’s already a season 2 in store for next year, so hopefully I survive the coronavirus and sort out all my issues this year in time for it.

Dat OP though. I’ve grown used to it and it’s actually endeared itself to me…which is odd, since I didn’t think I’d like it at first.

Demdol = akudol. Obviously, from “demon”.

Was that…Clara’s mother??? Kuromu’s older bro doesn’t look too bad, either.

Ohmygosh, this is fabulousssssssssss (and hilarious)! I’ve been waiting for this moment for many episodes, as you can tell if you’ve been following along, and I finally got the payoff!

Clara ends her sentence with –akuma (devil), hence the translation is matching it the same way.

Oh my gosh, Ryouhei Kimura (Azz-kun) sucks at being feminine, but that’s exactly what the role requires for this!

If you just pretend Azz-kun isn’t dressed in such an outlandish outfit, he looks really good…! Ayumu Murase does a pretty good falsetto, although you can tell there’s one point where Kimura’s voice gets really manly-sounding for a lady.

“Little imp” – Koakuma.

Oh! The Keroli family is all cute.

Ooh, Kuromu’s nails are blue. Never noticed that before.

Eizouken 9

Chojugiga are ancient pictures normally depicting animals. As for sepak takraw…

I wonder if Eizouken will tackle the Manabi Line one day…?

That’s a parallel for Comiket, LOL.

“A colossus that no one can see!” – Gridman, is that you?

When did Kanamori meet Asakusa again…?

Kanamori with a bun is cool.

“There is nothing fun about social media!” – Well, social media is fun for me because it’s where I escape reality, but sometimes you gotta be like Kanamori and use it for publicity’s sake.

LOL, the username for the Eizouken is @eizoukenn.

I just realised Mizusaki’s hairstyle is irregular…it’s much longer on on side than the other.

“Mizusaki bump” – I think this references the Colbert bump. (TV Tropes link)

Kanamori – she with the word “gold”…or “money”…in her name – struggles with maths? Wow, that was something to hear. (I guess it’s kinda like me and IT (cybersecurity) – I suck at it because I suck at modulos…or division in short…and even though I can be found on my computer a lot, that’s why I don’t pursue it any longer. I was decent at accounting, but man, I’d be bored out of my brain if you made me do business IT and I have zero skills in games and multimedia.)

“Was it thuggery?” – What’s thuggery? That word sounds funny.

Did you see how Asakusa fell off the tank?

I did CR’s Eizouken quiz sometime in the past and it gave me Asakusa. That’s true, basically. I like thinking up ideas and how cool they are, but because I can’t stop from elaborating on them, they get out of hand and that’s why I have a tonne of dropped projects. (Then again, with how freely I can imagine motion, I could’ve gotten Mizusaki too.) Update: Tried again and I actually did get Mizusaki…whaddaya know.

Id: Invaded 10

People have been comparing this to Minority Report…now I see why.

I almost feel like this is a discussion of euthanasia and suicide as much as it is memory and the consciousness.

Ohh…she remembers! Hondomachi!

You can’t see Muku’s face! Ohh, scary!

Aww, the music really sold this montage. By the way, that sign didn’t say “entrance ceremony”, it said nyuugaku omedetou, “Congratulations on your entry [into school]”.

It…this singer almost sounds like Bruno Mars, but that would be basically impossible, no?

Oh my gosh…when the song swelled, I absolutely cried. That’s rare, man – that’s rare.

BnHA 82

I think the leftmost figure might be Miruko, the rabbit lady. I’ve never read anything about her outside of wiki pages ad other small spoilers, but I roughly know what she looks like.

What does Gentle mean by “Anglaise”? Surely it wouldn’t refer to cream…(crème anglaise)

LOL, Disneyland parades…

Whew…that was dangerous. I almost agreed with Mineta there (to get the festival over and done with).

I swear Midoriya gets together with All Might, just like this, at the end or start of a climactic arc. He did it in the last season of BnHA, remember?

BnHA 83

Hmm…It’s interesting that the author likes to point out who has and hasn’t met Eri. Then again, it’s good for consistency.

LOL, Amajiki my boy…you’re so relatable.

Hmm…amidst the coronavirus concerns…this cancellation business seems quite timely.

Oh! It’s a drone.

For some reason, I thought Sero was drinking vegetable juice…? Eh, no matter. They have vegetable juice in Japan – I remember seeing some on my trip.

Hmm? Gentle is like a phantom thief, I just realised. Mostly harmless, but bound to cause a big stir if he gets his way.

What is Gentle’s Quirk, anyway…?

Work Son…LOL(…?)

Who bets their moustache on this stuff, anyway…? (LOL)

Iruma 23 (FINAL)

I don’t get to see Iruma become evil this season…but he will next season! That visual I’ve been seeing by the original mangaka confirms it!

Marathon - the demon puns are back.

Demonicon =Oricon chart.

Demon Star Platinum…was that…a Jojo’s reference?! *scare chord*

Oh! Maguro (tuna).

Azz-kun being afraid of fish? That’s news to me.

Okay, subbers. Whose idea was it to translate Iruma’s words as “My feels…”…?

There’s a post-credits segment. Keep watching.

Yay! Evil Iruma-kun!...In spring 2021. (I’ve never once been so excited for a character to turn evil than this! I also like how evil Iruma said it’s the “buttcrack” of dawn…but that’s just my immature side showing.)

Id: Invaded 11

“…being taken for a ride!” – Well, you’re in a car, so you’re getting a ride nonetheless. (LOL) I hadn’t heard of the term “being taken for a ride” until…what? 2016, I think? When I was still doing language anaylsis.

Sakaido used Headbutt! It’s…kind of effective? (Writing up these pseudo-Pokémon battles is fun. I should write more.)

“…put a drill to your head…”

“The victims of John Walker’s serial killers…”

I noticed Hondomachi is touching the side of her head which had the hole in it…if I remembered it right.

Is it “the Kura”? Or just Kura?

August 15th is a popular date for anime, huh? It’s in the middle of summer. (Refers to Kagerou Project.)

That ‘who knew you needed to lose something to be complete’ thing…I think I get it, but for some reason I only ever seem to get that feeling when it’s me trying to read asexuality into things (since that’s how I learnt to interpret asexuality), so…yeah, way to go, me.

Wait…Togo visited Momoki’s bedroom?!

Yep, so I was right about that being the side with Hondomachi’s hole.

#simulcast commentary #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #welcome to demon school iruma kun #mairimashita! iruma kun #id: invaded #uchi tama?! uchi no tama shirimasen ka?#uchitama?! have you seen my tama?#Eizouken ni wa Te wo Dasu Na!#keep your hands off eizouken!#Chesarka watches BnHA #chesarka watches mi-k #Chesarka watches Eizouken #Chesarka watches Uchitama #chesarka watches id: invaded

4 notes · View notes

jarienn972 · 5 years ago

Text

A Simple Spell - Chapter Six

A Captain Swan Supernatural Summer Tale

I'm sorry that I’m a tiny bit late getting this latest chapter of my @cssns story finished. Between celebrating my youngest's birthday and working tons of extra hours in preparation for the uncertainty of Hurricane Dorian, I got a little behind with writing. I've got this all ready to go now and this chapter will find Emma coming off the high of her date with Killian while learning some news that just might leave her a little shaken.

As always, thanks again to all of those who make this event possible! Thank you to my beta reader, @lassluna for helping me patch some of the little holes and to @cocohook38 for the incredible artwork displayed in my header!

Read from the beginning on Tumblr: One Two Three Four Five AO3 FF.net

Emma probably could have floated home that night since her spirits were soaring so high. As she opened the door to the loft, her cheeks were aching from smiling so much during her drive and elation carried her right through the doorway. She unceremoniously tossed her coat and clutch onto the kitchen island as she caught sight of the couple sitting on the living room loveseat staring at her.

"I really need to get a place of my own," she muttered when she saw Mary Margaret's giddy grin and her brother's disapproving scowl.

"So - how was it?" Mary Margaret eagerly inquired, leaning forward in anticipation. "You're practically beaming so it must have been good…"

"I had a great evening," Emma replied, unsure how much detail she was willing to share with her brother and his wife.

"Who were you out with tonight?" David asked in full, overly-protective big brother mode. "Anyone I know?"

"No, it actually wasn't anyone you know," Emma assured him as she yanked off the elastic band that was holding her hair back, allowing her long locks to tumble free over her shoulders.

"How's that possible? I know just about everyone in this town…" David countered skeptically. His sister had gone out with a stranger?

"He's visiting from out of town," Emma stated, trying to keep David's skepticism from spoiling her mood.

"Out of town?" David glared. "You went out on a date with a complete stranger?"

"Oh, for goodness sake, David," Mary Margaret interjected, smacking him on the knee. "She's a grown woman - and a Sheriff's deputy. What exactly are you worried about?"

"I'd just rather know who my little sister is getting involved with," David responded, sounding more like a dad with every statement he made.

"I think I'm enough of a big girl to take care of myself," Emma spoke up defensively. "But if you must know, he wasn't a complete stranger. I'd met him a couple of days ago on a case."

"A case?" David struggled to recall what assignments he'd handed out to his sister this week and only one possibility came to mind. "You mean that drunken sailor down at the harbor?"

"Yes, that case, but not with the drunken sailor. My date was with the ship's captain and he was actually quite the gentleman. If I wasn't working tomorrow, I think I could have spent all night talking to him…"

"Talking?" he scoffed, not believing that at all.

"Yes, David - talking," Emma insisted, shaking her head in disgust. "And since you aren't going to believe me anyway, I'm going to head to bed and then tomorrow morning, I'm going to start planning another date with Captain Jones."

"Ooh, is that his name?" Mary Margaret jumped in, raising a hand to shush David from arguing any further.

"Yeah, Killian Jones, Captain of the Jolly Roger," Emma told her sister-in-law.

"Sounds like a pirate ship name…," David mumbled.

"Oh hush," Mary Margaret warned her husband. "Your sister had a great evening and doesn't need you souring it for her. You haven't even met this man so don't judge."

"Thank you, Mary Margaret," Emma smiled appreciatively at her defender. "But like I said, it is late and I'm heading up to bed. I wouldn't dare be late for work tomorrow, but I swear, if anything involves a farm again, I'm dragging Graham with me so he can do all the stomping through the mud this time."

**********

Still a little peeved with her brother by the time morning rolled around, Emma was glad to take the Sheriff's cruiser out on the day's first patrol. Alone in the car, she had some much needed time to think - well, maybe just a little too much time.

She still couldn't think about Killian Jones without a smile creeping across her face. The man was definitely the complete package - handsome, well-educated and obviously well-traveled. But for whatever reason, it was that well-traveled part that was giving her second thoughts. Could she really enter into and sustain a relationship with someone who was constantly sailing in and out of her life? Would she be able to trust him or would she end up being just his girl in this port? Her only long term relationship experience was with a man who couldn't go two weeks before he'd started cheating - although Killian certainly seemed much higher class than Neal ever would be.

On the other hand, there was Walsh. He wasn't nearly as exciting as the dashing Captain Jones, but he was familiar. He was based out of Boston, only a couple of hours away, so maybe he was the safer choice? While their relationship hadn't lasted before, it was probably because of the Neal-sized baggage she'd brought in to it. There was something to be said about slipping back into their cozy conversation, yet at the same time, she couldn't help but think about how easily she'd also been able to chat with Jones.

Ugh, maybe this wasn't the best time to be contemplating her love life, she thought as she made her third pass down Main Street. Trying to distract herself, she watched the usual stream of locals filing in and out of Granny's diner and noted lots of people she recognized strolling along the sidewalks. There were a handful of faces she didn't know, but they were likely residents who lived on the outskirts of town who didn't venture into town often.

It was only as she drove past Mr. Gold's pawn shop that something in her subconscious urged her to make a U-turn at the next intersection. She parked the cruiser at the curb outside of the little shop and stepped out. She'd only been inside the store once or twice since she'd arrived in Storybrooke but she had met the Golds a few times. Mr. Gold ran the pawn shop business (and probably a few other side businesses of questionable legality) and his wife, Belle, was the town librarian.

A small bell attached to the doorknob announced her arrival as she pushed the shop door open and passed through the entrance. The store's interior was every bit as eclectic - and every bit as creepy - as she'd remembered. Knickknacks and assorted trinkets were everywhere, inside glass cases, displayed on shelving or even hanging from the ceiling. Some of these were decidedly more macabre than others. Honestly, who keeps a human hand in a damned glass jar?

There wasn't anyone visible behind the counter or the ancient cash register that sat atop it as she made her way into the center of the shop, still not entirely sure of what had possessed her to come in.

"Good morning, Deputy Swan," a voice resounded from somewhere out of her view. The greeting was then followed by the rustling of wooden beads which hung in strips as a curtain dividing the shop from the private office beyond. A diminutive man with shoulder length grey hair wearing an impeccable dark wool suit appeared in the same doorway. "What can I do for you?"

"Uh, hello…," she stammered, mentally debating whether she should just turn around and return to the car, but she held her ground. "A mutual friend of ours sorta suggested that you might be a good source to ask about my mother…"

"Mutual friend?" He didn't even attempt to disguise his confusion.

"Walsh Gibbons," she replied, expecting more than his blank expression.

"Wouldn't exactly call him a friend," Gold stated. "We've done business together, but that's all."

"Oh," she said dejectedly. "He made it sound as though you knew each other well. I guess this was a wasted trip… Sorry to bother you."

"I have known Mr. Gibbons for a very long time, but we aren't more than acquaintances. We don't exchange holiday cards or do we invite each over to our homes. Strictly business, that's it…"

"I see…," Emma whispered under her breath as she turned towards the exit before she made a bigger fool of herself.

"Gibbons was correct in that I did know your mother though." Gold's words stopped her in her tracks and regained her curiosity. "You're Robert and Ava Nolan's daughter. I wasn't particularly close with your parents but we did know each other and I may be able to be of some assistance to you."

"I guess I was hoping that you might have some insight as to why she left Storybrooke," Emma explained as she approached the glass counter. My brother and most everyone else I know were all too young to remember and I haven't found much about her in the archives."

"There aren't many of us left from that era. Your mother was a bit of a free spirit, if I recall. She was often in opposition to others here about the town's direction. She had quite the independent spirit for a very long time, but then one day, the fire just went out of her."

"Was that around the time she left?"

"No - this was a few years earlier. She was merely a shell of her former self by the time she left Storybrooke."

Emma reminisced about the woman who'd raised her and not much was making sense. "But you don't know the reason she left?"

"Her reasons were her reasons, dearie," he stated with a shrug of his shoulders. "No one pushed her away and she would have been welcomed back with open arms had she chosen to return, but she never did."

"Considering she grew up here, sometimes it really seems like no one really knew my mother…"

"I do seem to recall that she brought a few items in to sell a few days before she left town," Gold dodged her unasked question by changing the subject. "I believe that some of those things might still be here as they weren't really items that would sell... But, at the time, she seemed so desperate…"

"That was more than twenty years ago," she reminded him, her voice heavy with skepticism as the shopkeeper made his way over to an antique oak cabinet and tugged open an ornately carved door. Inside, Emma spied a hodgepodge of objects - books, jewelry and was that an animal skull? "You really think you have stuff that belonged to my mother after all of these years?"

"Yes - here," he replied, lifting two dusty books that resembled those inside Regina's vault and a rectangular box that was just slightly larger than one of the books. "These were hers. Not much of a market for these little things…"

"What are those?" Emma queried, her interest suddenly piqued by the mere notion that these long, lost objects had belonged to her mother.

"For the right price, you can find out," he stated with a greedy, almost sinister grin widening across his face.

"The right price? Seriously?" she asked indignantly. This was a new low…

"I'm a simple businessman, Deputy. The objects were sold to me and if you would like to acquire them, you'll need to purchase them."

"How much?"

"Let's see…," he stalled, quite intentionally. "Perhaps we can strike a deal?"

"A deal? For what?"

"I'm aware that you are a member of Regina's current coven. We had a disagreement a while back and amidst our detente, she never returned a certain item that belongs to me."

"And I suppose you want me to get it for you?"

"If you would be so kind. Bring it to me and your mother's belongings are yours."

"Fine. What exactly am I asking Regina to return?"

"It's an old potion book that once belonged to a great alchemist. It is bound in royal blue leather and is entitled Potions of the Modern World."

"And that's it? I bring you the book and I get my mother's stuff?"

"Do we have a deal?" Gold asked eagerly.

"We have a deal. Any idea where Regina might be keeping your book?"

"Probably in her vault. She's warded the building against me so I can't go look for myself."

"Okay, I'll be there tonight so I'll look for it."

"Wonderful. 'Tis a pleasure doing business with you, Deputy."

"We'll see," she scoffed, hoping she could find his damned book quickly and without interference from the Mills sisters. "Just what sort of disagreement did you have that caused you to quit the coven?"

"Let's just say that we took a differing interpretation of things. Keep this in mind, dearie - not all in Storybrooke is what you might think."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Gold merely grinned and bid her adieu, leaving her contemplating his statement for the remainder of the day.

**********

By the time the sun set that evening, Emma's thoughts still weren't any clearer than they'd been that morning. She'd walked out of that pawn shop feeling slightly dumbfounded and utterly confused. Now, as she walked across the cemetery to the mausoleum, she was still trying to make sense of Gold's cryptic statement. What had the old man meant with his warning?

Twilight was making the graveyard shadows darken as the coven awaited the rise of the full moon at 8:27PM. Emma knew that Regina and Zelena were preparing some sort of elaborate ritual to mark the occasion but with so much on her mind, she wasn't thinking about rituals and spells - well, not the ones that the Mills had in mind at least. She found the sisters setting up a circle of lanterns in a grassy clearing behind the mausoleum and in the center of that circle was a carefully arranged pile of firewood that left Emma convinced there must be a cauldron around here somewhere. Cauldron or not, she was relieved to find the Mills sisters distracted so she would have some time to search for Mr. Gold's missing potion book. She'd rather not be caught poking around the vault hunting for it and have them start asking her questions about what she was looking for. Of course, there was always the possibility that she'd have to break down and ask Regina about it anyway, but she'd rather that option be a last resort. She had to be able to locate it on her own.

She managed to slip into the vault and down the staircase without drawing the attention of either Regina or Zelena and found only Ruby downstairs in the chamber, seated cross-legged on the floor with a bright, crimson cape draped across her lap. The waitress' face lit up the moment she spied Emma - who had absolutely no doubt about what Ruby was going to ask.

"Emma! I'm sooo happy to see you…" Ruby greeted her with a huge, expectant smile. Yeah, she was going to ask about Walsh…

"Hi, Ruby," Emma reciprocated the welcome, returning a far more half-hearted smile though. She really didn't have time to engage in a discussion about the man who'd met her for breakfast so she tried to dodge it with a little small talk as she perused the stacks and shelves of books. "You ready for this ritual tonight?"

"You mean that full moon ritual?" Ruby queried with a shake of her head. "Not me. I'm staying right down here until they're done. The full moon kinda does strange things to me…"

"It does?" Emma asked her friend quizzically. "Why did you come out tonight then?"

"You know exactly why - to ask you about your handsome friend who you were talking to at the diner yesterday…" she stated exuberantly. "You need to spill the details, sister…"

Yeah, this was exactly the conversation she didn't want to have right now. "Walsh is just an old friend from Boston and yes - before you even ask - we did date for a while. He's in town for a few days and we agreed to have dinner."

"Ah - rekindling the old flame?"

"That I don't know…," Emma admitted truthfully. "We met for dinner the other night and we might get together again tomorrow, but…"

"But what?" Ruby wondered. "He's not married, is he?"

"No, he's not married," Emma chuckled nervously, trying to focus on the rows of books before her, not this ridiculous conversation. She needed to find Gold's book and get the hell out of here, but she knew Ruby would never be pacified so easily.

"If he isn't married, what's the problem?" Ruby pressed. "He sure looks like a juicy catch…"

"It's sorta complicated…," Emma replied, immediately regretting her choice of wording.

"Complicated?" A broad, knowing smirk curled Ruby's lips and the words Emma was dreading blurted out of her friend's mouth. "Oh my god, Emma - there's another guy, isn't there?"

And there it was - the precise dilemma that Emma hadn't wanted to make public just yet. She could try to deny it, but Ruby would be all over her and if the truth came out elsewhere, it'd be more damaging than just telling her friend.

"Alright, alright… There might be…," Emma told her. "Can we not broadcast it just yet though?"

Ruby slid closer to the bookshelf. "Ooh, what does the other one look like?" she continued to grill Emma, but at least her voice was a whisper this time. "Tall, dark and handsome or fair and fine?"

Emma shook her head and lowered it in defeat. "Dark, windswept hair, incredible blue eyes and the deepest, sexiest, accented voice that would absolutely make you melt..."

"Girl, you are going to have to give me more than that!" Ruby exclaimed.

"Maybe later," Emma offered. "I just don't really want anyone knowing about my love life just yet…"

"Okay, I get it," Ruby replied with a wink. "We can have a little girl talk later?"

"If we don't get done with these full moon rituals too late tonight," Emma gave her a vague agreement, not wanting to divert too much of her attention from the hunt for Gold's damned potion book. Regina and Zelena would be finished setting up in the cleaning soon so it was time to redouble her efforts.

She tried to remain nonchalant about her search. Just browsing the shelves while waiting. That's all she was doing and that's all she wanted it to look like. Casual. Not suspicious at all - at least until she actually found the title she was hunting for. She spied the faded blue leather spine peeking out from amongst the other volumes on the very top shelf and the title, Potions for the Modern World, spelled out in worn, slivered block lettering. It was just tantalizingly out of her reach though. How was she supposed to get it down?

Her eyes darted fervently around the chamber looking for a step stool or a chair that wouldn't collapse beneath her weight if she were to stand atop it. She finally located a three-legged stool beneath the potion table that appeared sturdy enough but all of this was going to draw more of Ruby's attention. Not seeing any other way, Emma pushed the stool out from beneath the table using the toe of her boot. Once it was in reach, she swooped it up and brought it over to the towering bookshelves.

"Whatcha doing, Em?" Ruby asked curiously, just as Emma had expected.

"Just saw a book title that looked interesting…," Emma responded dismissively as she positioned the stool in front of the section she wanted. "And of course, it has to be all the way on the top…"

She hopped up onto the stool, hanging on to the thick wooden center beam of the built-in shelving unit with her right hand as she stretched her left hand towards the volume. She could just get her fingertips on it, working it to the edge of the shelf little by little in hopes of getting a better grip - just a tiny bit too close to that edge.

Emma cursed under her breath as the book tumbled to the floor, landing page-side down with a thud.

"I'll get that for you," Ruby offered as Emma stepped off of the stool. She scooped up the fallen book and inspected it for damage before passing it to Emma. "It looks in good shape," she continued as she handed the book off, but she noticed that there were some loose pages still littering the floor of the vault. Ruby stooped to gather up the remaining items, finding a couple of folded letters or notes and one very faded photograph. "I think these fell out though…"

"Those came out of the book?" Emma questioned.

"I'm pretty sure they did," Ruby replied. "There wasn't anything on the floor before the book landed here. These must have been shoved inside it somewhere."

"I guess we'd better put them back inside then," Emma said as Ruby placed the assorted items into her hand. She'd fully intended to put them all back into the book before returning it to Mr. Gold but Emma simply couldn't resist taking a peek at that lone photograph first.

It was an old color image of two young girls who were wearing clothing that seemingly dated the photograph to the late 1950s or early 1960s. On the left, a taller, dark haired girl was pictured standing with her arm wrapped around the younger, fairer haired girl on the right hand side. Their smiling faces were difficult to make out in the faded photo but Emma sensed something familiar about them.

"Cute kids," Ruby commented from over Emma's shoulder. Emma hadn't even noticed her standing there as she'd stared at the photograph. "Wonder who they are…"

"I've no idea, but I swear, they look familiar to me…"

"You know…," Ruby began, squinting at the image. "The little girl on the right sorta looks like you…"

And it was as though that flashbulb had gone off in Emma's head right then and there as she suddenly realized whose image had transfixed her - she was looking at a photograph of her own mother as a young child.

"Ruby - I think that's my mom," Emma stated in a stunned, disbelieving voice.

"Is there anything written on the photo?" Ruby wondered, hoping there might be something to answer more of their questions.

Emma flipped the photo over and found that there was a handwritten note in black ink. "It says Cora and Ava, 1964."

"Ava? Wasn't that your mother's name?" Ruby queried, the mystery growing deeper by the moment.

"Yeah, it was…," Emma answered, her eyes still fixed on the image from decades ago.

"And Cora?" Ruby continued. "I think that was Regina and Zelena's mom's name, wasn't it?"

"Uh, yeah… I believe so… I didn't know they were friends, but I guess it's a small town after all… Plus, it was probably even smaller back in the 1960s."

"Maybe there's something in those notes that explains more?" Ruby wondered, anxious to get more information.

"I don't think we should be reading those…," Emma said, not really sure it was right to invade the privacy of whomever had written or received those letters.

"Come on, Emma… Who's going to know?"

"Okay, but I'm blaming you if anyone asks," Emma caved as she set the book atop the stool and began unfolding the first of the delicate, handwritten letters. The brittle paper looked as though it had once been a baby blue hue, but portions had yellowed to take on a much more greenish tint. The blue ink had run in places and faded away entirely in others leaving the note barely legible, but Emma was striving to read as much as she could. "My dearest daughters, I'm so proud to see your progress! One day, I know that you will be the most powerful witches in all of the realms and we'll defeat the prophecy. Cora, you have done such an amazing job of tutoring your younger sister, and Ava, my darling, you've proven to be such a good little student…" Emma paused there, most of the remainder of the letter illegible, but mostly due to her eyes welling with tears. "That's all I can read," her voice cracked with emotion as the implication of what she'd just read sunk in. "But... my mother was Cora's little sister?"

#cssns #captain swan supernatural summer #cs ff #cs au ff #cs ff au #witch emma #a simple spell #please forgive any errors you might find here #i was rushing to edit in case dorian knocks out the power

27 notes · View notes

thecomicsnexus · 5 years ago

Photo

AQUAMAN #1-4 FEBRUARY - MAY 1986 BY NEAL POZNER, CRAIG HAMILTON, STEVE MONTANO AND JOE ORLANDO

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC DATABASE)

The Ocean Master attacks the coastal community of New Venice, Florida – the adoptive home of Aquaman. Aquaman and Mera arrive to protect their neighborhood from the villain's brutal assault, but are surprised to discover that he is now much more powerful than he once was.

Aquaman and Ocean Master wrestle one another, while Mera uses her hard-water powers to save nearby civilians. Arthur demands to know the meaning behind this attack, but Ocean Master dodges the question, preferring instead to brag to his stepbrother about his newfound power. He quickly overcomes Aquaman and leaves his body floating on the beach. Arthur gathers himself together, but by the time he revives fully, Ocean Master is nowhere to be found.

In Atlantis, squads of soldiers surround the palace of King Vulko demanding permission to make war against the surface world. The people of Atlantis are committed towards their tradition of isolationism, and feel that the surface world's interest in their culture is an affront to their lifestyle. Vulko does not intend to authorize a war, but realizes that the angry mob could very well strip him of his power. Further, Vulko learns that someone has stolen the Royal Seal of Atlantis. Without it, he can no longer legally govern his charges.

He sends a telepathic call to Aquaman who quickly responds. Explaining the situation to him, Vulko theorizes that mystics from the Atlantean community known as Thierna Na Oge may be responsible for the Seal's theft. He provides Aquaman with a special camouflage outfit and asks him to recover the Seal.

Aquaman swims to Thierna Na Oge, but quickly finds himself embroiled in a civil war between two rival regents, King Bres and Nuada Silverhand. Nuada's soldiers attack Aquaman and take him captive.

King Bres of Thierna Na Oge has captured Aquaman and now holds him prisoner in her dungeon. He shares the cell with Bres' deposed sister, Nuada Silverhand. Aquaman struggles to free himself from his manacles, but they are composed of a mystic mineral called Orichalcum. King Bres and her entourage enter the prison to interrogate Nuada and Aquaman. She wants to know the location of an artifact called the Lia Fail. She believes Nuada has stolen it, and that Aquaman is her accomplice.

Bres uses her magic to scan Aquaman's mind, and learns that he knows nothing of their missing artifact. She is still convinced that he is a spy however, and sentences him to death. Members of the Tuatha De Danann bring the King of Atlantis to an arena pit, forcing him to defend himself against a hideous monster known as Sreng of the Firbolg.

The Tuatha De Danann channels the might of their magic into the Firbolg vastly increasing his strength. Aquaman attempts to use his telepathy on Sreng, but this yields little effect. Sreng's rampage causes the support columns of the arena to collapse. As carnage ensues, Aquaman summons a swordfish to ferry him away from the battle scene. He meets with Nuada, who has likewise freed herself and the two leave Thierna Na Oge.

Aquaman believes that the missing Lia Fail may be connected to the theft of the Seal of Atlantis. Nuada uses her magic to track the Lia Fail's location to a settlement known as Maarzon. When they arrive, they find that Ocean Master has taken command of the savage of Maarzon and now orders them to attack Aquaman.

Ocean Master commands the savages of Maarzon to bring Aquaman and Nuada Silverhand to his citadel. In a surprising display of brutality, Ocean Master punches Nuada in the stomach, in the hopes of baiting Aquaman into attacking him. He then transports them from Maarzon to his private citadel.

Later, during their imprisonment, Aquaman tells Nuada of the origins behind his and Orm's rivalry. Aquaman's father, Tom Curry found an Atlantean woman named Atlanna and the two fell in love. Living together in Tom's lighthouse, they eventually gave birth to Arthur. Years later, Atlanna died and Tom remarried. He sired a child with his second wife, named Marius. Marius never developed the aquatic super-powers that Arthur had and because of that, he grew to despise him. As he grew into adulthood, Marius took the name Orm, and became the self-styled Ocean Master.

Ocean Master arrives in their cell and reveals that he is responsible for stealing the Lia Fail and the Royal Seal of Atlantis. Both items contain the original Zodiac crystals that once governed all magic in ancient Atlantis. Once he acquires the remaining ten, Ocean Master will be all-powerful.

Meanwhile, the soldiers of Atlantis forced Vulko to lead them in an attack against the surface world. They are convinced that emissaries from the surface are responsible for stealing the Royal Seal. Vulko doesn't want to attack the surface, but he is left with little choice. Suddenly, Ocean Master appears before them. Vulko uses this opportunity to divert attention from innocent civilians towards this new villain, but as suddenly as he appears, he disappears again.

Aquaman savagely rampages after Ocean Master, only to discover that the man who had been taunting him was nothing more than an illusion. The real Ocean Master is miles away inciting an Atlantean invasion of the surface world.

Nuada manages to calm Aquaman down and forces him to realize that he cannot defeat his brother through conventional means. He has most of the twelve Zodiac crystals now, and is nearly unstoppable. As magic is powered by emotion, Ocean Master has been able to intensify his own power off Arthur's nascent anger. The only way to effectively counter his magic is with stronger magic.

Nuada scribes a pentagram and uses her own powers to unlock the mysteries of Aquaman's mind. She sifts through his memories and brings to light the most joyous as well as painful moments of his past. He recalls his time with the Justice League, the marriage to his wife, Mera, and the birth and tragic death of his son, Arthur, Jr.With Aquaman's emotional reservoir awakened, Nuada pulls his spirit from his body and sends it across the sea to confront the Ocean Master.

The two fight one another on the astral plane, and Arthur taps into his own raging emotions in order to siphon away Ocean Master's power. He comes to terms with his own internal rage and uses his love for his brother to shatter his existence. When Aquaman's spirit returns to his body, he swims off towards Orm's last known location. All that is left of him is the shattered remains of his helmet. Arthur believes that his brother is dead.

REVIEW

You would think that this mini-series failed in creating a new status quo for Aquaman, and you would be wrong. It seems that this book was so popular, it almost got a sequel. Craig Hamilton fell behind schedule and it never happened. This is what Neal Pozner had in mind for the second mini-series:

After the phenomonal response to DC's first Aquaman series, a sequel seemed a foregone conclusion. Well, here it is. The second mini-series will lake place minutes after the first one ends, and will deal with the rest of the "Aquaman Family," as well as the star of the book. "Mera, Aqualad, and the rest of Atlantis did not show up much in the first series," notes writer Neal Pozner, 'but they're very important to this series. In the first series, we were trying to change and restructure Aquaman alone. Now we'll see how he's going to react to everybody else. The whole theme of the series is change, and how different people react to it. There have been radical changes in the lives of all the players, and we'll be looking at how those changes manifest themselves, and how each character deals with them. The three main characters will be Aquaman, Mera, and Aqualad, but we'll also be focusing on Makaira, Vulko, anew character named Tawna, Ronal, and (from Swamp Thing) the Sunderland Corporation."

As the series begins, we will find that Makaira (Vulko's wife), is ruling Atlantis in his stead, as he was injured in the fight with Ocean Master. Atlantis is going through a culture shock, as they have been isolated for two thousand years, and now they are interacting with the surface world. The surface world is finding that Atlantis is a great place to get rid of all the stuff it doesn't need and to get all the technology that they do need. Some Atlanteans are so taken with these new ideas, that they'll accept anything. "So they've got hula-hoops and Pac-Man and disco clothes that they're using underwater. There is even a fast-food restaurant that has been opened by the Sunderland Corporation, and the religious zealots use that as a focus for their protests against the surface worlds' imports. Makaira is caught between the religious zealots and the other Atlanteans, in her attempt to rule Atlantis."

Aquaman, meanwhile, is trying to deal with the fact that he loves his wife, and, he also seems to love another woman. Also, every rule he's ever lived by, he doesn't believe in anymore, and he will catch himself reverting back to his old actions. "This is not going to be the pat super-hero-gets-a-cosmic-revelation. When he gets mad, he'll lose his temper, except he'll catch himself midway through. Mera is going to have a really hard time also, because the man she married is not the man that returns to her. She's going to have a hard time trying to help. because she was raised having everything she wanted!' When Aquaman returns to New Venice, he finds that Mera has basically saved the whole town by herself. "Mera will be portrayed more heroically. In her own way, she is more powerful than Aquaman."

Aqualad will still be mourning Aquagirl's death, and he will retreat from the surface world to Atlantis. He eventually meets a young girl named Tawna. whom he will fall in love with. "The focus of the series is primarily on Aquaman, Aqualad, and Atlantis, but there will be all these subplots running along in the background."

If the art looks a bit too realistic, is because Craig Hamilton based Aquaman in two real people, Jeff Aquilon...

And Buster Crabbe...

But the main deal about the art is perhaps, Aquaman’s camouflaged suit. This suit was so hard to draw, even George Perez complained about it.

The reasoning for this costume being so complicated, is because you need to know anatomy to do it properly, as explained by Hamilton:

Aquaman costume is all tied around anatomy. Every point on it goes to a different reference point on the body, and you have to be able to draw the body moving in a natural way to naturally draw that costume.

But DC is always nervous of change and they tend to do away with things even before they can get a response from readers. Check the covers, three of them have the new logo, one of them has the old logo. WTF? Well, there’s more to it...

This series was a post-Crisis attempt at 'redefining' Aquaman*, at least that's how Pozner explained it in the letter column of issue Aquaman v2 #2. Sometime in 1982/1983, when Pozner was DC's Design Director, he was trying to solve the mystery of why Wonder Woman wasn't as popular as Superman or Batman. Pozner essentially wrote up an outline describing the strengths of the Wonder Woman concept and how to best fully explore them to reinvigorate her ongoing series. This outline somehow found it's way to DC head offices and Dick Giordano approached Pozner suggesting he should write and submit a Wonder Woman series proposal. Pozner explained that at the time, Wonder Woman was in very capable hands and another "well-respected" writer was planning on working on the title, so he turned down Giordano's offer because he wanted a real shot at revamping a DC character. Giordano suggested that Pozner pick any other character and submit another proposal. Pozner chose Aquaman.

Pozner explained that he chose Aquaman for several reasons: 1) Aquaman's costume wasn't visually appealing, 2) Aquaman didn't work well in settings where he was on dry land, 3) Aquaman had always been portrayed as a "dislikable, unsympathetic protagonist", and 4) Atlantis was a vague concept that needed some defining. Creating a unified version of the history of the DCU Atlantis was big on Pozner's "to do" list, as was forcing a change in Aquaman's personality (to make him likable again) and introducing a new contemporary costume.

From 1984 to 1986, Aquaman didn't have a solo series and was making regular appearances in Gerry Conway's Justice League of America ongoing series. One of the subplots in Conway's run was that Aquaman was becoming a pushy, critical, quick-tempered jerk (his marital troubles with his wife, Mera, appeared to be the driving factor). Conway was setting up inter-personal conflicts within the book to define the team and create it's own continuity, but never got the chance to resolve any of it because Aquaman abruptly left the league in Justice League of America #243 (1985) only to appear in this mini-series several months later. The extraction of Aquaman from the Justice League was based on a decision from DC's head office. In a 2008 interview with Rob Kelly on the JLA Satellite blog, Conway reveals: "At that point, I was being told what to do. My autonomy on the book--whenever I had any--probably ended around the time I left the book that first time, and after that I was basically trying to manage my way within the DC system. I don't think [Aquaman leaving] would've been my goal, leaving a group he had brought together."

The Aquaman v2 mini-series addresses and resolves Aquaman's anger management issues. Pozner did succeed in writing Aquaman as an interesting/likable character.

Although it was meant as a revamp, Pozner more or less leaves the Silver Age origin of Aquaman intact (i.e. lighthouse keeper meets Atlantean woman, they have a baby, Atlantean woman dies, and lighthouse keeper trains son/Aquaman to fulfill Atlantean woman's dying wish), but places special emphasis on the relationship between Aquaman and his step-brother, Ocean Master, to play up the motivation behind the antagonist's hatred towards the protagonist. Despite being a post-Crisis retelling of Aquaman's history, all the major things from Aquaman's pre-Crisis history remain intact: he still married Mera, he still lost his first son, he still lead Justice League Detroit, and he still mentored a young sidekick named Aqualad.

If the story also has a certain sensitivity to it, it’s perhaps because Neal Pozner wasn’t straight. (Phil Jimenez would later dedicate his Tempest mini-series to Neal Pozner, as both of them had a romantic relationship before Neal died in 1994). Furthermore, his initial intent of unifying Atlantis history was crucial for “Atlantis chronicles”, another Aquaman gem (that I reviewed last year).

Unfortunately for Pozner, Aquaman would be retconned by Robert Loren Fleming and Keith Giffen a few years later (also reviewed).

I think that as a story it works. And as a relaunch of the character, it could have worked with proper exploration of the mythos. However, knowing what Peter David did later, I actually appreciate that version more (even if this version is not that different from the new 52 one that we now live in).

I give this story a score of 9

#steve montano #craig hamilton #dc comics #comics #review #1986 #modern age #aquaman #ocean master #buster crabbe #jeff aquilon

17 notes · View notes