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scuttling · 4 years ago

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Weigh Me Down

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 4,221 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad bod Hotch, Physical domination, Manhandling, Slapping, Choking, Mild breath play, Sir kink, Oral sex, Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Biting, Begging, Dirty Talk Summary: You always knew being the kind of girl who runs her mouth would get you in trouble eventually; you just had no idea how incredible being in trouble could feel. *Inspired by @unicornprancing. Link to A03 or read below! It’s always the quiet ones: it’s a cliché because it’s true, something you’ve never really given much thought to because you are not a quiet one. You talk a lot, laugh a lot, aren’t afraid to speak your mind—it can get you in trouble at work, when local law enforcement is being stubborn and you give them a piece of your mind, or when Hotch gives an order that makes no sense, like stay behind me.

Has he met you? You aren’t the stay behind me type, not by a long shot, so when he says that or something like that, it always leads to you running your big mouth and starting an argument.

You are surprised as hell when one of those arguments follows you back to the office and, in an apparent effort to get you to stop talking, Hotch presses your back against his closed door with his body and puts his hands on either side of your head, leaning in to kiss you rough and deep.

Kissing Hotch is not a thought you've ever entertained. It’s not that you don’t find him attractive—he’s pretty much everything you dream about in a man, tall and strong and commanding, with dark hair and big hands and a withering stare. It’s more that you are so different, that you are loud and lively where he is quiet and clearly repressed; the idea of the two of you together just doesn’t make sense, until it really, really does.

You fist your hands in his shirt, arch up to press your hips against his, and he puts his hands on your body and shoves you back against the door; there’s something hanging on the wall to your right, and its frame rattles with the force of it. You moan into the kiss, and he pulls back, panting, to look into your eyes.

“Was just trying to shut you up for a change,” he says, low, and you lick your lips, look over his face. He’s still angry, and his hands are hard on your hips, holding you down when you try to press up again. Your heart is pounding, your breathing harsh.

“It was working.” His eyes sweep over your lips, your heaving chest, and you suddenly want so many things, starting with his mouth on yours immediately. “Maybe try again.”

He tilts his head, looking like he can’t decide whether he wants to kiss you or purposefully deny you what you’re asking for, but ultimately he gives in, leans in, takes your face in one of his big hands and kisses you hard.

You twist your fingers tighter in his shirt, slip him your tongue, and struggle against his hand so he’ll let you make contact, so you can feel the raging hard-on he has to be sporting. He takes his hand off your hip, and you think you’ve won, but he slides a thigh between your legs instead, pins you against the door that way, and grabs your wrists; he pulls your hands away from his shirt despite your tightening grip, holds your arms over your head, and deepens the kiss, makes it wetter and messier.

All your life, you have wanted this: someone bigger and stronger who could handle you at your mouthiest, who could calm the fire that’s always raging inside you and wind you up at the same time. Men have always been intimidated because you’re in the FBI, or because you were a cop, and for those reasons you’re also physically more capable than they expect; plenty of guys enjoy having a girlfriend who can rough them up a little, but not the guys you want. The guys you want see your strength, your fortitude, and they go running.

Hotch knows all of this about you, and he’s not running.

Far from running, he is crowding you up against the door, his body and his hands and his unrelenting mouth bringing you such pleasure you’re tempted to try to rub off against his leg. You grind against it, more to see what he will do than to actually try to achieve anything, and he shifts so both of your wrists are in one hand, brings the other to your jaw to hold it still. When he stops kissing you, you whimper at the loss.

“No.” So deep it’s almost a growl, his command is one you can feel in your bones, and you swallow hard. Your eyes are fixed on his, and you grind up against him again; his hand flexes on your jaw, presses into the bone, and while that feels really good, there’s something you want even more. You cover his hand with yours—his grip loosens, either because he knows you’re trying to ask for more or because he thinks you’ve had too much—and slide it to your cheek.

You let him go, look up at him, breathless, and he pulls back and slaps your face: not too hard, or too soft, just enough to sting and soak your panties. You gasp, lick your lips, dazed, and he switches hands, hold your wrists together with one and slaps the opposite cheek with the other. He takes your jaw in his hand again, tilts your face up like he’s daring you to act up.

You contemplate it, quickly weigh the pros and cons—acting up is looking better by the minute—but someone comes up and knocks on the door, right behind your head.

Hotch drops your hands, steps back, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, try to snap out of the trance you’ve found yourself in. He turns around, presses his hand against the front of his pants, clears his throat and says, “come in.”

It’s JJ, and she gives the both of you a concerned once over when she enters; she was in the SUV with you on the way back from the airport, had a front row seat to the argument that started it all. You can’t imagine how you look—flushed, breathless, a little confused?—but Hotch somehow manages to look unaffected, like he’s really just been up here bickering with you all this time. You envy his composure.

“I was just getting ready to leave, wanted to make sure you guys didn’t need anything.” He crosses his arms, shakes his head, and looks over at you; you shake your head too, hope that your inability to do much more than stand there can be attributed to the fight she clearly thinks the two of you were having. “Okay then. Have a nice weekend,” she says, flashing a soft smile, and she leaves, closes the door behind her. Hotch blows out a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“Look,” he says, and your heart sinks so fast. You really thought for a second that things might be different with him. That you finally found what you’d been looking for.

“No, I get it,” you manage to say, and your voice is rough, but you look him dead in the eye because that’s who you are. “You didn’t mean for it to go that far. We can pretend it didn’t happen.”

You’re surprised again when he frowns, shakes his head.

“No. Well, yes, but no. I didn’t mean to take it that far, I’ve never—I’ve never done that.” He wets his lips and takes a step closer to you, and already your body knows how to react to his proximity. It’s like a switch was flipped, and now it can’t be unflipped. “But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Not if you don’t.”

You breathe heavily, let silence blanket the room for one heartbeat, two. Twenty.

“I don’t. I really don’t.” He takes another step closer, brings a hand to your cheek, but this time his touch is gentle.

“Then we won’t.”

His mouth, when it finds yours, is not gentle. It is bruising, probing, his tongue seeking yours, and you wrap your arms around his back, his shoulders, encourage it, until one of your hands drops to his belt and he grabs it, forces it down at your side.

“Not here,” he says through gritted teeth—probably because, while he’s saying no, the unmistakable bulge in his pants is actually begging yes. You move the hand he’s not holding, brush it through his hair, and he blinks slow. “Do you want to come home with me tonight?”

You’re pretty sure you’ve never wanted anything more in your goddamn life. The ride to Hotch’s place is slightly awkward. You are both mostly silent, in that stage of the hookup where you’re both reliving how you got here, wondering what will happen, if this is the right thing, if it’s worth it.

From everything you’ve seen so far, it’s really fucking worth it.

His apartment is very nice, clean, kind of bare in that modern bachelor way. Yours isn’t much better, because you are always at work, always looking at photos of missing women instead of your family and friends. You run a hand along the sofa—large, black, suede—and comment on it just to say something, and he puts his hands gently on either side of your throat, kisses you, and looms over you so you are forced to settle back onto it.

You lay back, one foot on the floor and the other leg stretched along the length of the cushions, and he pushes his way between your knees, drapes himself over top of you, kisses some more. You run your hands over him because he lets you, truly feeling his body for the first time, and the thickness, solidness, softness has you moaning against his lips for more.

He leans up, takes one hand off your throat, and moves the other to the front of it, his fingers digging into the sides of your neck. The image of him on top of you like this, your literal life, safety, comfort in his hands… it’s intoxicating, and you nod just slightly, to let him know that if he wants, this is something he can have. Something he can take.

He bends down to brush his lips over yours, then over your throat, your ear. “Just a little,” he murmurs, squeezing tight. “I’d prefer to discuss it more—unless you wanted to stop and do that now.” There is a smirk in his voice when he says it, because he knows already that stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. You’ll take just a little, for now.

He leans up again, flexes that hand on your throat in a way that makes your eyelids flutter. With his free hand, he loosens the knot of his tie, pulls it off, starts slipping his buttons free.

Undressing himself on top of you, making eye contact, restricting your air supply—never before have you been willing to give a man free rein of your body, but there’s a first time for everything, and he’s quickly earning himself a key to your kingdom. Your body thrums at the idea of being at his complete mercy, tied up maybe, legs spread, edged with his mouth and hands until all you can do is whine his name and beg to come.

Your face heats, and you whimper, and he loosens his grip, brushes his thumb over your mouth.

“Good girl. Are you alright?” You lick your lips, swiping your tongue over the pad of his finger, and nod.

“Yes, sir.”

You would never be insubordinate—okay, you absolutely would be, have been, were earlier today—but authority is not really your friend, so you aren’t the type of person to throw sir around like it’s second nature. Your use of the title here is deliberate—call it a hunch—and when his eyes darken, it’s clear it’s worth swallowing your pride over.

He takes his hand off of you, makes quicker work of his shirt with both hands available to him. You look down at his crotch, and he pauses to bring his hands to yours, moves them to his belt, giving you permission to open it. The clink of the buckle feels obscene in his quiet apartment, and you untuck his shirt so he can pull it off, left only in a tight undershirt that emphasizes every curve of muscle, the bit of softness across his midsection. He’s perfect, and you run your hands over him, moan, make sure that he knows it.

He pulls your t-shirt off, unhooks your bra and kisses your throat, your chest, cups your breasts in his hands and teases your nipples with a pointed tongue. You let your head fall back, because it feels so good and you want to feel his tongue lower, wonder how he’d react to the taste of the slickness that’s been pooling in your panties since he slammed you up against that door.

“Fuck. Please.” He looks up at you from where he’s mouthing at your breasts, pulls off with a wet sound and rubs his hand up your chest to curl around your neck.

“You have to tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’m not a mind reader.” You whimper, and he presses his thumb into your mouth, lets you suck on it a moment before easing it out. “Always running your mouth, always disobeying me. Always have to have the last word. Where’s that mouthy girl now?” You stare up at him, say nothing, and he slaps your cheek, pushes two fingers into your mouth when it falls open in a moan.

He’s back to undressing one handed, stands while his fingers thrust over your tongue and pushes his pants down, his underwear. You moan when his cock springs up, big and full, and you bob your head a little so maybe he’ll get that you want to give him a sickeningly sloppy blow job.

“No, you don’t get this yet,” he says, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and spreading the wetness over the dark head of his dick. “You don’t get anything until I give it to you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you promise with a nod, and he pulls his undershirt off and works your pants open, drags them down your legs. He exhales deeply when presented with your panties—you’re certain they’re obscenely, visibly wet, and it’s confirmed when pulls them off and you can feel how messy you are, your sticky arousal coating your pussy, ass, and thighs.

He pushes your legs up, leans in, and swipes his tongue over you, from your opening to your clit, then over your inner thighs, and you moan, buck against him. Moving his hands to just behind your knees, he holds you tightly, lays his arms over the length of your pushed up thighs, presses down so you can’t move. You whimper at the restriction, and he presses harder, dives down to lick and kiss your pussy, to tug at your lips gently with his teeth.

“All this because of a little roughness?” he asks with a delicious jab of his tongue inside your aching hole. “Soaking your panties because I slapped your pretty face?” You pant, nod, and he rubs his tongue hard against your clit, gets you so close you can hear the change in your own voice as you moan, and then pulls back. “You’ve been needing someone to put you in your place for a while, haven’t you? Someone who can take hold of that smart mouth and render you silent. Do I have it right, baby?”

He has it exactly right and he knows it, only asks to hear you say the two words he probably never imagined he’d get out of you.

“Yes, sir.” It’s strained and weak, and he lays one forearm across your thighs, holds you down, and batters your clit with his tongue, rubs his huge hand over your hot, sensitive pussy until you come whining and trying desperately to move against him even though you can’t. “Oh my god, Hotch, fuck.”

He kisses you as soon as you sag against the sofa, groaning against your mouth, running his hands over your hips, and you are still trying to catch your breath when he gets his arms around you, scoops you up and carries you to his bedroom. From there, he tosses you roughly onto the bed, your body bouncing from the force, and then turns you over and wastes no time thrusting inside you, laying on top of you, his full weight all but guaranteeing you’ll come fast and hard.

“Does that feel good?” he grunts in your ear, pounding against your ass, and you whimper, claw at the sheets. He covers your hands with his, laces your fingers so you can't move them, pushes your hair off of the back of your neck with his nose. “Good girl, just lay there and take my cock. You aren’t the type to put up a fight, are you?”

That shouldn’t turn you on like it does, but you live to fight, and now that you have this incredible, sexy, strong man on top of you, dominating you the way you’ve only dreamed, it just comes naturally.

You try to buck back against his thighs but can’t because he’s so heavy, his thrusts so deep and rough. You try to get your arms free, whine when he holds your hands tighter, when he presses his biceps down against the backs of your arms so they can’t move at all. You thrash your head, moaning, loud, nearly primal sounds of pleasure, and he puts his mouth against the back of your neck, bites down hard like you’re an animal he’s forcing to submit.

“Settle, settle; just let me fuck you, let me come inside. You’re no match for me, sweetheart.” Your eyes roll back in your head as he speaks it into your ear, as he rocks his thighs against your ass, as you can feel the muscles of his stomach flex against your lower back. He uses your body, truly, every inch of it covered and compressed by the weight of him, forcing your breasts and clit to rub against the comforter; any one thing he’s doing would be enough, but all of it combined is almost too much, and you whimper, desperate, needy. “Too weak to do anything but let yourself be fucked, aren’t you? Whether or not we come is up to me.”

“Mmh, yes sir,” you breathe, and he leans in to bite the back of your neck again, possessive and rough. It sends a wave of arousal through your whole body, makes your pussy throb and ache. “Oh, god. Please, please make me come. Please use me to come.” Your voice is high, eager, so unlike you’ve ever heard it before that it somehow only adds to your pleasure.

“Using you, baby,” he groans in your ear, thrusting faster, harder, the fleshy smack of your thighs as he fucks and the wetness of your cunt as you take him in filthy and amazing. “I’ll make you come, I’ll come in you, if you promise to be a good girl for me. Are you a good girl?”

God, he’s really going to make you say this. Being a sweet, subservient girl is not in your nature, but it could be, for him. You’d be anything he wants you to be.

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, and he lifts one hand off of yours and puts it on the side of your head, pressing your cheek against the bed while he fucks you.

“Louder.”

“Yes, sir.” Your voice is louder, but less convincing, and he trails his lips over the curve of your ear, sinks his teeth into your exposed throat.

“Louder.” He punctuates it with a hard, almost brutal snap of his hips, and you can feel your orgasm so close, try not to become so focused on the feeling that you miss out on all the rest.

“Yes, sir, I’m a good girl. Please, please.” He picks up the pace, crushing you against the bed, beneath his weight, and you are sweaty, breathless, out of control—perfect.

“Yes you are, and you’re going to come for me.” Soft lips brush over the stinging bites he left on your neck, and he swipes his tongue over them, soothes them. “Who are you going to come for?”

“You, sir,” you gasp, body tensing, pussy clenching, and he groans.

“Who are you going to come for? I need a name, baby.” You whimper, moan, wish you could kiss him, taste him, and when you come it is violent, lengthy, gripping your whole body and dragging it somewhere you’ve never been.

“Aaron—oh, god, I’m coming for you, Aaron. Please, please.” Your eyes water as he fucks you through it, pumping deep until he spills inside you, panting that’s right, easy, just like that in your ear until he’s spent.

He settles on top of you, and the layer of sweat between you should feel disgusting, but it just makes you feel closer to him, like a good girl, like you earned the reminder of how hard you both worked, how hard you came.

He is all sweet kisses and gentle hands, asking if you are alright, praising your performance, your body; it feels so good, his velvet voice wrapping around you, his heavy body pressing down on yours.

You shower after that, so you can sleep; notorious insomniac that you are, he chuckles in your ear when you start to drift off in his arms almost instantly after he gets you both situated in bed. You wake to gentle hands sweeping over your body. You are bruised where he held you down, sore all over in the very best way; you hum at his touch, turn to face him so you can collect soft, sleepy kisses. You drape your arm over his stomach, bury your face in his chest, and he rubs his hand over the back of your neck where you are bitten and raw and claimed. It turns you on—the feel, the memory, the implication—and he lays you back against the bed, puts a pillow under your ass, then settles between your legs and kisses your mouth.

“Going to make you feel really good, baby. Just do as I say, be a good girl, and I promise I’ll make you come.” You nod, tired but horny and ready to do as he says, and he leans up over you, wraps his hands around your shoulders, hooks his chin against your neck. His weight is pressing down on you again, but this time it’s different, sweeter and more intimate. You smile softly, wet your lips.

He slides inside you, maneuvers your legs up over his thighs, and rocks upward, his pelvis lined up in such a way that it rubs right over your clit. You moan, wrap your arms around his back, roll your hips while he grinds against you, pumping shallowly inside but, more importantly, stimulating your clit with each stroke.

“Aaron,” you sigh, holding him tightly while he moves against you, and you throw your head back, gasp and groan while his heavy body glides over yours, while he breathes roughly in your ear.

“Yes, baby. Feels good? Want your sweet pussy to feel good, after I was rough last night.”

“Yes, sir, feels good.” It leaves your mouth as a groan as he humps against you right over your clit, as he tilts his head to kiss you softly below your ear.

“Not sir right now, just Aaron.” You hum, clutch him tighter, move against him, feel the tip of his cock come so close to slipping out just to have it pushed carefully back inside.

“Feels really good. I’m close.” He grinds a little faster, body rolling harder against yours, and you shudder, dig your nails in, and climax, easy and slow and delicious. He praises you even though, again, you didn’t do much, then leans up on his forearms and pushes in fully, thrusts quick and deep. “Mmm, yeah. Want your come.” You pull him close for a kiss, grip his shoulders hard while he fucks you fast, desperate.

You kiss his arms when he comes, panting and gorgeous over you, and when he collapses onto you you wrap your arms and legs around him, hold him tightly, and hum.

“What are you thinking about, baby?” he asks, knows that sound, and you press your lips to his shoulder.

“Just thinking how nice this is. How I like that last night isn’t all you want from me.” He makes eye contact, smooths your hair back, brushes a kiss against your mouth.

“I want anything—everything. I think we could be really good together, despite our differences… if that’s something you want.” You nod, smile softly, and he reciprocates, leans in for more easy kisses. “One thing, though: when I tell you to stay behind me, stay behind me.” Your smile melts into a scowl.

“You wouldn’t tell Derek to stay behind you!”

“Why are you comparing yourself to Derek? Why are you comparing at all, I told you—”

“I know what you told me, and it’s bullshit, so forgive me if I—”

“I don’t forgive you, actually, and if you keep talking back to me—”

“What are you going to do?” He demonstrates. It’s extremely effective. You still don’t stay behind him when he tells you to.

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #prompt #unicornprancing

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belphies-cuhm-sluht · 4 years ago

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Hey... It's my first time requesting here, so here goes. Could you make a scenario in which the reader and Belphie had a baby? I saw you Lucifer one and it got me wondering how it would be like with Belphie.

Without You (Belphegor x F!Reader)

WARNING (Pregnancy, Children, Babies, Slight NSFW, ANGST)

A child was the last thing he wanted, literally the last thing, it was at the very bottom of his to-do list written in the tiniest print, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t even his handwriting. He had turned you down every single time you brought it up, and it was quite easy to turn it down, finding any and every reason for you and him not to have a child together. His main reason was quite simple, and very selfish. He didn’t want to share you, not even with his own child. He wanted you all for himself, he wouldn’t have some tiny, whatever the hell it would even be, taking your time away from him. That would be unacceptable. Think of all the naps the two of you would miss out on! Ridiculous, it would just be ridiculous.

There was also a small part of him, very small due to the fact that he didn’t really worry much about it at all, but it was always in the back of his mind, of what would happen if you did try to carry his child. He was a demon, and any child by him would obviously be part him, maybe even more, he didn’t know how potent his seed was. Of course, nothing had happened yet, and he had filled your womb many times before, so that worry was shoved to the furthest part of his brain. Nothing to worry about, there hadn’t been a mistake yet, and he was 99.999% sure that there wouldn’t be any mistakes made at all.

He hadn’t been thinking ahead though, and one important thing had slipped his mind completely. Breeding Season. You hadn’t even known about it at all, he didn’t feel the need to tell you, he thought that he would be able to keep control of himself long enough to keep you safe from himself. His plan proved futile, and his animalistic nature had taken over completely. It wasn’t his fault though, it was just how he was, who he was… what he was. He, in a way, completely blacked out. You were pinned to the bed in less than a second, your clothes torn to shreds and discarded onto the floor as he completely ravaged you, slamming into you, making sure his tip pierced through your womb with each and every thrust, filling your womb over and over with his seed. By the time he was done with you, you were a bruised, crying, cum filled mess. There was no comfort afterwards, no aftercare, nothing. Just the sounds of his light snoring next to you as you weakly crawled out of the bed, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

Days passed, and shortly days turned to weeks, and you still refused to talk to him. Why would you talk to him? You were terrified, and rightfully so. What had happened to you was traumatic, almost as traumatic as him killing you. Now he had two things to feel guilty for, but you still talked to him after he had killed you, so why wouldn’t you listen to his reasoning now? “Let her be.” “Give her time, Belphegor.” Everyone always had something to say, but none of them truly understood. He didn’t like being away from you, especially not for this long. You wouldn’t even respond to his texts, you wouldn’t even read them. Were you really that scared of him? Did you really hate him that much? He didn’t really care, he would stand outside your door all day, even going as far as to bring down his pillow and his blanket, napping right outside your room. He would wait there as long as it took for you to open that damn door and talk to him. He understood that it didn’t make sense to you, but the least you could do is give him a chance to try to make it make sense to you.

Finally, after almost a month of you not talking to him at all, you finally went to him. It felt like forever, and hearing your voice say his name, it sounded�� heavenly. You were finally giving him a chance, a chance to explain, a chance to make you understand. He knew it would be hard, but even now you still seemed scared of him. It only made it harder, all he wanted to do was reach out to you and pull you into his arms and tell you that it would all be okay. For a couple of weeks after it even seemed like everything was okay. He had explained everything to you, and you were slowly coming back to him, letting him touch you again, letting him kiss you again, and he would thank the dark Devildom sky every morning when he’d wake up and see you curled up next to him. He had messed up twice, almost lost you twice, he wasn’t about to screw up a third time.

That was the problem though, he thought that the third mistake would never happen, not even realizing that the third mistake was already taking place, making its home in your womb. He was so happy that you were finally talking to him again, overjoyed that you had, in a sense, let him back into your life. All he wanted to do was forget about what had happened all together, move on from it, leave it behind the both of you like a bad nightmare. It would have been too easy though, he would have been too lucky if that were the case. If he just got to move on from what he had done and still have you. Luck was never on his side, and there were always two sides to every coin.

There were no changes, not for a while, no changes that he would have picked up on immediately. Sure, you were sleeping a lot more, but he just attributed that to you being around him so much. Plus, he didn’t really have a problem with it, you were constantly with him, always next to him, it’s not something that he would complain about. Then you started eating more, bringing bowls of ice cream up to the bed with you, crying into the bowl as you scrolled through your D.D.D. He didn’t get it, and he didn’t really know who to ask. Beel had no answers for him, but he’d supply you with food whenever you asked for it. He could get used to your strange eating habits, and he even got used to you crying at almost everything… you were just emotional. When you started throwing up every morning when you woke up, that’s when he started getting worried. He was panicking actually, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you. Had you gotten sick? He didn’t know how you would have gotten sick though, you were constantly with him, and he was never sick.

Soon enough the physical changes started coming, the small bulge in your abdomen that was never there before. He knew he had never seen it before, he noticed everything, he could pick up any change in your body. It wasn’t just visual, he could feel it when he held you close, rubbing his hand over your stomach which seemed to soothe you more now. He tried to write it off as your eating, maybe you were just eating too much. He didn’t bring it up to you, you were already so emotional, he didn’t want to upset you even more, so he just questioned it mentally, paying more attention to you as the days passed.

It happened one night as you were laying next to him, snoring quietly, his hand rubbing over your stomach as he always did. Your abdomen had grown much more from when he first noticed the change, but he was still writing it off as your eating, you were eating way more now than even before. That’s when he felt it, something moving beneath your skin, almost like it was pressing up against his hand. Your body reacted to it, rolling over onto your back with a smack of your lips, he would have thought it was adorable had he not been silently freaking out. What the fuck was that?

He couldn’t keep quiet about it anymore, he had to ask you, he had to bring it up. That was the first night in a long time that he had actually lost sleep, his mind focusing only on his hand that was still laying on your stomach, waiting to feel the slightest movement. As soon as you woke up he asked. He didn’t have time to wait, he was panicking even more now. “Did you eat something bad? Did Beel give you raw meat? Did you eat raw meat? Did you go anywhere without me?” The last question seemed stupid, he knew that you hadn’t left the house, let alone left his side since he got you back. He was worried though. Was it a worm? Was it a parasite? He didn’t know, but whatever it was had to be taken care of immediately.

You didn’t have time to answer any of his questions before pushing yourself out of the bed and running into the bathroom. He held your hair away from your face, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you retched into the bowl. That’s when he sensed it… almost… smelled it… it was different, but not too far off from the smell of him and you mixed together. It was familiar but unique at the same time, he didn’t like it. As soon as he knew you were done he carefully pulled you up off the floor and led you into the bedroom, laying you carefully on the bed. “I need you to be honest with me, Y/N. What the hell is going on?” He hadn’t raised his voice at you, only letting show through his tone his genuine concern. He didn’t understand why you started crying, only reaching out to grab you, pulling you onto his lap as you cried on his shoulder.

That’s when you started telling him between choked out hiccups and loud sniffles that you didn’t really understand what was going on, that you just blamed the changes on the Devildom at first. Then the real changes started happening, and you caught on, everything finally adding up in your head, but you were too scared to tell him, scared that he’d hurt you again, and that killed him. You were scared of him, scared to talk to him, scared to tell him what was going on… you didn’t trust his rationale, and why should you? He had hurt you twice, what would make you think that he wouldn’t hurt you again if you told him something that he didn’t like. He tried to stay calm, keep his composure for you, but inside he was freaking out. He was pissed, pissed at himself, angry that he had even allowed this to happen. He was pissed at Lucifer, for allowing him to get to you, for not protecting you when he had gone through his season. That’s surely when it must have happened. Not only had Lucifer not protected you, he hadn’t even told Belphie that this kind of thing was possible, and now… here you were, proving the impossible to be possible.

The problem wasn’t just that it had happened in the first place, the bigger problem was that he knew you wouldn’t allow him to get rid of it, and he knew just how to do it too. If you didn’t mean so much to him he would do it while you were sleeping… but you were everything to him. He cared about you, he wanted you to be happy, he didn’t want to lose your trust again. So… he did what he never thought he’d be able to do. He thought of the good aspects of it, and while there were very few pros to what was going on, at least with his seed growing inside of you everyone would know not to go near you, at least they should know. He didn’t expect the instinct to protect it would kick in, but he found himself growling at anyone that even came close to you or your stomach, and he only realized how bad it really was when Beel came to bring you food and he damn near bit Beels hand off.

Watching it grow, watching you grow with it, that’s what scared him the most. He knew it would be strong, how could it not be? The thing was part of him, a literal demon spawn and it could hurt you, rip through you at any point. There was no way to tell how big it actually was or what it was doing, he could only see the movements through your stomach and attempt to measure it by rubbing over your stomach. He could tell it was bigger, as it would be, but that only made him worry more. Would it have horns like him? Would it even care enough about you to be careful with its movements? He had no way of knowing, he could only hope. Hope that the thing, the child, loved you as much as he did.

Months passed, and while most men found it beautiful to see their woman carrying their child, he found it terrifying. It didn’t take long for him to realize that not only did the child have horns, it also kicked like a bull, it was just like him and he hated that. He couldn’t stand to look at your stomach, it was almost painful to see the purple and yellow blotches that covered your skin, knowing that it was his fault, that he had caused this. He would try to clear them up every day, only for the beast inside you to kick just as hard, creating darker bruises, almost as if it were mocking him. It wasn’t just seeing what it did to you, it was watching you try to cover up your pain, pretend that everything was fine as you clenched your teeth together, rubbing your hand over your stomach in an attempt to calm the monster down. He hated it, and he hated himself for doing it to you.

What hurt him the most though… was actually thinking that you would make it. He had done everything he could to try to make you comfortable, to make it easier on you because you were so damn persistent, so dead set on carrying this thing that you would kill yourself in the process. He knew it was a possibility, but he had never actually thought of it happening. You had already made it this far and while, yes, you were exhausted, and you were being beaten from the inside, you were still breathing. You were still going. It was so close to the end, you only had to wait a little while longer, but the monster had different plans. They always do, but not even he, a monster himself, could have planned for it to happen the way it did. No one would have been ready for it.

Everything was calm, too calm. You had finally dozed off, and for once you actually looked… peaceful. The thing had finally stopped moving, almost as if it had decided to take a nap itself, and he thought that he’d be able to get some sleep in. It had been so long since he had actually taken a nap, a decent nap where he didn’t wake up almost immediately to the sound of you gasping or crying silently when the thing would kick you. He should have known better, he should have known something was about to happen, the calm before the storm, he should have woken you up, he should have gotten the thing out of you sooner… but he was too late. He was always too late.

It wasn’t a gasp, it wasn’t even a cry… your scream had startled him awake, he knew that scream, he had heard it before, it just wasn’t a scream that he ever thought he’d hear from your lips. His eyes were still clouded with sleep as he sat up and looked at you, and for once he wished that he hadn’t slept, that he hadn’t given himself that small joy, because now the greatest joy he had ever known was being taken from him. He knew that much, watching the blood stain through Beels shirt, the only shirts that even fit you at this point. It wasn’t only coming through the shirt though, it was oozing from between your lips as your breaths came out in choked off gurgles. He didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t even find his voice to call for help, to call for anyone. It was as if he was stunned into silence, watching it all happen, your eyes wide with panic and fear met his own that mirrored the same emotion.

Your scream had alerted the brothers, and they all came rushing into the room, but there was nothing anyone could do, what were they supposed to do? His eyes never left yours, even as the beasts horns, horns that looked exactly like his own, ripped through your chest with the most god awful squelching as skin and muscle was torn. Most of his brothers left at that point, even Beel could barely stand to stick around and watch, but he still stayed longer than the others. For emotional support or just to say his own goodbyes to you, he wasn’t quite sure, but he didn’t blame him for leaving. The only one who stayed was Lucifer, helping to rid your body of the beast that had destroyed you, the monster that had taken you so carelessly away from him.

Lifeless eyes stared up at him now, the sheets and blankets stained with your blood. It was quiet, eerily quiet, the silence was deafening and he hated it. At least he thought he did, until he heard the child crying. What right did it have to cry? He hated it, he didn’t want to see it, he didn’t want to hear it, he just wanted to have you back. He would do anything to bring you back, but he knew he would never get that option, he would never get that choice. He had screwed up, it was his third mistake, and now he had really lost you.

Everyone went on as if it had never happened. It was easy for them, but it killed him to see his brothers act as if you were nothing more than a mere visitor who had passed through. The only one who understood his pain was Beel, and not only did he understand, but he helped. Belphie wasn’t the greatest father, he wasn’t the best, he wasn’t even close to being a good father, but he tried. Not for the child, but for you, because he knew that’s what you would have wanted him to do.

He was never quite sure about how much time had passed, he relived that day every single day. In his mind, it was as if it had only happened yesterday, always fresh in his memory. Days could have been weeks and months could have been years and he would have never noticed. Not even the growing of his son helped mark the passing of time. Everything was a blur to him, without you there, he felt he had no reason. The only reason he even got out of bed at this point was for his son who he could barely even glance at without feeling a mixture of anger and sadness. He didn’t want the kid, but he looked so much like you, he hated that the child was the only living piece of you that he had left.

Days went on, and every day was the same. It was like a constant loop, feed the kid, keep the kid occupied, put the kid to sleep. It never ended, it never changed. He was laying on the floor, on the verge of passing out when his son pushed himself off the floor and walked to the door just as the knock came, pointing at it with a smile. “Mama?”

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hartigays · 4 years ago

Note

Rafebarry Prompt for you! So what about some of Barry’s pals being over at the trailer and they’re all just like “Damn Bro” at seeing Rafe (who’s just living his best chaotic life, being Barry’s housewife/partner in crime) and Barry’s just all smug about it like “Yeah. I’m hittin’ that. Be jealous.”

tw: mature themes (drug use, sexual implications) and some homophobic language (just a comment from some loser tho)

rafe’s bike tears through swampy grass and dirt with a vengeance as he pulls into barry’s front yard, leaving tire marks in his wake.

when he pulls off his helmet, the first thing he sees are people spilling in and out of the trailer. people rafe doesn’t recognize - some of them attractive, even.

which is… infuriating, to put it lightly.

barry clearly hadn’t felt the need to keep rafe in the loop, inviting him over without informing him that half of the cut would be in attendance as well.

like, seriously, what the fuck? rafe had thought - well. he’d intended to come here to pick up some blow, and maybe, possibly, perhaps let barry have his way with him while he’s at it.

barry can’t have his way with him if half the population of north carolina is stacked up inside the trailer. and that’s just. frustrating.

rafe kind of wants to drive his bike straight through the trailer, mowing some partygoers down and end this whole shebang right here and now. but, as barry has made explicitly clear time and time again, rafe is Not Allowed to harm and/or kill people on his property.

it’s sometimes irritating, this whole thing they’ve started. this casual fling that’s maybe not-so-casual anymore considering rafe agreed to be exclusive with barry not even two days ago.

there are just. so many rules, like no maiming, or killing, or… actually, that’s about it. but that’s two rules too many. rafe doesn’t like rules, or being told what he can or can’t do.

barry is just lucky rafe likes him. kind of. sort of. somewhat.

otherwise, barry would be drifting along the bottom of the ocean somewhere, flesh being nibbled away at by fish and sharks and the like.

rafe flings his helmet towards his bike, not bothering to see if it landed anywhere convenient, before storming across the yard and shoving himself through a cluster of people to get inside the trailer.

barry is sitting on the couch, all sorts of people surrounding him, looking like he’s already fucked up beyond belief.

which is also annoying, because he was supposed to get fucked up beyond belief with rafe, then mandhandle rafe into bed to have his wicked way with him. like always.

“ayy, country club!” barry practically shouts over the noice, his accent even thicker and more drawn out than usual. “you made it!”

“yeah, barry, i made it,” rafe snaps, then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

look, he’s not against parties or anything. actually, he’s quite in favor of them. he just… did not plan for his day to go like this.

rafe wanted barry’s full attention, which is now virtually impossible given the amount of bodies that are currently filling the room.

barry just looks at rafe with glazed eyes, leaning back casually against the couch cushions. “aw, don’t you go pouting on me ‘n shit, rafe cameron. ain’t you always down for a party or some shit like that?”

“a little heads up would’ve been nice,” rafe tells him, his temper rearing it’s ugly head again and bleeding into his voice. “look, can i just get my shit so i can get out of here?”

rafe moves around the coffee table, elbowing a few drunk idiots out of his way as he does. barry eyes him as he comes closer, before suddenly swinging one arm out and wrapping it around rafe’s waist. he ropes rafe in close enough that rafe stumbles a bit over barry’s feet, sprawling right into his lap.

“see, ain’t that more like it, country club?” barry purrs, his lips pressed against rafe’s ear.

rafe feels a shiver rocket down his spine, but also a flare of anxiety.

barry is certainly fucked up beyond comprehension, and they haven’t exactly talked about making their relationship public. rafe has no idea if this is something barry will regret in the morning and end up cutting rafe off.

but to be fair, if barry did wake up and decide to tell rafe to fuck off, rafe would probably just kill him. he might just kill him anyway, just because he feels like it.

and since barry’s inevitable death is hurtling towards them at breakneck speed, rafe might as well enjoy barry’s final moments while he can.

so he lets barry kiss him, full on the mouth, on display for the hundred or so other people milling about the room.

rafe, regrettably, makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat when he feels barry’s tongue dip into his mouth, sweeping across his own.

regrettably, because some fucking weird ass next to barry leans in close to watch. rafe can see the movement out of the corner of his eye.

but barry isn’t deterred. he might be a little encouraged, even, because he deepens the kiss even more, pressing in so close that rafe feels like they could crawl inside of each other and form one cohesive nightmare of a person.

“ain’t peg you for a fag, barry,” the guy comments, his words slurring. he burps after he speaks, and barry detaches his lips from rafe to look over at the source of the noise.

“the fuck you just say to me?” barry snaps, digging his fingers into rafe’s hips to keep him in place when rafe moves to get up, ready to just slit this guy’s throat and be done with it. “ain’t you in my damn house, fuckass? who the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to?”

“hey, man, didn’t mean no offense,” the guy says, raising his hands in mock surrender before burping again. “jus’ askin’.”

“getcho’ dumbass out my house, bro,” barry tells him, removing one hand from rafe’s hips for only a moment, just to shove the guy out of his seat.

the still nameless man just shrugs, gulping down the remnants of his beer before getting up and disappearing into the crowd.

“i think you guys are cute,” a girl giggles from where she’s seated, across from the couch rafe and barry are currently planted on.

barry looks up at rafe, and it’s almost fond and god, that’s disgusting. rafe wants to soak himself in it, let it marinate until it’s deeply ingrained in every fiber of his being.

“sho’ are,” barry agrees with her, still looking up at rafe. he’s got one hand beneath rafe’s shirt now, nails raking over his back.

rafe shudders, wishing he could dissolve every person in this room right this very moment so he can curl up inside barry and make a home there.

“gotta say, ‘m a little jealous, man,” some other guy pipes up from barry’s other side.

rafe looks over at him, one brow arched, finding the guy staring right back as he hits some sort of pipe.

probably filled with meth, based on the state of the guy’s teeth.

classy.

“guess you just gon’ have to be jealous, then,” barry tosses back, not bothering to spare the guy a glance before returning his mouth to rafe’s.

the party comes and goes, faster than rafe anticipated, but that maybe can be attributed to the fact that barry keeps rafe glued to him at all times, practically devouring him every chance he can get, and showing him off to every person who happens to look their way.

rafe will admit, it’s a little satisfying, knowing how proud barry is to have staked his claim. he’s surprised that he’s so okay with barry being so possessive of him, too.

rafe cameron normally does not like the idea of being owned by anyone or anything. at least, he hadn’t up until now.

at this point, he’s pretty sure he’d let barry put a dog collar on him that reads property of barry the coke dealer, without complaint.

now, lounging in barry’s bed, sweat-soaked and panting, rafe sparks a blunt. he takes a long hit and passes it to barry.

“you did this on purpose,” rafe says, knowingly.

barry just grins up at the ceiling like a shark, shrugging as he hits the blunt.

“you’re pretty, rafe cameron. and you’re mine,” barry tells him, passing the weed back. “what’s it hurt to show off a little? you ain’t die or nothing.”

“never said it was a bad thing,” rafe snorts. “just maybe give me a little warning next time you plan to parade me around as your trophy wife.”

“like you ain’t get off on all them people talking ‘bout how jealous they are that i get to have you.”

barry has a point, rafe will admit. not out loud, mind you, but still. in the quiet of his mind, where no one else can hear, he agrees with barry wholeheartedly.

“can you blame them? i mean, look at me,” rafe says with a snooty little sniff, running a hand along his jaw. “you landed yourself a masterpiece. people are gonna notice.”

“you so damn full of yourself, country club,” barry snorts. “imma have to knock that ego down a peg. i been too nice to you.”

“says the guy whose ego grew ten times larger just by being a show-off about his boyfriend.”

barry rolls over onto his side, watching rafe hit the blunt with heavily-lidded eyes. “boyfriend, huh? ain’t we a bit old for that?”

“you literally called me your boyfriend like, fifty times today. do not even- ”

barry shuts him up mid-sentence by taking the blunt from rafe’s hand and putting it out on the ashtray next to the bed, tangling his fingers in rafe’s hair, and pulling him in for a kiss that’s all tongues and teeth.

rafe wanted to finish his sentence, had planned on finishing it, but barry doesn’t give him the chance. not with the way he’s kissing him right now.

within a matter of moments, rafe forgets what he was planning to say in the first place. but whatever, he’s fucking tired, barry feels good and smells good and tastes good. so what if he’s a trophy wife, so what if he may or may not get off on people being jealous that barry gets to date him. to own him.

it’s all arbitrary.

instead of figuring out what he was going to say, rafe breaks away from barry’s lips, fastening his mouth to barry’s neck and biting down.

his teeth sink in deep, and he hopes with everything he has left in him that it leaves a scar.

#rafebarry #outer banks #hope u enjoy!#my fics #ask #goodnightandbillyrobicheaux

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snipsnsnailsnwerewolftales · 4 years ago

Text

Blue Moon - Part 5

A/N: See masterlist for prompts used. (And the list of amazing people who have helped me with this.) This one gets kinda heavy again. Don’t blame me! Blame the season! But you might wanna recheck the warnings on the masterlist just to be sure, and know the Sourwolf lovin’ and content is coming! (And hope to high heaven that Jennifer Blake isn’t here to stay. Please. Release the Sourwolf, Ma’am.)

I do not own Teen Wolf or it’s characters. Sadly.

Warnings: See Masterlist

Word count: 3,693

Xxx

“You two are idiots!” you hissed after Isaac and Boyd as they made their way down the sidewalk in front of the McCall house, back toward Stiles’ waiting Jeep.

“Today would be nice!” Stiles hollered from behind the steering wheel, his fingers drumming impatiently while he waited. “I only agreed to do this because I owe Scott, and my car is already starting to smell like dog, so can we please move this along so I’m not late for school?”

Climbing into the backseat and sliding over to make room for your packmates, you reached forward and whacked the back of Stiles’ head. “No dog jokes.”

“You didn’t have to follow us, you could have stayed in the car with Stiles like you were when we got here.”

You leveled a glare on Isaac as he smirked at you from the seat opposite you. “I had to get out of the front seat anyway, so I figured I would see what the idiocy was all about.”

Boyd let out a snort from the passenger seat and shook his head gently, despite his small grin, before he turned and looked out the front passenger window. He didn’t talk much, especially since Erica, but he was always listening. That’s why he was always one step ahead.

You smiled at him briefly before Isaac snapped in front of your face, making you scowl in his direction again. “Go to school, Y/N. No need for you to be at the loft any more than you need to.” After hearing about what you saw the night they were all trapped at the motel, they had all been for you not going back there unless it was necessary. They didn’t exactly want to go, either, but their frustrations with Derek could wait for a time when everyone’s imminent safety wasn’t at stake.

“I still don’t totally get your plan, but I hope you don’t all wind up dead.” You shuddered. “This could go badly so many different ways….”

“Be optimistic, Y/N!” Stiles protested, looking at you in the rearview mirror as he pulled up in front of the loft. He turned in his seat to meet your gaze after putting the car in park, letting the engine idle. “If their plan works, hopefully you can move back to the loft once this all settles and get out of my hair.”

You ruffled his hair as you made your way out after your packmates, smiling at his cries of protest, and hesitating before fully getting into the passenger seat. Turning around you gave Isaac a hug, ignoring his groan and awkward back pat in return. “Just don’t do anything stupid.” Turning to Boyd, you wrapped him in an embrace, which he surprisingly returned. “I need you guys.”

“We need you, too, Y/N.” Boyd was even smiling when he pulled away, holding on to your shoulders. “Which is why you have to go to school and cover for us.” He turned you and gave you a gentle squeeze on the shoulders before lightly shoving you into the Jeep. “Remember what we told you to say?”

You grimaced. “Yes. Do I have to?”

“Only if you want this plan to work,” Boyd smirked.

“Fine,” you huffed, shutting the door, and leaning out the window to finish the conversation.

“And be as descriptive as possible,” Isaac snickered, and you glared at them both before it melted into a small laugh.

“You owe me. Big time.” Turning to Stiles, you saw that he had just finished fixing his hair, and it took all you had not to reach out and mess it up again.

“Don’t even.” Stiles held up a finger in warning at you.

“I didn’t do anything!” you cried, grinning.

“You thought it, and you know it, and lying is not a good attribute, Y/N.”

You turned and waved at your two friends, smiling as they chuckled and turned toward the loft, Stiles putting the Jeep into gear and pulling off in the opposite direction.

Xxx

The rest of the day happened in a whirlwind, coming to a screeching halt as you rounded the last set of stairs up to the loft.

You heard a scuffle, then suddenly the loft seemed to emit what looked like lightning. The twins left Jennifer by the door and walked inside, their footsteps sounding like they were walking through water. Isaac quickly leapt to Jennifer’s side and held her close.

You slowly approached the door, feeling as if you weren’t really living what you were seeing. To your horror, you heard Kali yell something, the twins sloshing around to grab Derek and force him into submission like a disobedient puppy. They forced his claws to stay extended, and Kali lifted Boyd up and onto them, the only noise a soft groan as his abdomen was pierced.

You saw Derek break. You felt it.

Kali said something, you weren’t paying attention, and she exited the loft with the twins, stopping and rolling her eyes when she had to step around you because you wouldn’t move. You couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the spot. You stared at the twins as they passed you in the hall with a sneer. Keeping your head high, eyes narrowed at them, you waited until they were down several flights of stairs before you let out the breath you were holding.

A small smirk worked its way up your face knowing you’d gotten under the Alpha Pack’s skin, but it quickly vanished as you looked back up and to the loft doorway, where Isaac held a terrified looking Jennifer.

Even if she was lying about everything, she sure played the distress convincingly. Enough that you doubted some of what you knew to be true.

He met your gaze over her head, gently shaking his head to tell you what was waiting in the loft wasn’t good.

Boyd and Derek were exchanging some faint conversation, and while you wanted to rush and help, the moment felt special, almost sacred, and you didn’t want to break that.

Only moments later Boyd fell to the floor, and you heard no heartbeat from your fallen friend. A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you turned your gaze to Derek to see him staring at his hands as they shook in front of him.

Stiles, Lydia, and Cora all rushed past you, Lydia hovering in the doorway. Brushing past Jennifer and Isaac on the threshold of the loft, you stilled once again a few steps in at the scene you were met with.

Cora lay sobbing over Boyd’s body. Derek knelt right beside him, his hands covered in blood and held in front of him as if he didn’t recognize them as his own, or didn’t want to. Stiles was behind Derek, hand on his shoulder in comfort. No words were exchanged, the only sounds were Cora sobbing, Derek’s ragged breathing, and the water covering the loft floor lapping at any movement.

As if he could sense you, Derek snapped his head your way, looking you over from the ground up as if to make sure you were okay, before landing on your eyes and finally holding your gaze firmly. Something swirled in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen in months, since before you were turned.

You had been a long term resident of Beacon Hills and had met the Hale family on several occasions growing up, enough to know when Peter was scheming and to know Derek’s wide array of moods. This is one you’d only seen once before the fire, and anytime after when the fire was brought up.

Pain. Failure. Loss. A swirl of grief stared up at you with blood stained hands.

And without exchanging a word, you walked around behind him, putting a hand on his other shoulder, mirroring Stiles to your side. Slowly you knelt in front of him, careful to keep your hand on his shoulder, and brought your other hand up to his cheek. Purposely putting yourself between him and Boyd, and his grieving sister, you needed him to focus on one thing at a time before it all became too much.

Reaching down with both your hands, you took hold of his, and he flinched, trying to pull them back, but you held on tightly.

“Derek,” you whispered, not trusting your own voice.

His eyes went from the floor to staring at his hands again, and finally up to you. And when he met your gaze again, you almost broke completely. But you couldn’t.

So much pain and death and in general horrible things happened around him, no matter how he tried to do the opposite. People literally used his hands to kill someone else. And despite how hard he fought, and went against everything bad, he was still the one made to take the fall.

“Derek, this isn’t your fault.” Your voice was breaking with emotion, you didn’t trust it more than the small sound it currently offered. “It was Kali and the others. You fought. You fought trying to protect them, protect everyone, and you almost did, but they played dirty.” Giving his hands a tight squeeze, you pulled them closer to your chest and saw the hesitance in his eyes. Slowly lifting them up to sit on your shoulders, you placed your hands firmly on top of his, rubbing his knuckles with your thumbs.

Smiling cautiously, you held his gaze. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Those same hands that won’t kill a spider for me are right here.” He smiled gently at the remark, and you let yourself return it. “These hands did not kill Boyd, Kali’s did.” You swallowed thickly, feeling the lump of unshed tears growing in your throat. “Now, I need you to do something for me.” His eyes darted all over your face, before holding your gaze once again with a gentle nod. “First, we have to take care of Boyd. We’ll put him by Erica? I think he would like that.” Derek nodded again after a moment of hesitation. “You know his ghost would haunt us if we didn’t.” Everyone in the pack let out a little laugh in agreement, letting tears fall unabashedly.

Pulling his hands down into the water that filled the loft, you rinsed them gently to remove the blood as best you could, speaking after a moment as you did so. “Then, after a proper send off, we need to get the water out of this loft. I have no idea how, but until then you should go stay with Peter in his apartment.”

“He can stay with me,” Jennifer offered.

Going rigid at the sound of her voice, you turned almost mechanically her way. You’d forgotten she was even here. Keeping your voice a monotone, you looked her dead in the eyes as you spoke. “I think it’s best that he’s with family right now.”

“I’ll make sure he gets there,” Cora said from behind you, sniffing loudly as her tears calmed down for the moment.

Looking over your shoulder, you smiled at her in thanks.

She returned the gesture. “I might even stay, myself. Family time, however dysfunctional, sounds nice.” You didn’t miss the way she eyed Jennifer with mild disdain, and Derek with unabashed concern.

Turning back to Derek, looking down to see his hands now clean, you turned your grip in them to hold them, fingers interlaced tightly with his, and a smirk rising on your face. “Then, this last part I know you’ll love - revenge. After we take care of Boyd, then the loft, then we plot our revenge, and get justice for our friends and everyone else they have made suffer.” Leaning in close to his face, you whispered, “And that includes you.” Giving his hands a final squeeze, you rose to your feet, pulling him with you.

Despite everything, you saw a glimmer of the old Derek shining through, and it was enough to give you hope again. That maybe Jennifer hadn’t totally brainwashed him. And she wouldn’t. Not if you could help it.

Xxx

Pulling up in front of the Stilinski house yet again, you sat in silence as Stiles put the Jeep in park, turned off the engine, and just stared out the front windshield blankly without saying a word.

You eyed him from the passenger seat, the silence tense, and the small popping sounds of the engine as it cooled down nearly made you jump each time. Steeling your resolve, you reached a hand over to place on Stiles’ forearm. He flinched gently away, but allowed the gesture with a sigh, placing his other hand firmly over yours with a soft pat. “It’ll be okay, Stiles. This sucks, I know, but we have to be there for each other. I lost him, too. Don’t shut me out.” You choked on the sadness that had been building in your throat, swallowing the small lump down, daring it to break you. You could only manage a small, wavering whisper after that. “Don’t you dare, Stiles.”

Patting your hand once again, Stiles smiled tightly, his voice heavily sarcastic. “Yeah, it’ll be okay, Y/N. We’ll be fine. I’ll just add it to my list of trauma from this week and move on. Sound good? Okay.”

Pulling away from your grasp, he opened the door and got out of the car, slamming it shut behind him. The action was so violent for Stiles, it made you jump.

He had only gotten this way a few times in the years you had known him, one of those being when his mom died. It was never easy to watch, and sometimes harder to handle, but grief had a way of doing that. And you weren’t about to let grief dictate this evening. At least, not anymore than it already had.

Climbing out of the Jeep slowly, shutting the door quietly, you followed your friend to where he held the front door open for you, his face a tight line, his gaze downcast and far away.

He gestured you through with a stilted motion, but you stood at the bottom of the steps looking up at him. Shifting your weight side to side, the squelching sound of your waterlogged shoes finally became too much in the awkward silence, so you reached down and slipped them off, holding them limply at your side on the tips of your fingers.

You’re not sure how long you both stood there, but it felt like an eternity before Stiles finally took in a sharp breath. “Are you ever going to come in?”

“After we have talked.”

“We can talk inside just fine.”

“You can distract yourself inside just fine.” Stiles let out a loud breath through his nose, looking away from you again. “We need to talk first.”

He let go of the handle and took the few steps down to where you were. “Look, I know what you’re doing, and I appreciate it, I really do. But we can’t talk about this out here, for a multitude of reasons.”

“So what if someone hears us?” Stiles scoffed disbelievingly. “In case you haven’t noticed, werewolves are kinda in right now. We might just become the popular kids.”

Stiles smiled despite himself, plastering his hand over your mouth. “You mean you would finally be popular. I would still be the skinny kid full of sarcastic jokes who follows you around.” You went to speak, but he wouldn’t remove his hand. “And that’s okay with me. Times like tonight, that’s just what Derek needed, a friend. Not someone with a supernatural agenda, not pity, or someone picking up on chemo signals or whatever. He just needed a hand on his shoulder to ground him, one not covered in blood, which, no offense, all of you seem to have at this point for some reason or another.”

Rain drops started to hit the top of your heads, and you looked up, blinking once or twice as it pelted your face.

“Plus, it’s raining, so……”

Stiles smirked, removing his hand, and went inside, one arm still outstretched on the handle as he waited for you, a sly grin on his face this time, his eyes meeting yours. Despite the facade, you saw his pain; tonight would haunt him for a while. Stepping up and inside, Stiles mumbled a “thank you” as you passed over the threshold past him and went directly up to his room.

“My dad is at work tonight, so we have the place to ourselves.”

“What are you suggesting?” You playfully wiggled your eyebrows. “I mean, I know grief can make you do some weird things, but…..”

Stiles held up a hand, shut his eyes, and shuddered violently. “Don’t ever-” he made a fake gagging noise- “joke about that again. I don’t need nightmares, thank you very much. I’m very successful at them on my own.”

You chuckled.

“What do you think Boyd and Erica would have to say to this situation?” You smiled ruefully, absently adjusting a pillow on Stiles’ bed.

“Oh, they wouldn’t let us hear the end of it. How we joked about it, and also, how disgusted they were at the thought of it.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “It might actually be the first thing we would agree on, come to think of it.”

Your jaw dropped, and you threw the pillow at him, which he caught with a chuckle. “You know I’m right.”

“You don’t have to be mean about it.” You cast your eyes to the side, eyeing the floor, before you flopped in the center on his bed. “You can sleep on the floor, asshole.”

“It’s my bed,” he argued.

“It’s your punishment,” you shot back.

Both of you were still in your soaked clothes, but he didn’t seem to mind. Grabbing a pair of PJs you had set out earlier in the day, he pelted them at you, hitting you square in the face. “Nice reflexes, wolf girl. Go change.”

Mocking his words in a ridiculous voice, you went to the bathroom to change, hearing him do the same, hopping around trying to get his soaked sneakers off, before he must have succeeded, only to whack himself somehow because he muttered an “ow” after a soft thud.

Walking out with your hands over your eyes, you asked, “Is it safe?” before opening them just a crack to peek with a smirk.

“Hardy, har,” he said sarcastically.

You launched back onto the bed, ready to relax, when Stiles pounced beside you and wrapped you up tight in his arms, holding your back to his chest. After the initial comfort sunk in, so did the events of the day.

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” you said quietly.

“It was a really shitty move,” he agreed.

Finally letting your tears fall, they raced silent tracks across your face and onto the pillow. You felt a dampness growing on your shoulder, Stiles’ shaking behind you as he too tried to be strong, not wanting to let it out.

Once it started, it wouldn’t stop, and you knew to Stiles that meant having to take a moment and be still, which let everything else catch up to you that you did your best to run from.

Placing your hand on top of his that rested on your abdomen, you threaded your fingers with his and clutched his hand tight, letting him know he wasn’t facing it alone. Any of it.

Giving your hand a squeeze in return, a single sob came through, and it was all you could do not to match it. But you knew he needed to get out just enough to take the edge off the pain before he bottled it up for later. It wasn’t healthy, but it was how he processed things, and that was enough for you to let him. You’d be there for the fallout later.

He sniffed loudly, cleared his throat, then rested his mouth over the damp spot on your shirt. After a few moments of silence, he mumbled into your shoulder, “Sorry about your shirt.”

You chuckled, swiping at your tears with your free hand and feeling him smile into the fabric where he stayed. “It’s okay, Stiles. Sorry about your pillow.”

This time he laughed softly, the sound making you grin.

“Please stay in here tonight. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if I’m by myself. Too much going on in here.” He gently rocked his head back and forth where it still sat on your shoulder to indicate his troubled mind.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, realizing your pun when Stiles groaned and moved his forehead to the spot on your shirt, making you giggle.

“Your jokes are the absolute worst.”

“It wasn’t intentional!”

“That’s worse!” he cried, lifting his head up to make eye contact with you as you grinned over your shoulder.

Reaching up with your free hand, you wiped away the straggling tears. His eyes bloodshot, you caught a single stray tear that escaped on the top of your thumb. Pulling it back, you smiled sadly as you stared at the tip of your finger. “Say, ‘goodnight, Boyd’.”

Stiles side eyed you.

“Whenever I was sad as a kid, my parents would wipe away my tears and tell me to say goodbye to my worries as they dried away, and to blow them away like an eyelash. I dunno. They are weird people, how do you think I came to be this way? Stop looking at me like that.”

“Goodnight, Boyd,” Stiles whispered, before blowing the tear away.

Settling into the quiet, Stiles still held you close before he spoke quietly, a smile in his voice. “Did I ever tell you about the time Boyd got us the keys to the ice rink?”

“No….”

“Or when there was a werewolf smack down on the rink while Boyd was on the…. the…. the thing that smooths over the ice?”

“No!” You laughed.

“Too bad. He was a cool dude.”

“Yeah, he was.” You smiled. “I want to know these stories, now!”

“Tomorrow, Y/N. We already said goodnight, remember? Weirdo.”

Xxx

Tags: @mayahart02, @palaiasaurus64, @shydinosaurcandy, @lucyqueenofthestars, @c-breanne1999, @l4life, @ethereallysimple, @teenwolffan-with-nolife, @bellabadacadabra, @lilostif16, @wandas-love, @emily500, @babygirl-angel-love, @c-dizzle99, @itscheybaby, @fandomsfanman, @sunsetcurvej What’s This?

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notanotherinfjblog · 2 years ago

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So many people seem to essentialize traits and attribute them to specific types. One example: infj subpage on idrlabs site. Many of these guys died before video but none of the ones who didn't look like INFJs. What sort of traits do people think INFJs have that they conclude almost every supervillan is that type?

From what I gather, they ascribe INFJs to be basically the master manipulators with extremely strong idealisms that they want to turn into truths, which is just hilarious. I literally don't agree with a single INFJ typing on that site and I find it quite sketchy that they use some quotes as "proof" that those people are this type. But what conclusions can you really draw from quotes or, more generally, words at face value? You can interpret anything into them. That's the Paulo Coelho problem, as I like to call it. So many people love typing him as an INFJ because yes, he creates stories from Ni, but that doesn't make him an INFJ. To be fair, I only ever read one of his books (The Alchemist) and these Ni visions in it seemed so incredibly on the nose and almost innocently child-like to me as an Ni-dom that I don't understand how you can seriously consider his inferior Ni to be the true essence of Ni. A lot of actual NJs (though not all of them) that create from high Ni tend to create the weirdest, most insane things you can imagine. But! Just because some artist creates insane stories etc., you can't just type them as an NJ because of that. You type people first and then what they say and do makes sense. You can't just shove people in a box based on some traits that they display the way that this site is doing. For instance, I'm an INFJ that doesn't like planning far ahead. I'd prefer booking a holiday in three days compared to booking it three months in advance. And it's hilarious to imagine that people would type me as an Se-dom based on that simple fact, not knowing that the reason for my aversion to future planning is that I was in a really bad car accident in my early 20s that shifted my perspective. Why would you make a detailed 10-year-plan when you might as well die tomorrow? That doesn't stop me from being an Ni-dom.

What I'm trying to say is, we can't read other people's minds and we can't claim authority on being adept enough at perfectly interpreting all of their words as they intended them. We never have the full picture on people's lives, so I find it more than questionable to have sites like idrlabs or 16personalities etc. typing people this way, even people that are long dead. It's arrogant. Also, it feels like these sites really underestimate just how hard it is to find famous INFJs or NJs in general really (with the exception of ENTJs), so they just take the most likely candidates. One thing to consider here is also the problem that INFJs tend to only ever let you see what they want you to see. If you ascribe INFJs to be these enigmatic idealists with greater visions of everything and only look for people that fit that description, then I guarantee that you won't find a single INFJ. Even if they are idealists with great visions, they probably won't discuss them with random strangers on television. Those people that openly and relentlessly fight and stand for what they believe in and want to change in the world, are often FPs (though certainly not exclusively!). But they are the ones then that find their way onto lists like on that website to be typed as an INFJ.

I think I derailed this post again, I'm sorry.

#ask #typing post

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iam93percentstardust · 4 years ago

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hey! i hope you’re having an amazing day. this is just me popping in your inbox to say that’s youre one of my favourite writers and you got me really interested in winteriron (honestly one of the cutest ships) are there any fics/authors ii could reccomend?

Hi there! Thank you so much! I love this ship so much, they’ve got such potential for both fluff and angst. They really are one of my favorite ships to write and I’m glad I was able to write so much for them this year. I certainly do have plenty of recs for you, starting with my favorite authors:

@riotwritesthings: started writing last year, I highly recommend just about everything Riot writes but especially Road Hazards, Melt into Me (Your Words are My Own), and When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it)

@hddnone: so many stories and all so good! Has nearly 100 Winteriron works on ao3 and you will not regret reading any of them, though fair warning that some of them are Team Cap Critical. Especially recommend Honey Pot, You’ve Got Mail, and A Bit(e) of Danger

@monobuu: mostly an artist but sometimes writes stories as well. i recommend Ravioli, Invincible Summer, and Meet the Fam

@tisfan and @27dragons: can’t make a Winteriron rec list without including the both of them. They work together a lot but you should definitely take a look at their own stuff as well. I recommend Safe and (the) Sound, Kiss Me Thru the Phone, and Stark, Naked

@ad1thi: currently taking a bit of a hiatus and working on non-Marvel works but I love everything Adi writes, particularly her entire Bollywood but Make it Gay series, which isn’t always Winteriron but wonderful nonetheless. I recommend the Greek Gods AU, 1000 Lives (For You), and we’re connected

@the-winter-writer: lots of smut and all absolutely fantastic! I like Precious Treasure, Winter Wings, and Instinct

@rayshippouuchiha: definitely an iconic writer for this fandom. Really great if you’re looking for genderbends. Writes a lot of absolutely incredible fics and not just for Winteriron but my personal favorites are The (Not So) Great Pretender, Fearful Symmetry, and The Mistletoe Kiss Polka

Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar): once again very iconic. you’ve probably read at least one of their works even if didn’t know. I recommend Shameless, Today’s Forecast, and Practice Makes Perfect

@lovelyirony: mostly writes ficlets here on tumblr and a multishipper (I don’t know why I’m saying that like it’s a bad thing, I’m a multishipper), also a fan of Sharon Carter and that’s the thing that made me follow her so you know

@amethystinawrites: I only recently started working their works but I’m loving everything I’ve come across so far. I recommend Tech Support and I Won’t Hold My Breath

AvocadoLove: also writes a lot of Stony and Stuckony, which I love a lot, but for their Winteriron works, I recommend Amalgam and Dead Man’s Switch

Dracusfyre: another one I’m new to. I literally just started reading their works today so I don’t have any recs for them yet but one of my friends loves them so I’m going to go with you should definitely take a look at their works

Eirlyssa: has some anti-Team Cap works so keep an eye out for that if that’s not your thing but writes very good Winteriron. I recommend Guide Me Home (Guide My Heart) and Always (I’ll Be There)

@imposter-human: one of the first MCU blogs I ever followed! I recommend childhood memories, speak my language, and lost in translation

As for specific works I like:

Four Strings and Second Chances by Vashoth

It was reluctance to let one of his finest inventions ever out of his grasp that made him take a couple days over a week to send the arm to Pepper’s office. But all things considered, Tony figured that sending finest prosthetic that had ever come into existence--literally grasping an olive branch--was one of the classiest gifts he’d ever given. He’d included a note and everything. ‘Barnes,

Can help with installation. Or not. Up to you. --Stark'

Who is the Mechanic? by @akira-of-the-twilight

The Asset watched as his handlers brought in a stranger—a man with a metal object stuck to his chest that was hooked to a car battery.

The handlers shoved the man onto the stool where many who had operated on the Asset’s arm in the past had sat before.

“Asset,” one handler said, “meet the Mechanic. He will be responsible for the upkeep of your arm. Should anything malfunction, kill him.”

The Asset eyed the Mechanic. The Mechanic was glassy-eyed and unresponsive.

He’d probably be dead in a week.

The Fix by SleepsWithCoyotes

Right, because Tony...Tony fixes things. He remembers thinking that, not for the first time.

Paths are Made by Walking by @potrix-the-queerschlaeger

The road to recovery is long, winding and a different one for every person walking it. Bucky chooses to help himself the only way he knows how; by doing what he does best.

Or, alternatively; the one in which Tony is a mess and accidentally kick-starts Bucky’s protective mother hen instincts.

The Evidence by StrivingArtist

Didn’t notice. Right. Sure. Two brilliant minds, two super spies, and a god didn’t notice when the chattiest man they knew stopped making sound. They just seemed happier than before. Brighter and more cheerful than before. They just seemed like they were more comfortable with him around when he was stone silent.

Fuck it.

He knew they noticed.

And he knew they liked him better this way.

Shadowed Hearts and Winter Souls by NotEvenCloseToStraight

The mid-1800s and Antonio Carbonell Stark is caught in a scandal with his lover. Desperate for a chance to escape the trouble and his own broken heart, Tony accepts a proposal from a mysterious Russian heiress and flees the country.

Natalia Romanova is in trouble of her own and has enough secrets to make Tony's head spin but somehow they settle into a fake marriage and calm day-to-day together, and everything works... until her half brother comes home and their life is disrupted again.

James is somber and silent, brutal and nearly broken and scarred, a soldier of the resistance. His heart is cold and gaze like ice, but his hands are hot and lips are warm and Tony finds himself ignoring the blood on James's palms and the shadows in his soldier’s eyes, and falling in love.

When danger lands at their doorstep, Natalia and Tony have to pack up and leave, running away in the middle of the night and leaving their men behind.

The distance between Tony and James gets longer every day, and Natalia has been keeping a secret for that can’t be hidden much longer. With no place to call home and a thousand miles between them and the men they love, what are Tony and Natalia supposed to do?

Puppy Love by Reioka

Bucky is learning to become a person again. When some guy starts crying all over Natasha's dog, he decides he's doing better than he originally thought.

Describe Your Perfect Date by ali_aliska

After getting turned down by Bucky, Tony decides it’s time to move on from his massive crush. He tries online dating—Pepper’s idea, not his—but the only thing worse than getting rejected is getting rejected and finding out your soulmate-level match is Clint Barton, all in the same day.

Clint, of course, does not let opportunities like this go to waste, but he’s driving Tony nuts for a good cause, he swears.

Bucky’s just trying to do the right thing and fails spectacularly, but it all works out in the end.

Rocket Science by marsmaywonder and orbingarrow

Sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated, grad student Tony falls asleep in a conveniently empty classroom and wakes up in the middle of Bruce’s Physics 101 course. After seeing a groggy Tony fumble a simple question, actual-student Bucky offers to tutor him. In a moment of “oh no; he’s cute” panic, Tony takes him up on it. Now, in addition to his already complicated life, Tony has to figure out the answer to the incredibly messy question: “How do you look like you’re failing the class, when you literally wrote the book?”

What’s Good for the Goose by Taste_is_Sweet

For this nonny prompt at the Imagine Tony and Bucky comm on Tumblr:

"A soulmate AU where an immortal goose shows up one day to lead you to your soulmate, the challenge is surviving the goose." (Full prompt in notes.)

We all have soulmates, and every soulmate pair shares an animal guide. The Guide is there to lead you to your One True Love, and they represent the aspects of the psyche that you both share. They appear when you're about to meet your soulmate, and often materialize in moments of great personal crisis, offering hope and support. There are stories upon stories about how someone's Guide appeared to lead them to their One True, or how the barest glimpse of their Guide eased their hearts and gave them hope in the midst of despair. The newly-rescued almost always attribute their Guide with giving them the strength and courage to hang on.

Animal Guides are ephemeral, ethereal, and elusive. They are, most often, no more than a warm presence or flicker out of the corner of one's eye. They are incarnate symbols of perseverance, optimism and hope. Foretellers of happiness, and the grand destiny of love.

Except for geese. Geese are assholes.

and so, we unfold by TheKitteh

Senbazuru. Thousand Cranes.

An ancient Japanese legend that promises anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by the gods. Some stories believe you are granted happiness and eternal good luck, instead of just one wish, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury.

Bucky’s not big on believing in any legends, not after all that has happened. He just wants to create something for a change, not destroy.

He needs to prove himself that he can be trusted to handle something delicate. He doesn’t need a promise of a wish come true. He just,- needs to do this for himself.

He doesn’t need noticing how sad, tired Stark looks. Doesn’t need to want to do something for the man, when he can barely do anything for himself. --- Tony simply goes through days and motions. He deals with the Avengers, with R&;D, with the rewritten Accords. All of it, it’s nothing new really. He just wants to get things done.

What’s new is seeing Barnes hunched over the coffee table, one step away from ripping a glossy magazine apart in the middle of the night.

And why the hell Barnes keeps looking at him during the days after like he’s a puzzle to be solved?

Welcome to the Winteriron fandom! We’ve got a lot of incredible authors and artists both and this is just the tip of the iceberg!

#alle answers #winteriron #fic recs #have a great day as well!#hold-our-destiny

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moonknightly · 5 years ago

Text

Mistakes and Sour Grapes : Modern!Poe Dameron x Reader (One)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Excerpt: “You were totally fucking staring, and he totally fucking caught you, and wait, maybe he was staring back and had his cheeks been pink the whole time?”

Warnings: Alcohol, some cursing, future parts are gonna be slutty.

I am extremelyyyyy unsure about this so if it’s a thing you guys are into, please, please let me know.

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

Bars weren’t really your thing.

Especially in a city that was typically known to be overrun with tourists at any given time of year.

They were crowded and loud, and you usually weren’t the biggest fan of the style of music blaring through nearly shot speakers, and you definitely weren’t a fan of the headache you’d often suffer with afterwards from the absurd amount of bass they deemed necessary. They smelled bad, they were dark and dingy and gross, and many patrons were less than respectful and showed little regard after knocking back a few drinks.

It really wasn’t your thing.

But you had a friend who worked as a bartender at a small brewery and local restaurant, and that was definitely more your speed, and honestly the only time you did end up sitting at a bar. Most Friday and Saturday nights, you found yourself practically drooling over a plate of delicious food and, depending on your mood, either a beer or a cocktail while making smalltalk with Finn as he worked. And most of the time, you’d end up the last customer in the building, staying late to help Finn put away glasses or wipe down the counter, partially so he could get out of there faster, but mainly because you just enjoyed spending your time there.

It was one of those nights now, where you were behind the bar, a rag in your hand as you wiped water droplets from still warm tumblers while Finn worked on the wine glasses.

“I’m telling you,” Finn said from behind you. “You’d make more money bartending here.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes playfully as you peeked over your shoulder towards him.

“I have a job,” you reminded him for the hundredth time in the last ten days. Ever since another bartender had put in their two weeks, he had been trying to convince you to put in an application.

“Yeah, a shitty one. Come on, I could move out to the beer garden, you could take over in here. It would be absolutely perfect.”

You laughed, shaking your head almost teasingly. “Perfect for your schedule maybe.”

“And for yours! Look, you hate waking up early. If you worked here, you could sleep in until noon if you wanted. And we’d be coworkers. What more could you ask for in a job?”

You rolled your eyes again, turning back to the look at the tumbler in your hand, falling back into a comfortable silence.

One that didn’t last long by any means, for Finn was apparently damned and determined.

“I mean technically, you’re already working. Might as well get paid to do it.”

“Putting away glasses is hardly working.”

“You’d get tips nightly instead of having to wait every other week for a paycheck. And did I mention you’d make more?”

“Might make more, but it’s not consistent.”

“You like the vibe up here. You like the building.”

Now there was a point that you would actually consider.

You did like the vibe.

It was laid back, relaxed while still being a more refined atmosphere. Most people who sat at the bar were corporate workers or couples, just looking to have a drink and a good meal after a long day, and the other restaurant goers were typically families.

The building itself was just a year away from turning two hundred years old, and the history behind it intrigued you to no end, including the fact that it was said to be the most haunted building in the city. That was something you were entirely into.

You hesitated, tilting your head to the side and gnawing on your bottom lip.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

His response came in the form of a bar towel snapping through the air and hitting the back of your thigh, and you yelped before dissolving into a fit of laughter, thankfully having just set the last tumbler in its place. You were pretty sure you would have dropped it had it still been in your hands.

Finn hung the last wine glass just after — his last task for the night, and you were ready to make your escape, but before you could even push back from the counter he was reaching around you for two of the tumblers you had just put away.

“Okay, we’ve gotta take a shot to celebrate, and we’re makin’ it a double.”

You laughed again, the sound completely exasperated yet so amused at the same time. “Finn, I didn’t say yes. And even if I put in an application, I’m not guaranteed to get it.”

“Oh you’re gettin’ it alright,” he snorted, shaking his head. “I’ll beg if I have to. Now what are we having?”

“You’re still on the clock.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully, whipping his head around dramatically, quite literally spinning in place, arms open wide as he gestured to the empty restaurant. “And who the hell is going to care? I’ll just put it on your tab.”

A third laugh, and a reason Finn was your best friend. He could always make you fucking laugh. You raised your hands in mock surrender.

“Now what are we having?” he repeated his prior question, quirking an eyebrow.

You thought about it for a moment, drumming your fingers along the countertop, lips pursed. “Chocolate cake shots.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“What kind of bartender are you?”

“A shitty one apparently,” he scoffed, his eyebrow raising just a fraction higher. “Now explain.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s one part vodka, one part Frangelico, and-”

“-and a sugared lemon on a sugared rim.”

You jumped, and Finn nearly dropped the glasses as a new voice echoed throughout the room, but you watched as he quickly relaxed, a look of recognition crossing over his face.

He turned slowly, the action conveying mock annoyance, and you peeked around him, glancing towards where the voice had come from.

A man with short salt and pepper curls and tanned skin was walking down the staircase, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and a smug smirk tugging at his lips. A noise caught in your throat, one you wouldn’t have even been able to begin to describe, and Finn managed to catch it, glancing back towards you for just a brief second before turning his attention back to the man approaching.

The undeniably handsome, gorgeous, breathtaking man in an olive green hoodie with the sleeves pushed up mid-forearm, a good two day’s worth of stubble covering his jaw. A small scar on his cheek. Big brown eyes.

Were you staring? Fuck, you were totally staring.

You were totally fucking staring, and he totally fucking caught you, and wait, maybe he was staring back and had his cheeks been pink the whole time?

“Of course you’re still here. Do you ever leave or did you convert one of the rooms upstairs into an apartment?”

“There’s an idea,” the man chuckled, tearing his gaze away from you, and you felt a small amount of air flood back into your lungs.

You were still staring though, blatantly so, and you couldn’t even find the shame to stop yourself. You watched as his eyes fluttered back over to you, quickly, for a mere second before he eyed the tumblers in Finn’s hand, quirking an eyebrow.

“She wanted to buy me a drink and it would’ve been rude to turn a customer down,” Finn deadpanned, and you couldn’t help but snort.

The man shrugged, leaning against the counter opposite of you. “Make it three.”

“Yes sir.”

Finn grabbed a third glass after setting the first two down, not taking his eyes off of what he was doing as he nodded towards you, saying your name.

“This is Poe Dameron, the owner. Dameron, you are now in the presence of my best friend in the entire galaxy.”

He repeated your name, and Poe smiled, pushing off the counter and extending a hand out to you.

“S’nice to meet you.”

You nodded, your cheeks suddenly feeling a touch warmer than they had been before as you took his hand in yours, shaking it firmly. “You too.”

He smiled again, nodding his head, holding onto you for just a second longer than what would be considered customary before letting go. He stayed next to you though, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced towards Finn again.

“Now, why are we taking shots?”

“Because she’s,” Finn said, pointing a finger towards you, “applying for the open bartender position.”

Poe raised an eyebrow, turning his attention towards you. “Is that right?”

Your blush only intensified as you noticed those big brown eyes of his flutter quickly over your body, just once, for just a split second. You nodded.

“Have you ever bartended before?”

“Not really,” you admitted, just a hint of a nervous edge in your voice.

Poe shrugged. “Fast learner?”

You nodded again, and Finn spoke before you had a chance to.

“And she apparently already knows more than I freakin’ do. Chocolate cake shots, what the hell?”

“Trust me,” you said, a small chuckle following.

Poe smirked again. “It tastes exactly how it sounds.”

Finn shook his head, adding the sugared lemons to the finished drinks before passing them out.

“You gotta hold the lemon juice in your mouth while you take the shot though,” you added, already taking the wedge off the rim.

Poe nodded, following your actions. “If you don’t, you’ll ruin it.”

You and Poe took your shots first, Finn watching before throwing back his own, his eyes widening in surprise as the liquid ran down his throat.

“Holy shit, you weren’t lying.”

“Have I ever led you wrong?” you laughed, wiping at a stray drop of vodka and Frangelico that ran down your chin.

You could feel Poe staring at you as you did so, and you chose to ignore it, and this time, you attributed the blush on your cheeks to the alcohol slowly moving through your veins.

You reached for Poe’s glass, grabbing Finn’s as well before moving to clean them, just as an excuse to put a little distance between you and Poe. You heard the two of them quietly talking, about what, you didn’t know, couldn’t hear over the running water, and only when the glasses were clean and back in their place did you tune back in.

“Where’s Bee?”

Poe shrugged. “She’s around here somewhere.”

“Who’s Bee?” you asked, tilting your head to the side, looking between the two men in front of you.

“His lady,” Finn chuckled, his answer earning him a sharp jab to the ribs and a small snort from Poe.

Oh, so he was taken?

Figures. A man so beautiful certainly had a woman just as gorgeous on his arm.

Before you had a chance to say anything further, Poe whistled, the sound loud and echoing off the walls, and you jumped for the second time that night. Just ten seconds later, the clattering of nails across hardwood could be heard throughout the restaurant, and a big, white German Shepherd came bounding around the corner of the bar, practically jumping into her owner’s arms.

“Oh hello there sweet girl, were you taking a nap downstairs again?” Poe cooed, scratching the large dog behind her ears.

Bee whined affectionately, her tail wagging erratically. You flushed, laughing at yourself just a little bit for how your mood had taken a hit at the idea of him being taken. You had known him for less than ten minutes.

You watched the two interact for a few seconds, your arms folded loosely over your chest.

“You can pet her if you’d like.”

“Oh how could I ever turn down such an offer?”

You immediately knelt onto the ground, ready and eager to be attacked by the big floof of white fur, but Bee didn’t turn her attention away from her owner, causing you to over exaggerate a pout and Poe to laugh.

“Bee, you’re not working right now sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, tilting your head to the side just a fraction. “Working?”

“Service dog,” Poe shrugged, a mannerism you were quickly learning was signature. “Even when she’s not wearing her vest she likes to think she’s on call.”

You stayed quiet for a couple of seconds, knowing not to pry but also not knowing exactly how to respond.

“She seems to be good at her job,” you settled on finally.

Poe chuckled quietly, nodding his head, not offering up an explanation himself, but that was to be expected. You were still mere strangers.

“Go say hi.”

Bee nuzzled her nose into Poe’s chest before dropping back down onto all fours, finally turning her attention to you. She ignored your outstretched hand, immediately going for your face, licking your cheek and pawing at your thighs. You giggled, stroking the dog down her back, scratching every now and again.

“I think I might steal her,” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows as you glanced up.

Poe only laughed, and you spent several minutes merely petting and playing with Bee behind the bar, giving Poe the opportunity to sneak back upstairs and grab her vest — an orange one with the words “service dog” printed onto the side.

“What’s your schedule like next week?” he asked, giving a short whistle after that immediately made Bee pull away from you, sitting patiently as she waited for her owner to slip her vest on.

You shrugged. “I work in the mornings but otherwise I’m free.”

“Ew, mornings,” Poe mumbled, scrunching up his nose before shaking his head. “Think you can come by Monday night so Finn can start training you?”

Finn let out an excited yelp, and you could only blink.

“Wait, like, train as in...I have the job? Just like that?”

“If you don’t burn the place down Monday night and you enjoy yourself, then yeah,” Poe chuckled. “It’s yours.”

You bit your lip, and you wouldn’t have been able to hide your smile regardless of how hard you tried.

“I’m down, Dameron.”

He smiled right back, holding out his hand for you to shake while also simultaneously pulling you off the floor, and you would’ve crashed into your chest had you not braced yourself against the counter with your free hand.

“Welcome aboard.”

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #tros #star wars #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron imagine

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chickensarentcheap · 5 years ago

Text

Sanctuary -Chapter 47

Warnings: profanity

Tagging: @alievans007, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @thunderintheshadows, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light

The text messages arrived shortly before one thirty in the afternoon. The rattle of the phone as it vibrates against the nightstand jarring Tyler from peaceful slumber. Hypervigilance the shrink had called it once. One of the many symptoms of his PTSD. He'd always attributed it to being on the job for so long; the ability to go from deep sleep to an almost extreme state of alertness in the blink of an eye. His brain and body on edge; always on the outlook for dangers; whether visible or not. It had always come in handy when out on a job; he was able to quickly detect any sort of threat and determine if it was valid or not. Within the last two years though, waking has often been a harrowing experience; everything and everyone around him a possible danger, anxiety already sitting on his chest and threatening to suffocate him, a cold sweat covering him from head to toe. Many times one of the kids has jumped a little too hard on the bed and he's bolted awake, a hand ready to grab whoever was next to him or a fist cocked ready to defend himself. It had never gotten that far, thankfully. Awareness settling in before anything horrible could happen.

He'd never forgive himself; if he hurts his own kids because his brain is fucked up and beyond repair.

Today it isn't bad. His reaction isn't extreme; no pounding heart, no sweats, no desire to rip somebody apart. There's more annoyance than anything. It had been one of the best -if not the best- sleep he'd had in weeks, if not months. Not demons to fight in his dreams, no memories of Dhaka, no replay of what he'd done only hours before. His body and his mind temporarily shutting down; flat on his back with his wife between his legs, fast asleep with her stomach pressed against him, her head on his chest. It had been intimacy in it's purest and most innocent form; long, slow, sweet kisses that didn't develop into anything more, whispered conversations about not just their worries and their fears, but future plans, declarations of love, promises that everything was going to be okay. That they were going to be okay. And he'd wrapped his arms around and held her as tight as her little body would allow him to, eyes closed as he relaxed in the warmth that radiated off of her, the scent that lingered in her hair.

He reaches for his phone, careful not to wake her. This pregnancy is already proving to be the most difficult one out of the three she's already been through; the all day sickness much more severe and accompanied by near crippling exhaustion. The stress isn't helping of course. The constant state of worry and panic that she always seems to be operating in. But for now she's peaceful. Her back rising and falling with each soft breath, hair falling over her eyes, a slight smile curving her lips. She's relaxed. Safe. Secure. Protected. And his mind is comforted by that. That despite all of their issues, all of the fights, all of the harsh words, all the ultimatums, she still is able to feel that with him.

He has to change. Staying the same isn't an option. And neither is losing his family.

We got trouble, Yaz' text reads. N is here. Pissed. Get here. ASAP.

“Fuck me,” Tyler mutters, and drops the phone onto the mattress. Yet he isn't filled with a sense of urgency. In no hurry to either respond to the text or get to the storage facility. There isn't much that Nik can do. Not even she will step on the toes of the IRA, and she knows that Tyler himself will be a force to be reckoned with if she even so as much -in the slightest- puts his children further at risk. And if she knows what's good for her, she'll just walk away entirely and pretend she never saw a damn thing.

He doesn't want to move. The mixture of the earlier Valium with the most recent pain meds he'd taken have his body at ease; the pain is minor, a dull yet bearable ache just under the shoulder blade, the right knee and back both stiff, but manageable. And he closes his eyes once more; a hand falling on the top of Esme's head, softly running his palm over her hair before it settles in the middle of her back. She stirs against him, mumbling in her sleep and rubbing her cheek against his t-shirt, yet eyes never opening. She looks even younger when she's asleep; ends of her eyelashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks, skin pale and soft -those freckles across her nose more noticeable thanusual-, a soft smile curving her lips. And she seems even smaller than normal; fragile even. Even though she's anything but. He'd made that mistake once. In Dhaka. Assuming she was weak and fragile and needed someone to handle her problems. And she'd quickly let him know just how badly he'd underestimated her.

His phone vibrates again and he groans in protest, scooping it up off of the mattress.

Put your dick back in your pants and get here now

He smirks at that, then sets the phone down once again and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, laying there for several more minutes, summoning up the energy and the desire to actually move. What he wouldn't give to just stay there; fall back asleep with her body tucked so securely against him, both of them temporarily at peace. No worry, no stress, no arguments brought on by the two. No raised voices or harsh words. No tension. No threat to their marriage. It's not the first time he's felt as if things are falling apart; he was certain during their six months apart that things were over and it was a waiting game when it came to win the divorce papers would arrive. But even then she'd given him a second chance. Or was it a third chance that time? Maybe even a fourth? This time he truly feels that he's all out of chances. That's he used up his last one and all that is left is true change. And the effort that has to go into it.

He runs both of his hands up and down her back and presses a kiss to the top of her head, reluctant to wake her up. “Baby...” he combs his fingers through her hair; clearing her bangs off of her forehead. “...Esme....baby....wake up....”

“No,” she pouts, voice childlike. “You can't make me.”

“Well I could make you. But I don't really want to have to resort to that.”

“I said no. I'm not moving. I'm not letting you leave.”

“Babe, I need you to wake up. Or at least get off me.”

“No,” she refuses once more, nuzzles her face even tighter into his chest, hands tightly gripping the sides of his t-shirt. “You're staying right here. Where you belong. With me. You're not allowed to go anywhere.”

“What if I have to take a leak?” he challenges.

“I heard your phone. I know you don't have to go the bathroom. So I'm not moving. I'm not letting you leave. I'm tired of you leaving all the time. Why can't you just stay? Why can't we just have this? These kinds of moments?”

“We'll have tons of these moments when this is all over.”

“When? We have four kids. And one on the way.”

“We'll find time to have them,” he assures her. “But right now? Right now I need you to get off me. Please.”

“You suck,” she mutters, and rolls off of him. “You're the worst.”

“But you love me.”

“Maybe,” she singsongs, and then yawns.

“Well, I love you,” he leans over her, places a kiss to her lips. “You don't get a say in that.”

She smiles, then reaches up and lays a hand on the side of his face, running her thumb over the scruffiness of his beard. “Is everything okay? Who was it?”

“There's some issues. With McMann.”

“And that's your problem how?”

“They need me to come help straighten him out.”

“They're Marines. They're more than capable of handling things.”

“Yeah, well he's scared of me, so....” he kisses her once last time, then gives her a wink and climbs off the bed.

“He should be,” she says, as she rolls over onto her stomach, frowning when he shoves his feet into a pair of flip flops. “Where's your boots?”

“In the closet. I have to clean them when I get back.”

“Why would you lock them in the closet?”

He shrugs, silently cursing himself for not taking care of things early. This all could have been avoided had he just cleaned the goddamn things when he'd first got back. “I dunno. I guess I just did it and wasn't thinking about it. I'll take care of them later.”

“I can do it if you want,” she offers. “As nasty as your boots smell, I've cleaned worse. I have three boys. It doesn't get any more nasty than those three.”

“Just leave them. They're gross. I've got shit all over them.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Like literally or figuratively?”

“Literally,” he lies. “So I'd rather you not deal with something like that, okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees. “Are you going to kick his ass?”

“If I have to.”

“Is it wrong that it makes me wet when I think about you beating the hell out of people? Or getting all aggressive and mean with someone?”

“Well, you like it when I get all aggressive and mean with you, so...”

“My hormones are all over the place. Just so you know. Even seeing your ass in those jeans does me in. Guess I'll just have to have some fun by myself while you're gone. A little solo studying time.”

He groans inwardly. “I'm going to have that stuck in my head now. The thought of you 'studying'.”

“Don't worry, baby. I promise I'll only think about you when I'm studying.”

“You're evil,” he declares, and stands at the side of the bed, pushing his hand through her hair and tightly gripping those soft, red tresses as he kisses her. Hard. Intense. A toe curling kind of kiss that he knows she'll feel for quite a while.

“And you call me evil,” she huffs, as he heads for the door. “I love you. And lust you. Just so you know.”

He grins. “I love you. And lust you, too.”

****

“What...the...fuck...”

That is how Nik greets him, already at the side of the SUV before he even climbs out. Hands on her hips, eyes blazing, mouth set in a grim line. Quite the contrast against the dreary, filthy backdrop of the industrial area in her wedge heels, well tailored black slacks, and low cut red blouse.

The look he gives her must speak volumes, as she takes three steps backwards, giving him both the space to throw open the door, and some breathing room.

“Hey to you, too, Nik,” he responds, and uses his hip to shut the door. “What's up?”

“You damn well know what's up,” she snarls. “What the hell is this?” her hand wildly gestures towards the building. “Just what the hell is this?!”

“It's none of your business is what it is,” he attempts to step past her, but she grabs a hold of his forearm, nails digging into his skin.

Scowling, he sighs heavily and glances down at the hold she has on him, then back up into her eyes.

She gets the message, quickly removing her hand, and she hurries to keep up with him as he heads through the front gate. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do this? What would make you resort to something like this?”

“Go back to Colorado, Nik. This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me. You work for me. You're associated with me. With my business. You're mine and....”

“I'm yours?” he scoffs. “The ring on my finger says I belong to someone else. You don't own me. This job never belonged to you. You just took it upon yourself to get involved. Because for some reason you can't seem to leave me the fuck alone. What's your issue? Is it a crush? Love? Obsession?”

“Get over yourself, Tyler.”

“I'm not the one who turned you down. Several times. Or are you forgetting that? So you get over yourself. Leave me alone, Nik. This doesn't involve you. It never has.”

“It involved me the second you asked me for my help,” she reminds him. “When McMann showed up in Colorado and you were suspicious of him. You asked me to look into it. You asked me if I had someone tailing you and I said no and then you asked me for my help.”

“For your help. Not to just show up here and try and take things over. This? What's going on here? Has nothing to do with you? And why aren't you in Colorado? Why aren't you at my place, keeping an eye on things?”

“Maybe because you went behind my back and sent Ovi and Chloe away with the kids. You took it upon yourself to screw everything up and...”

No,” he snarls, and abruptly turns on his heel, fixing her in an steely gaze. “I took it upon myself to protect my family. Because you and your people couldn't do their goddamn job properly. Why did you lie to me, Nik? Every fucking time I asked you if things were okay at home, you told me that things were fine. That there was nothing to worry about. I had to find out through Ovi just what was going on. The phone calls, the pictures, the guys that came right to the house. Why didn't you tell me about any of that?'

“I didn't see a reason to.”

“You didn't see a reason to tell me that people were threatening my family? That people were out there watching my kids? That they were showing up at my house, where my kids live? You should have told me right when it started happening. So I could have...”

“So you could have what? Ditched everything and come home? And what could would that have done? The job wasn't finished.”

“Fuck the job!” Tyler snarls. “My family comes before the job, Nik.”

“Since when? You've been putting the job first for the last four years. It's always come first. The job. And if you say it hasn't, you're either in denial or you're a goddamn liar. You like to think you're all about the family life. That you're a family man first and mercenary second. But that's bullshit and you know it. You are who you are, Tyler. You can deny it all you want.”

He shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “You have no fucking clue what you're talking about.”

“You left your wife when she was pregnant with twins. When she was having problems. Serious problems. You left her for the job. When she needed you the most. But that's a theme in your life, isn't it. Leaving the people you love when they need you the most.”

“That is way of fucking line, Nik, and you know it.”

“I knew if I told you about what was happening in Colorado, you'd be on the next flight home. And I needed you to stay here. To get the job done. To find those kids. I also knew that if you came home, that target on your kids' backs would have gotten ever bigger. You being with them would have only made things worse. McMann is...was....after you. And if you went home to your kids, McMann would have followed you and you would have put your kids in even more danger.”

“They're safer with me than they are with complete strangers!”

“Tyler, these people are dangerous. More dangerous than anyone you have ever dealt with before. When they got to you...and they would have...they wouldn't have just killed you. They would have done horrible, horrible things to your kids. While you watched. And then they would have killed them. Right in front of you. And they wouldn't kill you until everyone else you loved was already dead.”

He sighs, then pushes his hands through his hair and leans back against the wall next to the storage locker, feet crossed, arms folded across his chest, eyes downcast.

“And then you sent Ovi away with those kids. Which was the worst thing you could have done. Because now I have no idea where they are. I can't send anyone to watch them.”

“They're safe,” he says. “In a different state.”

“Where? Where are they? Because they're not safe on their own. Ovi doesn't stand a chance and you know that. What the hell were you thinking? Wait, you weren't. Because you don't use your head anymore. You use your heart. Which is a big fucking mistake in the job and you know that.”

“My kids aren't a job, Nik. My kids are my heart. And maybe if you had kids of your own...”

Her eyes narrow. “You are not going there with this. You're not going to play dirty. Not with me.”

“You're going to lecture me about playing dirty? When you've been after me for the past five and half years to cheat on my wife with you? Now that's rich. You standing there trying to act like you have some moral superiority over me. I was never going to say yes, Nik. It was never going to happen. And you kept pushing and pushing. You never left me alone. You still don't. No matter how many times I tell you to back off.”

“That's not what this is about and you know it.”

“Now seems like as good as time as any, don't you think? You need to back off, Nik. You're my friend. That's it. You're never going to be anything more than that. That ship sailed a long time ago. You need to leave me alone. I don't want you texting me, I don't want you calling me, I don't want you showing up at my hotel when I'm on a job. I want you to stay away from me. Unless it's business.”

She blinks. “That seems a little....extreme.”

“I'm a married man, Nik. I've been married for five and a half years. And you act like it's nothing. Like it means nothing to me. It means everything to me. I'm trying to keep my family together and you're hell bent on tearing it apart. Back off. I don't know how much plainer I have to be. It's never going to happen.”

She inhales sharply. “If that's the way you want it...”

“That's exactly the way I want it. I'm trying to hold my marriage together. Desperately. This job is tearing Esme and I apart. All the goddamn promises that I made her. When I told her that this life was behind me and I'd never get back into it. I went back on everything single fucking promise I made. And she put up with it. She still kept giving me chance, after chance, after chance. I can't do that to her anymore. Because I keep doing this...the job...I'm going to lose her. I'm going to lose everything. And all the money in the world isn't worth that.”

“So you're walking away,” Nik concludes.

“When this job is over...when I find those kids.....that's it. I'm done. I can't do this anymore, Nik. This life. My family deserves better than this. I'm tired. Physically. Mentally. I'm fucking tired and I'm done.”

“So what is this then?” she nods towards the open door. “What you're doing here? What you're doing to McMann? What is this Tyler? You wanted to go out with a big bang?”

“I'm doing what I need to do. For my family.”

“You drugged, kidnapped, and tortured a man. You became one of the people you've always fought against. You've become of the people you used to save people from.”

“I'm nothing like any of those people and you know it.”

Nik stares at him pointedly. “You sliced a man's throat with a box cutter.”

“I barely broke the surface. Is he breathing? Did he bleed to death? Then I didn't slit his damn throat.”

“You pulled three of his teeth out with a pair of pliers.”

Tyler shrugs. “I was going to go for four, but it seemed a little overkill.”

“What is going on with you?” her voice is softer now. Concerned. “This isn't you. You've never been like this. You've never gotten yourself caught up in something like this. In revenge.”

“He threatened my family,” he vehemently reasons. “My kids, Nik. He was near my kids.”

“A bullet to the head would have been a better way to go. Why didn't you just do that? If you're just going to kill him anyway...”

“He deserves to suffer, Nik. Do you know what he was going to do Esme if he'd caught her at the house? Do you know what he told his people to do to Ovi and Chloe? To my kids? I do. He told me everything. Every sick and twisted thing that he and his people were going to do. A bullet in the head is too good for that guy. It's too easy. He deserves so much more than that.”

“This stops, Tyler. This stops now.”

He shakes his head.

“You need to get a grip on yourself,” she orders. “You're losing it. You've been losing it for a while now and I always gave you the benefit of the doubt that you'd pull yourself together. This has gone too far. You've gone too far.”

“You need to go, Nik. Just turn around and walk away.”

“And watch you destroy yourself? Watch you become someone I don't recognize anymore?”

“I'm not your problem. I never have been. Just go. Walk away now and you don't have to have this on your conscience.”

“But it's okay for you to have it on yours?” she counters. “Does Esme know about this? About what you're doing here?”

“No. And she doesn't need to know.”

“So you're not only lying to yourself, you're lying to her. About who you've become. And yet you have the nerve to accuse me of trying to tear your marriage apart.”

“You've been wanting to fuck me for five and a half years. Knowing I have a wife. So yeah. I am accusing you of that.”

“You're keeping something like this from her? What do you think is going to happen when she finds out? Not just that you lied, but what you did. What you're capable of.”

“She knows what I'm capable of. She saw it for herself in Dhaka. A job you dragged her into. You and some stupid fucking plan.”

“That stupid fucking plan worked. Until Mahajan Senior screwed us. And that stupid fucking plan gave you a second chance at life. It lead you to the love of your life. You have children because of that stupid fucking plan. It's because of that plan...because of me...that you have what you have.”

“And what? I'm supposed to show how grateful but fucking you on the down low? That's how you wanted me to repay you?”

“If you lose everything now, that's all on you, Tyler. If you go through with this...with what you're doing to McMann...she will find out and she will leave you. Because you'll be the man she's always feared you could become. She'll leave and she'll take those kids. And you'll be lucky if you ever see them again.”

“She's pregnant,” he blurts out, and Nik closes her eyes briefly and inhales sharply one again.

“Please tell me you're not serious right now,” she pleads.

“We just found out. A couple of days ago. We're not sure how far along she is. Probably a couple of months.”

“What is wrong with you two? Is that all you do with your spare time? Make babies? Is that all you know how to do? Get her pregnant?”

He smirks. “Maybe we just like to fuck.”

Her lips twitch with the hint of her own smirk. “You couldn't be more careful while you're fucking? I thought Declan was it? The last one?”

“We changed our minds. Figured one more wouldn't hurt.”

“Hell of a time for there to baby on the way, don't you think?”

“It happens when it happens, Nik. We didn't exactly plan it this way.”

She nods slowly, hands on her hips. “You send her back home. Tomorrow. First flight you can get.”

“That's not going to happen.”

“Tyler, this isn't a safe place for her to be. Especially now. You don't know how many people McMann has out there. And if you're going to be out looking for those kids....”

“And she's safe back home? With people I don't even know watching over her? Fuck that. She's safer with me than anyone else and you know it.”

“If you're out looking for those kids and eventually extracting them, you won't be around to protect her,” Nik points out.

“Mark's got someone watching her. A Marine.”

“Yet you won't trust the people I have?”

“With all due respect, Nik, but you hired Jason Andrews' brother without even knowing it and that's why McMann is after me in the first place. So no. I don't trust the people you have. She stays here. With me. And if I have to go to New Zealand...”

Nik arches an eyebrow. “New Zealand? What...?”

“...she'll come with me there, too. Where I go, she goes. That's just the way it is.”

“That's asking for trouble and you know it.”

“I'm the only one she trusts. I'm the only one that makes her feel safe. I'm not sending her home. There's no way. Go back to Colorado, Nik. Or better yet, go to Oklahoma. Find Ovi and my kids. You put them in this fucking situation when you hired Andrews' brother. You fucking get them out of it.”

“Tyler...” she attempts to stop him before he steps into the storage unit.

“Goodbye, Nik,” he says, and slams the door down behind him.

****

“Hey look who it is, Mike!” Nathan calls out as Tyler enters the storage unit. “Your favourite person!”

“Fuck you,” McMann mumbles, and then spits in Tyler's direction. “And fuck you too, Rake.”

“He's a little mad at you,” the young Marine grins, as he sits mere feet from the captive man, his long legs stretched out, hands behind his head. “I think he was really fond of those teeth you took.”

“You take care of things?” Yaz asks from the other side of the room, immersed in his laptop.

“I don't know how well I took care of them, but yeah, I took care of them. What's going Michael? You been a good boy? You been behaving yourself for my mates here? I know our date isn't planned for later tonight, but I missed you and thought I'd come see you. What happened here?” he roughly grabs a hold of McMann's chin and titls his head to the side. “That's a hell of a shiner you got there. Trip and fall on the way to take a piss again?”

Yaz chuckles.

McMann scowls. “That little asshole pushed me and he knows it!”

“Naw,” Tyler shakes his head. “Yaz wouldn't do that. Yaz is a pacifist.”

“Yeah,” the man in question snorts. “As in I'd like to pass a fist across his face.”

“I'd like to fucking see you try!” McMann snarls.

“Easy now...easy now...” Tyler lets go of the man's chin, then gives him a shot in the mouth with the back of his hand; the knuckles catching him in the top lip and easily splitting it. “...don't talk to my mates like that. So what have you boys been up to?” he asks, as he snags a bottle of water from one of the coolers and pulls up a plastic chair. “You been keeping Michael company? Keeping him out of trouble?”

“He's been a real fucking delight,” Nathan chuckles. “He speaks very highly of you.”

“I bet he does. We're close to being best mates now aren't we?” he kicks at McMann's shins, hard enough to make him wince.

“You're a prick,” McMann responds. “And when you're finally dead, I'll be the first one to come piss on your grave. Then go to your place and fuck your pretty little wife.”

“Bruh...” Yaz shakes his head. “...you should have just left it at 'spit on your grave'.”

“She'd probably like that, wouldn't she,” McMann continues. “Finally a real man showing her how things are done.”

Tyler smirks, then calmly places the bottle of water on the ground and stands up, slowly making his way over the restrained man. Then stands above him; a towering, intimidating figure. And when he sees that little glitter of fear in the other man's eyes, he snatches him by the throat, fingers firmly pressing into either side of his windpipe.

“Remember,” Yaz doesn't even look up from his laptop. “You can't kill him.”

“I'm not going to kill him. He's got a long way to go before anyone kills him,” Tyler tightens his grip on McMann's throat, until his face begins to turn a vivid shade of red and he's gasping for breath. “Don't you talk about my wife like that,” his voice is calm, yet his eyes give away the depth and the power of the rage that inhabits his body. “Don't you ever talk about her like that.”

“If you can't already tell, he's a little sensitive when it comes to his wife.” Yaz says. “But you just keep opening your goddamn mouth about her. Doesn't he Nathan?”

The young Marine nods. “Wouldn't shut up about her earlier.”

“Oh really?” Tyler looses his grip on McMann's throat, their eyes remaining locked on one another. “What was he saying?”

“I don't know if we should tell you,” Nathan says. “You might get upset. Well, more upset than you are right now.”

“Maybe he hasn't lost enough teeth yet,” Yaz suggests.

“I'll let keep his teeth. For now. So what were you saying, Michael? About my wife.”

“Nothing! They're fucking lying!”

“You blokes wouldn't lie to me about something like that, would you?” Tyler asks, looking between the other two men, both shaking their heads. “They definitely would not lie to me. Especially about something like that. So tell me. What did you say about her?”

“Thinks she's a nice piece of ass,” Nathan chimes in. “Say he wouldn't mind tying her up and having his way with her.”

“I did not fucking say that!” McMann exclaims. “I haven't said shit about her!”

“Said he wouldn't mind fucking her in all her holes.” Yaz adds. “And I wouldn't lie about that shit.”

“Michael...” Tyler shakes his head. “....you really don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you. I thought we were mates. Buddies. Why would you say shit like that? About my wife? Unlike the psycho bitch you're married to, my wife is innocent in all of this.”

“How can anyone be innocent being married to a prick like you?” he retorts. “Must be something fucked up in her head in she stays with you! What's your secret? Beat the shit out of her to make her stay? Make her too scared too leave? No way someone like her is staying with someone like you.”

“See, I don't have to resort to shit like that. Maybe that's your way of doing things. You like to beat on women, don't you. Among other things. Which already makes me want to break your fucking neck. Now I find out you're saying things about my wife? This isn't going to be a good day for you, Michael. But I'll be nice. I'll let you keep the rest of your teeth. For now,” he heads over to the table holding the weapons. “You left handed or right handed?”

“What?”

“It's a simple goddamn question. Are you right handed or left handed?”

“Right. Why? What are you going to do? What...?” his eyes widen as Tyler returns with a hunting knife.

“That's a shame. I guess you're either going to have to learn with your left or you're going to have to improvise with the right. Yaz, you look busy. Maybe Nathan will help me out.”

“My pleasure,” the Marine says, and jumps to his feet. “What'cha need?”

Tyler smirks, then runs a finger along the sharp edge of the knife. “You ever hold a man down while someone cuts off a couple fingers?”

“No,” Nathan calmly rolls up his sleeves. “But I guess there's a first time for everything.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #sanctuary #chris hemsworth character #extraction

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mynameisnemo · 5 years ago

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So once upon a time @ananeiah convinced me to start listening to The Magnus Archives. And then, as if that wasn’t enough crime being committed, then she started throwing Tumblr posts about the show at my head until I actually had to come back to this hellsite and create an account so that I too could yell about headcanons.

This post right here about Martin was the post that actually dragged me back onto this hellsite after I quit years ago. It’s a really good post but to caveat the entire LONG post to follow, I don’t totally agree with OP’s headcanon.

So diving right in, we haven’t been given anything about Martin's mum other than in EP118 where Elias used her to torture Martin into not burning the statements anymore. And then she died when everything else was also going to hell. And Martin’s mum may have been awful and abusive and never loved him. But...I feel like this take on her is a very one-dimensional one, coming pretty much entirely from Elias Known-Liar-and-Manipulator Bouchard’s mouth while he’s using the knowledge against someone for a purpose. Elias is a fear entity who is getting ready to feed Martin to the lonely.

But the really awful thing is if she did love him.

Maybe at one point she really did love him but over time and thru her deterioration her ability to see him apart from his father deteriorated as well. And so Martin knows that at one time she did love him...but then things got hard...and then things got harder (and no one ever says what she was sick with so depending on what type of degenerative illness she had I have different theories about this) and in the end she can only see his father and not him but he has to hope every day that she'll remember him.

(Like there's early onset dementia/Alzheimers which would both cause a lack of ability to distinguish Martin from his father, esp given the physical similarities between them. And also an obvious excuse for emotional outbreaks on her part. And then brain cancer which...is a whole fucking can of worms about how it can exhibit. Or it could be something physical like Parkinson's or MS or ALS which doesn’t necessarily in and of itself cause a mental deterioration but the drugs that are used to treat it can cause all kinda of cognitive complications.)

But any of them would exhibit a pattern of good days and bad days and Martin wouldn’t have anyway of knowing what was the drugs - either in a positive or a negative way - and what was her actual feelings. And then a literal avatar of evil and fear takes the worst parts of that and shoves it into his mind wholesale without any nuance or mitigation.

And then on top of that, he doesn’t even have time to deal with it. Because soon after that Jon and Tim and Daisy all died to various degrees. And Elias was still there being a threat and Melanie was also there and a much more immediate physical threat. And I know everyone processes things in different ways and on different timelines but the existence of an immediate threat mostly supersedes any kind of emotional processing.

And then Peter was fucking with him which I very much feel like started with a dampening of his feelings via depression. As if he didn’t enough already to be depressed about. (And at the time that I originally thought a lot of this out I hadn’t started S5 yet. So, ya know, The Fearpocalypse.)

Mostly I feel like until he gets some time to breathe he won’t even start to work thru the major emotional trauma of dealing with his mom dying. And that would be true even if Elias hadn’t been evil and shown him a truth about her feelings towards him. I feel that would require the emotional space to work thru what is grief and what is possibly outside influenced trauma. Which also assumes that he is the type of person who has the ability to see that the two might be separate, and I think he is because he seems to have a certain amount of ability to be introspective. I think anyone who ends up lonely has to be, to some extent.

There’s so many levels to what he needs to process as well. Because the thing about processing after a parent dies isn’t just about the feelings when you're like 30 and they died but also about the feelings when you were 9 and confused and 14 and resentful and 23 and angry. All of those emotions are valid and they all have to be dealt with without the ability to hash them out with the person you feel them about. And there's no ability to gain a perspective on the things that made you feel that way because you can’t say "hey, you remember that time this happened....it made me feel this way..." and then they explain what their emotions and perspective on the thing were.

Because...they don’t exist anymore. So you have to attribute actions and emotions to a past event thru a lense of what you think you know about a person.

And I will NEVER forgive Elias because Martin will always have to wonder, no matter how healthy his coping mechanisms are, if he is just wishing his mother did love him or if she really hated him and everything was a lie.

#TMA #the magnus archives #martin k blackwood #meta #headcanon #grief #I have more martin feelings related to this but this is already long #enjoy the knife!

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satansbootycheeks · 5 years ago

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please don’t take my sunshine away

Wes Johnson/Joshua Ovenshire Tags: Gang Violence, Blood, Angst, Fluff, Gun Mentioned, Injury, Hurt and comfort, Weshire - Freeform

The soft shut of a door.

A feeble attempt at calling for help.

A body collapsing to the ground.

•••

It had been a few too many hours since Joven’s roommate should have returned from work, and he couldn’t help but worry. What if’s flew through his head, imagining the worst. He pictured his love’s body stuffed out of sight in a dark alley. He pictured a car in flames on the side of a road, Wes’s beautiful figure trapped inside. Joven pushed these thoughts away, assuring himself that the other man had just been held back finishing an editing job. Yet, wouldn’t Wes have texted him? No, he had just forgotten, or maybe lost track of time. But…

Joven was pulled from his thoughts as he heard the door to his shared apartment open. He let out a relieved breath. “Thank god Wes, I was starting to…” Joven was cut off by the sound of a shaky “Joven, help…” and a thump. Joven’s heart stopped. He raced toward the sound. ‘Oh dear God, please no. Please…’

•••

Wes felt terribly for not texting Joven that he had been held back at work, finishing up a project. His poor friend would be worried half to death. He pulled out his phone to send an explanation as he packed his equipment into the trunk of his car. Before he could begin typing, however, he became aware of a car slowly pulling up to park mere inches from his own.

As his workplace wasn’t in the safest part of town, this was especially unnerving, so Wes reached for the gun he had packed in his trunk for his planned trip to the shooting range the next day. He cursed under his breath as he recalled his empty magazine, as per the rules of the shooting range. Hopefully the sight of his being armed would deter the creeps.

He peered at the four men now exiting the threatening car and caught sight of two of them visibly wielding knives. His blood chilled as he realized they were creeping toward him. He tore the gun from his trunk and held it pointed at them, trying to steady his trembling hands. The men stepped back, caught off guard, but they seemed to remember their clear number advantage, and spread so that they were approaching Wes, now more quickly, from several angles.

Wes, becoming more and more panicked, frantically aimed his gun from man to man. However, he was painfully aware of his disadvantage, not only in number, but also ammunition. Wes heard the men chuckle as he backed away. He felt his back collide with a wall and his body went cold. He had quite literally backed himself into a corner.

One of the men without a knife approached him, a revolting grin on his face. Wes aimed his gun at the man, but he knew it was no use. This must have shown on his face, because the man just smirked cockily and swatted Wes’s gun to the ground. The man then proceeded to strike Wes directly on the cheekbone, and Wes felt his head jut out awkwardly to the side. He painfully turned his head forwards and landed a blow directly to the attacker’s stomach. The man doubled over, but one of his cohorts rushed over, this time one with a knife, and pinned Wes to the wall, knife to his throat.

This new threat let out a low growl as he gestured to his accomplices to join him. They eagerly complied, and Wes shrunk into the wall. The other man with a knife jabbed it into Wes’s stomach, almost jovially. Wes couldn’t help but cry out, but his shout was met by a hand roughly shoved over his mouth, smashing his head against the wall. Wes was rendered helpless as the men beat him and slashed at his body.

Seemingly having gotten their point across, or possibly having gotten bored, the men released him and quickly got into their car and drove away. Wes slumped to the ground, every inch of his body searing with pain. He half crawled across the ground to retrieve his useless weapon, then drug himself into his vehicle. Somehow, he managed to drive himself home.

Wes stumbled into the apartment with one thought in his mind. Joven. Joven could help him. Wes feebly called for his love before the world went black.

•••

The sight before Joven was straight from his nightmares. Wes was crumpled on the floor, blood pouring from several gashes all over his body. Bruises were already forming where he had been struck by the gang members. Joven rushed to the unconscious man’s side, screams escaping his lips. His hands trembled as he dialed 911, and he begged for an ambulance between sobs. Once help was promised, Joven pulled Wes’s broken body onto his lap. He held Wes’s darling face to his, and rocked back and forth, weeping.

•••

In the hospital room, Joven sat by Wes’s side, eyes never leaving the man’s beautiful, bloody face. A tear fell from Joven’s eye onto Wes’s cheek, and he delicately wiped it away.

The steady beep of the heart monitor should have comforted him, reassuring him that his best more-than-friend was still alive, but it only served as a constant reminder of this living nightmare. It had been hours since Joven had been so relieved by the sound of Wes returning home, only to be met with a cruel reality.

Now, gently holding his love’s hand, normally so strong but now so weak, he pleaded with fate to give him back the one he loved so dearly. He whimpered as he confessed his love to Wes’s unhearing ears. Joven’s heart ached for moments gone by when he hadn’t expressed his love for the other man out of fear, but now all he wanted was for Wes to know how much Joven loved him, no matter what.

Joven lowered his face to the sheets by the other man and hopelessly weeped into them. Just then, he felt the hand held in his own twitch. His head shot up, and he called for the nurse as Wes’s eyes fluttered open.

•••

Wes slowly regained consciousness, blinking against the bright lights above him. The world appeared faded and blurred, but Wes could see an almost fully white room surrounding him, and his Joven above him, shouting something that Wes didn’t understand to someone Wes couldn’t see. He felt Joven’s hand in his, and tried to squeeze it, but only then did the excruciating pain rush back to him.

Wes screamed as he became acutely aware of everywhere he had been stabbed and beaten. He felt his Joven carefully caress his face, comforting him, murmuring words that Wes couldn’t make out but he knew to be of consolation. He stared into Joven’s warm eyes as he hyperventilated and shook, both out of fear and out of pain, and hot tears ran down his cheeks. In his peripheral vision, he saw a woman dressed in white hurry to his side, but he only cared about his precious, beautiful, perfect Joven.

•••

Joven’s heart felt as though it was as injured as Wes as the man’s eyes gazed into his own and his body convulsed. Thinking that Wes was having a seizure, he shrieked to the nurse, but she assured Joven that Wes was only hyperventilating. Only barely reassured, Joven turned his attention back to his beautiful Wesley. His beautiful, broken Wesley. His eyes blurred and burned with tears, and he brought Wes’s hand to his lips. He observed the softness in the other man’s eyes as he did so, and he felt his heart warm.

This feeling was only momentary, however, as the doctor entered and explained that she would be putting Wes to sleep for emergency surgery. Joven felt worry course through his veins, but he had no hope but to trust the doctor to save his love’s life.

•••

Wes came to hours later, the operation having succeeded and his wounds having been stitched up. He weakly turned his head to observe Joven, asleep on a couch near his own bed. Wes then realized how his pain had subsided, though he attributed in part to the various painkillers he had probably been given. But still, his body didn’t ache nearly as much. He gazed at the beautiful man peacefully asleep near to him, and ached to reach out and kiss him, but he still felt contented to see Joven, at least momentarily, calm. He turned his head again to the ceiling and felt himself fall out of consciousness once more.

•••

Months after the terrifying attack, Wes had been almost fully healed, going to physical therapy for the bones that had been found to be broken, but the nightmare was almost completely over for him and Joven. After Wes had been released from the hospital, Joven had slaved over him, caring for him day and night. Wes couldn’t help but enjoy the attention just a little bit.

Along with caring for Wes, Joven had also been almost obsessively telling him how much he loved him, and Wes had been doing the same. The two men had shared many kisses and (delicate) cuddles, never wanting to not be touching the other. Despite the tragic situation they were in, they were so disgustingly happy to be alive and in love.

And that was all that mattered to them.

#fanfic weshire smosh gangviolence blood angst fluff Gunmentioned injury hurt/comfort

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claudiadonovan · 7 years ago

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Please write 70 paragraphs of meta about elizabeth and olive as characters

ok so first of all: i had multiple paragraphs of this typed up a couple days ago and then my computer crashed, so clearly the universe wants me to chill. but here i am, rewriting all the words to spite the universe, for I WILL NEVER KNOW CHILL. (disclaimer: this is largely incoherent, and the organization isn’t exactly thesis ready. tyfyt.)

anyway. let’s begin with something i’ve talked about at length before, because i do think it’s at least worth setting elizabeth’s narrative against the backdrop of the movie’s full scope—that is, elizabeth’s arc is the driving force of the movie. regardless of what the film is ostensibly about (at least in terms of marketing, for obvious reasons; it’s clear that everyone working on it knows better), what angela’s crafted is a love story. bill functions as a steady presence throughout, providing the technical framework (and the shoves that elizabeth needs in the direction of what she wants); olive certainly takes her own journey, but hers is a growth told largely in flashes; it is through elizabeth’s terror and conflict and indeed love that we see much of the movie unfold. all of those things are central to the conflicts we find and necessarily the heart of the movie’s resolution. there is a reason the film must end in the place it does, with elizabeth cracking open her heart and finding the means to build a bridge between them inside.

but i’m getting ahead of myself. (and, yes, rambling already. LISTEN, i was asked for 70 paragraphs, a lannister always pays her debts, etc. etc. you’ve been warned as to what lies beneath the cut!)

if you will let me set one final scene, before i move inside the universe of the movie: i saw professor marston for the first time at an advance screening. the theater wasn’t enormous, but it was completely packed. there were a couple moments in the opening bill/josette scene that drew a few chuckles, iirc, but the moment elizabeth spoke her first line, that entire theater came to life. and let me tell you: what a relief that that was my first experience with the movie, because clutching your leg and alternating between wheezing with laughter and delighted squealing draws a lot less attention if everyone around you is also in hysterics. the reaction both to “i know” and “i know that, too” was incomparable. it felt rare and wonderful, nevermind the fact that rebecca’s delivery remains impossible to oversell.

all of which is kind of beside the point, except that i will say i appreciate the in-universe acknowledgement that elizabeth is genuinely hilarious? BECAUSE SHE’S HILARIOUS. the fact is that angela, as she designed her (and rebecca, as she played her), allowed elizabeth to be SO MANY THINGS. there are a million ways that this could have (would have, lbr) gone wrong in literally anyone else’s hands, but one of those many ways is elizabeth herself. like, i think there’s a particular character cut-out for the combination of attributes that include controlling/ferocious/brisk/kind of a stubborn asshole, especially if you’re angling for the arc to conclude with a display of vulnerability. that sets off the WEE OOOH WEEE OOOH DO NOT TRUST WEE OOH alarms in my brain. but elizabeth is a million things, among them also funny, charming, pragmatic, and so utterly full of life. (i sort of figured “totally brilliant” went without saying.) she is never limited to one or two of these at a time, as they shift along some linear arc; there are moments that showcase particular aspects, but she is always the sum of all of her parts.

one of my very favorite moments, particularly in the way that it establishes both elizabeth/bill and, i think, to some degree the way that elizabeth interacts with the world, is the lie detector epiphany scene. one of the things about them is that they are able to shift very fluidly from “heated debate” to whatever the opposite of an argument looks like. which – i realize in that scene the lie detector was a Huge Deal, but there’s no sense of bill and elizabeth ever stagnating in their arguments; more often, they delight in them. they sharpen their wits and their knowledge against each other – it’s (a huge) part of what makes them work, and it’s also part of what makes them so damn extra. (olive’s utterly baffled face as she watches them that transforms slowly into an amused/fond/still-puzzled smile says all i want to say here.) the point is: they don’t require things like apologies from each other, particularly as a result of their exchanges. like, their arguments are more likely to lead to proposals than to pleas for forgiveness.

basically, i don’t think elizabeth has huge reserves of patience for other kinds of interactions; she spends much of her time with a person who always meets her halfway. anyone who can’t inevitably falls underfoot. she also thinks dropping things like “oh, and if you fuck my husband, i’ll kill you” into conversation during a first meeting with a student they’ve just brought on as an assistant is absolutely fine, especially since she doesn’t initially view them as on the same ~~~level. (not that she doesn’t mean to be hostile—and condescending—because obviously she has some self-awareness, but her casual, wry delivery of it is so very, very elizabeth. she gets a kick out of herself.) my other favorite thing is how much i do think she believes she’s offering some genuinely useful clarification as she carries on through that atrocious explanation of olive’s beauty—she gets it, it’s not olive’s fault, like any of those are reasonable things to say to another person. elizabeth’s answer to dealing with the emotions she was kind of pretending she didn’t have when she told bill it was fine to fuck olive? be a patronizing asshole! works every time!

but olive isn’t bill, and she’s not just gonna spring back from whatever that was, because literally what the fuck is wrong with this woman (i know, olive. i know). and it’s not like elizabeth doesn’t have the capacity for guilt; that’s the whole reason bill telling her she made olive cry finds them in the middle of the apology that unfolds. (let me side note here that bill gently leading elizabeth back onto the edge of some moral pathway with signs like “maybe be less of an asshole?” is one of my favorite things in the entire world.) which elizabeth begins delivering so perfectly awkwardly and vaguely sardonically that it’s hard to imagine anyone could even take it seriously? the way she ends the “i didn’t mean to insult you” with a smile that could physically not be less real—great, look, i did the apology, bye—really sums it up. and the exchange that follows—i’ve done nothing / no, i know, you’re right—is so peak elizabeth, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like she’s sitting there like, yes, i know, all i said was don’t fuck my husband, i didn’t say you already had. anyway, didn’t i say it wasn’t your fault? why do i even bother talking???? elizabeth, who manages to jump into apologies without any real willingness to make overt concessions about any wrongdoing. (an apology that leads them to a speakeasy is much more suited to her, really.)

as mentioned before, elizabeth really is a million things all at once, and she’s a mess of contradictions on top of that—see: completely fearless and deeply terrified, a woman who answers her husband’s admission of her own brilliance with “i know” but cannot accept that olive thinks she’s amazing. a lot of that, imo, stems from the fact that every time she walks into a room, she has to prove herself. so she brandishes her intelligence like a blade, for it is only with a sword to their throats that the men inside her circles (and outside, presumably) are willing to acknowledge her beyond her gender. and even then, no doubt there are many who dismiss the weapon for a toy, or suggest she cannot even hold it properly, so unprepared are they to change a lifetime of bullshit ideas that they craft their own false reality. and bill has known her his whole life; presumably, elizabeth was central to the foundation of his own ideas surrounding gender. he has had access to her brilliance at every turn.

olive is an anomaly. olive catches her off guard. all elizabeth has done is upset her, and yet olive says with conviction almost virulent that it is criminal that they will not give her a degree. but elizabeth still holds the sword in her hand, and so she swings it in defense, instead, in aggressive disbelief. because, of course, elizabeth’s never met anyone like olive.

but, of course, olive’s existence forces elizabeth to reconcile much more than just that. at least, sort of, though elizabeth’s pretty stubborn about closing her eyes and putting her fingers in her ears and waiting for them to go away. (ELIZABETH YOUR HUSBAND LITERALLY FINGERBANGED YOU WHILE YOU WERE BOTH WATCHING OLIVE SPANK A GIRL BUT SURE, YEAH, VERY MYSTERIOUS FEELINGS.) that she manages to frame the conceit of them all trying this thing out more like a research project than like, hi, i like you too? is almost too elizabeth to handle. that the second there is no denying this particular combination of sexual attraction and love—what else is the lie detector good for if not invariably forcing inarguable realities at them?—elizabeth retreats into sarcasm. “open emotional dialogue” isn’t exactly her forte of fortes, is kind of the point i’m making here. (the surprising moments of truth are always interesting, though. “i was afraid i’d always be in his shadow,” for instance, is a startlingly sincere moment of vulnerability, which i think is an important nod to the shift in her relationship to olive. i mean, obviously they started flirting way back in the speakeasy, but it’s inherently a given with that line that she sees them as existing on the same playing field. elizabeth, inviting other people onto her level? a miracle!)

here’s the thing; elizabeth is a disaster, and a revolutionary, and a realist. in an effort to achieve the goals she thinks she can (forcibly! with much effort!) achieve, she has already made concessions, things like: demand her goddamn doctorate due, but surrender her name. i think elizabeth has probably, pragmatically, already had to rearrange enough of herself and her life to fit into the crawl space that might, if she bends and scrapes and pushes hard enough, win her access to the other side—the things she wants, the vision she imagines. (a world she is as stubbornly committed to as she is her Opinions About Things.) bill has not had to make the same kinds of sacrifices, and so giving this thing up—this person up, this person they both love—is inconceivable to him. but elizabeth sees their love as something that has already bent her into the wrong shape; they have lost their jobs, an essential part of elizabeth’s future. bill demands their happiness be prioritized; elizabeth’s perspective isn’t half so black and white. since when can a woman simply have the things she wants?

one of the most interesting things elizabeth says, in the way that it sort of lays bare her character, is the whole: “they are right to shun us, and perhaps they are right to beat us. not because we fuck each other, but because we’re foolish enough to think we’re better than them.” which, a) obviously we have access to the amount of shame she keeps inside her, which is a lot, but b) this idea that elizabeth has always held herself a little aloof from the rest of the world, in terms of her own superiority complex, is v. real and v. interesting. and the idea that it’s that high ground that she feels come crashing down when they get caught is fascinating. like, only when the neighbors were suddenly able to exact judgment, to ruin the lives of their children, did she realize that she’d been pretending to see them from a tower above. that nothing she’d ever done—that no proof of her own intelligence—could change that, that it was her supposed disillusionment of their own superiority that had safeguarded their relationship in her head.

in the end, of course, she finds it is a loss she cannot bear. stubborn asshole that she is, one can only imagine how very long she would have spent miserable and steadfast about the decision were it not for bill’s prognosis. but with a little hand-holding from bill along the way, it’s elizabeth who finally chooses the thing that has brought her the most happiness, and who issues a damn apology like she means it. (and rebecca delivers a performance more than worthy of oscar buzz, dammit.)

WHICH BRINGS US BACK TO OLIVE. let’s start with the descriptors the movie provides for her, first from bill: beautiful, guileless, kind, pure of heart. and then, from elizabeth: an exceptional student, a quick study with a passion for learning, strong work ethic, keen mind, an unwavering moral compass, and a deeply instilled sense of justice. (obviously, a lot of those are re: academics, given it was from a letter of recommendation – a letter of recommendation for a student she and her husband have more or less just propositioned! iconic – and “an unwavering moral compass” is still a hilarious dig, but anyway.)

so obviously olive’s “beauty” is at the center of the film’s early conversations – this idea of asset vs. albatross plays a heavy role, and what it means as a quality that olive must manage and navigate. even though elizabeth acknowledges it as a detriment, it’s also basically the foundation of their first encounter—the way olive’s beauty has already invaded the space of elizabeth’s marriage, professionally speaking or otherwise. and it’s kind of interesting that it’s more or less the assumptions surrounding olive’s appearance and impressions that basically kickstart her interest in psychology in the first place – that she is so incredibly frustrated with her interactions with people (unlike elizabeth, she doesn’t walk a blade into every room she enters).

anyway, i’ve mentioned it before but it’s still one of my favorite things, and i do think it bears noting: olive’s investment in the marston/holloway duo begins with and is showcased in its beginning stages primarily via her admiration for elizabeth. in so many ways – both within the film’s universe and in meta terms – bill is the obvious choice here. young pretty ingénue ™ falls for charming intelligent attractive (male) professor ™ who is, as it happens, very clearly into her. all of which, of course, the movie (delightfully!) paves the way for, but by the time there’s more focus there they’ve also crystallized into people not done justice by those descriptors alone, particularly in olive’s case. the point: elizabeth being as compelling to olive as she is right from the beginning i think says a great deal about olive, who is utterly charmed by a woman so brazenly, indelicately brilliant.

i mean, honestly, here’s the thing: angela did a SHIT TON of research over the course of eight years about the marstons. that’s why it’s so easy to spot which decisions she made that were very active departures from likely history, like this one. honestly, as someone who truly could not give less of a shit about the “veracity” of the movie as it applies to the movie’s quality/worthwhileness/watchability, i definitely think it’s fascinating to consider in terms of the choices angela made—olive becoming a part of the family first as bill’s mistress in real life (note: not to suggest i’m wielding total historical fact, just at least one propagated history, and one that likely would have been developed by another director) vs. an olive whose initial attraction lands at the feet of elizabeth’s radicalism. an olive who is wooed by the ferociousness of elizabeth’s intellect! i ask again: WHO BUT ANGELA WOULD HAVE EVER WRITTEN THEIR STORY THIS WAY. (in case this needs clarifying: no, i do not in any way make this claim to make an “exclusive attraction” claim, i mean to make note of the particular choices that provided the early foundations for their relationship, narratively speaking; obviously, them all being in love with each other is quite literally the entire point of the film, wonder woman be damned.) (jk diana i love you!!!)

as a whole, olive’s relationship to feminism is super interesting and absolutely a thing i would have loved them to explore more (among, like, the other nine hours of things i want more content about). it’s also another part of the whole appearance vs. reality question as it applies to olive (i thought that you were just… / what? / i don’t know. not that.) and what a world that olive, too, is allowed to be so many things: a cult sorority pledge master, kind, just, raised in a convent; the daughter and niece of radical feminists, incredibly smart, the bravest person in the whole movie, etc. etc. (also, THE ONLY FUNCTIONING ADULT. but we’ll get there.) her “guilelessness” is complicated by her history, and even as we are presented with the possibility of naivete, the “observing olive” scene sort of dismisses that cut-out figure out of hand, by way of elizabeth. olive knows exactly what she’s doing; she has lived many years having to navigate precisely the right amount of eye contact to make with a boy, precisely the tone to select. that is practice, and experience. she both finds herself apologizing every other minute and is unwilling to be anyone’s doormat—accommodating, yes, generous, yes, but even as early as the elizabeth/bill/olive apology sequence, she by no means jumps at the chance to accept this vague gesture. she wears her emotions on her sleeve and finds herself the more powerful for it.

olive is absolutely searching at the beginning of the movie – for explanations, for answers, for the kind of life she wants to lead. (for, i think it’s safe to say, elizabeth’s respect—a much more arduous ask than her husband’s.) and the truly incredible thing about olive is that as soon as she experiences the thing that she wants, she knows herself well enough not only to know with absolute certainty that it is what she wants, but also to pursue the hell out of it. after their joint first time, olive literally has no doubt left in her; this makes her happier than anything else she has. “unwavering moral compass” or not (lmao), uh, what fiancé? because the truth is that olive’s heart is her conviction, not duty. if it’s right, she will feel it. and so she does.

olive’s connection to her emotions, to her convictions, to her awareness of what she wants—like, it’s honestly a superpower. emotional intelligence and academic intelligence? honestly, chill. she’s also kind of their guiding light, whether in the moment she steps out on that platform in the pseudo-wonder-woman outfit, thereby changing the conversation entirely, or the first time she kisses elizabeth and rearranges everybody’s headspace. she always casts light on the next step of the narrative, on a place often frightening but a place everybody else will end up by the next act, anyway. (elizabeth may expect people to meet her halfway in terms of words, but olive’s the one reaching out her hand at every turn, waiting for someone to take it. and olive is the one—in many ways—with everything to lose.)

olive takes most care of the children; olive is the one most often sending them off to school with lunches in hand; olive is the most capable at wrangling something edible out of the oven; let’s be honest, olive is definitely the only who can convince their 1930’s (etc) cars into motion when they’re feeling particularly stubborn; olive likely exchanges baked goods with the neighbors and shares small talk and offers the helpful advice only possible from someone who cares enough to be a good listener. olive makes friends. so i ask you: literally, how the fuck did elizabeth and bill ever live their lives without her?

elizabeth probably spends more time making snide comments about the neighbors than making friends with them; bill spends time working on manuscript #17 (and then, you know, the obvious), although i’m sure he can be wrangled out to offer some charm every now and again.

(clearly not enough for Prying Neighbor to call his name when she walks in their damn house, though. I WILL SAY, while i’m here and because i can, the biggest moment of discontinuity in this entire movie is Prying Neighbor shouting elizabeth’s name next after olive’s. OLIVE, yes, checks out, she’s home and available and friendliest most of the time. BUT WHY ELIZABETH??? WHEN WOULD ELIZABETH EVER BE HOME ON A WORK DAY??? BILL IS THE ONLY OTHER PERSON IN THE HOUSE WHO WOULD USUALLY BE HANGING AROUND. I CANNOT MAKE THIS MAKE SENSE. i mean, i’ve since headcanoned that they’re always making fun of the fact that she literally cannot get into her brain that it’s elizabeth with the regular job and not bill, but i’m just saying.)

anyway, returning from that tangent: i think the exchange about happiness in the final hospital scene provides an interesting echo to elizabeth’s earlier “love – it doesn’t matter” (are you happy? / does it matter?), which is fairly heart-shattering from someone who’s been certain of and willing to pursue happiness throughout the course of the whole movie. but it’s also an incredibly valid question: it’s not as if “happiness” was in the calculus when elizabeth told her to leave, either. what does happiness actually mean to them? (the brief shots of them without OLIVE are! fucking! brilliant! angela’s ability to make that tiny bed look empty without olive in it was a stroke of genius.)

and, of course, “does it matter?” is the question the movie answers resoundingly in the affirmative. in the end, it’s olive’s choice that decides how the film will end. it’s olive who gets to say “no,” who gets to dictate the terms. it’s olive with all the leverage. it’s olive who decides if she will meet elizabeth halfway. it’s olive with elizabeth’s heart in her hands. it’s olive who deserves a new goddamn stove, you assholes.

in the end, it’s olive who has the capacity to shape their future, and shape it she does. for decades to come.

#professor marston and the wonder women #ok this was over 3k words so i'm done talking forever now goodbye #hopefully that works for your 70 paragraphs of meta anon! i...could have added more but a girl's gotta have self-control somewhere #anonymous #asks #movie: professor marston and the wonder women

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writingfulfillment · 7 years ago

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Harry Potter and the Goodness of His Heart

One of the most prominent moral arguments made by Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone is that you can have a bad family, or be raised under poor circumstances, and still be a good person.

Harry Potter is the son of Lily and James Potter, prominent figures in the original anti-Voldemort movement. His parents died to save him from Voldemort’s wrath and in doing so, they gave him a special power against his new mortal enemy. Because of this new gift of love, Voldemort was subdues for a time and Harry became an orphan. He was given to his mother’s sister, Petunia and her husband, Vernon Dursley. Harry was brought up unwanted and constantly prodded, both physically and emotionally, by his cousin Dudley.

They provide him the barest room and board out of the coldness of their hearts and Harry grows up on table scraps and their material leftovers. Despite this, he still grows into a kind person in this terrible environment. When Harry turned 11 years old on July 31st, he got a very strange visitor in the form of his new friend and gentle giant, Hagrid. Hagrid comes to inform Harry of his true identity as a wizard and to invite him to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the fall. As Harry discovers this new world, he realizes the truth about his family and his past.

At Hogwarts, Harry learns about magic and makes new friends; the best of which are Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. In between school and Quidditch practice, they get into lots of mischief because they cannot help but meddle in things that are not necessarily the business of first years. The first instance of which is confronting a troll which trespassed in the girls lavatory. Not long after this, they find fluffy the three headed dog in a forbidden corridor. Harry gets involved in lots of schemes, but he does so to help out his friends and to protect his new beloved school.

The most troublesome of these are when Hagrid illegally hatches a dragon egg in his wooden hutch. Harry and his friends aid him in feeding and caring for it, although they could get into a huge amount of trouble, they do it for their big friend. They get the dragon out of the country with the help of Ron’s brother Charlie. When the dragon is gone, they get caught and sentenced to detention in the Forbidden Forest alongside their tattletale and Harry’s new rival, Draco Malfoy. While serving this detention they discover what they have suspected for some time, something evil is about at Hogwarts. They find a bieng drinking the cursed blood of an innocent Unicorn and their thought turn to Voldemort and his possible rise to power.

As the school year goes on, they perform lots of extra research on one of their leads, and alchemist named Nicholas Flamel. Eventually they discovered that he is the only known creator of a Sorcerer's Stone and that it was being kept safe at the school. Convinced that someone, potentially Voldemort or his allies, are going to try and steal it to assure Voldemort’s rise and give him immortality. They decide to try and get it first and they face many challenges and obstacles protecting the Stone. Ron gets injured and Hermione is forced to go back for help. Brave little Harry goes forward and discovers that his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirrell, has been hosting Voldemort for a year. Through his courage and intelligence, Harry gets the Stone and defeats Quirrell, preventing Voldemort’s rise.

From the very beginning we see that Harry is a kind individual living in an abusive and neglectful home. Harry is described as having poor and broken things (his glasses and his massive hand me downs) while Dudley is being overtly spoiled by his parents (his numerous toys and technologies.) The book emphasizes the vast difference between these boys in the scene at the zoo.

At the snake enclosure, Harry is kind and can sympathize with the poor creatures trapped situation. Dudley on the other hand treats it like another toy, instead of a living creature. Harry makes small talk with the snake and Dudley bangs on the glass and quickly becomes frustrated when the snake is not entertaining enough for him. This is just one of many instances which show Harry’s goodness despite being raised in the same household as Dudley.

The audience identifies with Harry because he personifies the classic underdog character who is in a rough situation both financially and emotionally. These are things that most people have already experienced in their lives and they can then empathize with Harry’s situation. The book uses this argument throughout the story as Harry serves his friends and ultimately risks his life, purely out of his goodness and desire to help those he loves.

We know that Harry is good because he’s described as little, scruffy and endearing. [pg]We are meant to pity him further because he lives in an abusive/neglectful situation. He’s too skinny,[pg] they don’t feed him properly, his glasses and clothes also show that they can’t be bothered to spend any money on him. Dudley is the clear opposite, the spend a ridiculous amount of money on him and definitely overfeed him.[pg] They give him so much more than is necessary in part to ostracize Harry.

We know that the Dursleys are vile because they are described as physically unpleasant; large, hairy, frowning and always gossiping. These are all things that we attribute to bad people. They clearly dislike Harry and constantly abuse him in a multiplicity of ways. They often treat him as a servant and force him to cook for them and do menial chores. They abuse him emotionally more than anything else. When Harry’s letters start to come, the Dursleys, especially Vernon, will do anything to stop him from reading them. Partially because they don’t want the shame of having a wizard in their house, but mostly because they want to keep Harry oppressed and unhappy.

One of the earliest situations in which Harry exhibits his goodness is when the troll endanger Hermione. At this point in the story, they aren’t really friends and Ron has said some very unkind things about Hermione, which she heard and spends the rest of the day in the bathroom crying. When Professor Quirrell announces that a troll has found it’s way into the castle, Harry immediately thinks of Hermione, ignorant of the present danger. When they are being evacuated to their common rooms, Harry and Ron sneak out to go and warn Hermione. They soon discover that the troll is in the corridor with the Girls’ bathroom.

Harry rushes ahead without thought for his personal safety, even though he is only 11 and he’s only been at hogwarts for two months, to try and help Hermione. To distract the troll so that Hermione can get away from it, he literally jumps up, grabs it’s club and is lifted onto the massive troll’s head. He accidentally shoves his wand up the troll’s nose, and urges Ron to do something. Ron performs the very spell which Hermione had previously given him flack about, Wingardium Leviosa, and successfully knocks out the troll. In doing this, not only did Harry break the rules and willingly face a full grown mountain troll, he lead another, not so brave, student in doing so. All of this he did because, he is in essence, a very good person.

The most prominent show of Harry’s goodness is when he decides that they must try to save the stone because Dumbledore is gone and no one else will believe them. They don’t know very much about magic, and they could get seriously injured, Harry goes because of his goodness and bravery. Ron and Hermione will not let him go alone, they love him and will follow him anywhere. When Ron is injured and Hermione is forced to go back for help, Harry knows that he must go on. He feels that it is his duty because of his relationship with Voldemort. Realistically, he has no responsibility for what would happen because he’s just a boy. But he feels a sense of duty because of his conscience. He goes forward and risks his life because of his sense of loyalty and righteousness.

All of this wonderfully displays Harry’s good nature. Although he is young and doesn’t know very much about magic, from day one, he is willing to try anything to help his friends. Despite being raised in a abusive and neglectful situation, he is still able to trust and reach out to people. Even though kindness is something that he hasn’t experienced for the first part of his life, he still gives it freely to those who need it. My favorite of which is Neville Longbottom. Many of the students at Hogwarts make fun of poor Neville, who hasn’t felt much in the way of kindness either. But Harry is frequently kind to the little round boy, leading his friends to do so as well.

This is the duty and importance of having a gift. You can either become a leader for good for evil. Because of Harry’s fame, he becomes a prominent figure in the lives of these children and to some extent, the adults around them as well. He doesn’t let any of this so called fame go to his head. In his mind, he remains just Harry, an orphan with terrible luck. He has no desire for his fame, but yet he still uses it, perhaps unknowingly, to lead the other students. Hermione and Ron weren’t necessarily the type to meddle, but when following Harry, they get involved in a lot of underground schemes to try and help the school. Harry’s desire is to make sure that the school and his friends are safe, because of his goodness.

I find it quite astounding that Harry is such a selfless person when he was raised by perhaps the most selfish people in all of England. Regardless of their abuse, he does not become cold hearted and fight only for himself. It is only the beginning of his righteousness in the first book, he becomes even more selfless in the rest of the series. But it all starts out with a little 11 year old boy who was willing to be friends with anyone because he too knew what it was like to be friendless and alone. A boy, whose bravery and guile saved these new people that he loved. Above all else, Harry Potter is one of the most loyal character ever written and he will do anything and everything to help his friends.

#harry potter #goodness #neville longbottom #anyone can be good

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logh-icebergs · 7 years ago

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Episode 19: The Yang Fleet Goes Out

April 797/488. Since Yang saw right through Reinhard’s plan and warned Bucock in advance about the impending coup d’etat, Bucock is able to st—haha no just kidding, Bucock does literally nothing and Reinhard’s plan goes off without a hitch. Whoops. What Yang somehow failed to predict is that the leader of the newly established National Salvation Military Council is none other than Admiral Dwight Greenhill, aka Frederica’s dad. (Hey, we told you LoGH dads suck…) The one useful thing Bucock managed to do was sneak some paperwork through that gives Yang legal authority to quell any hypothetical military coups, so with that in place to ease his conscience Yang mobilizes his fleet toward Heinessen. Meanwhile, Reinhard and Kircheis stand on the bridge of the Brunhilde holding hands for long enough that the other admirals must have felt they were intruding.

The Yang Fleet

“I can’t imagine the Yang fleet without Lt Greenhill. Just like I can’t imagine the Yang fleet without Rear Admiral Cazellnu or Commodore Schenkopp. Lt Cdr Poplan. Admiral Attenborough. Lt Cdr Konev. Rear Admiral Murai. And so on, many many people. If anyone were missing, it wouldn’t work. Admiral Yang must understand that as well as I do. I know this could be called sentimental, but for me the Yang fleet isn’t simply an organization. Iserlohn is home, and I think a home should hold a family.” —Julian’s Iserlohn Diary, p. 284

In the animation of the season one ED (which incidentally is one of my personal absolute favorite things in the show) we see Yang and Julian moving through the stars as though on some cosmic conveyor belt while other members of the fleet pass by and greet them. We’ve watched this scene over a dozen times by now, playing out behind the closing credits of almost every episode, a whimsical vision of the group that would come to live together on Iserlohn.

...Or is it so whimsical?

Near the beginning of this episode, set to an instrumental arrangement of the opening theme (the ED itself would have been too on-the-nose, I guess?), the ED animation comes to life on the walkways of Iserlohn: Julian and Yang moving not through the stars but through the fortress, as first Dusty and then Poplan and Konev chat with Julian, under the smile of Frederica and the disapproving glare of Murai. The sequence culminates with the arrival of the Cazellnus, and we have all the clues to know why this is so important: Finally, for the first time, the entire cast of the ED is united on Iserlohn. The family of the Yang fleet is complete.

The Cazellnus

As heralded by this walkway sequence, the focus of this episode is the personalities and relationships that make up the fleet on Iserlohn. So let’s delve a bit into this ragtag cast of characters that Yang’s chosen to assemble, starting with the Cazellnu family.

Total screentime for Hortence ticks up from one second to two! This is for our own protection: If you stare at Hortence Cazellnu for more than an instant at a time, you fall under her thrall and your mental faculties are forever compromised. That’s canon* and explains a lot about Cazellnu. *See diary quote below...

Aww so cute, Julian playing with Charlotte and her little sister the unfathomable hell-demon whose quest to enslave humanity can only be thwarted by discovering and uttering her true name.....

“Yang kindly calls me a ‘master of cleaning and tidying.’ From his level it might seem that way, but from my point of view Mrs. Cazellnu seems like a ‘white witch.’ [...] When I said this in the morning, Yang nodded emphatically. ‘That must be true. She’s a white witch, and her husband is a dark wizard. After he lost a magical duel, he became her servant forever.’” —Julian’s Iserlohn Diary, p. 107

I’ll talk more about Hortence and the dynamics of the Cazellnu family when we do finally get to see her for more than one second at a time; for now let’s focus on Alex Cazellnu himself, whose only real role in this episode is to insult Yang at every opportunity. Ahh the bonds of friendship.

Yang claims to be excited that Cazellnu’s there mainly because he can push mountains of paperwork off onto him—Cazellnu’s official post is as some sort of manager of supplies and personnel; but I imagine that for Yang, who’s been thrust into this position of authority that he never really sought, there’s something comforting about filling his inner circle with people who don’t treat him with reverence. Cazellnu is an old friend who, in some ways, sees Yang more clearly than most people do.

Isn’t there a proverb, “children and fools tell the truth”...?

Schenkopp

Hey, isn’t that what I said about Yang when I first introduced him? Schenkopp must be reading Icebergs!

Like Cazellnu, Schenkopp has no qualms speaking his mind to Yang; unlike Cazellnu, who sees Yang as more or less an open book, Schenkopp sees him as a puzzle to be solved. He’s appointed himself Yang’s amateur psychoanalyst, and prods him on issues ranging from Frederica’s feelings to his political aspirations (or lack thereof) to his wishes for Julian’s future.

True to form, Yang responds to this implication that Frederica has feelings for him beyond her role as his adjutant by completely ignoring it and deflecting the conversation to how Schenkopp sees him.

While later on it will be mainly Cazellnu's role to question Yang's decisions about his personal life, it's Schenkopp who questions his political and strategic decisions. Yang's discomfort with the direction of the conversation is very clear on his face.

I've touched briefly before on the fact that Yang is projecting his own feeling of being trapped into the military onto Julian, and that's what Schenkopp is accusing him of here.

Poplan and Konev

“Their personalities seem to be really different, but every time I catch sight of them they’re together, so I guess they’re close.” —Julian’s Iserlohn Diary, p. 20

We only get a brief glimpse of Poplan and Konev in this episode, but there’s a ton of character in this short exchange: from their synchronized body language, to Konev’s affectionate smirk as he watches Poplan talk to Julian, to Konev’s roasting Poplan using syntactical terms that Poplan doesn’t seem to totally understand. (Konev’s wordplay and love of language is a recurring theme of his character and I totally love it.) We’ve observed their closeness already when Konev calms Poplan down during a stressful battle; here we learn that Konev also does not hesitate to teasingly call Poplan out on his bullshit—in this case, attributing to Julian his own desire for action.

Julian

I agree Julian, that is a really great assessment of the strategic situation.

We’ve seen Julian in the role of caretaker, shadow, and aspiring protector; but this is the first time we really see him in the role of protégé. When Julian points out how difficult it will be to quell four rebellions on different planets at once, Yang responds by asking him for his ideas, then taking his suggestion and filling in the holes.

While Yang is obviously acting as the teacher here (and equally obviously enjoying it), he talks to Julian without condescension; even pointing out the flaws of his original suggestion feels like a sign of respect for him as a serious student of tactics.

The transition from wide-eyed adulation to a much more serious “why yes indeed that does appear strategically sound” face is amazing.

Of course, despite including Julian as a real participant in a conversation about the upcoming campaign, Yang simultaneously still treats him like a kid, ruffling his hair at the end of this conversation just like he did when Julian promised to protect him two episodes ago.

Like a kid or possibly like a puppy, one or the other.

Also mental note: Do not suggest to Julian that Yang might not actually win an impending battle…

“It pisses me off. Despite flattering him with names like ‘Miracle Yang’ and ‘Yang the Magician,’ when push comes to shove they don’t show faith in him. I was so angry, I almost forgot my crucial errand of buying teabags.” —Julian’s Iserlohn Diary, p. 289

Frederica

TFW you’ve just learned your dad has forcibly overthrown a democratic government.

It’s a rough episode for Frederica. From what we know she seems pretty close to her dad, and perhaps partly because of that she assumes that his role as leader of the coup will throw suspicion on her loyalty.

Lost in translation is the fact that she changes her first-person pronoun, correcting her initial watashi to the more formal/humble shoukan (小官), which emphasizes her formal role here as a military subordinate.

Of course, Yang is way too practical to punish someone for something her father is doing (especially someone whose job saves him a hell of a lot of work), and as both Julian and Schenkopp predict he has no intention of firing her.

We don’t get to see much inside Frederica’s mind about her reaction to her father’s role in the coup, beyond her initial shock; what we do see is overwhelming relief and happiness when she isn’t fired. Between her father and Yang, it’s clear where her current loyalties lie.

Interestingly, Admiral Greenhill himself gets this wrong: He assumes that Yang will have fired Frederica and confined her on Iserlohn, which is part of his rationalization to himself for sending the 11th fleet to fight Yang—they won’t be attacking Frederica because she won’t be there.

...Whoops.

It seems like a minor detail, but Admiral Greenhill failing to predict Yang’s reaction is actually a really nice touch to emphasize the theme—as expressed by Julian’s diary passage that I opened this post with—that there’s something a bit different and more personal about how Yang runs his fleet.

Stray Tidbits

I hope you’ve enjoyed the exclusive Icebergs sneak peek at Julian’s Iserlohn Diary! As I mentioned, the diary, like the novels, is not officially relevant to our analysis, but I really love that the anime team used it to flesh out the dialogue and characterizations in both episode 17 and this episode—it’s more evidence of just how well they did their homework. (And hey, if you want to read the whole diary in English, write to Haikasoru and tell them you know someone who’d love to translate it for them.....)

I never found Admiral Greenhill especially interesting through the whole season so far, but I really love the closing scene of this episode—somehow it gives me chills every time. Acting to minimize harm in a situation with no good options is a pervasive theme of the show; and as Greenhill tries to explain to his wife’s grave, he believes that if someone more hotheaded and extremist were leading this coup, even more damage would be done. It’s an interesting parallel with Yang’s own motives for staying in the military despite opposing the war.

I love how totally useless Bucock was. LoGH is often quite subversive in its plotting, as we’ve discussed, and the anticlimax of Yang going to great lengths to warn Bucock about the coup in advance only to have that be irrelevant is both hilarious and realistic.

This guy makes a valid point.

Might that “someone” be...an octopus?? Come on Hidive subbers, why the censoring?

Next time you shake hands in farewell with someone, try just not letting go for exactly seven seconds. And also look at them with exactly Reinhard’s expression here. Do it. Report back.

You have been blessed with Beautiful Smirking Schenkopp. He will bring you luck in all of your endeavors today.

#Legend of Galactic Heroes #Legend of the Galactic Heroes #author: Rebecca #Alliance #Iserlohn #Hortence #Charlotte #unnameable demon child #Cazellnu #Schenkopp #Poplan #Konev #Yang #Julian #Frederica #Julian's Iserlohn Diary #光の橋を越えて

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ariel-the-rebellious · 8 years ago

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Ghosts and Treasure

In which Jim and Ariel explore Flint’s secret room and stock up for their journey into the Underworld. Trigger Warnings: None, I don’t think!

Jim was many things at the end of the day. A talented mechanic. A semi-decent singer. A devoted friend and son. A Magick (apparently). Jim was, also, very good at being bad.

Chalk it up to experience, but Jim was an expert when it came to breaking out and sneaking out. He had played his cards close to his chest all day, feigning an illness and telling the other slaves who worked in the kitchen that he likely wouldn’t be joining them in the morning and that he didn’t want to be disturbed. He was high enough in the chain of command (as high as a slave could be) that they would listen. He packed a light bag with enough supplies to get himself and Ariel sustained for the long journey - along with a few extra items, and then strapped the shield Annette had given him to his back, the sword wrapped in a cloth and tucked carefully out of sight. Once he knew the house was asleep (save for Annette, who he could see watching him from her darkened window), Jim snuck silently away, taking his normal back routes to the House of Dragon that he had once used to visit Ariel.

He reached the house undetected and stood by the edge of the property, waiting for a few moments as he decided whether to go to her window like normal, or wait for her to come to him. The waning moon was hidden behind the clouds, and Jim was certain that the shadows he was hidden in were deep enough that he couldn’t be spotted from the house. He was about to make his move when a small figure dropped out through Ariel’s window, landing in a crouch, and Jim waved his hand at the young woman once he recognized her long, red hair.

Ariel’s veins had been humming with excitement and nerves ever since the bathhouse. So much had happened in such a short time-span, and now they were about to literally go running into the Underworld to try and save… well, everyone.

What could go wrong, right?

Well, Ariel was trying not to think about the very many things that could go wrong. Instead, she was focused on the task at hand: Putting an end to Urania’s reign in this new, twisted version of Swynlake. And with that in mind, she, too, had feigned ill all day until night came, and then gathered up a canteen and some food, and a knife from the kitchen, just in case.

When she hopped down from the terrace of her windowsill - only a story up - she landed easily on her feet, used to doing the same thing night after night to get out of the Triton household. Then, she whisked around just in time to see Jim, and she waved back as she ran towards him quietly.

“Are you ready?” she whispered when she was close enough. She felt jumpy with energy, ready to get a move on.

Jim nodded, giving her a brief smile before motioning for her to follow him. Jim knew from his memories of planning a trip to the Underworld to save Sarah that the entrance itself was deep in the forest, at the end of a burning river, so the two began to make their way around the lake. The House of Dragon was closer to the east side, so they stuck to the shadows and crept very carefully past beautiful, now-empty houses (including Ariel’s), and about a dozen or so demon guards. Occasionally Jim would suddenly change their course or halt their progress, his arm hovering in front of Ariel as a demon ambled by, but soon they were in the forest. They hadn’t been spotted by a single guard, and Jim didn’t know whether to attribute that to his experience sneaking out, or his magic. He decided to take it as a good omen, instead of letting himself be deeply unsettled by the fact that he still had no idea how said magic worked.

They made it about partway through the forest when Jim stopped, looking at the house they were about to pass. It was Flint Estate, and it looked eerily empty and abandoned. Somehow more so than when he had arrived. His eyes roamed over the east wing, thinking of the secret door hidden inside. The one guarded by a vision of Flint. The guy had been a Magick, right? What better place for a secret Magick to hide information about their magic than a secret room? The kind they deemed valuable enough to safe guard with a spell that had lasted nearly three hundred years.

“Wait,” Jim breathed, his voice loud as a gunshot in the otherwise unnaturally silent forest. “I need to check something first. Come on,” He knew that the guards didn’t regularly patrol around these empty houses, and the path was clear, so Jim broke out across the road, making a silent run for the house. The main door to the east wing was locked, so Jim crept to the main house; where he found his spare key taped to a rock in the shrubs by the front, just where he had left it. The door unlocked easily, and Jim quickly ushered Ariel inside before following himself.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, Jim could hear a woman singing.

Sneaking out and creeping through the night, as established, was nothing new for Ariel. It was made ten times more difficult by the tougher guards and literal demons of hell watching, but it wasn’t impossible. Just a tad bit more difficult. But with Jim’s hand in her’s, and his Magick, they made it through just fine.

Oh, right. Jim was a Magick. That was still so odd to her. All this time, Ariel had been keeping the fact that she was a mermaid a secret, and the whole time Jim had a magic of his own he hadn’t even known about. He had seemed almost scared when he told her - nervous - like he wasn’t sure what to make of it and he didn’t know how to feel.

You’re like a magical GPS, she had told him, smile wide, to try and make it simple; to show him that having magic was nothing to be afraid of. Personally, Ariel found Jim’s ability pretty cool, to tell the truth. And it was even cooler to her when they arrived at Flint Estate safe and sound without a hitch.

Looking both ways before she darted after Jim through the empty street, Ariel was quiet and patient - a rare occurrence, but important in situations like these - as she waited for Jim to get the door open. As soon as she was inside, the redhead breathed a sigh of relief. She was about to start talking when a voice interrupted her from somewhere far off, maybe on another floor, even.

“Jim,” she breathed, clutching onto one of his arms as uncertainty and fear gripped her for a moment. “Who is that? I thought you said the house should be empty.”

“It should be,” Jim whispered back, eyebrows furrowed together. He couldn’t make out the words to the song the woman was singing, not through the floors that separated them. He placed his hand over Ariel’s, squeezing it gently in reassurance as he motioned for her to follow him. As long as the mystery singer stayed on the third or fourth floor, they were fine. Their objective wasn’t in the main house anyways.

Jim silently led Ariel through to the east wing, closing and locking all the doors behind them until they were safe in the other building. It was nearly pitch black inside, but Jim had no issues making his way to the room with the secret door. “Wait here,” he told her, keeping his voice low even though he couldn’t hear any movement from the rest of the building. Moving easily through the dark, Jim shoved the dresser out of the way and knelt close to the ground, finding the hidden switch and listening with a grin as the heavy metal lock turned and slid open with a muted thunk. He pulled the hidden door open with a soft grunt, the old wheels sticking occasionally as the section of the wall swung open, revealing a small landing and a staircase that ran parallel to the wall towards a single, locked door.

Last time Jim had gone down those stairs, it had been with Alana the first night they met. Navigating with only the light from their phones, they had inspected the strange door together until Alana had tried to open it and a ghastly apparition had slid into view, sword held aloft as he bellowed ‘TRAITOR!’ and chased them back to the top of the stairs. It had rightly scared the shit out of them both, and Jim had been determined to put the cursed door out of his mind.

But then Flint had shown up in that alley. It had taken Jim a while to place why the ghost had seemed so familiar - aside from the distinct family resemblance, but now he knew that it had been Flint that had chased them away from the hidden door that night. Or at least some sort of spell meant to look like him. If that wasn’t some kind of sign that there was some hint or clue down behind that door, Jim didn’t know what was. Worst comes to worst, there might be some sort of map or weapon that could help them get through the Underworld.

(He didn’t doubt Ariel could handle herself, but Jim would feel a lot better if she wasn’t trying to do it with a kitchen knife.)

It seemed that this time, they had been expected, as someone had lit the torch hanging on the wall just inside the door. The only person that could have been would’ve been Flint (probably), which meant they were on the right path. Also that Flint could get into Jim’s house very easily which, honestly, was kind of super unsettling. With the light of the torch helping to illuminate the room, Jim walked back to Ariel, taking her hand once more and giving her a brief smile. “You don't have to come in the room with me, but you should probably at least wait on the stairs,” he said, not tugging her away from the unblocked window like he desperately wanted to. “It’s up to you.”

Jim didn’t have an answer, and that made Ariel nervous. Very nervous. But she wouldn’t let that show. In fact - she let go of Jim’s arm and followed him like it didn’t bother her at all, hearing the voice singing or creeping through an empty house. And really, a part of her wasn’t bothered, just excited. That part grew the further the voice drifted until Ariel could no longer hear it.

She didn’t really like being told to “wait,” so much, and thought to herself how she might tell Jim to wait next if he opened his mouth to say it one more time. But she did as she was told for now, watching as he moved furniture and glancing around to take in the other surroundings as he opened whatever secret access door he was opening.

All the sound made Ariel’s head snap back in his direction, though, and she watched in wonder as the secret entrance was revealed, quickly rushing up to look closer. Her eyes landed on the lit torch. “That couldn’t have been lit forever. Did you light it?” she asked, not really knowing what she wanted the answer to be. A fire can’t stay burning for eternity, right? She didn’t think it could, but hey, maybe she was wrong.

She gripped Jim’s hand back tight, but loosened it with an awkward laugh a second later. No, she was not scared. It would take more than a creepy dark house to scare Ariel. “I’m coming with you,” she insisted with conviction, raising an eyebrow at him like he must be confused. “Why wouldn’t I come with you? I want to see the cool secret room and all the cool secret stuff.”

‘Because the last time I tried to open the door, my long-dead ancestor tried to chop my head off’ Jim didn’t say, instead shrugging. “Because I didn’t light that torch,” he said honestly, letting that fact sink in as he gently tugged Ariel inside the small hallway and pulled the wall partially closed. He headed down the steps first, again marveling at how well this part of the house had held up through the years. Now that he knew Flint’s magical secret, he wouldn’t be surprised if this whole room was enchanted.

As Jim stepped onto the bottom landing, Ariel not far behind, he noticed a note on the door. That had definitely not been there before, and Jim didn’t bother to pull it down, instead leaning in to read it better.

Seek out your truth - F

Jim couldn’t help his small grin, shaking his head with a begrudging fondness. “Chatty bastard,” he muttered, reaching out to test the handle and finding he wasn’t entirely surprised when it gave easily. He swung the door open, and stepped inside.

Stepping into Flint’s room was like stepping into the past, the room only lit with with warm glow of several candles and lanterns which threw the rest of the room into dramatic shadows. A large map of the world was painted on the longest wall, impossibly accurate for something that was at least three hundred years out of date. Scrolls and maps spread out across the long, wooden table that took up most of the floor space that wasn’t already claimed by large bookcases - also filled to the brim with various books and scrolls. Knickknacks and bits of treasure seemed to be crammed everywhere, from the large trunks piled in the corner to the pigeon holes in the bookcases, and if Jim hadn’t already been having trouble trying to guess the value of all of Adeline’s artifacts, he couldn't even fathom the worth of Flint’s collection. Somehow, the room was clear of dust, like Flint had only just stepped out yesterday instead of three hundred years ago.

Jim whistled lowly. “Okay, fine, I’m impressed,” he muttered, eyes wide as he tried to take it all in.

The words honestly were not comforting. “If you didn’t light it, who did?” she asked quietly, but followed him onto the stairs anyways. Every step, Ariel continued to look around, trying not to miss anything. She even walked up to the note right next to Jim, reading it with him.

“Do you mean Flint?” She figured that was the only person it could be, given the fact it was signed with an F and he was the one who’d told Jim that he was a Magick and all. “What truth are you supposed to be seeking out? Is it supposed to be in this room?” She continued to question him as she followed Jim through the door, each moment a new thought interrupting her mouth. Her lips could hardly keep up.

The sight of the room did leave Ariel breathless, but only momentarily. “Is all this for you? If you’re supposed to be seeking out your truth in here, how are you supposed to find it? Will it be obvious, do you think? Or are you supposed to work really hard to look for it? What is all that?” Her eyes landed on the various scrolls and maps sprawled out on the table on the far side of the room. “I mean- well- what is all of this, really - there’s too much to look at, I could spend hours in here!”

For a moment, she almost forgot about Pleiades and the engagement and being a slave and how there was a literal Underworld with people trapped in a literal Underworld prison. She almost forgot that the dead was walking among them and that the whole reason they were here in the first place was so that they could be better prepared when they went down into the Underworld themselves.

The thought made her shut up, if only for a moment, as she made her way over to a nearby trunk and started examining a weird pair of goggles found on top. “What do we take?” she asked quietly this time, fidgeting with the moving monocles until one broke off, at which point she quickly set it down and moved along, wincing and hoping Jim hadn’t noticed.

Jim, in fact, had noticed, his eyes having been following Ariel as she put words to the questions running through his head. He laughed at her quick, embarrassed movement, shaking his head fondly as he approached the desk.

“When we come back-” (and they would be coming back) “we can dig through this stuff and find those answers,” he assured her, glancing over the maps and lifting the corners of some to see what lay underneath. A yellowed skull sat on the corner of the desk, and Jim shuddered as he swore he felt it staring at him. “I think he wants me to learn more about this whole Pathfinding thing and our family history in general, but right now we just don’t have the time,” he said, a little disappointed. He too could have spent hours in this room, just studying Flint’s slanted handwriting and his little notes and musings scratched into the margins of every map. There were answers here, he just knew it; it was only a matter of finding the right questions.

“Weapons would be good to take,” he told Ariel. He frowned as he looked over the desk, trying to find any mention of the Underworld or Pathfinding. “I don’t think we’re going to luck out and find a map of the Underworld wrapped up for us with a bow on top, unfortunately. We’ll just have to make due.” Jim looked back at her, and gestured to the room with a sweep of his hand. “Take whatever you can use,” he offered, and a small, amused smirk pulled at his lips. “What’s mine is yours, after all; at least for the moment. Do you think ‘hidden basements filled with pirate treasure’ is included in our vows?”

Note to self; please stop joking about their weird arranged marriage.

“Pathfinding, right,” Ariel mumbled to herself as she continued to explore. Her fingers itched as they drifted over various objects, and she couldn’t help herself when she bit her lip and pocketed a pretty little ring, checking to make sure Jim didn’t notice first. (It wasn’t being worn just sitting in here, right? And besides, she didn’t even have an engagement ring. Not that she should have one, since she wasn’t really engaged and all, but rings were pretty and even if she never wore it she could still admire it properly.)

It was funny, though, how immediately afterward Jim basically told her she could have whatever she wanted from the room. Ariel’s eyes widened and for a moment her head swiveled around. She didn’t know where to begin. And then of course, his little joke caught up to her.

Her face burned red. “U-Um, well, I mean, we haven’t exactly said any vows yet!” she laughed awkwardly. “I don’t even know if we’re supposed to write them ourselves or if they’re already written, or-” She cut herself off from going too far with the thought, memories of wedding planning and attending the marriages of her sisters starting to flood in. She waved them all off with a frantic flailing of her hands. “Not that it matters! We’re not going to get married. Not really.”

It was weird, how the thought made her sad. That was fake Ariel, she told herself. Not real Ariel. She was too young to get married - she hadn’t even fallen in love yet! (Well, except for when she totally thought she was in love with Tyler Everest in third grade and wrote him a love letter and everything. But that didn’t count.) And so she smiled as she moved about the other side of the room. “But, you know, I do like the sentiment.”

Walking about, the redhead was surprised when she came upon a large, three-pointed Trident resting up against a corner near one of the large bookshelves. She stepped up and wrapped her hands around the cool metal, and picked it up, surprised to find it light in her hands. Turning it in her grasp, she reached out to touch the tips of each point, finding them sharp enough almost to pierce even her soft graze. This is so cool, she thought, and turned to Jim, holding it up.

“Do you think this will work?”

The disappointment and embarrassment he felt when Ariel had reminded him that they weren’t actually getting married was all Pleiades, or at least that was Jim’s story and he was sticking to it. “Right, sorry,” he said quickly, cursing himself when his ears flushed with embarrassment as he stared at the tabletop with laser focus. “Bad joke.” ‘Idiot’ he cursed himself silently.

Shoving all the Pleiades memories far into the back of his head, Jim began to look around the room, intent on following his own advice. The sword Annette had given him was great, but he only knew how to use it in his memories. He wasn’t certain how well he would fare with the strange blade when it came time to put his knowledge to the test. If Flint had something smaller, like a knife or dagger, lying around, that would be better. His eyes roamed over the room, stopping on a small chest shoved behind several books on one of the bookshelves. It wouldn’t have even stood out to him if it hadn’t been for the fact that the key was shoved into the lock on the front, almost like it was waiting.

Jim crossed the room, carefully removing the chest and setting it on the nearest table (a map of Swynlake that was only partially inked crimping under the new weight). The key turned easily, and Jim subconsciously held his breath as he pushed the well-oiled lid back. Inside the chest was a leather belt, an old-style flintlock pistol (ha), and some sort of golden orb. Jim picked the orb up, twisting it in his hands as his eyes traced the strange markings and circular symbols that littered the surface. Was it like an old Rubik's cube or something? The metal was warm against his hands, and when he pressed his thumb against one of the circular indents, it sunk down under the pressure.

He would have kept playing with the strange device had Ariel not called to him, and Jim turned to look at her over his shoulder. His breath left him at the sight of his not-exactly-fiance standing there holding a giant trident of all things, her normally soft features lit dramatically by the candles in the room. He blinked at her owlishly, teeth tugging against the inside of his cheek before reality smacked into him like a brick and he realized he was staring. Again.

Just gonna blame that on the magic memories too.

“Yeah, uh, perfect!” he said with a short cough, nodding rapidly at her before turning his head away, wrestling back the pride that wasn’t his own at seeing his future wife armed and determined, fire dancing in her eyes. “See, told you I’d get you a weapon,” he joked weakly. “Imagine the audience's reaction if you walked on stage with that, Little Juliet.” He set the orb back down, grabbing the leather belt instead and fastening it around his hips.

She wanted to say No, that wasn’t a bad joke, Jim, really, it was funny! But the words caught on her tongue as both versions of Ariel battled. Real life Ariel appreciated the sentiment behind it - and fake Ariel did, too, except that it wasn’t a joke to her and she was very much excited to be getting married to anyone, and somehow, particularly Jim.

So instead, she said nothing, and focused on the current task at hand: Loading up with gear.

Ariel’s face lit up at the approval of Jim - and Pleiades - and made a sharp jabbing motion with the Trident, giggling as she did so. She felt like some kind of demi-god or something, which was amusing given the current state of the town. Mention of the play brought the mental image to mind, and Ariel had to say, it was more than just amusing. “Juliet walks on stage with a Trident and tells everyone to stop being stupid or she’ll poke them to death. I like that. It would’ve solved a lot, assuming they would have listened to her, which they wouldn’t, of course. No one listens to girls, especially when they’re young.” Okay, that was a lot of both Ariels chiming in, there. Blowing air up at her bangs in a sigh, she walked over to Jim and looked first at his belt, and then at the items in the chest. “What’s all that?”

Jim chuckled himself at her suggested Trident edit to the script, picturing Ariel in her Juliet costume holding the trident up threateningly at anyone who stepped too close. “If it worked for Maria, it can work for you,” he repeated from their texts during rehearsal, smiling. The play felt a million miles away, especially under all the new memories of their alternate lives. But joking about it made it easier to remember what they were doing this whole crazy suicide run for. They had a play to put on back in the real Swynlake, and lives to get back to.

He nodded at her comments, remembering Jessi’s long, impassioned rants about the same subject. It was one of those things that Jim didn’t really understand; Kate and Jessamine were both some of the smartest people he knew, and they were young women. Ariel’s views on the world and her hundreds of questions genuinely got Jim thinking most of the time, in both lives. It was part of why they were friends (or at least, he liked to think they were friends).

When Ariel approached, Jim glanced at her and shrugged. “Flint’s favorites, I guess,” he told her, passing her the orb to examine before picking up the pistol himself. It was a beautiful piece of work, with etchings all along the barrel and a smooth, wooden handle inlaid with some sort of pearlescent stone. He held it up, thumb hovering over the hammer and pointer finger above the trigger like his Uncle Charlie had taught him when he was ten. That was the year there were a bunch of coyote attacks near Montressor, and his uncle had taken it on himself to teach most of Jim’s cousins how to shoot.

This hadn’t been what his uncle had intended, but Jim was glad to put the knowledge to work now. He tucked the pistol into the belt, snug against his hip where it wouldn’t slide around. “Anything else you can think of?” he asked Ariel.

“I hope we do West Side Story next year. It’s a slim chance and I probably wouldn’t get to play Maria, but it would still be fun,” she commented, looking around before focusing on the items in the chest again. Taking the orb, she played around with it, eyebrows slowly creasing more and more in confusion. “What is this supposed to be? It’s more confusing than a Rubix Cube.”

Watching Jim handle the gun made Ariel nervous. Her stomach became uneasy and an anxious feeling fluttered in her chest. Ariel did not like most weapons, but guns in particular were things she wished had never been invented. She could appreciate the detail on it, really - but that didn’t change the fact that just looking at it made her feel slightly sick.

But she swallowed it all down. They needed protection, and a gun was supposedly one of the best forms of defense. Ariel had her Trident. She would be fine.

“Um… I have a canteen we can fill with water before we go, and a weapon, and I’m assuming you have some food in your bag, too, right?” Not that Ariel thought they would be down there long enough to need to eat, but you could never be too careful. “Um… I think that should be fine? I can’t really think of anything else. It’s not really every day you go to the Underworld, aha.”

“I dunno,” Jim admitted, looking at the orb briefly before putting it back in the chest. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to ask Flint ourselves while we’re down there.”

With the orb tucked safely away, Jim looked at Ariel as she counted off on their supplies, nodding at her question. “Yeah, we can get some water on the way out of the house if the pipes are still working,” he confirmed. He looked around the room one last time before taking a deep breath and nodding. “What we’ve got is fine,” he said, smiling at Ariel with a confidence he didn’t really feel. “We should go.”

With that, they snuck back upstairs to the main part of the east wing (Jim grabbing the torch on the wall and blowing out the flame before tucking that into his bag as well), pushing the hidden door shut behind them and hearing the lock engage before heading into the kitchen. The faucet didn’t work, but by some miracle, there were water bottles left over from the last time someone stocked the fridge, and they poured two of those into the canteen. With their prep work done, Jim and Ariel snuck out the side door, darting back across the street and into the forest once again.

(If they had looked back, they would have noticed a shadow move across the attic window, barely opaque enough to catch any of the slim moonlight shining through the clouds. But they did not, and the shadow moved deeper into the attic, singing softly to herself.)

@thathawkinsboy

#bdrpag #bdrpaghellrunner #bdrpaghellrun #jim #hidden treasure #oneshot #more to come #these are so late #fuck my life honestly #i only formatted i did not proofread i've been writing all day forgive me

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