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hockeyboysiguess · 4 years ago

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coney island | e. pettersson

a/n: like many people, i’ve been listening to evermore pretty much exclusively on repeat since it came out. this is the first fully formed fic idea i’ve had from it. it’s very, very angsty, just as a heads up, but i’m proud of it and i hope you appreciate it.

word count: 4,954

wine pairing recommendation: a cold glass of very dry chardonnay.

warnings: swearing, implied smut if you squint, alcohol, a crap ton of angst.

Love was hard. People had told you that, your parents, grandparents, his parents, random jaded old women you swore you would never be like when they saw you holding his hand in the streets of Vancouver. Everyone told you it was harder than it seemed at first glance, the complexities infinitely expanding the deeper into it you fell, never ending, never becoming less complicated, never relenting. All of it fell on deaf ears and you pushed their words out of his head later every single night, utterances of how you and Elias were different as they fell from wine stained lips, breathed out with alcohol tainted breaths and laughter. He breathed them back to you in reply, drunk on you and him and everything you two knew you could be. You weren’t deep into the maze then, still at the outside, where decisions were as simple as right and left.

Turned out that the skeptics were speaking from experience not jealousy like you prayed to each other each night. Now, the maze ran so deep, spidering through every crevice of your life that you were long lost in it, Elias lost in a part that might as well have been infinitely far away from you because you couldn’t find him anymore in it. You stopped wandering deeper ages ago. Instead you found a safe hiding spot in the maze and built a fire to keep yourself warm without him, but you stayed in the maze of your conjoined lives, and so did Elias. Neither of you knew what outside of the maze looked like anymore and the unknown and it’s endless possibilities for terrible things was more terrifying than abhorrent mediocrity, so you both stayed, miles apart in a shared life, with no hope of finding your way back to each other.

Neither of you wanted to push deeper into the maze. You had found a holding pattern, orbiting each other and disappointing each other in even strokes that it was all the worst kind of wash you could have ever imagined. Sometimes, bombs went off in the maze that wouldn’t have been bombs if you had been willingly travelling through it together. The bomb this time was the gift-wrapped suburban dream that showed up in the form of Bo shoving a realtor’s card into Elias’s hand, along with the promise that she could find the home for you and him to build a family together in, since it was time for that. The fact that it was time for that never settled properly, an ill-fitting, both too tight and too loose bandage trying desperately to pull two people who were miles apart together inside of 3,000 square feet as if the physical boundary of shared space would fix the chasm between you. The dream of a life with him in a house like the ones you were looking at was all in shades of gray for you. It was the future, but it felt like the past, like looking at an old movie you had never seen before. Beautiful, but so clearly out of place and out of time. Looking at the houses, each one nicer than the last, the foot of space between you felt as wide as the city. You were looking at houses, places to build a home, that you couldn’t have been able to look at without him, and you were looking without restriction, but you knew it was out of responsibility, an obligation, for the both of you.

You and Elias ran out of time together too long ago, but neither of you wanted to acknowledge it. There was comfortability in each other, even if it was because you both had so much space in your relationship that even this house, the perfect house by every metric other than the fact that it would never be filled with love, couldn’t bring you together long enough to pretend it wasn’t there. You would always be standing at the furthest points of this house from each other, hoping you never had to acknowledge it. The dream was as cold as the pristine countertops and you hated them. You hated the room the realtor said could be a nursery more. It made you sick. Elias grimaced. You two hadn’t related to each other in a long time, but in that moment, you couldn’t have been on the same wavelength more.

You signed the papers the day and the keys felt coldest of all in your hand, but yet, when you and Elias stood in your new living room, he asked the question he was supposed to ask anyway.

“Are you excited?”

The question was a lie as soon as it was formed. He didn’t want to ask if you were excited. He knew you weren’t because he wasn’t. His life was lived in increasingly medium shades of gray, the blue having been drained from the sky over the maze a long time ago. But he was here, and he was asking the question, so you gave the answer the question deserved.

“So excited.” You spoke with such practiced niceties that the only person who knew they were fake was, unfortunately, the person receiving them. “The house is perfect.”

The house was perfect. That wasn’t a lie. It was exactly what you wanted, what Elias wanted, where you always thought you would live together back when the skies were still blue and there was grass under your feet. The skies had been gray for a while and the grass went dormant before that, as it did when winter threatened. With skies this gray, why were you still here? Why did you sign your name for the house? You were comfortable, in every single way of your life other than how your heart sat in your chest, you were comfortable and your goddamn heart, that absolutely useless thing in your chest, still looked at him and saw what it used to be like and blindly thought, if you went a little deeper into the maze, you might just run into him along the way and it would be like old times, like when you prayed your love into each other every single night with hushed words and heavy touches and kisses meant to take your breath away.

You reached out for him and he hesitated for a moment, before settling into your embrace. Your arms around his neck, his hands on your back and his warm breath dancing across your neck, he still felt like he was yours, not like he was so distant he was unreachable.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” you mumbled to him.

His chest tensed and he sucked in a quick, pained breath. You apologized for it in the moment as it happened but hadn’t brought it up since. You blamed flights and work and other related responsibilities when it was simply just a broken promise. You could have made it work. You could have figured out how to get home and spend the night with him. It would have meant an early morning after, but no early than the ones he did all the time. You were trying to figure it out, scrolling through airlines, meticulously checking your schedule, finding the flights with awkward connections that would get you to him for the night. Your headache from it all was worsening, so you gave yourself a five minute break from it, scrolling through social media. It was the smallest thing, his teammates getting him dessert at dinner, but the way he laughed, the way he smiled, the way he looked actually happy because of the people around him; he hadn’t looked like that because of you in longer than you even realized. If you were there, he wouldn’t be that happy.

He never told you, but he realized something was nearly hopelessly broken when he’d breathed a sigh of relief when you told him you wouldn’t be able to make it home, that you were going to miss his birthday.

You watched through the carefully curated lens of his drunk friends’ posts from hundreds of miles away and felt like you were as close as you had been to him in a while, watching him be happy from your spot in the maze. You couldn’t even see him really. Only his laughter carried across the expanse between you as if coming from down a hallway from the apartment at the end of the hall you knew was impeccable and the people inside of it were having an amazing party. You just weren’t invited because you lived at the apartment farthest from him instead of with him like you were supposed to.

You ate your single slice of mediocre cake you ordered from room service in his honor at his request.

“Really?”

His voice pulled you back into the present. You nodded into him and his hands pressed you into him in response. The feeling of his hands on you was like old times, back when your relationship felt your piece of heaven on earth that you could share with him. You tilted your head up to look at him and your heart pulled you up onto your toes to kiss him. One of his hands reached up to cup your face and he deepened the kiss, letting you both walk back down the road to a long lost and long missed paradise in the past. His hands were the same as before, his mouth on your skin, pulling moans and tugging your heart closer to his and making you both forget that you couldn’t walk back down that road, a road you both wished you could but couldn’t actually find, the map to it lost in disappointments and missed moments, lost in the wind that carried away the love that was missing. You both pretended it was still there on the bare floor of the house you were supposed to fill together, let the comfortability of the way you felt in each other’s arms artificially bring you closer together for a few moments you wished would stretch over your entire lives again.

As you slid your sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, back over your shoulders and handed him the one he had actually worn, the space was more evident than before. You borrowed the good moments from the dwindling allotment you had been given by the universe at the start of your relationship that had seemed infinite then, maps through new parts of the maze that were limited. You were supposed to have figured out how to explore and draw them together, map forever hand in hand, but you had never been able to draw even one. Each time you borrowed a good moment from the rations, used it up really since it couldn’t be returned, they transformed into memories instead, you both become painfully aware of how few were left now and you felt further apart than before.

“Elias.” You were reaching out across the maze and hoping he still wanted to reach back out. “I miss you.”

You knew he would understand, even though your words didn’t make much sense in reality.

“I miss you too.”

His voice betrayed him, cracking at the end of his sentence. You felt him for the first time in what had to be eons at this point, really felt his hand in your reaching out through the noise. Then you felt his hand reach out and pull you into him again, lips resting on your forehead for a few lingering moments.

“I-” You cleared your throat to try again. “I want us to be us again, Elias.”

“Me too, so much,” he agreed, voice giving way to emotion and cracking again, exposing the honesty of his statement. “I want to fix us.”

“Me too, Elias. Me too.”

And so, you tried. You both desperately tried. You tried to bring him into the center of your world again, tried to find him in the maze and he tried to find you. But as you unpacked boxes with your backs to each other, the distance was the same and all you were doing was shouting across it, wishing it didn’t exist. To shout across it, it had to be acknowledged, but that was part of it, wasn’t it? You had to acknowledge a problem to fix it, and you thought, if you both acknowledged it enough, eventually the uncharted territory between the two of you in your relationship would be to be journeyed and you would find each other again. You kept thinking it and he kept thinking it, because having the right spirit brought people from their deathbeds and maybe it could for your relationship too. You kept looking, shouting across the maze, but he was both right next to you and infinitely far away at the same time.

Elias had a banner sort of year, the kind of year he had been working his entire life to have. Amid the personal mistakes and disappointments, professional success was uncomplicated. You were on his arm, pretending absolutely nothing was wrong and that you were every bit as in love with him as you were the first time you came to this award show years ago. Fake it until you make it. It would get you through tonight and perhaps it just might get you through the maze to him again.

Except instead of crossing the maze to him, you watched it crumble around you that night as you looked up from your seat at the stage, pride swelling in your chest and threatening your breath, bringing tears to your eyes. You were still impossibly proud of him and his accomplishments. Words tumbled from his mouth and you could have sworn you were listening, but now, you couldn’t remember any he said from that podium. You remembered the ones he didn’t say, the options he had in front of him that would have been acceptable. My girlfriend was a fine inclusion. Your name worked. Instead, there was emptiness in his speech, an emptiness that scripted a deep, unending ache in your chest instead of the words it should have been filled with. He said he was grateful for his family, his parents, his brother, then a pause, a pause too long to have been an accident, a pause that gave him enough time to decide to shatter you with a purposefulness you could never forget. There was no “and” after his brother, but the sentence ended anyway, the weight of it finally tipping the scale you had been agonizing over daily for far too long to honestly even think you were happy with him anymore. The scale couldn’t tell a lie. It was simply an itemized summation of everything beautiful and unique and unrelinquishable about him versus the parts of him that you desperately wished were different, the disappointing things.

You tried to deny it for a moment, when he rejoined you and kissed your temple and held your hand, when he felt like he always felt, like he was the place you wanted to be forever.

“I, uh, I’m sorry. I totally forgot to say your name and I feel stupid.”

The lie sealed it, the reading on the scale forever burned into your mind. It was fixed now because you were done counting, done weighing it all. You weren’t his centerfold and you never would be, something that was a fact of the worst kind now. Facts were simply facts, not meant to hurt or help, simply meant to present truths objectively. But there was nothing objective in the way people received facts. You were both too polite to leave each other without a real reason to do it, but he hadn’t been in the bed you shared in so long and he wasn’t coming back. The empty pause and the emptiness in your bed felt all too related in that moment.

It was the loudest, most honest emptiness you had ever experienced.

The emptiness carried heavy on your shoulders through each forced photograph, each person whose hand you shook when they congratulated him, each moment you held his hand when he knew that you knew it was a lie. Elias Pettersson didn’t do anything on accident; he didn’t function on whims and wishes. It was calculated, your omittance from the list of people to thank, and he knew he was severing any threads that still tied you together. You looked at him that night, smiling as brightly as you’d seen him do for years, and you couldn’t help by wonder when the days turned to never ending nights, when the sun set on your relationship without the ability to rise again, and when he had disappeared why still being right next to you the entire time.

You hit the front steps of the house you shared that had never become a home and said the words you both had been avoiding for far too long now.

“I’ll start moving out tomorrow.”

Elias just nodded as he loosened his tie because he could say he didn’t understand a lot of things, that he had the same questions you had and many more, but he couldn’t say he didn’t see this as inevitable and neither could you.

“I’m sorry,” he told you as he headed into the guest room to sleep there instead of physically next to you.

His words were genuine, which was somehow the worst fucking part of it all was that he was still a good person, a fucking incredible person, but he wasn’t yours. When you find a great person, and you hold onto them, and you love them back, it’s supposed to work. Instead, it somehow felt doomed from the start and you couldn’t understand why.

“I’m sorry too,” you whispered.

He heard you because he was listening for you. He never stopped listening, never stopped trying, but he decided he needed to destroy the maze, correctly so, because neither of you were able to find your way closer, not even a single inch closer from when you said you would both try to fix it. You were both too lost. You were never going to end it without a specific, final straw, so he gave you your reason, even if it broke his soul in two to do. You would have chosen to be miserable with him for the rest of your life and he would have been miserable too. The right thing to do sometimes hurts more than the wrong thing, and Elias Pettersson knew that.

It didn’t mean he cried any less that night.

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Three months had passed since that night, that night you both had been trying to avoid for more of your relationship than the amount of time you hadn’t known it was coming. You waited on the park bench you shared after your first date, the ever familiar bench by the tree line in the park and the golden clock. The trees seemed to be worse for wear this year and the golden paint on the clock was chipping, two things you found all the more fitting as you waited for Elias. He had a box of things you had forgotten, things from Sweden, things from around the house in Vancouver, bits of you that belonged with you and not him anymore. You saw him as he walked up and your stupid heart, that goddamn still fucking useless thing in your chest, lurched toward him in blind nostalgia without a care for how it would actually make you feel.

“Hi.”

Elias awkwardly set the box onto the bench next to you, hands fidgeting at his side anxiously. You knew he wanted to say something. You didn’t want to know that he was thinking by the movements of his hands, but you still knew, the information instinctually recalled by your brain and you wondered if it would always be there.

“Can I sit? Can we talk?”

The part of you that was working your way through the rubble of the maze wanted to say no, but the part of you that still tried to rebuild pieces of it on your winding journey through the rubble of your relationship as you tried to untangle your life from him wanted you to say yes and today, it was louder.

“What do you want to talk about, Elias?”

He didn’t know what to say. You could see it in the surprise on his face; he hadn’t planned for you to say yes. He had expected a no and didn’t think past that point. He sat down on the edge of the bench with the box in between you acting as a porous barricade, if you could even call it a barricade at all. He was just as perfect as the day you left, soft hair, kind eyes, smile that could stop a car accident before it even happened. It couldn’t stop the trainwreck that was you and him though, no matter how much you wish it could have.

“How are you good?”

“I’m fucking grand,” slid out of your mouth deftly, all too practiced and lazy to be true. “How are you, Elias?”

He just nodded in response, before a soft, “Same,” left his lips.

Elias ran a hand frustratingly through his hair, fingers tugging at the thin blond strands. He let out a tense, shortened breath, eyes closing as if it would help him to will his breath level. His eyes opened slowly, pointed toward the gravel path under his feet.

“I can’t figure out what happened.” His words were broken with months of anxiously pouring over them spilling out with them now. “I keep trying to figure out where we went wrong, what I did, what you did, when it broke in a way we couldn’t fix. I can’t figure it out. There’s so many broken parts that I can’t find the first one.”

You nodded softly in understanding because the same thoughts kept you up at night, woke you in the morning, and kept you in terrible company throughout every single day since you left. You had been looking for the same thing as him, the original fracture point when it all really started to crumble, and you couldn’t find it. You couldn’t find where you had diverged in the maze and began to chart paths that would never lead you back to each other, nor could you understand why it had all happened.

“We used to be so good,” you mumbled in response. It wasn’t directly related to his statement, but at the same time, it was the next logical thought and you knew he would make the leap to yours with you. “Do you miss us?”

Your voice shook, the shaking coming from somewhere deep inside, a part of you that hadn’t settled completely with the idea he was never going to be yours again.

“Do you miss us from the beginning?” you clarified more firmly this time because you didn’t miss being two people who lived together but didn’t.

“Every second of every goddamn day.”

Missing each other was easy, as easy as breathing, but you couldn’t miss him without remembering the gray skies that came with him that smothered out the daylight. You used to parade around the city, bright lights, nights of spinning around each other faster and faster with absolute elation. You knew it had left, that merriment of each other, but you didn’t know why or how.

“I don’t know what happened,” you admitted to him. “I’ve been trying to figure it out too because god, Elias, we were perfect. We were everything we wanted to be, but then, and I think it happened way sooner than either of us wanted to admit, we just weren’t. Out of nowhere, it didn’t feel the same and I couldn’t make it feel the same, but I wished I could’ve. Loving you was my favorite thing to do and I’m so fucking sad I can’t do it anymore and I don’t know why I can’t do the thing that used to be my favorite thing.”

Elias shuffled his feet on the path, gravel crunching under his shoes. He didn’t have to say it. You knew it used to be his favorite thing to do too. He was sitting on the bench, sharing it with you even though doing so hurt, because he was trying to figure it out too.

“Maybe it was because I couldn’t win you that stupid arcade ring on our second date,” Elias offered up as a joke. It was terrible, and you weren’t in the mood for a joke, but it still made you laugh. “That was the first thing I couldn’t do for you.”

The joke soured and died with his second sentence. You both knew it wasn’t true, but it was as true as any other theories you had, because it wasn’t a single event. There was no singular event you could pinpoint where everything had gone wrong. Maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe you spent so much time looking at the walls of the maze immediately surrounding you that you forgot to look down. If you had looked down at the ground beneath your feet in the maze, the foundation of your relationship, maybe you would've seen the edge of the grass followed by a few meager inches of rock, before a cliff face. Maybe you couldn’t find your way back to each other because the maze you were in was built on a flawed foundation because maybe it was never supposed to exist in the first place.

“What if we just were never supposed to be together?”

It was the easiest and hardest answer of all of them, the one you had been avoiding, because saying it forever tainted the time you spent together that was flawless. It forever marred those pristine memories.

“I’ve thought about that a lot, more than anything else actually,” Elias sighed, slumping back onto the bench. “I don’t think that’s it. I kind of wish it was because it meant we were always going to end, but god, I don’t think that’s true. I think we were it. I think we fucking had it right.”

“If we had it right, why aren’t we together? Why don’t I get to love you anymore? We didn’t fuck it up, Elias,” you pushed back.

“I think we did. I think it was just a series of tiny mistakes, but we made them at the same time and never fixed them. I think, so fucking slowly, you stopped being the center of my life and I stopped being yours and then it was done from then on because we couldn’t put each other back because we got just a little too selfish with how we were living and that was it.”

“That was the beginning of the end then,” you said softly, “and the rest of it just played itself out.”

Elias nodded just as softly as you’d spoken, “That’s the best I could come up with, but it could be wrong. All I know is we don’t work anymore and I’ve never felt cheated out of something incredible before I lost you.”

Elias stood up after a moment. Your eyes were dry, tears expelled too many times to have any to shed now. A theoretical answer didn’t provide any closure because really, it just felt like the universe decided you two, for whatever reason, didn’t get to be happy and that was all there was to it. She didn’t write an explanation, just that it had to end. Unexplained pains in reality weren’t followed by something better. People said that, but it was just shit talk to make themselves feel whole again. Besides, looking at him now, you knew there was nothing better for you than him and he was looking at you the same way you were looking at him. He felt it all too. There was nothing else better.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out. “I’m so sorry for what I did, whatever part of it I did that got us here.”

He waited this time, unlike the night you decided to move out. He waited for you to say it because he wanted to look at your face for just a little bit longer, wanted to live in a world where you were still in his life, in more than his memories a little bit longer. Your scattered things now in that box had been keeping you in his present, but as soon as he left, everything about you would be in his past and he wanted to hang onto you for just a little bit longer, for entirely selfish reasons. You wanted it too though, so you waited for far longer than you should to speak.

“I’m sorry too, Elias. I’m sorry for not making you my centerfold.”

Elias nodded softly in understanding, eyes taking you in on the park bench one last time, before turning on his heels and walking back to his car, just as the sun started to set. You thought there couldn’t have been a more beautiful, horrible, closing moment in the universe than this one and you would hate the universe for the rest of your life for making you participate in it.

You could never hate the universe for making you love Elias Pettersson though. It had been the greatest, most horrible pleasure of your life, watching the sun go down on it all, but the days the sun had shone? The sky had been bluer than you had ever thought possible.

You would never forget how blue it had been for the rest of your life.

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sugar-petals · 4 years ago

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BTS Scenario: Taking Care of Them When They Have a Cold

↳ ♡ NOTE ⇁ time for fluff. autumn season is coming, let me set the mood right here, we’re going cozy 🍂

warnings ⚠️ hurt/comfort, brief mention of sexual tension

⌈jimin⌋ ⇢ Jimin’s cold is unusually subtle. In terms of visible signs, it’d take some time to notice it for someone who doesn’t know him or doesn’t check just how heavy another person’s breath is going. But feedback? You will definitely get. Compared to how he’s pouting about it, which will melt your heart is what I’m saying, the symptoms are understated in comparison to the other members. Taehyung’s cough can shatter an entire neighborhood, Jimin sneezing is as graceful as a gazelle. Mind you, his nose is runny, and the slight fatigue of the first two days isn’t negligible, but the major thing to actively mend is more psychological than physical. In other words, his body does its thing, you don’t have to overextend yourself.

That’s what you have to figure out first to really take care of him properly. After laying him down and bringing both snacks and liquids, talking is what he needs rather than ten thousand types of medications and cool towels all over him. Jimin doesn’t want to see you become sick as well so you don’t sit up close, but at talking range, and you text a lot during the day while you work. He’s worried about not being able to practice and hopes the cold doesn’t show in his appearance. You assure him it takes five days at best and he is okay again and promise a lot of kisses. With that prospect, healing is even sweeter. And, you know the guy, Jimin misses seducing you, so.

⌈taehyung⌋ ⇢ Absolutely enjoys being babied ten times out of ten. Nothing better than you preparing a hot herbal bath. Rosemary, thyme, camomile. The steam spiraling off the water surface looks so relaxing in the candlelight, the classical music you put on sways him into a trance, he lays there for half an hour just motionless. He gets a little tray of coconut cookies on the bed stand, you play the guitar to him, you massage his feet before he sleeps… Which, and he hates admitting it, makes it nice to be sick. By all means not because of the fever, but the extra attentions, the hot chocolate for bed. Taehyung thinks about that twice and concludes something. He doesn’t want to get a cold just to receive this treatment. Not for his own health nor to worry or overwhelm you, he’s not gonna guilt-trip you into being a servant.

So, you agree for later: It’s good to treat him sporadically just because, whenever and wherever, cue Shakira. That Taehyung so enjoys a good healing and mending time and it just explodes when you both have a reason to, that’s rather something to expand to the whole relationship. Taehyung will do the exact spoiling for you, with a romantic twist the way you know him. It doesn’t need a sickness to resort to doing nice things for your partner. At the end of the day, the body will remember it and get sick again because it sees what it gets through being ill. That’s something to squarely avoid doing, a random gesture is good for its own sake, amen.

⌈yoongi⌋ ⇢ Grumpy, murmuring, disgruntled he can’t work without getting a headache, needs a lot of silence to recover so he curls up on his own with earphones in and fifty playlists on repeat. He’s like tch, only thing I need is tiger balm to whip me back into shape. Or… wait. Wait a second. A cup of steaming hot coffee with extra foam he will not reject. Or a plate of fried rice. Anything fried and super crispy, really. Yoongi likes those things, especially when prepared by you. Nothing is more honoring. Actually? I’ll change the initial statement. Yoongi does accept some help. You simply gotta find out his catnip I mean favorite dishes and either know the place to order it from or have some kitchen basics down. Nothing super fancy though, it doesn’t need a God’s Menu. The right seasoning does the trick already.

He wants it mega spicy, sweating out the cold is the way to go said Yoongi’s mom back in the day so he goes by that motto. Love starts in the stomach for felines. If another BTS member drops take-out at the door, even better, that uplifts him greatly. When he munches, that’s the most gratifying thing in the world. Yoongi wants you to eat with him by the bed so that means chili in the bedroom but screw it. All that food and you cranking up the heater distracts Yoongi from his cold and some head pats have him on his way to recovery. And, by the way. He’s kinda turned on by you cooking for him so… the frustration is real, you’re gonna fuck like rabbits once he’s okay again.

★ ⌈namjoon⌋ ⇢ The friendly giant will stay in denial about his cough for at least three days and walk around with way too much medicine in his system. He begs for someone to relieve him, mostly himself, but all those sky-high standards are in the way. Responsibility! Hard work and endurance! Solve it in your head! What is the spiritual reason for colds? How many pills keep you awake for an all-nighter to write an album in one go? What’s next on the schedule? So it goes on, you know the deal with Joonie. You have to kick that leader butt so he finally enters the healing cave under the sheets. Don’t kick too hard though, he doesn’t have Jimin-level cushions. He topples over into his sheets fast anyway, he’s that level of exhausted from his own suppression.

The story goes on, Namjoon feels extremely guilty for getting pampered and still ponders the reasons why he is ill rather than slowing down a minute and closing his laptop for a hot second. It gets a little awkward unless you figure out your secret weapon. What he feels better with is you reading him stories while he rests on the sofa. I’m not kidding. Or if you’re busy or he wants to be alone, audiobooks. That input is like a lullaby to Namjoon who gets knocked out by the soft whispering only to descend into 12 hours of sleep. Ah, he’s namjooning. Yep. His cold will force him into resting, but by the time he recovers, he is six books wiser and has had the pleasure of listening to your voice which he finds soothing. Thankful he is, anticipate an expensive present and flowers.

★ ⌈jungkook⌋ ⇢ Meal and fluid intake: Quantity explosion! Wow, wow, and wow again, the sheer amount that he can snack and turn into what seems even more muscle and more sweetness. Guinness World Record. He knows his system is currently resetting, he wants to hand it the building blocks, he knows the math. Yes, even sick Jungkook is the cutest foodie in the world. Yes, he will eat his veggies. He worries about not being able to work out so you at least help him stretch his legs ever so slightly in bed. He’s missing his boxing gloves like crazy, he wants to see the members in the practice room, he wants his milk. The latter is easy to get for him, and FaceTime comes in handy.

Namjoon does a little motivational speech, and Jungkook feels better almost instantly. Later on, you have to scold him — well, just a little bit — for getting up in all that enthusiasm to do some of his routine on the second day, but he already knows it’s not good for him to get his heart rate up like that. He patiently snuggles in a cocoon of duvets with only his eyes being visible. Until, finally, his red lil’ nose goes back to normal and his lungs feel a lot lighter. Jungkook really hates being dizzy, so it’s a weight off his hunky shoulders all right. Then, he can join you at the dinner table for a double portion of extra Parmesan Spaghetti, and you settle on the couch to bingewatch romantic animes and any Studio Ghibli movie in history.

★ ⌈jin⌋ ⇢ It simply can’t be helped, he even wants to make this funny. Humor really is a never-ending well, Jin is Spongebob’s long lost cousin if you go by his amount of meme talk. He calls himself Rudolph the Red-Nosed Jindeer, stuffs handkerchiefs into his nostrils, draws smileys on his knees with the cream usually meant for a dry philtrum (he now has very hydrated knees, how about that), does impossible contortions to find the right sleeping or reading position. Honestly, you don’t really have to take much care of him nor worry, Jin will cure himself through laughter. The power of positive emotion. Entertainment is nothing to provide for, he’s a one-man show after all. Jin is the least bored when he’s sick among the group, however! It needs someone else to exchange with, you know. No punchline without an audience. Listening is the best thing.

Sit, lean back, see what he has to say. The only thing you gotta actively do is stop him from choking on his own spit after a particularly dead-on joke. Maybe it’s introducing some room for serious time that helps Jin enter a different track. I can imagine that. Some talk about memories, talk about sorrows and issues. Jin is a complete man, but he still has plenty of ’em, demons don’t evade handsome people. And those need to be talked through in a silent minute. Jin also enjoys movie nights with a cup of tea in one hand and syrup in the other, that’s the go-to way to unwind. You can finally go all out and pour him his tea, bake for him, serve some self-made popcorn, extra sticky and sweet, oh yum.

★ ⌈hoseok⌋ ⇢ If Jimin and Hobi ever get colds at the same time, this will be the poutiest contest. They’re the most vocal about it in the group. Hoseok, and that will come to surprise you a little, becomes needy. Not at the beginning where he’s confused and emotional about what’s going on with him (someone who works this hard and needs a fully functioning body is thrown out of their lane even by the slightest symptom), but shortly after. You’ll come to understand how sensitive his body is, almost as perceptive as Jungkook’s actually. His body blows up with a strong fever, a hot man heating up even more is just an explosion of physics.

He needs handkerchiefs, he needs tons of water, he needs music to distract him a little, he needs a heating blanket for his feet once the fever is gone. Granted, every sick person depends on those things, but Hoseok is someone who calls out of the bedroom often because he ran out. He’s not afraid to ask for things unlike Namjoon who would refuse out of overt politeness. You certainly have a lot to do because his cold comes in strong so it’s important you enjoy taking care of him and don’t do it out of obligation. Quality time is what we’re talking about here. It’s not about you doing the things, it’s about the presence. That’s why Hoseok will use his money well and always order proper take-out that’s not just classic fast food, you don’t have to cook or anything.

related: putting bts to sleep after a hard day

#bts headcanons #bts scenarios #bts scenario #bts fluff #bts x reader #bts #bangtan #bts imagine #bts domestic au #bts hurt and comfort

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velvetthunder1999 · 4 years ago

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All the time on Earth

Part 34 - Seven Days After

Summary: After Fred’s death, neither you or George cope with the situation well. You cry in secret, he doesn’t come out of his room. Will he listen to you when you talk to him, or will he stay distant?

Warnings: Angst, Depression

Word count: 4.1K

George Weasley x Reader

Masterlist

The funeral was quick and you were glad for that. You zoned out after it had begun; you felt guilty for not paying attention but at the same time you knew that you wouldn’t be able to handle it. You were sitting in the front row next to George and the two of you were not saying a word to each other. From the corner of your eyes you saw how his shoulders rose and fell and you knew that he was forcing himself to breathe properly. He was staring without seeing much, and after the funeral ended with the lowering of the casket, he was the first to stand up and disappear in the house.

You had not seen him ever since, and it had been five days.

You felt empty. You wanted to feel empty. Empty was better than pain. You did not want to feel anything, because that would mean that you accepted the truth, that you were living through it, and you were not ready for that. It was easier to distance yourself, to pretend that it didn’t hurt. To pretend that you were not dreaming that you were carrying his body with the Ravenclaw boy. Pretending was good. Pretending was safe.

Oh, yes, pretending was fun. But sometimes it didn’t work. Sometimes the truth came through, memories flooded your mind, and during those times it hurt much more than you could ever imagine.

“Y/N, I’m talking to you, do you hear me?”

You looked up, your eyes meeting Ginny’s. The bowl of soup in front of you was cold and watery now. Opposite you, Mrs Weasley sat, crying. Mr Weasley was gently stroking her hair.

“I don’t know what to d-do,” she sobbed, her eyes puffy and weary.

Mrs Weasley had been busying herself, continuously doing the laundry, cooking more than was necessary, dusting off furniture every two hours… literally doing anything to draw her attention away from her son. Sometimes, however, she would break down, crying her eyes out. Apparently, this was one of those occasions.

“I t-tried everything… he won’t o-open the d-door.”

“I was just telling Y/N,” said Ginny, the usual strength missing from her voice. “That maybe she should try it.”

You looked around the table and noticed that everyone was staring at you. You raised an eyebrow.

“You want me what?”

Your throat hurt as you spoke. It had been days since you said more than one sentence.

“You can…” continued Ginny. “You can try to bring him his dinner. He won’t open the door to mum or dad.”

Of course. They were talking about George.

“What makes you think he’ll let me in?”

“C’mon, Y/N…” she pleaded. “Just try. Please.”

You looked away from her, fixating on Mrs Weasley again. She was dabbing her face with an already soaked handkerchief. She looked pathetic, to be honest. You couldn’t blame her, though.

You nodded and grabbed a prepared plate with some chicken and sprouts and headed for the staircase. Each step was a misery, it felt like you were marching to your own execution. You had no idea how he was going to react. He had not talked to you since the funeral.

You reached the door that recently you had tried to ignore, for it had been too much to even ackowledge its existence. But now you stood before it, your hand raised, and you knocked, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. You knocked again, this time more loudly, but there was still no response. You were thinking about leaving the food on the floor, but you reached for your wand instead and tapped on the handle, turning the lock with a clank.

You stepped inside and your carefully built wall of denial almost crumbled. The first thing you saw were the boxes, filled with untested products and notes; then you saw left behind socks and trousers all around the floor that were clearly not George’s; and finally you saw two bed, one perfectly made, cold, empty, and one with a tall ginger figure in it, facing the wall, his eyes closed.

You did not want to stay in the room for more time than was necessary. You put the plate onto the table, then turned and left. You did not want to go back to the kitchen; you headed for Ginny’s room which you shared, lay down and stared out the window at the darkening sky. Around nine Ginny came in as well, and you pretended that you were sleeping until she closed the curtains. Then you lay on your back, facing the ceiling, doing your best not to fall asleep, because you knew that nightmares would come, and you had had enough of those.

The house was quiet, it was past midnight. You wondered if you were the only one awake, or was there anyone else who was struggling against the calling of night time horrors. You closed your eyes, focusing on your steady breathing. You were not going to give in.

A brown pair of eyes.

You sat up, panting, shaking your head. No, you cannot think about it! You took deep breaths, determined to stay calm.

A Nosebleed Nougat in a colorful wrapper.

“Ah, fuck,” you whispered, burying your face into your hands. Stop it. Don’t. Just… don’t.

‘Morning, sunshine.’

You let out a quiet moan and you pressed your palm against your mouth. You got up as quietly as you could and made your way out of the room, down the stairs, into the bathroom. You closed the door, then opened the tap and splashed cold water on your face.

Drinking tea in the kitchen. ’I love you.’

“Stop!” you whispered, holding your head, as if you were trying to drive those unwanted thoughts away. The water was still running.

The couch in the common room. A lake with skating children. A pair of sneakers on the floor.

“Stop!” you groaned, hitting your head. “Stop it! Please… stop!”

‘You’re like a sister to me.’

“Shut up…” you cried, broken, grabbing onto the sink with one hand, trying to muffle your panicky breaths with the other. “Please… I don’t… I can’t…”

You fell onto the floor and did not want to get up. You held onto the rug, squeezing it, pleading to anyone who’d listen to stop the pain, release you, make it feel better, bring him back…

You didn’t know for how long you stayed there, but what it seemed like hours later you heard movement in the house. You stood up quickly, stopped the water, then left the bathroom quietly, looking out at the sky, seeing that morning was not far away… You went back to Ginny’s, climbed back into bed, and fell asleep within minutes.

You woke up, feeling more tired than ever. Your eyes hurt from the continuous sobbing, but if you were sure about one thing, it was that no one would make a comment about it. They knew.

You walked down to the kitchen, suddenly craving company. You ate a few bites of your toast, but it was like chewing a rug. Mr Weasley already left for the day with Percy, and you could not help but think about the shop that was now standing deserted. You choked up and pushed the plate away.

“Dear?” you faced Mrs Weasley, who was holding a bowl of porridge. “Will you take this up, please?”

You looked into her eyes, and realized that they were the same brown as —”

“Sure,” you said and quickly turned away. You went for the stairs again, stopped in front of the door just like you had done yesterday. You knocked, but there was no answer. After trying the lock, you pulled your wand out again and opened the door with a tap.

George looked exactly the same as the previous night. He was facing the wall, apparently sleeping. You looked at the table where his dinner lay untouched, cold. You switched it with the bowl without a word.

“The door’s locked for a reason.”

You turned around, not believing your ears. You had not heard George’s voice for almost a week. He sounded ill.

“You can tell dad as well.”

You swallowed.

“Your mum’s downstairs,” you said huskily. “It’s me.”

He jerked his head towards you and you barely recognised him. His eyes were swollen and almost shut, his whole face had sunken during those seven days. Under his eyes huge, dark circles colored his pale skin. He looked like a skull.

“Oh,” he said finally. “Okay.”

Your stomach clenched.

“Okay?” you stared. “Please, eat something. You can even bring the bowl down when you finish.”

He didn’t answer and you casted down your eyes. You wished he had at least stood up from the bed. You could not bare to look at him anymore. You turned around and left him, closing the door behind you.

“Nothing?” Ron asked as you returned to the kitchen. You shook your head. Mrs Weasley, seeing the untouched plate, broke into tears again.

“I wish he would talk to us!” said Ginny, angrily wiping her eyes. “He could at least come down to sit with us!”

“I know,” you said, thinking the same.

A fading smile on colorless lips. A white casket.

“Stop!” you said, shivering.

“What?” said Hermione. She looked worried. “Y/N, is everything —”

But she didn’t finish. She knew nothing was okay.

You turned away, facing the sink. You felt the familiar pressure in your throat, choking you, and you felt yourself tearing up.

“I’ll feed the chickens,” you said, not looking at any of them. You hurried out of the house, your feet taking you further and further. You passed the garden, passed the lake and ended up by that tree under which you had been sitting ages ago, with George, making a flower crown, telling him that you felt safe when you were with him…

‘How is the lovely couple?’

You pressed your fists against your eyes, violently shaking your head. No, you didn’t want to think about him, you didn’t want to, you didn’t…

Fred.

Fred as he colored your hair at Shell Cottage. Fred as he handed you a butterbeer in Hogsmeade. Fred as he looked concerned, then laughed at you. Fred teasing Ron. Fred smirking in the shop. Fred hugging you before setting off to rescue Harry. Fred, on the floor, dead.

It was so much worse now, during this lovely morning, surrounded by wild flowers and nicely buzzing bees. At night, you could pretend that it was just an episode, that when the morning comes the nightmare ends, but now… What could you pretend now?

You walked back into the house not long before lunch. Even if you didn’t eat much, you needed these small events to get you through the day. A sort of habit, a system. Sitting down, talking, crying alone, repeat.

“Dear?” said Mrs Weasley and you didn’t even look at her, but took the tray with a plate of food and a glass of water and headed for the stairs. You didn’t knock this time, you tapped the handle, opened the door and stepped inside. George looked exactly how you had left him, still in his pajamas, facing the wall.

“Here’s lunch,” you said.

“I don’t know if you can tell,” he started, without looking. “But I am not hungry.”

You looked at the bowl of porridge you had left there, now soggy and disgusting.

“Please,” you said. “Please, eat something. Or just — Let’s go outside. Let’s go for a walk.”

You wanted nothing more than to be with him.

“I don’t want to go for a walk,” came the muffled answer.

“Please,” you said, then added hesitantly, “I miss you.”

It was almost as if he moved his head a little… but it might had been your imagination. You stood there, not sure what to do, choking up under your emotions again. You wished he would look at you. You wished he’d at least turned around in the bed.

“Please,” you started, tears in your eyes. “Please, just look at me…”

“Please leave me alone,” he said miserably. “Leave me alone, Y/N.”

“Please.”

You waited, and he seemed to be waiting, too. You did not want to leave, not until you tell him what’s in your mind. It seemed like hours, before he finally moved; he slowly, very slowly turned around in the bed, then put one foot down onto the floor. His pale, sunken face was glowing in the curtained, shadowy room.

You two locked eyes, and it was when you truly saw how much pain he was in. He was lost, he was exhausted, he was grieving. But you were, too.

“Please, George,” you started. “Please… I can’t do this alone anymore. It’s… killing me, no matter how hard I try, it keeps crashing down on me… I don’t know what to do, I feel so miserable, I feel so useless, and I need you, I need you more than anything but… apparently you don’t need me, so —”

His face softened and he stood up from the bed. He came closer, reached out as if he was about to hug you, but then retreated. He casted down his eyes.

“Of course I need you… I…”

He shook his head, puzzled. From up-close you saw how dry his lips were, how unhealthy his skin looked. You could clearly make out his cheekbones.

“You, staying up here… isolating yourself… it’s not good, Georgie —”

He winced hearing his name and closed his eyes as if he was trying to get rid of a thought. You stood there, watching, speaking as genuinly as you could.

“I’m not the only one… your family misses you, too —”

“They miss him,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not me.”

“That’s not true!” you said and stepped closer, this time taking his hand, too.

“They’re worried about you… Please, don’t do this… Don’t push them — don’t push us away. Staying here alone is not going to make you feel better… and it breaks my heart, you up here, feeling miserable, not eating, not —”

“Of course I’m feeling miserable!” he said, with a surprisingly rude tone. “What did you think, that I’m gonna sing and dance around the house? My brother just died!”

“I know,” you said, feeling hurt. “But don’t forget, he was a son, he… and he was like a brother to me, too.”

“Yeah? You weren’t even related,” he snarled all of a sudden. “So how d’you reckon I feel?”

You were taken aback. All of a sudden George looked like a bomb, ready to explode. You let go of his hand, and you felt yours shaking.

“I know you’re scared —” you started, but he cut you off.

“I’m not scared —”

“— but I’m scared, too. Every time I… I think of him, I’m scared, because I know I’ll have to live a life without him…”

“Stop it,” he said, closing his eyes again. You were barely holding yourself together now.

“And I’m scared to accept that he’s really gone…”

“Stop it, Y/N, I’m telling you…”

He sounded like a wounded animal. You started sobbing.

“I’m not stopping! You stop it, stop acting like he was only yours, because you’re not the only one in this house who feels fucking miserable…” 

“I’m not saying I’m the only one, but he’s… he was… I knew him best, I was the closest to him! Y/N… Can you believe that?” he was half shouting, half crying. “Can you imagine what’s it like being together with someone for twenty years, and then see them on the floor, d-dead?!”

“I…”

“Everywhere I look, I see him. I look at his bed and it’s empty, I look outside and he’s not there! I’m stuck, it’s torturing me, it’s like he’s torturing me…”

“Don’t you think it’s torturing your family, too?” you yelled. You wiped your eyes, but it was a weak attempt; you couldn’t stop crying. “Have you seen your mum? How she breaks down every two hours? How she always tries to do something, to keep her mind on something else? And your dad? Comes home from work, barely speaking, barely eating? And Percy? Being all shaky and not staying long, because he wants to hide how messed up he is?”

“Yes, I’m sure they’re all —”

“And that’s not the worst!” you didn’t let him finish. “The worst is that you won’t even care, you don’t even show your face, and now it feels like we’re grieving two people, because you’re not there!”

“Well, I wish I wasn’t there!” he shouted painfully. “I honesty think that it should’ve been me, I wish it was! I wish I was the one, not him, sometimes —”

“YEAH, WELL, SOMETIMES I WISH I WAS DEAD, TOO!”

He fell silent, and you couldn’t take it anymore. You turned around, sobbing, ran down the stairs and ended up in the kitchen. When you looked up, you saw that everyone was staring. You ignored them and ran out of the house. Not looking back, you turned on your heels, jumped into the nothingness and disapparated.

——

You came back to the Burrow way past dusk. As you appeared at the little meadow the first thing you saw was the house with light coming out of its windows. You couldn’t stop yourself; you searched for George’s window, then turned your head away immediately. It was dark.

You shivered a bit, even though it wasn’t too cold. It was the middle of May, and you saw a couple of owls setting off for their night time hunting. You thought about Peanut and your heart ached again.

You didn’t want to go in just yet — you were not planning on sleeping any time soon, anyway. You walked slowly towards the backdoor, watching as a gnome hurried back into its hole by the sight of you. Finally you stopped, sitting down onto the last step outside the door, resting your chin on the back of your hands, your elbows on your knees. You stared without seeing, and you didn’t even jump when the moonlight shone upon some kind of animal crossing the garden.

You weren’t sure you wanted anyone to know where you’d been. You weren’t sure you were ready to see any of them, after what they had heard. You weren’t even sure how you felt about the things you had said. They were true, there was no doubt. But it still pained you to realize, how far you had come, when you were supposed to be happy. You won, didn’t you? The good side won, Voldemort’s reign was over, and you should be happy. Right?

You wished it was that easy.

You sniffled and looked around in the garden, finally taking in the sight. In the darkness, only illuminated by the moon and the stars, everything seemed so peaceful. It seemed almost unbelievable, and suddenly you hated all this beauty, all this peace. You were jealous of it. It was unfair, it was not right to have such peaceful things surround you, when you were so disturbed… It was unfair of nature to run its course as if nothing had happened, when something did happen, and Fred Weasley was dead.

You watched as the light breeze tingled the grass, and you looked over the hill where the small village lay; not far from it the cemetery, that was hidden from muggle eyes, that was only for wizards and in which now stood a tombstone, with a very familiar name on it.

“I wish you were here,” you said lowly, not even sure that you wanted to speak. “I miss you so much.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears swam in your eyes. Then you let out a short, nervous laugh.

“I’m sure you’d take the mickey out of me if you saw I was talking to you. But I don’t care. I’m just… scared. I’m so scared to… to one day wake up and don’t remember your face… or the sound of your voice… and I’m scared because I k-know that I need to live the rest of my life without you… I don’t know if I can d-do that…”

You wiped your tears when you heard steps from the kitchen. The door opened and someone joined you on the stairs.

“Were you talking to him?” asked Ginny kindly. You hesitated, then decided that it didn’t really matter. You nodded.

“Yeah.”

She looked at your face, but you were avoiding her eyes. Finally she turned away, following your gaze that was still fixed on the hill.

“I talked with Harry about this,” she started, playing with a grass halm. “He said… He said he was at a place, from where he came back. There’s… There’s something there… I’m sure.”

You didn’t answer. It was too nice to be true.

“I’m saying that he might have heard everything you just told him,” she continued. You bit down on your lips. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

You wiped your tears again, unable to stop crying. But for now, it was not a continuity of ugly sobs… it was silent, and somehow your soul felt a bit lighter after Ginny gently squeezed your shoulder.

The door opened again behind the two of you, and you heard an exhausted voice speak.

“Can I talk to her?”

Ginny’s mouth dropped by the sight of George, and you could understand her — she didn’t see him for a week after all. For a moment she looked as if she couldn’t decide wether to hug or shout at his brother, but eventually she just stood up, nodded and left.

You turned back to face the garden again. From the corner of your eyes you saw a pair of shoes next to you.

“Can I sit down?”

“It’s your house,” you said. For a moment, without even realizing it, you were waiting for his comment, for his little chuckle and him murmuring ‘witty’ under his breath. But it didn’t come, and as George sat down, somehow your heart broke a little more.

You were sitting in quiet for some time, and you didn’t really care. You weren’t in the mood for fighting, and you were certainly tired of convincing George about anything.

“Were you serious?” he asked finally. His voice was low and raspy, but you could still hear him in the silent garden. “Did you mean what you said?”

“What part?” you asked, without facing him.

“The last one.”

You tried to gather your thoughts, tried to make them sound nicer, but it was impossible. Your thoughts, just as you, were a mess.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, I meant it. It’s just… so hard. I can’t sleep… I have all these flashbacks, and they hurt… and I wait at night until everyone’s asleep so I go and cry in the bathroom, how messed up is that?”

“Does it help?” he asked. “Crying?”

“No, it doesn’t do a damn thing,” you said miserably. “I am constantly switching between denying my memories and being afraid that I’ll forget him…”

“You won’t forget him.”

“You don’t know that,” you wiped your eyes. “It so hard to believe that one week ago I was talking with him, and now he’s… he’s…”

You started panting, trying to cry as quietly as possible. George’s head was hanging low and you wished he’d say something… But how could you wish that, when you knew that he was feeling even worse than how you did?

“Y/N, I want to apologize,” he said, raising his head. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t been there for you. You deserve so much better… I know that you loved him and that he loved you, too. And I’m sorry for what I’ve said, about you not being related. It doesn’t matter, it didn’t matter then, it doesn’t matter now… You’re part of my family. And you were right, about being there for each other… g-grieving together. I’m just sorry for being so selfish.”

You nodded and finally faced him. He sat there with his eyes closed, his jaw clenched. He was shaking.

“But it’s been so hard for me as well… to realize, to accept… I haven’t slept for a bloody week, every part of my body hurts… he’s everywhere…” tears ran down on his cheek. “When is it gonna get easier?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“How are we supposed to just live now?”

“I don’t know. But… I don’t wanna do it alone. I can’t do it alone.”

“Me neither,” he said and let you wipe the tears off his cheek with your thumb. “Stay with me.”

“Always,” you said, barely louder than a whisper. Then the two of you just sat there in silence, watching as the moon rose higher and higher on the sky.

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meetthetank · 4 years ago

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Beast Code Chapter 1: The Twilit City

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Category: F/M Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationship: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), Original YoRHa Characters (NieR: Automata) Additional Tags: Transformation, gothic horror, Android Lycanthropy...sort of, Inspired by Bloodborne (Video Game), Everyday i get closer to just writing a Bloodborne AU

Summary: Break the vicious cycle with tooth and claw. Unleash the beast within and destroy your chains. But the strength to defy fate comes at a grave cost. Will it be enough, little doll? Or will you succumb to despair once more?

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31546982

The assignment to the Twilight Belt comes as a shock to 2B and 9S. Rarely, if ever, are YorHa units sent to this border of perpetual daylight and eternal night. Conditions are always reported as unstable by the infrequent scans by one of the other satellite bases that orbit earth, too dangerous to deploy scanners by themselves, and too depleted of resources for the Council to care about. The mystery surrounding the strip of permanent twilight goads curious operators and scanners alike to comb through files searching for nuggets of data, image or video files, anything they can get their hands on. All but a few pieces of data reveal tantalizing scraps and clues to the puzzle of the Sunset Belt. Photographs of dead machines with toothy, gaping maws that split their spherical heads in two and minerals warped in peculiar shapes. According to one of the situation reports from a scanner that had been sent there, there was an eerie, foreboding feeling about the place; that strange and frightening sounds would echo across the landscape and that he felt close to a forbidden barrier that separated this world from another. Though the file and its contents are now treated as a human “ghost story”, many androids, including 2B and 9S, believe at least some portion of the tale.

9S relays this story to 2B as they descend to Earth’s surface, his chattering easing some of 2B’s trepidation. The pair had fallen into an easy rhythm over the course of several assignments to Earth, most of which involved retrieving data from lost servers buried in rubble or clearing out an area of machine lifeforms. Despite her outwardly cold demeanor, 9S wormed his way past all of her defenses, forming a strong, solid relationship with the battler android. His voice is a centering point for her and assists in ignoring the gut churning possibilities of what could be waiting for them below.

“...What do you think, 2B?” his voice crackles from the comms system inside her flight unit.

“Hm?” she shifts her head to the side, glancing at his jet black flight unit cruising beside hers.

“What do you think made the target go rogue?”

She bites her lower lip. There are a thousand possible answers as to why a normally punctual, efficient YorHa Battle unit would suddenly stop responding to command and not checking in at required times. Only a few of those options were machine lifeform related complications.

“We’ll find out when we arrive, 9S.” she says curtly, eager to shut down the conversation, “Focus on landing protocol.”

He sighs, a sound of annoyance and frustration, “Yeah, yeah.”

“One affirmation will-”

“Fiiiiiiiine.”

The final phase of their descent is spent in silence. They pass through the Earth’s atmosphere in streaks of fire and light towards the border of day and night, and a continent that humans called Europe. Even as they descend, the outlines of ancient, massive structures come into view. Both androids are used to the thick vegetation eating away at the remains of human structures, but here the trees are gnarled, twisted, and void of leaves or blossoms. Their branches reach to the crimson sky and permanently setting sun like bony hands in prayer or a stag’s antlers. As 2B and 9S set their flight units down a few miles away from the outskirts of a sprawling, ancient city. It amazes 9S, as he exits his own unit, that the buildings are in such good condition considering the millenia that have passed it by. Great spires of countless cathedrals pierce the heavens, casting an ominous, looming shadow over the otherwise barren landscape. A well worn cobblestone road, lined with rusted iron lighting fixtures long since burnt out, leads into the city proper.

2B and 9S stand at the precipice of this ancient beast of stone and metal in awe of its size, and terrified of what might lurk within. A hoarse bird’s caw, jolts the androids back into awareness, 2B drawing her katana and prepares for battle.

“Heh,” 9S laughs, trying to calm them both down, “Just a raven, 2B.”

“What?”

“A large black bird. Harmless to us.” He doesn’t tell her about the chill he gets down his spine as he watches the corvid gaze down at them with beady black eyes, or how humans saw these birds as ill omens or prophets of death.

They begin the trek into the forgotten city. 2B doesn’t put Virtuous Contract away.

Pod 042 alerts 2B to the presence of an unidentifiable android signal, marking the location on both hers and 9S’ map. Since the area has yet to be properly mapped out by satellite imagery (as inaccurate as that process is) only a vague street layout is available through a very low power scan. They have no way of judging what might block their path to the target beyond featureless grey masses depicting buildings, rubble, large trees, or whatever else may lie in wait. Their target, represented by a small orange dot on the map, appears to be near the city’s main gate and inside one of the larger buildings. 2B refuses to admit it to herself, but she’s relieved to not have to delve too far into this labyrinthine city.

“I’ve never seen the sky this color…” 9S muses as he stares up, transfixed by the blood red sky and orange sun hanging low.

Though hauntingly beautiful, she won’t deny, 2B keeps her gaze fixed on the wrought iron gate ahead of them. The heavens disturb her; they are the color of death. Of war. And the sun is… wrong.

She snaps at 9S to keep focused as they approach the gate to the city. Though scans indicate there are no machine lifeforms, or any lifeforms beyond their target, she’s learned from countless combat assignments to not rely totally on what the support unit reports. She’s encountered and seen machines that mask themselves from scans or camouflage themselves in the environment, and in a place like this anything could be hiding in the shadows just outside of view.

The iron gate lies ajar, worn from millennia of neglect. Clouds of rust particles burst from the hinges as 2B shoves it open further, the metal grinding against itself with a horrible grating shriek. The sound makes them both wince, and they slip through the partially opened gate as soon as they can.

Standing inside the city gates, 9S can’t shake the uneasy feeling that claws at the back of his mind. The great ancient human structures loom above them, and though he knows that the buildings themselves aren’t alive, he can’t shake the notion that he’s being watched by them. The windows are dark, but when he passes by the light of the setting sun reflects off of them, giving them the illusion of intelligence. Suddenly, 9S feels as if he’s inside a cave, or locked in a room with no exit. Suddenly… He finds it hard to breathe. 9S tugs at the collar of his jacket as if it's tightening around his throat. His synthetic lungs fill with air as much as he can take, then he releases it moments later. It calms him, if only a little.

2B’s gaze is fixed ahead on the building Pod 042 marked as the rogue android’s hiding place. It’s a much smaller structure than the others that choke the sky, but its reach stretches across the streets like a tree’s roots. Judging by the well preserved signs that hang from crumbled doors it looked to have multiple uses. 9S commands his own Pod to run scans on the words and symbols for later analysis.

“The target’s in here…” 2B murmurs, holding her free hand up in a tight fist, signaling 9S to stop behind her.

This portion of the sprawling building is similar in structure to the massive spires above. It has the same pointed section on the roof, but much smaller in scale, and similar symbols decorate the exterior. A cross, winged humans, various flowering plants, and a number of human figures bowing their heads or supplicating themselves to the winged humans.

“This must have been a place of worship,” 9S muses aloud.

“Focus.”

He nods. Typically 9S argues with his partner about the necessity for recording data like this, or excuse his wandering attention to his designation as a scanner, but he knows the danger within the house of worship, or rather, he doesn’t know. Neither one of them knows what this rouge android is capable of.

2B presses her hand against the wooden doors to the chapel and pushes it open as slowly as possible. It groans in protest, dust falls from its hinges and frame, but it swings inward. A rush of warm air washes over them carrying the scent of stale incense and dead machines. Clouds of smoke billow out of the doorway, rising into the red sky like twisted fingers. 2B enters first, sliding in sword arm first. She motions for 9S to wait for a moment, then commands Pod 042 to switch on its flashlight.

9S peeks his head around the door, keeping a few paces behind his partner. He switches on his own Pod’s flashlight to illuminate more of the pitch black interior. Long wooden benches are pushed up against the walls, opening up the center space. Ornate candle holders, rotting books, charred incense burners, and pieces of artwork among other things 9S has no name for are scattered across the ground, each one a priceless human artifact that could fuel hours of study. Yet it’s not these that hold 9S’ attention, but the statue at the far back of the chapel, and the figure kneeling in front of it.

It looks to be made of some kind of marble, a pristine white stone that has been sheltered from time and the elements. The subject is another winged human, this one wearing splendid armor and wielding a great spear. Beneath them, a grotesque, writhing beast bares its teeth and claws at the warrior as the blade pierces its throat. 9S has never seen anything like it in person, and very few records of these kinds of sculptures remain at all. It’s both horrific and beautiful at once. He wonders what the human who made this saw that inspired it. Did creatures like these roam the world during their time?

2B steps in front of him, Virtuous Contract at the ready. The figure in front of the statue rises to their feet as the Pod’s flashlights center on them. A cloak made of feathers conceals most of their form but they appear to be a female android, perhaps a YorHa model. Though, if that were the case it would have been in the mission briefing. That is, unless...

The android turns her head to the side, glaring at the pair over her shoulder.

“So, Command sent the wolves, did they?” She asks, a distinct rumble in her voice.

2B raises her blade and keeps her gaze steady. She hears 9S also ready his weapon, the golden katana Cruel Oath.

Lazily, the android turns her body to face them. Her clothes confirm her origins; there’s no mistaking the sharp white embellishments and black velvet of a YorHa uniform; however each piece is ripped, tattered, and stitched together with other scraps of clothing or… animal hide.

The rouge android drags the blade of a bloodied top heavy sword between her fingers, cleaning the gore from it. “It doesn’t matter, dog.” Her eyes shine with a strange, purplish light that refracts around her collapsed, twisted pupils. “You will fall like the rest.”

It isn’t until the rogue android rushes forward, sword raised, that 2B sees the corpses of YorHa units piled in front of the statue, and the blood that soaks it.

She dashes backward and shoves the bewildered 9S out of harm's way. The android’s bloodied sword crashes into the stonework floor, sending thousands of years of dust into the air. 2B lunges, her katana poised to take advantage of the enemy’s opening, but she sidesteps much quicker than anticipated. The rogue’s fist slams into 2B’s chest, distorting her internal sensors and throwing her off balance. 2B watches in horror as the rogue drives her sword towards her, but a golden flash knocks the blade away.

“2B!” 9S shouts, brandishing Cruel Oath. “Are you okay?!”

She shakes her head as if it would clear the internal errors from her vision, but she assumes her battle stance next to her partner. “Fine.”

Both androids launch into an assault on the rogue, attacking in tandem. Despite 2B’s scrambled sensors, she and 9S have an undeniable synergy that comes with countless missions. 2B forces the rogue back with singular, powerful blows, while 9S jabs at any opening he can reach from the sides. However, even with their combined might the rogue deflects and maneuvers out of the way of each attack as casually as one would flick away an insect or step around a puddle. She looks to be expending no effort at all as she dances around the two YorHa. Anger and frustration rises in 2B, culminating in a harsh growl. She mimics the rogue’s tactic from earlier, rushing forward and feinting with a crushing overhead strike that is easily dodged but allows no time for recovery. She slams her fist into the rogue android’s face, sending her stumbling backwards. Before 9S can dive in with a horizontal slash the rogue dashes backward, putting crucial distance between her and her hunters.

The rogue android lowers her gaze at the pair, sizing them up, taking stock of their abilities and assessing their weaknesses. 2B watches her eyes dart back and forth between her and 9S, then linger on 9S. Sensing the rogue’s motive and deciding at that moment that the outcome is unacceptable, 2B dives in front of the strike meant for 9S. The rogue’s sword slices cleanly through her chest, coating the rogue’s clothes in splatters of fresh blood. The battler falls to her knees, clutching the wound with one hand while supporting herself on her sword.

“No!!” 9S screams and lunges at their target. “2B!!”

“Hm. Interesting.” The rogue murmurs, easily deflecting the scanner’s wild strikes.

2B watches through blurred, error obscured vision as 9S drives the rogue back. If she didn’t know any better it’d seem that he has the upper hand, but the rogue’s eyes glint in a way 2B recognizes all too well. She’s baiting him.

9S slams his blade against the rogue’s, pressing all of his power and weight into the strike. It’s the moment she had been waiting for. Suddenly she pulls back, letting 9S’ weight fall forward and forcing him off balance. She kicks his legs out from under him then shoves him into the floor. 9S lets out a startled, choked gasp as his weight and the force of the rogue’s attack cracks the stone floor, sending up more clouds of dust into the air.

Clutching her chest, 2B roars and charges at the target with blinding speed. When she sees the smirk twisting the rogue’s lips and the pointed iron rod in her grip, it’s too late. With a flash of her crowfeather cape, the android meets 2B’s charge with her own, the skewer aimed at her wounded chest. 2B tries to divert her body away, but the momentum is too strong. It’s just enough to roll her body to the side so that the spike pierces clean through her shoulder, clear of critical systems.

The pain, however, is agonizing.

It’s different from the injuries 2B has suffered in the past. Countless machine swords, spears, and axes have torn through her body and of course all of those injuries hurt, but they were manageable. When the iron bar rips through layers of cloth, skin, carbon plating and frame, and synthetic muscle fibers it's as if her shoulder has been set on fire. She clenches her teeth, muffling a scream to a low growl. Her hand wraps around the skewer, close to the wound itself. Instinct tells her to tear it out immediately, but she knows that without treatment doing so would only worsen her condition. 2B doesn’t get to make that decision, unfortunately. The rogue grabs hold of the end of the iron rod and twists it side to side, driving it further into 2B’s shoulder.

2B sinks to her knees and tries to hold back the cries of agony. Her injured arm stops responding to commands and lies limp and useless against her side. She swats at the rogue android with her weakening other arm, desperate to escape from this torment. Her strength fades along with her vision; it becomes impossible to even hold herself upright.

She must not fall, she must not… she must stay strong, she must stay alive.

She will not allow him to die…

Not for the sake of a monster like her….

9S leaps into the fight as the rogue android prepares a killing blow. A flurry of Pod fire, sword strikes, and furious movement all blur together into a white, gold, and black haze. She fights to stay awake, she fights to stand, but her body begins to shut down non-vital systems and conserve as much energy as she can. First her tactile sensors switch off, leaving her in a numbing cold. Then her hearing, quickly followed by sight. A warning flashes across the last vestiges of her vision that she is entering a forced shutdown state, and despite her audio sensors being deactivated, she swears she hears 9S cry out for her.

….

…….

…��…

……….

……..

….

2B opens her eyes to the blinding, sterile white of hacking space. This itself is not shocking. Oftentimes she would run diagnostics on her critical systems when in a forced shutdown, both to manage critical systems and to keep herself busy.

But now, in the distance, there is an anomaly.

A single figure, black as night, approaches her. It’s shape is human up till its head, which sports pointed ears and a long snout like that of a dog or wolf. It looms over her and leaves a black, fragmented mist in its wake. But most troubling of all in this world of stark monochrome is its eye…. or what 2B believes is an eye. In the center of its lupine face is a strange geometric sigil that emits a highly saturated purple light. It feels… malicious. The thought itself is insane to 2B. Light cannot possess intent or emotions, and yet…

“This is an unacceptable outcome.” A voice booms in her head. Somehow she knows it is the entity speaking.

2B opens her mouth to respond, but instead of words, thick crimson fluid leaks from her throat.

“You will die. He will die. You cannot abide by this.”

She shakes her head. Droplets of blood fall to the pristine floor. The entity is right. If she has any strength left, 9S will live.

“Stand, little doll,” the entity commands, “Stand and unleash y-...Be——…..d.”

The entity’s voice becomes warped and distorted with audio glitches, yet 2B understands its words with frightening clarity.

“Take-......l-...s within.”

It holds a hand out to her, offering her something she can’t quite make out. The shape in its palm is amorphous, colorless, and flickers with lines of jumbled code. Somehow, she knows this piece of herself in intimate detail, yet cannot remember what this does or what its relation to the entity is.

But it promises strength enough to save 9S.

2B reaches out and takes the code in her hand…

….

………….

…………………………

………………………………………………………..

Her eyes snap open. A current of raw energy runs through her body, electrifying every nerve and sensor within her. She shakes with each pulse of her circulatory apparatus as a new, terrifying strength takes hold. 2B rises to her feet, flexing her hands, legs, arms. One arm’s movement is restricted by the iron bar still stuck in her shoulder. She tears it out with little effort, casting it to the floor. The rattling, hollow sound echoes against the stone chapel.

The rogue’s head snaps up from her combat with 9S, who is barely able to hold his sword. Something in her expression changes. She kicks 9S and points her sword at 2B, her arms shaking in a way they had not before.

2B lunges forward, her sword raised high. The rogue raises her own sword to deflect, but 2B’s newfound strength breaks her guard with one mighty strike. With blinding speed 2B slices through the rogue android’s body. Her crowfeather cape flutters to the floor, soon followed by her arm. The rouge android staggers back, an expression of shock and horror twisting her face. 2B drives her sword through the rogue’s chest, forcing her back further. Instead of drawing her sword back for another strike, a terrifying feeling takes over 2B. She leaves the sword inside the rogue’s chest and tackles her to the ground. With her bare hands and horrible strength, 2B delivers blow after blow to the android’s chest, shoulder, arms, head, and abdomen. Each piece is reduced to a pulp of flesh and metal one after the next until nothing remains but scrap.

2B throws her head back as she straddles her victim, a horrible, twisted grin plastered across her face and arms outstretched. Her body feels wrong… horribly wrong, yet for the first time since she can remember, her chest is light. She gazes up at the morbid sculpture with an emotion she can’t quite describe. It isn’t the same as a combat high, she is intimately familiar with that heady rush. This is something akin to… euphoria. A laugh begins to bubble up in her throat-

“2B?”

She’s forced back to reality by the 9S’ voice, right beside her ear. Suddenly, the terrible strength from moments before fades from her body. Her arms go limp by her sides, and it becomes hard to sit upright. Even breathing is laborious. 9S wraps his arms around her shoulders and tugs her gently, laying her head and shoulders against his chest.

“I’ve got you. We… I think we’re safe.” His breathing is uneven and ragged, much like 2B’s. He swivels his head back and forth, searching for any lingering threats as quickly as possible. “Pod, run a scan for machine lifeform or android signals in the immediate area,” he commands.

Pod 153 is silent for a moment, then emits a grating, hideous garbled noise. Words try to break through the audio distortions but neither 2B or 9S is confident it isn’t simply what they wish to hear.

“Alert:” Pod 042 begins, “Interference from unknown source is preventing accurate scans of the surrounding area. Proposal: Relocate to an elevated aaaaaaa…..a-r-....rrr……”

The same audio distortions come from 042, mingling with 153’s until they both cut off, leaving the androids in silence. “Pod?” 9S calls to the floating support unit. “Pod, respond. ... Pod?”

2B mutters weakly to her own Pod, but it's the same as 9S’. No response at all.

9S pulls up a small data screen, map data, from what 2B can tell. Or… where map data would be. Instead, there’s a blank, grey screen and a little message box that reads No Data.

“What the-...” 9S whispers, flipping through different screens at a frantic pace. “Where-... There’s… all the data is gone!” he shouts, “No map, no signal scans… I can’t even connect to the Bunker…”

“We’re stranded…” 2B muses aloud.

Silence passes between them. Only the ominous wind passing through ancient wood and stone reminds them that the world hasn’t stopped moving around them.

“We should move to a higher area, like your Pod said.” 9S suggests, rising to his feet. “Can you stand?”

When 9S offers a hand out to her, 2B takes it without thinking. His touch, even through his thick gloves, calms the beast pacing inside her.

Beast?

…..What does that mean?

2B rises to her feet, her hands lingering in 9S’ for a moment longer than she normally would. There’s a fog in her head that distorts her equilibrium. She leans on 9S for support, to which he wraps his arm around her waist and positions himself under her shoulder.

“I got you.” He says with a small smile.

2B feels just a bit lighter.

They exit the chapel and make for higher ground. 9S rationalizes that if they simply continue up stairs or inclines they would find a space clear of whatever is interfering with the Pod’s satellite connections. Perhaps it’s the fog that creeps across the cobblestone streets or the odd angle of the sun (not that it makes sense to 9S or 2B but they have to consider all possibilities), or perhaps it’s something beyond that. There’s a strange, eerie feeling about this city that neither can explain, and neither want to talk about. As if there’s a presence constantly watching over them.

They climb the stairs of one of the massive sprawling religious buildings. From what 9S assesses, it seems to have one of the tallest spires in the city. Only a larger time-keeping building looming in the distance is larger. If he could reach the top he should be far enough above whatever is interfering with the Pods. When he relays his plan to 2B who only nods, her eyes unfocused and breathing shallow, worry starts to lace its icy fingers through his chest. Something is wrong with her.

9S’ first instinct is to prepare a data backup with the bunker, but the Pods are both out of commission for the time being. His next is to contact command and ask how they should proceed, to the same conclusion. Climbing the spire is the only course of action he can take, but first, he has to make sure 2B is safe.

He leads her through the castle of worship, now supporting most of her weight. That… frightening show of strength must have exhausted her power supply. There are plenty of well preserved wooden benches that stretch across half of the main worship chambers, at least it would be more comfortable than the stone floors. Under watch by the countless grotesque statues that sit in the rafters, 9S helps 2B onto a long bench, laying her on her back. She hisses and grinds her teeth as she moves. She must have sustained internal damage from that fight…

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, “I’m going to go to the roof to get a clear signal.”

All 2B gives in response is a slow nod. He lingers by her side before leaving, a moment longer than needed.

Now alone in this spacious, hollow, human structure, 2B takes stock of her condition. There’s pain in her shoulders, particularly her right arm. Her legs are tight, most locking up from the strain of the previous battle and trekking up to her current location. Her back, as well, is tense beyond discomfort. It spasms and jolts if she breathes too hard. At least these are injury related, explainable. The black wolfman with purple eyes lingering in the corners of her vision, is not.

She sees the entity in the shadows, lurking just out of view. 9S walks right past it, not even sparing a glance at the tall, gangly creature. It doesn’t respond to 9S either, instead focusing on 2B and only 2B.

The sight of it makes her stomach turn. She tries to close her eyes, but the glowing, purple sigil is burned into her vision. With a groan she digs her knuckles into her eyelids as if she could carve the hallucination out of the air. Defeated, 2B lets her arms down once more. One hand touches the cool stone floor, decorated with elegant mosaics, and she suddenly realizes how warm she is. According to the warning messages displayed in her vision her body temperature is ten degrees above normal levels.

“Pod,” she groans, forcing herself to sit up, “retrieve water from storage-”

“Report: Mail notification received from Command.”

The monotone voice of her support unit shocks her. Pod 042 had been silent up until now due to whatever interference was in the area, and now it’s getting messages from Command? 9S must have established a connection from the roof.

Her heart sinks. If that’s the case he would contact her. The first thing she’d hear would be his voice.

She opens the message, dreading its contents.

Subject has accessed confidential records. Eliminate the Target.

At the top of the spire 9S takes in the view of the entire city, the wind rushing through his hair. It’s breathtaking. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen. The sky dyes the entire urban sprawl red, as well as the mountains on the horizon. His pulse races as he drinks in the terrifying awe of what the ancient humans were capable of, hoping to remember every last detail of the buildings, the streets, and the magnificent sculptures that litter the city. It’s all so well preserved that he feels as though a human might appear, walking down the cobblestone streets as if nothing were wrong. As if they didn’t go extinct.

Reluctantly he draws his attention away from the splendor of humanity’s ruins, and shakes away the creeping emptiness that comes with that line of thought. He can’t think about that now. He and 2B are stranded. 9S produces a holographic terminal that mirrors Pod 153’s settings menu. Pod’s diagnostics on his end show buildup of foreign material in and around certain receivers, something that 9S expects, but that is only part of the problem. It seems that the atmosphere in this place is clogged with various chemicals and particles that make satellite transmissions more difficult. Considering all of the decaying metal and stone it’s no wonder that there’s so much particulate in the air. Once Pod’s receivers are clear 9S has Pod 153 hover just above the spire’s tip. It stays suspended in the air, the small light on the top of its body turning on and off at regular intervals.

“Connection established.” Pod 153 announces moments later. “Proposal: Contact the Bunker for support.”

“Great! Set up a relay connection for Pod 042 as well.”

“Affirmative.”

9S opens a data screen laden with information and begins composing his message to Operator 21O. With an unreliable connection a live call would be too risky, a simple text based message won’t be distorted or cut out. He records a brief message, attaches a transcription of his words, and sends it to the Bunker. Hopefully 21O would send something quickly-

A flash of movement in the streets below catches his eye. Something running on all fours... “Pod… run a scan for machine lifeforms…” He says, a chill creeping up his spine.

Pod 153 floats down to his side. “Alert: Multiple machine lifeforms detected. Proposal: Regroup with Unit 2B.”

“But-”

That thing didn’t look like a machine…

“Alert: Anomalous signal detect-”

Pod 153’s words are drowned by a horrific, mournful howl that reverberates through the entire building. 9S clings to the ornate decorations on the spire and covers his ears with his free hand. His body runs cold. He’s never heard a sound like that before. Nothing the machines make comes close to that. The pain and sorrow in that noise is something that no animal could produce either. That left only one possibility…

Another roar wracks the building from within…

2B clutches the sides of her head, the data screen long dismissed.

No…

Her chest strains under her panicked breaths.

No.

She hadn’t been watching him. She hadn’t been keeping track of his questions and behavior…

No… No.

And now she…

No no no no no .

She has to…

no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.

NO.

She will not do this. Not again.

Her skin feels… tight.

She will fight off every single goddamn android Command sends until there are none left but her and him. She will not be a part of this cycle again. Her hands curl into fists as a surge rushes through her body, alighting her nerves with energy. With power.

A shadow moves across the stone floor of the castle of worship. The entity, its form inky black, its sigil emitting a baleful purple light, glides towards her. It bathes her in the highly saturated light, a light not even shielding her eyes can diffuse. It bores into her core, it peers into her mind. It speaks into her mind.

“You will not allow this to happen.” Its voice echoes off the hollow shell of where humans once sought God. “But strength comes at a price, little doll.”

The entity plunges its claws into her chest. Heat explodes throughout her body to the point where she fears she might self-destruct. The boiling tendrils of this ethereal monster sink into her artificial heart and her Black Box. Something activates, or… unlocks, and suddenly she feels… confined. Her body… it’s too small….

“Time to pay the toll…”

It rips its claws, now writhing shadow-like whips, out of her chest, then vanishes. 2B’s vision is obscured, but not by warnings and error messages, by blood. Red veins pulse on the edges of her sight in time with her heart. Each beat sends waves of heat, electricity, and agony through her body.

“Stand, little doll. Stand, and unleash your beasthood.”

A scream forms in 2B’s throat, but it cannot break through her swelling throat and gritted teeth. She takes frantic, shallow breaths. Her limbs shake, her fingernails dig into the stonework floor. It’s so hot…

2B rolls onto the floor and rips away her tight uniform. Far too tight. Parts of her dress were already beginning to tear as her muscles swell. Blood trickles from various wounds where her skin has split, revealing the thick, synthetic muscle cords that lie beneath. Her blindfold is next, but removing it does not help her vision. One eye is unfocused, blurring all of her vision.

She drags her fingernails across her body and lets out a deep, animal snarl when she tears into her own flesh. Looking down at her hands, she recoils at the sight of long, black claws that split her fingers down the center. Skin falls from them in long strips to the point where the mechanical joints of her hands are exposed.

Something snaps inside her, somewhere in her upper back. She howls in agony, in sorrow, as her spine lengthens, twists, and grows too fast for her body to maintain. Her insides are compacted and grind against each other, sending sickening vibrations throughout her. Her throat finally opens up, allowing her to breathe. She watches as puffs of steam escape her mouth into the warm twilight air.

Another crack and something explodes out of her lower back. Her balance is thrown off and she falls forward, smashing her face into stone. Another snarl, this one combined with the gnashing of fangs. Her mouth warps, splitting out of her face into a muzzle. Eyes follow, one swelling to fit its now spacious socket while the other stunts and refuses to change. She claws at the peeling skin of whatever she can reach, spilling more of her blood in the process. Everything hurts, everything itches, but oh god the power feels so good.

A growth springs from above her unchanged eye, weighing her head down and hunching her body over. She supports herself with one enormous hand, the other scooping the wires and tubing that spills out of her torn stomach and forcing them back inside her abdominal cavity. The twisting extension of her spine, a tail, thuds against the floor and counters the weight of her head.

2B shakes the mane of bloodied, white hair from her functioning eye, turns her head to the sky, and roars.

#nier automata #2B #9S #2B9S #fanfiction #nier fanfiction #Tanks fics

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jovialyouthmusic · 4 years ago

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Past Times

Apologies for taking my time over this - blame the January blues (and triple it). In this chapter, we go back to John’s first romantic liaison.

Word Count 3586

A/N I have to admit inspiration came from a certain popular Netflix show, but I’ve given it my own spin.

13 First Voyage

John took a deep steady breath as his Lizzie was taken away to her bedchamber. Her ignorance had been a little worrisome. As many well bred young ladies she knew almost nothing of the intimacies between husband and wife, as had Georgiana. It was a great burden to be responsible for the sexual instruction of an innocent maiden, and he constantly worried as to whether he went too fast, or not fast enough, or whether he would scare or disgust her. He was also under the scrutiny of her parents and his own mother, and his head span. He longed for all the dancing around and posturing and displaying oneself to worthy nobles to be over, and to simply be free to concentrate on making his beloved happy.

He laughed bitterly to himself. If they had been English, all they would have had to do was to elope over the Scottish border to Gretna Green, for in England under the age of 18, the bride’s parents had to give consent for marriage and in Scotland they could marry without it. So it was that technically Elizabeth did not need the consent of Sir James, but it was still not the done thing to disregard her parents wishes if one wanted to be received in polite company. So they followed all the rules and he asked for permission to court Lizzie, and they appeared in public with a chaperone, and attended all the right society events together.

In England, they would also have had to attend the social season and accept invitations to events at which Royalty was present, but thankfully in Scotland it was not quite so formal. Still, there were obligations and rituals that had to be observed, which continued tomorrow when the Ball would be held. His mother had made much of the arrangements, but when Elizabeth was his wife, such events would for her to oversee. Thankfully that would not occur until the following season, and before that they could have a proper honeymoon, and take time to travel a little.

It was the custom for young men of the time to travel around Europe, supposedly touring ruins, theatres and art galleries, but reality was somewhat different. There were those who were truly interested in culture, but many took the opportunity to indulge in various vices before returning to fulfil social obligations – that is to say, the continuation of their bloodline.

John had not made such a tour, having joined the Navy, but nonetheless he had seen something of the world, even if it were only the seaports his ship pulled into. He knew Lizzie wanted to travel, so he planned to take her to all the places he had wished to visit himself, and they would discover all that foreign culture had to offer. But that was a distant dream, for it would be some weeks at least before they would be properly wed. He hoped that very soon he could set a date and all would be fixed.

‘I think I will retire also’ Dorothea announced when Lizzie had gone off with Morag ‘You men may talk without regard for my sensibilities’ Tom rose and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

‘I will not be long my dear’ he said fondly, and she pinched his cheek saucily

‘If you are lucky I may be awake still when you retire’ she whispered. Tom smiled archly, looking sideways at his friend. When she had left, the two friends took another small measure of brandy and sat reflectively.

‘It seems you have had the good luck to find another gem as bright as your first wife, John’ Tom remarked. ‘She is a sweet girl and I can see she is quite struck with you’

‘I am fortunate indeed, and I am sure dear Georgiana would not deny me the company of another’ He smiled at his friend ‘And how are you and Dorothea enjoying married life?’

‘Very much, though it pains my dear wife that she is not yet with child.’ He took a sip of his brandy and gazed into the glass morosely ‘It is not for lack of trying, and Dottie never refuses me. She is enthusiastic – or was at first. She feels herself to blame for our failure, and I fear the day may come when it becomes a duty to go to bed with me rather than a pleasure’

‘That must be hard for you’ John empathised. Tom was the only son in his family and had three sisters. If he bore no heir, his estate would not go to any of them, but to a cousin. His mother was widowed and was anxious for him to continue his father’s bloodline. Tom looked up and pursed his lips in sympathy.

‘And you had a babe that you never saw’ he sighed ‘Let us hope that before too long we are both blessed and can stop worrying about the future’

‘Fate is fickle and we never know what life will bring us my dear Tom. We can hope, and we can enjoy what fortune we have’

‘Indeed, and I know you also favour helping those less fortunate than yourselves. I hope you are getting to grips with managing your father’s estate.’

‘Father’s agent will retire very soon, but Sir James has been good enough to recommend someone who is seeking a place and has good references, so I live in hope that I shall be able to train him up before I take Lizzie away to Europe once we are wed’

‘Excellent, I wish you luck’ Tom looked at his empty glass ‘I think I shall retire, for to drink more of your excellent brandy would be the cause of a sore head in the morning, and the displeasure of my wife’

There was little left for John to do than go to his own rooms to attempt to sleep, so when Tom had left the drawing room he let the staff know that all were abed. He climbed the stairs. Lingering on the landing he looked to the left to the corridor that led to Lizzie’s room, then took a right and went to his own suite.

Like his fiancée had earlier, John took stock of himself in the mirror as he undressed. Unlike the well bred ladies of the time, he needed no-one to help him in or out of his garments, though he often called on his manservant to ensure that he was properly turned out for formal occasions. The staff were also responsible for the proper maintenance, storage and cleaning of his clothes, and he was always meticulous as to how he left them once he had disrobed.

He hung his woollen jacket neatly before he unfastened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, storing those on a hanger before starting to unbutton his shirt, which he placed in a basket put aside for soiled linens. Some well dressed dandies in the city were known to change their shirts more than once a day, but he thought that extravagant, although he if he could he chose to have a clean nightshirt and another for the day. His military service made him appreciate the work that went into the laundering of his uniform, as not all officers were fortunate enough to have staff to do that work for them. A clean shirt had often been a luxury and overlooked except when being inspected by senior land based officers. In his early days he had second hand uniform that appeared a little shabby at best, and much of his first wage packet had been spent on new items.

He had already taken off his indoor shoes. During the day for outside pursuits he had worn his high black leather boots, but for dining and dancing he wore something lighter – a finer leather, soft and pliable but with reasonably sturdy smooth soles to suit a wooden dancing floor. He was tall enough not to need stacked heels, unlike Tom who favoured an inch or two in all his footwear. Due to his injury he could only participate in the slower dances, but he was grateful to be able to dance at all. It was not uncommon for sailors to lose limbs in sea battles, or for them never to return home should their ship be sunk in battle.

His retirement from duty had been traumatic – had he not been injured and had to spend time recovering in London before he returned home, he might have seen his wife and new baby son. They might not have fallen ill, or perhaps he would have been taken with them. It was not worth thinking of what might have happened, he told himself. Perhaps his meeting with Elizabeth had been fated from the start and Georgiana was but a stepping stone to his destiny.

He stood in his knee length breeches and stockinged feet, observing that he had lost the hard muscled belly of his days at sea. However, he still cut a fine figure as he made sure to exercise regularly, be it walking or riding at the very least. When in the city he had kept up his fencing and boxing, but that was difficult in the country.

He unfastened the buttons on his breeches, first letting down the front flap, then unbuttoning the waistband. He favoured full length breeches rather than the shorter knee length ones, as he could garter his stockings at a comfortable height that did not irritate or chafe his injured leg. He was still self conscious about the scar that ran from his inner left thigh down to his knee, but it grew less livid by the day. A splinter from the impact of a cannonball into the side of his ship had pieced his flesh and the cut that the ships surgeon had to make to remove it become infected. He had been extremely fortunate not to have lost it and still had not regained the strength in that leg. He had been advised to rub salve into it to keep it soft, and this he did every night. He prayed it would not upset or repulse Elizabeth.

He pulled down his breeches and stepped out of them to fold neatly for the next time he wore them. Tomorrow he would wear a finer pair in the morning, ready to greet visitors later on, and would change again for the ball. He still wore his stockings, and shook his head as he looked at himself in the mirror, thinking of his wedding night. He resolved that on that occasion he would remove his breeches and stockings before his shirt, as that would be more comely for his bride. To suddenly reveal his manhood to her would be alarming, and a shirt that dropped halfway down his thighs could be removed when he deemed she was ready. He sometimes slept in the shirt he had worn in the day anyway, as did many gentlemen with more modest wardrobes.

He peeled off his stockings and realised he had grown hard thinking of his wedding night. That had been a problem of late, and he was conflicted by having such a reaction to an innocent maiden even if she was to be his bride. He had said to her that he thought of her when he went to bed at night, but in truth he tried to keep his thoughts of her relatively chaste. It did not seem right to remember Georgiana either, so his night time fantasies were of another woman.

Most young gentlemen would lose their virginity long before determining on a wife. Some enticed and seduced dairy maids or chambermaids or some other lower class girl, those who lived in or visited the city frequented bawdy houses or visited prostitutes or courtesans, and some made their conquests on their tours of Europe. John had been amongst the minority and had not had any sexual encounters by the time he became midshipman. A good friend and fellow officer, Gerald, knew of this and took him into the city from their barracks at Greenwich a few days before they were to sail together on duty.

Together the two men went to one of the lesser known theatres to see a play, as Gerald knew that John was more interested in culture than in drinking himself silly like many lesser men. He had led him backstage after the performance, and had engaged two comely young actresses in conversation. One thing had lead to another and before he knew it, John was in Miss Alice Bailey’s bedchamber taking his clothes off and enjoying her attentions. He had spent every night of their stay in her company, and whenever he visited the town would go and call on her again. He was not her only male visitor, but he was a favourite and she always made time for him. So it was that he learned many things about what women liked in the bedroom and how to please them as well as himself. This was a skill that not all young gentlemen acquired, and one that had benefitted Georgiana and would do so for Elizabeth.

‘So, John’ the captivating young actress said in a sultry voice ‘Would you care to view my lodging rooms? I fancy my landlady might have a spare room for a night or two, or if you are agreeable I’m sure you could share my bed’ John swallowed, mesmerised by the globes of Alice’s bosom hitched up for display by her corseted dress. Her scent was intoxicating, and he felt himself harden in his breeches. He understood what she offered, for Gerald had given him a broad wink as he had taken the arm of Alice’s friend and declared that they would take a walk in the night air. He had no doubt that he would not see him again until the next day, and he had no clue how to get back to his barracks for the night save to summon a hansom cab. He cleared his throat.

‘I am not sure that would be proper, Mistress Bailey’ She pouted a little.

‘Come sirrah, call me Alice. Your friend has gone, and who will know where you spend the night, and with whom? Will you not walk me home in case some ruffian should accost me on the way?’ John’s resolve crumbled as she made her intention even more obvious.

‘I could not call myself a gentleman if I did not’ he said firmly, and held out his arm for her. Smiling, she took up her cloak and swung it around her shoulders before taking what was offered. Out in the fresh air, he adjusted his tricorn hat and gold braided officer’s jacket and she drew her hood up over her dark curly hair. He cut a fine figure in his naval uniform with snowy white knee length breeches and fine high leather boots, and her cloak was of a fine red velvet, so they turned more than a few heads as he walked her along the street to her lodging house. The streets were dirty, though not as bad as the slum areas near the docks. The place she called home was some degrees above the slums, but not as high or fine as the middle class housing he was used to in his home town.

‘Will you take a drink with me as thanks for my safe delivery?’ she asked at the door of the lodging house. ‘I have other refreshments if you wish for something sweet.’ He hesitated a moment, but she was determined. ‘Are you afraid of being alone with me, sir?’ she asked archly, and he drew himself up, his pride piqued.

‘Of course not. Lead on, Miss Alice’ She smiled and, opening the door, took his hand and lead him inside and up two flights of stairs. There was not a soul in the hall or on the stairwell, and all was quiet. She took him into the room, taking off her cloak and hanging it on a hook on the door. The room was spacious enough, dominated by a goodly sized bed and chest of drawers, a small table and two padded chairs, and a window overlooked the street below. She went to a cupboard by the window and took out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He took off his hat, hanging it over her cloak before removing his jacket and placing that on the back of one of the chairs.

Alice approached handed him a glass of red wine, and they lightly clinked them together before drinking.

‘So what brings you to the city?’ she asked

‘I have some leave whilst I wait for my ship to dock, and Gerald thought it a fine idea to visit the theatre.’

‘You must be a midshipman then’, she said, sipping from her glass. Her tongue traced across her lips to chase a drop of wine, and with that and her soft breasts, he was mesmerised. ‘What did you think of the play?’ she asked, and he snapped back to reality.

‘It was most entertaining’ he said politely, and she laughed.

‘I know it was not high art, but I am glad to hear you enjoyed it. Do you sail soon?’

‘Our ship is refitting and taking on supplies, so it will be two or three days at least’

‘Shall you see battle?’

‘Perhaps. That rather depends on the French, and where the admiralty sends us’ She took his hand and drew closer to him, gazing into his eyes.

‘Many sailors seek the comfort of a woman before they sail on a dangerous mission’ she said in a sultry voice ‘I would be happy to provide that for you’ he cleared his throat and felt his cheeks redden.

‘I have not – that is, I…’ he started, ashamed to admit that he had never been with a woman, but she put her finger to his lips.

‘So I am your first, John’ she murmured ‘It shall be my honour to teach you the delights of intimacy’ Questions crowded his mind, but she seemed to understand. ‘I wish only to give you pleasure, and take some for myself. You need not fear siring a child, for I am barren, and I shall not demand marriage. I have other admirers and love my way of life’ She smiled, and her fingers went to his collar, unfastening his cravat. ‘You are handsome and have a good figure. I wager you are gentle and considerate. I can teach you how to please a woman, which will stand you in good stead whether you marry, or keep a dozen mistresses’

She carried on unbuttoning his shirt, but he caught at her hand and stared down at her, suddenly needing to take charge, if only for a moment. He bent his head to kiss her lips – softly at first, then with passion, her mouth opening to his. She tasted of wine and strawberries, and he could not identify her scent, but it was heady and intoxicating. He did not want his first time to be a quick fumble, but it was hard keeping control of his ardour.

‘Mistress Alice’ he groaned ‘I know not how long I will last. I pray I will not disappoint’ Like most men he knew how to handle his member, and regularly relieved himself, so knew the signs for when he drew near to releasing his seed. The lovely young woman before him was stimulating all his senses and he feared it would all be over too soon. Her hand wandered down to his breeches to feel his hardness, pressing her palm over the bulge and smiling slyly.

‘You will not disappoint, by the size of your cannon’ she laughed softly ‘But you worry about firing before the target is in range. Never fear, your first shot is a gift from me. After that, you will swiftly recover and we will take our time and reach the goal together.’

At this, she pushed him to the door where her cloak hung and knelt in front of him. He gaped at her in amazement as she unfastened the front of his breeches to fondle his privates. He groaned aloud, leaning back into the soft velvet as she moved closer, placing her warm tongue to the base of his shaft and drawing it upward. His legs trembled and his hand went to her head as she placed her lips over the tip. She quickly took him into her mouth, and skilfully applied lips and tongue for his pleasure. Before soon he knew he could not hold back for a second longer, and gave a great groan as he seemed to erupt into the wet warmth of her mouth. She stayed with him as his hips bucked, and swallowed what he gave her. His heart pounded as she sat back, licking her lips before getting up to fetch her wine and take a good mouthful. She put the glass down and beckoned him.

‘Now take off your boots and clothes and come to bed - I have much to teach you’ she purred.

@sirbeepsalot @camillemontespan @dcbbw @rainbowsinthestorm @katedrakeohd @trappedinfandoms @kingliam2019 @nomadics-stuff @texaskitten30 @princess-geek @texaskitten30 @fluffyfirewhiskey

#past times #Captain John Lykel #elizabeth and john #regency drama #regency scotland #perioddrama

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vvakarians · 4 years ago

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Ch. 5 of Wolves Without Teeth is now up!

Beginning | Update | Rating: 18+

Fic Summary:

Voices born of tragedy are always the loudest, and the blast that destroyed the Conclave at Haven birthed thousands. The only survivor --a seemingly insignificant Dalish elf-- proclaims innocence despite the blood staining their hands. They make a lofty promise to the world, an oaken branch planted for every lost life, and justice for all those affected by the newly created rift in the heavens. Nothing will stop them from leading all of Thedas back into the light, even on wings of death.

Chapter Summary:

With Calliope mostly healed from the fight with the Pride demon, they think all will be well only to find out that their Mark has changed more than just their mindset, which comes at the worst possible time. But somehow they manage to meet with the advisors without too many ill effects.

V. It’s still days before Calliope is able to slip from their bed and manage to dredge up enough energy to put their armor on. Artemaeus is on his earlier rounds, though it won’t be long before he walks in. Solas has already done his rounds, he mostly comes by at night when he thinks Calliope is asleep. Not one word is ever uttered between the two of them and he seems content for that to continue, confusing as that is to Calliope. The whispers pick at that concept -- perhaps he is avoiding them somehow. Did they upset him that badly on the trail to the Temple? His behavior is puzzling to say the least. Solas appears to be protective of them --as if he knows them but they can’t ever place him-- but when they try to catch his attention, his interest vanishes.

They hum to themself as they slip on their tattered cloak, too deep in thought to notice the scurrying in the shadows of their quarters. Not until the sticky, wetness of something latching onto their wrist catches their attention. Pinpricks of terror make their hair stand on end and Calliope freezes, not daring to test the strength of whatever wrapped itself about them. Their heartbeat roars in their ears as they hazard a glance down, everything else forgotten but this. Though there is nothing to suggest anything ever touched them. Not a blemish, not even residue from what certainly was a slimy creature. When they push back the long sleeve of their tunic, there is nothing. Just their bare arm and--

What is that?

Ridges of their pale flesh seem to be jutting up slightly, creating a sort of ripple texture along the inside of their wrist. Welts the size of small coins dot along the back of their hand and palm, irritated and discolored. That terror turns into an icy panic as Calliope checks over the rest of their left hand, thrown from the need to stay frozen in place. A mirror was provided some time in the last several days so they could properly braid their hair back --something they had asked for to retain some form of control while regaining the use of their hand-- and they scramble over to it in a frenzy. There’s more than just the welts and ridges in their flesh; when they look into the glass their eyes are no longer a pale blue, they are a sickly, red rimmed green. Like the Breach. That damned thing that scars the sky and taunts them, speaks to them in their nightmares.

That sticky sensation returns, creeping up the back of their neck while they raise their left arm up to the mirror. In horror they watch as three of the innumerable welts slowly peel back the skin on heir hand, revealing demonic eyes that look back at them intelligently. Almost in a question. Throughout, the whispers have been silent; no buzz at the edges of their hearing. Now they rise to a scream that echoes and bounces off the inside of their skull. All nonsense, or perhaps every language on the material plane. Calliope does not know. Only that they feel the rush of being swallowed up by it, entirely consumed by whatever has trapped them here in this moment. Something that they can only later describe as other or eldrtich.

Minutes or seconds tick by --even hours, for all they can tell-- before the door opens and startles Calliope back from the mirror. They don’t register who enters, glancing wildly at the figure and then back into the glass. Yet the eyes are no longer there. The sickly green of their own irises are however, as are the ridges and welts. Confusion replaces Calliope’s anxiety while they stare and try hard to comprehend what the hell just happened.

“Ser Lavellan?”

Again, Calliope looks to the ill timed guest. There’s a face they recognize; chest length red hair that falls from beneath a deep purple hood, chainmail clinks on the outside of her robes. Leliana. It’s just Leliana.

“I-- yes? Apologies, I think I must have spooked myself,” they murmur, still distracted but not enough to ignore her presence.

“Do you need a healer? That arm doesn’t look good.”

Self conscious, Calliope slips the thick woolen sleeve back over their arm and they shake their head numbly, “No. I--will speak to someone later about it. There’s no pain. It--seems that the Mark has made changes without my permission.”

There’s a long, heavy silence between the two of them. It’s obvious Leliana is at a loss for words and Calliope is too in shock to say much, not even as they move towards the door. Stiff and unsure of themself. Perhaps Solas or Artemaeus will know more. For now they need to not think of it and are grateful that the whispers fade to a soft white noise.

“I came to see if you wanted to meet with the others in the Chantry. Do you think you can manage that?” Leliana asks, stepping to the side briefly for Calliope.

“I will try. That is all I can do.”

At least the cold is a welcome distraction this time around. Soothes rather than stabs them, though Calliope is sure that will change if they spend too long outside. The sun is high and bright in the pale blue green sky, the rift sealed but still puffed and raw --like an infected wound. They merely glance at it before narrowing their eyes back down at the muddy ground, careful not to sink too deep into the muck. Suddenly they are very thankful for the boots they were encouraged to take with them. Nice and soft on the inside, perfect to combat the freezing temperatures; wrapped with some cords that jingle with wooden and bone charms. A bit of home to carry with them. The sound comforts Calliope while they follow Leliana off to the large building just beyond the trail.

It’s a short walk, just a few minutes up a long dirt path that winds around a fire pit and various tents. Calliope prepares themself for another round of vitriol, unable to forget the guard who threw that rock. But nothing comes. In fact the people that do gather whisper amongst themselves in awe, or perhaps even reverence. Though that unsettles Calliope as much --if not more-- than the hate spewed days before. Why the change in tone?

One of the group is another familiar face -- Varric. Laughter lines crease his cheeks as he watches Calliope approach; how he can be so jovial they’re not entirely sure. But it is a comfort to see, and even makes their mouth twitch into a small smile. Or a semblance of one. He doesn’t stop with the others and in fact begins walking in line with two of them; Leliana gives him a nod of recognition as he does so. It quickly crosses Calliope’s mind that he’s wearing a coat that seems much too large for him -- the puffs of dense wool obscures much of his face, and the blocky shape of the leather makes his movements stiff. A complete wonder how he can even walk in it.

“Spin a story that convinced them?” he asks with a wink.

“I think so. They found my tales of a nug tripping me and slaying a dragon in the process very compelling,” they respond tiredly, “I managed to slip in a bit about your gorgeous chest hair as well.”

Varric laughter is a deep, resounding bellow that brightens Calliope’s smile by a fraction. Though they note a slight change when he fully looks them over, his unobscured eyes taking in the changes from when they last saw each other.

“Kid, are you feeling alright?”

“That seems to be the question of the day,” Calliope sighs. Their breath comes in clouds before them, “The Mark has made changes. I wish I could say I knew what was happening, but for now I think I’ll be fine.”

“You should let Chuckles know, if he hasn’t found out already.”

That gives them pause, it’s a good suggestion and begs the question--does he? Why has he not alerted anyone if he does?

A frown spreads across Calliope’s face and they give a short nod, “I’ll let him know after the meeting. Though I’m not sure what can be done about it.”

“Who knows, but for all his oddness he’s pretty good at keeping it in check.”

Another comment that makes them think too hard. What does Solas know? If the Mark and the Voice are connected, he should know of that but has never said a word about them. Did he...know this would happen as well? Calliope swallows hard and pushes those thoughts out of their mind, thankful that the large doors of the Chantry have finally come into full view. It’s harder to worry about hypotheticals when something so big is looming over you.

“I’ll keep you posted, how does that sound?” Calliope asks, glancing his way.

“Yeah, sure. Long as you take care of yourself, kid, that’s all that matters.”

His voice is too soft when he responds, as if a great sadness has settled in his bones-- but Calliope doesn’t draw attention to it. Not yet. Instead they try on a bigger smile for him and gesture to his much too large coat. Throngs of people start to gather around them but Calliope is too busy with Varric, the others --and their growing anxiety-- can wait. He’s been nothing but kind to them.

“If you promise to find a better coat then I promise to do as you ask. How about that?”

Another bellowing laugh escapes Varric, so much so there’s a jingle from the golden ringed necklace that rests on his chest. Warmth floods Calliope when they hear that, their anxiety melts away for the moment. Though they can’t help but notice the large group around them in their periphery, ever whispering, looking.

“Does it really look that bad?”

“Oh yes, it makes you look like a walking box,” Leliana interjects with a smirk. Calliope startles when she speaks, having forgotten she was there. She’s always so quiet.

Calliope’s smile widens at her response, however, “Someone had to have given it to him as a joke, right?”

“I think it was a gift from Cassandra, so something like that.”

“Ah, that would explain it.”

“Alright, alright! I’m sure there’s a tailor around here somewhere. You two do your important meeting and I’ll fix this disaster of a coat,” Varric snorts, rolling his eyes with affection. A welcome sight as the throng stares and Calliope’s anxiety spikes to another unimaginable height. Both Leliana and Varric take notice quickly; the one ushering Calliope into the warmer, darker Chantry, while the other bustles through the crowd, breaking some of it up.

Inside the old, creaking building there’s a sort of calm you only find among places of worship. Though it doesn’t feel nearly as ancient of a peace as Calliope is used to. It makes their chest ache, thinking back to the sprawling temple to Falon’Din that sat deep within the Graves. How much that single ruin felt like home. Here in the torchlight, hundreds of miles from their home, Calliope brushes their fingers along the stone walls of the Chantry and wishes to be back in that flooded sanctuary, surrounded by statues of their gods that have stood against the test of time.

The once rich but faded golds and reds of Andrastian tapestries feel familiar but foreign at the same time. Moldy furniture and dusty books surround them, old stained glass still shining brightly in the mid morning sun. Casting rays of colors all across the muddy floor. Their mother once spoke of these places, how they brought her comfort when the world was at its worst. Not because of the religion itself, but how gentle it was in those moments where no one noticed her and she could slip off without alerting anyone. There is a remnant of that here while Leliana and Calliope slowly walk across to another pair of large, ornate doors. Symbols of the religion embossed into the dark wood, a sunburst set into the seam where you would pull them open. Familiar but still foreign. They feel like they shouldn’t be here, even in the momentary peace.

That nasally voice from days before pierces right through the calm the moment the doors swing open and Calliope can’t help but make a face of disgust. This man again? Another shemlen who thinks he knows what is right and what is wrong, Creators forbid you tell him otherwise. Chancellor Roderick stands in his white, gold, and crimson red robes to the side of a large wooden table covered in maps, and what looks like small figurines. Curious, Calliope focuses on what that could possibly mean before looking around to the others flanking the Chantry man. All humans, it seems. Another man and two women, one of which is Cassandra.

The other man has curly blonde hair, in a slicked back style that interests Calliope --they wonder briefly how he can keep it so neat and tidy in this weather. His armor bears the many sunbursts that can be found through the building, a mix of gold and cold steel. Rich red fabric and dark furs hang around his tall, muscular form. Though his complexion and under eye bags speak of illness, sunken cheeks and a listless gaze. Perhaps he has the Blight?

“...Roderick, save your breath,” the man murmurs, catching Calliope staring as they enter the room.

“Why is the prisoner continuously not restrained?”

Roderick does not waste any time on saving his breath.

“I’m afraid chains would not do you any good, Chancellor. Has Cassandra not told you I practice magic? I could simply look at you and you’d be a crispy husk,” Calliope rolls their eyes, eliciting a snort from both the new man and the aforementioned Seeker. Though the latter seems to think that much funnier than the ill human.

“Andaran atish’an, Ser Lavellan,” another voice cuts through the Chancellors rebuttal.

This time it’s the new woman, dressed in swatches of golden fabric lined with thick, lightly colored and patterned furs. Necklaces hang from her soft, tan neck and glint just as her brilliant smile does. Long, dark hair frames her face in perfectly set curls that are then braided to be kept out of her eyes. Honestly, she seems much too warm and gentle to be in this situation at all, but that is exactly why Calliope assumes she is. Never underestimate the sweet ones.

They smile back at her when greeted in elven, and bow their head respectively, “Pleased to meet you, even under these circumstances.”

There is a sound of derision from Roderick that has both Calliope and Cassandra looking his way with annoyance, the former feeling a coil of anger build in their chest.

“What, do I offend you?” Calliope asks, raising a pale eyebrow at him.

“These circumstances are of your own doing, of course you have offended me! The Divine is dead and here you stand, still alive.”

“Shocking as it may seem, Chancellor, I did not kill your Divine. In fact I have been exonerated of all charges. Cassandra told me as much several days ago as I was recovering. While I don’t remember what made her change her mind, I’m inclined to think it was compelling evidence.”

This time there’s another amused snort from the ill man and he looks up at Calliope, dark eyes sparkling a bit in the lamp light.

“Careful, you keep prodding him and he might explode.”

Roderick once again opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it when Cassandra steps in with a scowl his way and a glance at Calliope. There is a brief moment where her expression turns from irritation to concern when she makes note of the change of Calliope’s eye color, which does make them wonder if they should wander about with their eyes shut from now on.

“I believe we have some introductions to get out of the way,” the Seeker says, shaking the worry off expertly, “You know Sister Leliana, our Spymaster.”

Leliana bows her head at the mention, smiling just a touch for Calliope who manages one in return. It’s the least they can do after her friendliness towards them.

“Our Ambassador, Josephine Montilyet. She is an expert in keeping the peace,” Cassandra gestures to the woman full of warmth, and then finally at the ill seeming man, “This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, you would have met him at the Temple but we know how that went.”

“I was nearly decapitated, apparently. Which I’m sure Roderick would have been pleased by,” they scoff, glancing away from Cassandra to watch the priest. He does nothing but stare right back, wrinkling his nose.

“We are lucky you weren’t, otherwise we would not be able to do what we’re doing now,” Cassandra responds, cutting in before Roderick can get a word out.

Something about that comment unsettles Calliope, makes them seriously consider the Seeker. She had said something about wanting them to stay, that there was danger following them possibly and they didn’t have anything on the Mark yet. Yet this doesn’t seem to be what she’s talking about.

“I’m assuming we found something when we closed the Breach? What are we doing now?”

A heavy silence descends upon the room like a thick blanket, extinguishing all sound so much so that the whispers come in loud bursts and Calliope’s pointed ears flutter uncomfortably. They wait for someone to say something, anything at all; nerves standing on end.

“We saw a vision in the middle of a field of red lyrium that was at the center of the Temple,” Leliana finally speaks, looking from Cassandra to Calliope with a sharp gaze, “Someone or something was there doing a ritual, said that the Divine was meant as a sacrifice. Then you came out of the shadows to ask what was going on. That was when the Rift broke open.”

A chill runs down Calliope’s spine, that familiar build up of anxious energy. Their eyes dart to the candles flickering just beyond the table, and one of them forms a tall pillar of fire before simmering back down again. No one seems to notice, not even Roderick who is barely paying attention to anything at all.

“That’s good to know but that doesn’t answer my question. What are we doing now?” Calliope repeats, their gaze hardening. The whispers buzz in anticipation, shadows dancing in their peripheral vision. Once again there’s silence but it’s short lived.

“The Divine created a writ in case her plan failed to restore peace between the mages and the templars,” Cassandra responds quietly, and taps a book on the table with a gloved hand. It is thick and old, filled with secrets Calliope assumes.

“What does that mean?” they ask, shifting their weight nervously.

“We are going to rebuild a group called the Inquisition, to find the Divine’s killer and end the conflict that led to her death. We could also use it to clean up after what happened with the Breach,” the Commander answers for her, and Calliope raises an eyebrow at those gathered around the table.

“It must be invoked by both of the Divine’s Hands, and will be with or without Chantry approval,” Cassandra says, shooting a withering glance at Roderick who sighs.

“You know how I feel about this Seeker-”

“And I don’t care. This is the only way, you know that!”

“We need to find a replacement for the Divine and quickly! None of this Inquisition nonsense will help us now.” The room descends into arguments and raised voices as everyone attempts to speak over the priest, who in turn raises his whine of a voice to disgustingly new levels. Anxiety and rage make the air thick, too hard to breathe, too hard to move in. From their spot at the other side of the space, Calliope watches that candle flicker once, twice, three times before it erupts into a roaring fire. All of their despair and nervousness centered on one singular wick that burns so brightly it lights up the entire room, banishing the shadows back to where they came. It’s certainly one way to get everyone’s attention.

Their arguments dwindle into nothing as they scramble to get away from the fire just as it starts to fizzle out and become a smoking ember. Consumed, wax and all, by Calliope’s magical presence. Embarrassment washes over them at the sight but they manage to hold it together while each pair of eyes comes back to settle on them. Calliope finally breaks the silence, that slimy sensation threading through their skin as they say in almost a snarl, pointedly at Roderick --who had decided to argue.

“Create your Inquisition, we replace the Divine and find her Killer. Maybe get answers about what the fuck happened to my hand. Does that sound good?”

There’s only a beat of silence before Roderick mumbles what could be a ‘yes’, easing Calliope’s volatile mood but not that horrific feeling of otherness wrapped around their wrist.

“We--should get you in touch with a proper Enchanter, I think,” Cullen comments in shock. A blurting out of words, really.

“There are mages here I can learn from, if it will soothe your fears, Commander Rutherford.”

“Perhaps we should take a recess? Cool down before we talk about our next steps.”

It’s Josephine who speaks, light and airy. Unperturbed on the outside by what just happened but the tremble in her hands as she grips her important parchments says otherwise. Calliope doesn’t blame her.

There’s a note of tiredness and defeat to their tone when they speak again, “I will get my magic under control, it’s been harder since the Mark. I’m sorry for scaring anyone. A recess would be good.”

#solavellan #dragon age #dai #pavellan #calliope lavellan #eventual pavellan at least LOL #mal writes #wolves without teeth

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storytellingfandom · 4 years ago

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It Had to be You ~ Part Eight

Summary: Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walked into hers. Lin Beifong saw the world in two colors; black and white. That changes though when she meets the siren working with one of the largest gangs in Republic City.

Azami never had a choice. Didn’t have a way out. But she could destroy things from the inside. She could move information around. She could lie and smile with the best of them.

Neither needed anyone. Neither needed love. So what happens when fate ties them together? Can they save each other? Or will a smoking gun end something before it begins

A/N: A 1930s/40s LOK AU. Note that there will be themes that were present during this time including smoking, drinking, underlying homophobia, and potentially smut later on down the line. Writer’s views are not that of the characters.

Word count: 12923

“Hi Chief…”

Lin stood stunned, frozen to her spot as she just stared at Azami. Her face was paler than normal, dark circles stained the skin under her eyes. Her hair was crusted, but her eyes were still that deep green that hooked Lin by her heart and pulled her in deep.

“You’re alive.” Lin stated the words were the only things that she could think to say.

“Seems that way.” Azami answered, a tired smile tugging at her features. “I imagine you’re ready to get back to your city though.”

A punch to the gut as Lin gripped the doorframe. Stepping into the room she shut the door a bit more forcefully than she had meant to. “How could you even say that?!”

“I--”

“You left a letter for me! Telling me that you had been assigned to use me for that son of a bitch but that then you had some fucking change of heart?! That you were going to potentially turn everything over to him rather than come to me?! Than to trust me to fucking help you! Dammit Azami!” Lin pushed away from the wall turning so that she wasn’t looking at the other woman.

Azami watched Lin and offered no words to her for a long moment. “You’ve seen the people I help, Lin. You can say that you would protect me all you want, but that leaves these people open to retaliation, and none of your men would turn an eye to it until it was too late. So yes, I did the underhanded move. I did trick you. And I fell for you, spirits help the fool that I am. But I’d also do all of that again if it meant keeping people like June and Tapeesa safe. And I won’t apologize for that.”

Tensed shoulders didn’t move down at all, instead, Lin found herself at the window. Outside people moved about the street going on with their day. They knew what brewed in the background. And perhaps, they knew what people like Azami risked to help them, but still they carried on. Pushing away from it, Lin found herself turning on her heel and leaving the room. Walking past the older women, she took one of June’s coats from the hook before slipping out of the apartment.

If she didn’t get out of there she’d suffocate as too many thoughts and conflicting ideas swirled in her head.

Tapeesa stood and turned to June sharply. “You’re just going to let her walk out like that?!”

“Sit down, darlin’. She’ll be back. That’s my coat she’s got, and she cares about Azami. But it’s a lot to process.” June answered, motioning her partner to sit and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Speaking of, I need to speak with our girl a moment.”

“Don’t be too hard on her.” Tapeesa answered, reaching for June’s hand.

“Little hard to be hard on her when I’ve done the same thing.” June answered, bending to kiss her partner properly with a smile. “And you need to go lay down for a bit. Get some rest.”

Smiling, Tapeesa nodded and leaned into the kiss. “Yes dear.”

Nodding, June moved into the bedroom and smiled gently at Azami. The younger woman was starting out the window, bright tears in her eyes. Not drawing attention to them, June instead sat in the chair and took her hand.

“Never again, do you hear me?” June asked, tugging her hand gently to get her attention. “And before you argue that I’ve done this before, I’ll agree with you. Which is why I can say never again.”

A hand rested on her stomach as Azami felt tears trickle from her eyes. The motions of it made the incision in her stomach pull and hurt but the emotion snuck out of her. “I’m sorry...I’m so sorry I just…”

June stood and took the younger woman in her arms and held her close. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in her hair trying to hold back her own tears. “I know, I know darlin’. We owe you for the time you’ve bought us and for the lives you’ll end up saving.”

“They want to come after you, after Lin I couldn’t just…”

“You went to that damn meeting that they were whispering about didn’t you?” June asked, pulling away to look at her.

“It was Takao and those four people I’ve told you about. They want Lin dead to infiltrate and then want to come after you because you still hold the reins and I couldn’t...I had to do something.” Azami said, turning eyes up to June. These women had protected her, raised her, she wasn’t just going to let something happen to them.

Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, she smiled and shook her head when she heard Tapeesa slip into the room. “Your other mother isn’t very good at following directions.”

“Where’s the fun in that darling, besides, you’d be worried if I did.” Tapeesa answered, coming to sit with them. “Rest now dear one, we’ll be here.”

“And don’t worry about Lin, she’ll be back.”

*******

Lin made her way through the snow covered streets, her hands shoved into the pockets of June’s coat. The clear air helped to clear her head, the emotions surging through her at too fast a rate. Azami was always one to point out the flaws in their system. She was a product of those flaws, Lin supposed, but it always left Lin reeling.

Walking through the streets, she saw the evidence of the good that Azami did. Kids running around, families were together, and while businesses didn’t thrive in the same way here, they did work. They had a system that worked. A system separate from Lin’s shining one that she clung to. One that only protected so many people though. And Azami had tried to take their safety into her own hands. Tried to face the triad, the dragon, by herself to give people a chance to get out. To get away from them.

But she lied. She had lied to many to try and do something.

Oh but what have you done, almighty Beifong, in the name of protecting your city?

Spirits help her, what was she supposed to do?

With a sigh, she paused and sat on the bench outside of Azami’s apartment building. Staring at her hands, she reached into her trousers pocket again and pulled the letter out. Unfolding it, she read through it again, her eyes falling to specific lines. Lines that claimed she cared for her. Azami was an agent to herself though, and could Lin really trust that what she said was true? Even in a confessional dying letter?

But when her mind flashed to the day spent together handing out supplies to her neighbors. The easy smiles, the laughter between the two of them. Introducing her to everyone. Sharing food together. The way her eyes could tell Lin soo much; her emotions, what she was thinking. When she’d looked into them she saw...something. She knew what it was, but she wasn’t ready to admit what she’d seen.

Because she knew it was reflected in her eyes.

Groaning, the woman stood and turned to go into the apartment building. She didn’t know what she was looking for, she’d decide once she was inside, but something had to prove Azami’s words one way or the other once she was inside. Climbing the stairs, Lin traversed the hallway and paused when she saw Azami’s door sitting open.

Shit.

Of course her gun was back at home. Pushing the door open with her foot, she looked around the corner of the door frame before slipping into the apartment. It was a disaster. Tables were overturned, drawers were pulled out and left on the ground. The bookcase that had fascinated Lin laid toppled over, many of the belongings there had been broken. Papers were everywhere, photos torn. Clothes strewn all over. Walking around, there was evidence that whoever had done this had tried to set the place on fire and had been unsuccessful in their attempts.

“Spirits…” Lin murmured as the ill feeling gripped her. Azami had been right. She couldn’t protect her in the way she thought she could. This had would have been reported, she was sure, and not one cop had arrived.

Spirits dammit was she the only cop who cared about these people?!

But then, had she really been any better before Azami had taken her by the hand and showed her this place? Introduced her to these people?

Bending down, Lin plucked a photo from the ground that caught her eye. It was a younger Azami, spirits she couldn’t have been older than nine, with June and Tapeesa. June had her in front of her, Tapeesa standing next to her while the three of them beamed at the camera. Folded next to it was a tattered photo, older, creased to the point that it should be falling apart, but somehow it managed to hang on.

A small girl smiled up at her, wide eyes looking out at the world, in the arms of a woman that she assumed was Azami’s mother. The woman with delicate cheekbones, and waving dark air that she must have inherited from her. Her father stood next to them, a wide smile matching the young girl’s. The small family had their whole lives to look forward to in this photo. Folding both photos carefully, she pocketed them in the jacket.

Sighing, she gave the apartment one last look over before quietly slipping out of it and back to the streets.

************

Slipping back into June and Tapeesa’s apartment, she looked around sheepishly at the smells of dinner on the stove. Elephant koi if she had to guess, and noodle soup. Taking the photos out of the pocket, she hung the coat up before moving further into the apartment.

“Welcome back.” June greeted, looking up from her book.

“How is she?” Lin asked, coming to sit at the table.

“Resting, were you able to figure some things out?” June asked, closing the book to set it off to the side.

“Yeah...I went by her apartment. Someone’s been there. It looks like someone tried to tear it apart completely. Bad arson job too, some burned areas but nothing took.” Lin answered, accepting the hot tea from Tapeesa.

“You salvage anything?” June asked, her brows furrowing to show her worry but she knew the drill at this point.

Sliding the pictures across the table, she watched June’s face soften. “All her personal papers were destroyed or taken.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

Lin nodded, sipping her tea for a long moment before she couldn’t keep the question at bay. “What happened to them? Azami’s parents.”

“Hitomi and Ji-Hun, they were such a sweet couple, and a lovely family really. Adored that little girl more than anything in the world.” Tapeesa murmured, taking the photos from her wife. “Spirits she was so young.”

“Ji-Hun, her father, was a teacher. One of the young ones convinced he would change the world of education, you know? Pissed off one too many people by speaking out against what was going on. Wanted to give knowledge and skills to those the triad gangs would use. Can’t have them think for themselves.” June reached for her cigarettes, lighting one as the anger sparked bright behind her amber colored eyes. “They just bought a house, one of the gang leaders found out, never found out who raised the payments on it.”

“They beat him within an inch of his life before tying him to a stone. Pushed him into the harbor. After they made him watch while they raped Hitomi and put a bullet between her eyes.” Tapeesa murmured, taking the cigarette from her wife when it was offered.

“How did Azami survive?” Lin asked, taking the cigarette case, trying to keep the rage and heartbreak she felt for the child Azami had once been.

“Hitomi hid her in the cellar when they heard the men drive up. In a back pantry, in a barrel.” Tapeesa answered, pushing the photo away, pulling the one of herself and June with Azami close.

“We went as soon as we heard about it, but Azami had run by then. Each time we got close, she danced out of our reach. Sounding familiar?” June asked, throwing Lin a bit of a smirk when the younger woman blushed. “When we finally got her, we didn’t let go. She was half starved, and as feral as a fire cat.”

“And twice as mean.” Tapeesa chuckled gently. “It took her months to learn to trust us, but when you have her...well...you know the lengths she’ll go to protect someone.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.” Lin murmured, fingers running through her hair.

“Go talk to her, kid. Go talk it out.” June reached out for Tapeesa’s hand and took it in her own. “It’s what’ll keep you going.”

Nodding, Lin put the cigarette out, blowing the smoke out the window before finishing her tea. Walking back to the bedroom again, she knocked gently before slipping inside. Walking to Azami, she stood and studied her for a moment, finally reaching out to gently take Azami’s hand in her own. Warming her fingers as she brought it to her lips.

Startling from sleep, Azami turned her head and relaxed just slightly when she saw it was Lin. “Hi chief.”

“Hi...I’m sorry, for leaving the way I did.” Lin murmured, thumb brushing against her knuckles.

“You had a pretty good reason to.” Azami answered, grimacing as she tried to sit up more.

Leaning forward, Lin gently pushed her back into the pillow and shook her head. “I went by your apartment, it’s been pretty ransacked.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Did you find your answers?” Azami answered looking up at her.

“Why did you do it the way you did? Why did...why didn’t you just tell me?” Lin asked, finding their fingers lacing together.

Azami offered her a small smile, watching their fingers. “Would you have believed me if I did?”

Lin let out a sigh and nodded. “Fair point. But after we spent that time together we trusted each other more I thought.”

“I do trust you, Lin. But I care about you too. Which is why I burned that map that I took from you so no one would see it. I watched a meeting of theirs, unseen, and the things they said,” she swallowed a lump in her throat and she shook her head. “I couldn’t let them hurt you, Lin. They were coming for your head. For June and Tapeesa’s head. I couldn’t...I couldn’t do it. So I lied to all of you, to protect the most people. To keep them from burning this community to the ground.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lin looked up at Azami. “But why is everyone else’s life more important than yours?”

Azami looked up then, Lin’s lighter green eyes bearing down into her very soul as they stared at each other. “I’m just one woman, I could help hundreds more.”

“And don’t you see that your life is worth more to me than all of theirs combined?” Lin answered, her voice was small. It had been so long since she’d felt attached to someone like this. She had expected to go through her life alone at this point. Not attached to anyone and doing what she needed to do. And then she’d been pulled in by a single voice. By a woman who should have been the last person she’d fall for.

But here she was.

Azami stared at Lin in a stunned silence, trying desperately to process what Lin had just said to her. Lin’s fingers reached out to brush hair from her face while her darker eyes tried to focus on Lin’s face, looking for the meaning of behind her words.

“Lin...what...what do you want from me?” Azami asked, her voice broke, soft and small as her dark eyes pleaded with Lin to say what her heart needed to hear.

“I don’t want anything from you, Azami.” Lin murmured, she knew that’s all people wanted her around for. Was to use her for something. To use her to run information, to spy, to put her life on the line. “I just want you, Azami.”

Lin leaned in then and pressed her lips to Azami’s, hands reaching up to cup her cheek as she did so. Lips moved together, Azami’s free hand coming to rest over Lin’s on her cheek. Hearts raced and thundered against each other's ribs. Emotions and unspoken words communicated between them in that moment.

“Don’t lie to me again. Don’t sacrifice yourself anymore. We’re in this together now.”

Azami smiled and nodded, resting her forehead against Lin’s she nuzzled there gently. “Together.”

*********

Outside the hall clock struck, the aging gongs calling attention to the hour. In that minute of time, perhaps the clock had stopped. But as time sped up again, meetings in dark rooms were happening. Soldiers with guns were preparing. Two women who have been in love for most of their lives sat huddled around a table. And a new love was preparing to save each other from the armies that would come.

#lin beifong #lin beifong x oc #lin beifong/oc #legend of korra fanfic #legend of korra #legend of korra fanfiction

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one-boring-person · 4 years ago

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@theghostof-myndi I'm so sorry this has taken such a long time to write! I hope it was worth the wait, though!💛💛💛

Are You Paid To Say That?

Kevin Richter (Trapped In Silence) x reader

Warnings: mentions of violence, mental illness/challenges

A/N: Im really sorry if this isn't as good as you were expecting, I find the characters quite difficult to write, but I've tried my best. I wasn't really too sure where to take this, so I hope thinks ok.💛💛

Masterlist

"How're things going with Kevin?" I inquire as I walk with Jennifer out of the building, pulling my coat tighter around my body as the icy winter air surrounds us, biting at my heated skin.

"Well, I thought they were going well, but he had another outburst today, so I think we might've been set back a bit." The shrink admits to me, adjusting the box in her arms, making the bits and bobs inside clatter against each other.

"Another outburst? How come?" I frown a bit, knowing that this particular patient can be violent at the best of times, concerned now for the older woman's safety.

"I'm not entirely sure this time. We were talking about meeting more people his age, when he mentioned something about seeing a girl around here...hang on, how old are you?" She asks, looking over at me curiously.

Lifting an eyebrow, I quickly respond.

"I'm seventeen."

Realisation seems to dawn on her face as she hears this, knowing that there are, in fact, no other younger workers in the institute, and definetly none that work with the more challenging patients.

"What?" I question when she continues to start at me in amazement.

"I think he was talking about you, (Y/n)." Jennifer reveals, frowning to herself as if thinking something over in her head.

"About me? He doesn't even know who I am, and I don't think he's ever seen me before." I protest, thinking back to the fragile, highly volatile boy currently residing in the Quiet Room.

"Maybe, but the description he gave matches you pretty well." She informs me, smiling gently at the look of genuine shock on my face, "I'll ask him more about it tomorrow."

"Ok, thank you." I respond, not knowing quite how to react to this information, waving a little as she walks off to her car, leaving me standing in the cold to mull over what I've heard.

Jennifer's hurried footsteps echo through the corridor as she approaches me, eyes intent on me, clearly needing to say something to me, prompting me to break off the conversation with the security guard I was having so that I can greet her. When she sees this, she speeds up a bit, hair blowing past her face with an air of importance.

"I was right, (Y/n), it is you that he meant." She blurts out as she reaches me, eyes filling with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy as she regards me.

"What do you mean? Who are we talking about?" I ask her, though I have a feeling I know where this is going.

"Kevin. I showed him a picture of you and he took it from me. He seemed pretty attached to it, and went ballistic when I asked him for it back." She informs me, leading me away from our original spot, back the way she came.

"Kevin? Are you sure? I might just look like someone he knows." I try to reason, feeling a dull sense of fear as she drags me down the corridor, my eyes wide at the idea of going to see the troubled boy.

"Oh, I don't think so, (Y/n). He's drawn out pictures of everyone he want to remember, and I've spoken to the remaining members of his family: there is no way you just remind him of someone. I've been working with him for a while now, I know his habits." She clarifies, leading me down a more secluded corridor, towards the main office, at which point my fear fades into curiosity.

"Are you sure?" I ask one last time, looking away guiltily when she sends me a pointed glance, "Sorry, you know better than I do. Where are we going?"

"Right here." She gestures with a smile to the door we've stopped outside of, knocking just below the sign determining the owner of the room: the head of the institute.

Eyeing her curiously, I remain silent as we wait for him to respond, following her hesitantly when his voice sounds from behind the door. Respectfully, I stand just by the door as she goes inside completely, waiting there as she speaks with Dr Tomlinson, staying quiet as I let the older members talk with each other.

"Jennifer? What do you need?" The doctor greets her, sending a cursory glance at me, before returning his eyes to her.

"I want someone to help me with Kevin's case." She states, excitement creeping into her voice at the thought, clearly eager to keep up with the therapy.

"You do?" Dr Tomlinson looks surprised, eyes widening at her words, my own quickly fixing on the back of Jennifer's head.

"I do. I think it could really help him socialise better, and he'd get to speak to someone other than me for once." She nods enthusiastically, smiling to herself, as if aware of somehow we're not at liberty to know.

"Ok. I guess I can ask around, though I doubt many people are rave enough-" The doctor starts, only to be cut off by Jennifer, who is shaking her head at his words.

"No, don't worry about that. I already have someone in mind." Confusion and curiosity flood me at this, my mind instantly trying configure out who she could be talking about.

"Oh? And who is that?"

"Well, it's (Y/n) of course."

It takes everything I have not to faint.

"Don't worry, (Y/n), you'll be fine. He's not as bad as everyone makes him out to be." Jennifer reassures me as we get ready to enter the therapy room.

Trembling in nerves, I shift from foot to foot as I think through what I'm about to do, well aware that this is only the second case I've ever worked on, and that he doesn't have the greatest reputation. On our way over, Jennifer had given me a rundown of what she knows of his backstory and old living conditions, explaining that she had managed to get him to talk and communicate, but also that he is highly volatile at times, my trepidation and dread just building up the closer we get to the room. Now that we're here, a cold sweat has broken out over my forehead and skin.

"I know, I'm sorry. I just haven't really done this too often." I confess, feeling it important she know that I'm not an experienced worker here, reminding her that I'm only a volunteer who helps out here and there.

"Oh, right, I forgot about that." She frowns, reconsidering as she recalls this, "If you don't feel ready, you don't have to come in. I'm not going to make you."

Taking a deep breath, I decline her offer, biting my lip as I then follow her into the room.

My eyes quickly find the hunched figure in the corner, his messy hair matted and dishevelled, skin pale around his face except under his eyes, where deep purple bags have formed, though the blue-green irises that briefly flick up to greet us are sharp and probing as anything, homing in on my presence instantly. His muscles go rigid, eyes remaining fixed on me even as Jennifer and I move furher into the room. Awkwardly, I hold eye contact for a few seconds, before dropping my gaze with a blush covering my cheeks.

"Good morning, Kevin. I brought along someone to help us with today's session, that ok? This is (Y/n), the girl in the photograph I gave you a week back." Jennifer introduces us, setting the box of items on the table in the centre as I gingerly step forwards, looking up again.

"Hi, Kevin. It's nice to meet you." I say to him, not expecting anything back as he keeps staring at me, only to feel slight fear when he suddenly surges to his feet, scrambling over to the table. Once there, he grabs Jennifer's box and starts rooting around in it, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pencil seconds later, his movements erratic and rushed. I watch in fascination as he seats himself and starts drawing something, expecting us to do the same.

Looking at each other, Jennifer and I do the same thing, a brief flare of surprise lighting inside me as Kevin moves to sit directly opposite me, rather than across from me like he was before. Quietly, I pick up a pen and paper and start sketching, listening to Jennifer as she makes conversation, answering the correct questions and interacting where necessary.

The hour passes quickly, by which point I've managed to finish the drawing I started, sitting back to look at it, before noticing that Kevin is, in fact, also watching me, eyes flicking downwards towards the sheet of paper, almost as if in questioning. With a smile, I push it over the table towards him, offering the drawing to him with little confidence. He picks it up off the table, holding it up so he can see it properly, finger tracing one of the lines, folding it and sticking it in his breastpocket without a second thought.

"Hey, Kevin. That's not yours to take." Jennifer reminds him, looking at me apologetically.

"Oh no, it's fine. You can keep it." I assure her, addressing the last part to him.

He nods at me, not making eye contact.

A few months on, and Kevin and I have actually managed a conversation, the boy no longer too shy or distrusting of me, feeling mostly comfortable around me when in therapy. Jennifer has yet to leave me alone with him, thankfully, though I've overheard her talking to Dr Tomlinson about Kevin requesting for me to have a session alone with him, something which I'm not entirely sure I'm comfortable with.

Even now, as we read through another of Jennifer's books, it surprises me when he shuffles over to sit beside me, his body incredibly close to mine, as if with the intention of touching each other, but not quite doing so yet. I have a copy of the book open in my lap, giving him a perfect view of the text, as well as my crotch, which draws a small squeak out of me when he goes to turn the page for me, his fingers gently brushing against my jeans, his hand retracting as quickly as I sink back into the seat, neither of us saying anything.

But even after this, it takes a good two months more for Jennifer to finally decide that I'll be safe on my own with him, as long as there are guards outside, and either Dr Tomlinson or herself nearby to help out in case anything goes wrong. At first, I'm sceptical, but eventually I realise that my presence in the room seems to be what keeps him calm and collected, meaning I'm the perfect candidate to look after him alone.

I was wrong to be worried.

A soon as I step into the room, Kevin has stepped up to me with a broad smile on his face, soemthing which always makes me happy to see, making me smile back at him as he eagerly leads me to a place on the floor in the corner, where he sits me down. Taking his place beside me, he rummages around in the breast pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a dog-eared piece of folded paper, silently handing it to me. Opening it, I feel my jaw drop at the sight of it: it's a portrait. Every aspect is drawn perfectly, giving it it's realistic quality, though it does surprise me that he'd draw me of all people, seeing as he knows Jennifer much better. In my head, I remember what she said about him drawing pictures of everyone he cares for.

"This is amazing, Kevin! Is it for me?"

He nods, a smile crossing his face as he shuffles closer, pressing the side of his body against mine.

'Thank you. I really appreciate this." I thank him, starting when I suddenly feel his cold fingers brush against mine. Absentmindedly, they trace their way into my palm, interlocking our fingers together as he moves ever closer. Smiling, I lean back furher and pat my chest, signalling for him to lay there, which he is only too happy to do, his arms wrapping tightly around me, face buried into my midriff as he holds me close to himself.

"I have a crush on you." He suddenly states, voice muffled through my shirt.

For a moment, I don't know what to say, shocked that he feels this way about me.

"Jenny said I should tell you." He testifies, snuggling closer, before pulling back slightly to nose at the bottom of my jaw.

"You have a crush on me?" I ask once more, biting my lip when he assents, "That's helpful, beacuse I have a crush on you, too." I decide just to spit it out, looking to him for a reaction.

"Really? You actually like me? Or are you just being paid to say that?"

"Kevin, I'm a volunteer. I don't get paid at all.

"So, you actually mean it?"

"I do."

#trapped in silence #kiefer sutherland #Kevin Richter #Kevin #request #ask #answer

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teatime-scans · 4 years ago

Text

Wild Police Story - Chapter #11 Text Translations

Hi! Here’s a text translation of Chapter 11. Scanlations of this chapter (and the previous one) are being worked on at the moment! ^^

Be aware that since this hasn’t been proofread yet - this is basically the translation as it came out of our minds - some parts might not be very clear, especially the Nagano Dialect part which is just a partial localization we came up with and will probably be changed in the final version.

Translation: Holmes Translation check: Manaphy

CASE 11. Convening and discussing

[Original Work: Aoyama Gosho Artist: Arai Takahiro]

[His fury, yet unbeknownst to everyone, lies hidden deep inside him.]

[The eagerly-awaited first volume will be on sale from the eighteenth of November on!] [Second chapter of the Morofushi Arc! With their hearts set on their beliefs, this is the story of their youthful days during the half a year spent at the Police Academy!]

[Morofushi's past is going to be related right now...]

Morofushi: Understood! I’ll tell you... Morofushi: About that night from 15 years ago...

Morofushi: Enshrouded in that stench of steel... Morofushi: A night of dismay which made my inner clock’s hands... Morofushi: Freeze in place...

Morofushi: Someone came at around 7 PM when I was having dinner with my father and mother... Morofushi: Together with a loudly rung bell... *ding dong* *ding dong* *ding dong*

Morofushi: The visitor was apparently an acquaintance of my father's. Morofushi: At first, they conversed quietly by the entryway, which I could hear while being in the kitchen...

Morofushi: But before very long, the man started raising his voice... Morofushi: and as soon as my mom went to the entryway to check on them...

*GWAAAAAH* Morofushi: I could hear my father groaning... Morofushi: And so my mother came back with a radically changed facial expression, and told me...

Morofushi: “Stay hidden here for a while!”... Morofushi: “Don't come out at all costs, till I tell you it's okay to!”... That's what she said.

Morofushi: As my mom said that, she put me inside a store cupboard... Morofushi: then, in turn, she went and quarrelled with that man... Morofushi: but soon after I couldn't hear her voice anymore, either...

Morofushi: and, what's more, a stench of steel started hanging over... Morofushi: To the point even I could smell it, despite being inside the cupboard. Hagiwara: What's this “steel” you've been talking about since earlier?

Furuya: He's talking about the smell of blood! Furuya: The haemoglobin contained in the red blood cells is mainly composed of iron. That's why. Hagiwara: I see...

Matsuda: So, what happened later? Hiromitsu: I could hear him humming... Date: What? Humming?!

Hiromitsu: Yeah... It wasn't dad's voice, nor mom's. Hiromitsu: It was a shrill-made coaxing voice... Hiromitsu: He was repeating the same phrase while putting it in rhythm, again and again...

Hiromitsu: T-Therefore... Hiromitsu: I gingerly peeked out of the store cupboard from its opening...

Hiromitsu: And I saw a man holding a bloodstained knife, humming a tune... Hiromitsu: It went like, “it's fine nooow!”... Hiromitsu: “come out, pleeease!”...

Matsuda: What about the face?! Matsuda: Didn't you see that bloke's mug?! Hiromitsu: No, I didn't... Hiromitsu: I was too scared...

Furuya: How come that man was looking for you, though? Hiromitsu: Nah, he wasn't looking for me. Hiromitsu: I know because he called a girl's name after “come out please”.

Hiromitsu: That's right... The girl with whom I used to play when I was a kid's... Hiromitsu: “Yuri”, the name of the little girl looking just like the one who was reported missing last night!

Date: Why was he looking for that kid at your house? Furuya: What was her surname? Hiromitsu: I don't know... I always called her by her name... Hiromitsu: After she died from an illness, I did attend her funeral, but I was just a first-year elementary school pupil...

Hagiwara: You didn't see his face, but you did see the tattoo on his shoulder, didn't you? Hiromitsu: Yeah, I did. That man apparently tripped up because of all the blood, and he banged with his whole body against the armoire I was hidden inside... *BANG*

Hiromitsu: When he moved away, for an instant... Hiromitsu: I saw on his shoulder... Hiromitsu: a tattoo shaped like a goblet!

Matsuda: Did he really have it on his shoulder? Hiromitsu: There’s no doubt! Hiromitsu: After moving away from the cupboard, he clutched his shoulder, as if it hurt...

Hiromitsu: So and at that moment, the tattoo that was visible just before... Hiromitsu: Got hidden by his bloody hand, rendering me unable to catch sight of it...

Date: And? What did he do after that? Hiromitsu: I don't know... Hiromitsu: Before I could notice... I fell asleep.

Hiromitsu: After that, I woke up to the sound of doors and stuff being opened and closed... Hiromitsu: and just when I was squaring off, thinking “shit! I’m gonna get found!”... *clatter rattle clatter*

Hiromitsu: someone opened the cupboard's shutter! *slide*

Hiromitsu: It was my older brother, who had just come home from camp middle school... [Komei: Hiromitsu... Mom and dad are dead... Komei: What happened? Can you tell me?] Hiromitsu: It was noon of the following day already... Meaning I had been sleeping in the cupboard for half a day.

Hagiwara: So you had an older brother...? Hagiwara: I heard that, nowadays, he's a skilful police detective in the Nagano prefectural police, and is called the “Koumei of Nagano”! Matsuda: I like Guan Yu* better, though... Date: Who cares about The Records of the Three Kingdoms right now! [* TN: Both Koumei (Kong Ming in Chinese) and Guan Yu (Japanese name: Kan’u) are Chinese strategists whose feats are narrated in the Records of the Three Kingdoms.]

Date: Go ahead. Did you tell your brother about the murderer's tattoo? Hiromitsu: No, I didn't... I've been slightly amnesiac due to the shock caused by that case... Hiromitsu: and in addition, I've also been suffering from aphasia...

Hiromitsu: Later, we were put in our relatives' care — I was sent to Tokyo kinsmen, and my brother with Nagano's, and I changed scenery... Hiromitsu: Yet, my aphasia didn't heal for a while...

Hiromitsu: until I met Zero in Tokyo! [Furuya: It'd be way greater fun if you talked, y'know?]

Hagiwara: So you attended this place, the police academy because you want to seize the murderer? Hiromitsu: Spot on. Plus, I remembered several things recently... Hiromitsu: And I decided that I want to properly draw conclusions about what that was all about from a policeman's point of view... Hiromitsu: and transmit all that information to my brother in Nagano!

Hagiwara: And in the meantime, you chanced upon three suspicious individuals... Hiromitsu: R-Right...

Hiromitsu: There’s Irie-san, who runs a hardware store... Hiromitsu: and has a goblet tattooed on his shoulder...

Hiromitsu: Then, Tomori-san, who has a laundromat... Hiromitsu: and has on his upper arm a tattoo of Kannon, alias the Guanyin...

Hiromitsu: And the clerk of the motorbike shop who has a scorpion tattooed on the back of his neck... Hiromitsu: If I remember well, he’s called Monobe-san...

Hiromitsu: But it's simply impossible for the murderer to be in Tokyo and not in Nagano... Hiromitsu: and, what's more, for him to coincidentally be in my surroundings... Isn't it? Matsuda: We went and questioned those three people, y'know?

Hiromitsu: Wha...?! Matsuda: Ain't that right? Hagiwara: Bullseye. Date: We all split up... Furuya: Since it's for your revenge, Hiro!

Hiromitsu: Hold on a second, though... How'd you know I'm looking for the murderer who killed my parents, in the first place? Matsuda: Of course we’d know. Matsuda: You were always looking up “Nagano Couple Slaughter Case” on the internet over and over... Hagiwara: Although it is the first time we hear in detail about the tattoo and the murderer's behaviour.

Furuya: Well then, let's start with the squad leader, who was in charge of dealing with Irie-san. Date: He's a silent person, so having him spit something out was a whole pain in the butt...

Date: His name is Irie Sumio. He is forty-six years old and lives along with his wife. Date: He set up a hardware store in this city fourteen years ago. Date: He's a taciturn, unfriendly guy, but he's peerless when it comes to sharpening knives... That's his reputation in the neighbourhood.

Date: His shoulder tattoo is from 10 years ago... He tattooed the championship cup from when he won a ping-pong tournament hosted by the neighbourhood association. Matsuda: Ten years ago...? Date: Yes. I also checked on it with Tomori-san, whom he was paired with back then, so there's no doubt about it.

Date: After that, he told his wife something about horses and flowers, or something... Hiromitsu: You mean... Hiromitsu: He told her to “hose down the flowers”?

Date: Yes! That's it! Hiromitsu: In Nagano dialect, “giving” is often replaced with “hosing”! Hagiwara: Hold up! If that's the case...

Matsuda: But if he got his tattoo done ten years ago, the figures just don't add up, do they? Furuya: Then, Let's move on to Tomori-san, whom Hagi talked to...

Hagiwara: His full name is Tomori Hajime. He is fifty years old and lives alone. Hagiwara: Originally, his laundromat was run by an uncle of his, but he ended up straining himself... Hagiwara: so he planned to help him out till he was dismissed from the hospital, but he ended up continuing even after he passed away... Which brings us here... Apparently.

Hagiwara: He tattooed the Kannon, alias the Guanyin, on his upper arm when, 20 years ago, he lost his wife and mother at the same time in a traffic accident... Hagiwara: He apparently did it in order to mourn the two of them...

Hagiwara: He's also got a reputation in the neighbourhood as a repairman. Hagiwara: Since he came out of some college's engineering department, it seems he used to repair simple electric appliances. Hagiwara: A tad like you, right, Jinpei-chan?

Hagiwara: He paired with Irie-san because he's a friend who comes from his same town... That's what he said. Furuya: If he got his tattoo twenty years ago, he did already have it fifteen years ago... Furuya: but a picture of the Kannon doesn't look like a goblet at all, no matter how you look at it...

Matsuda: Actually, speaking of goblet look-alikes, we have that motorbike shop clerk. Matsuda: His name is Monobe Shuuzou and he is thirty-five years old. Matsuda: He has a scorpion tattooed behind his neck, which is the logo of a group he used to be part of back when he was a rascal...

Matsuda: whose name is, in fact, Scorpion Glass! Hagiwara: So he rather modeled it after a goblet!

Matsuda: He said he got it tattooed when he was twenty, so I guess it kind of could barely fit...? Hagiwara: It's located behind the neck, though... Matsuda: Same as Tomori-san, he also lives alone.

Hagiwara: Huh? What's the matter, you two? Date: I don't know, there was just something... Furuya: Yeah, me too...

Hiromitsu: ... Matsuda: What's with you, Morofushi? Matsuda: You, too?

Hiromitsu: Yeah, well... Recently I phoned my older brother to tell him what I remembered about the case anyway, and... [Komei: Haste makes waste...]

[Komei: Don't be in a hurry to seek success by consulting me without sufficient forethought. Komei: The place you were hidden in was not a store cupboard, but a closet equipped with kannon-biraki, alias double doors opening from the centre. Komei: That house was in Western-style, so it didn't have any Japanese store cupboards or sliding screens in the first place.]

Hiromitsu: That's what he told me. Hiromitsu: I'm sure I was in a cupboard, though... Furuya: Maybe aren't you mixing it up with your relatives' house here in Tokyo you were entrusted to?

Furuya: Since that house was Japanese-styled, and, conversely, only had sliding screens and cupboards... Hiromitsu: T-That could be...

Matsuda: If that were the case... Matsuda: wouldn't it be strange, though?

Matsuda: If you had been hiding in a closet with kannon-biraki double doors... Matsuda: then its door should've got shut when the murderer banged into it after tripping up...

Hagiwara: That's true... And in order to see the killer clutching his shoulder afterwards... Hagiwara: you would've had to open the shutter of the closet by yourself...

Matsuda: You... You opened the door in that situation? Hiromitsu: No way I could! Date: Then couldn't it be that the gap you were peeking out from...

Date: wasn't vertical but horizontal...? Date: The slit in the closet... Date: would allow you to look outside with the shutter closed, wouldn't it?

Onizuka: It's almost four o'clock... Onizuka: Maybe I should go check on those chaps a bit...

*rattle* Onizuka: Huh?

Onizuka: Hey, hey, hey... Onizuka: The dressing room is still dirty as hell?

Onizuka: Hey, you bums! You only have an hour left, y'know? Onizuka: As it is, you'll never make it in... *creak*

Onizuka: Hold on...

Onizuka: They're gone!

[Vertical and horizontal... The five have noticed something. Continued in the next issue.] [Continues in SS #50]

#detective conan #wild police story #hiromitsu morofushi #text translation #kenji hagiwara #jinpei matsuda #rei furuya

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chappedandfadedvds · 4 years ago

Text

Jan 14th, Thursday 21:39

If only someone had stood witness to the destructive nature, that arose from a simple conversation on the sofa half an hour ago, they could have stopped this.

The show on the tv they had watched was forgotten by now, as the two stood strictly three steps apart in the middle of the livingroom. The heavy tension high when they faced each other through hard eyes. Neither of the two boys had backed out yet. Whatever may be said next tonight would only bring the truth that they had ignored for far too long.

And perhaps if they looked back on it, this moment had been nessecary, even though it only brought pain, when Jens overstepped the unspoken and careful line they had draw at one point between their first encounter and this night.

And maybe he would have stopped himself from voicing this sentence out loud, constructed of wrong words and false intent. If only he had cared enough to notice the violent storm brewing on the horizon.

„You do not understand this. You can’t. I’m not doing this to you.“

Too late. The tempest arrived. And they prepared to sink.

„Shut. The fuck. Up.“

Jens did, stunned into silence by the shock at the harsh eyes staring him down. Unfamiliar on a face he could draw blind. The younger boy loomed over him, radiating danger.Unnatural for the younger boy, who always seemed to keep a cool head and mellow attitude.

Lucas took a deep breath. The orange light of the lamp by the piano reflected in his eyes.

„Shut up, you selfish asshole. God! I’m so sick and tired of this. You never ever fucking listen to me. Never trust me to know what I want.“

„That’s not true.“ Jens tried, his voice deflated at the lie he kept telling to both of them.

„No? Because I am pretty sure that that’s exactly the case.

You never listen. You never let me explain myself. You never talk to me. And I am not speaking about you yelling at me on random nights that you decide to burst.

I know what you are doing and it is self-destructive.“

It felt like a knife had been raised to his throat. Jens lost the ability to think.

„Just this once you are going to stay quiet and let me tell you what I think.“

Jens nodded wary. There was fear there in his heart. He didn’t wanted to listen to Lucas. He didn’t wanted to hear him out. But he had to, That’s what Jens burned on a loop into his mind to keep the desire to scream back locked inside.

„I tell you over and over and over again, that I don’t mind, that I want to be here, that I want to be with you. That you can tell me anything. Every single time.

And you don’t believe me, don’t trust my words, and it fucking hurts to stand on the sidelines. What do you want me to do, Jens? What?

I really want to scream at you rigth now, if it wouldn’t be for Lotte asleep upstairs.“

The hurt was marked deep in the younger boys expression, as he straightened his back. Jens felt small compared to the force that was brought against him.

The voice only raised loud enough to strike Jens down. Lucas was attentive enough to not wake the only other member in the house as he took a step closer, his hand combing the hair out of his face.

„Jens! This is not going to work. I know what you are doing and it is not going to work!

Botteling up emotions and thoughts in silence hasn’t worked for my mother a year ago and it will not work for you now. Sorry that I have to break it to you. But fuck you! Fuck you for deciding on my behalf. For keeping me out of it. Do you think I don’t know how much this sucks?

Should we have met in the highst of summer, smoking, sipping beer at a lake. Kissing underwater and driving our bike through the heat of the sun. Yes we should have. We should have our parents at home, happy, a bit stressed out by work, but still completely there for us. We should laugh and party and worry about passing history class this year. Waste all our thoughts on what to do for our brithdays and which university to attend. Tough luck. We don’t.

We have this stupid pandemic and asshole governments and on top of it all our family’s problems.

My father is a fucking homophobic piece of shit, yours wasn’t even really around to begin with.

My mother is so ill, her brain needs medication to function properly. She just left me to figure it all out by myself a couple years ago. I washed my clothes and learned to cook at least some damn pasta. My father burning himself out at work, everything to not have to be home until he took off. She was fucking suicidal at times, breaking down without apparent reason. It’s fucking scary to see traces of it in your behaviour. And I can’t believe that I am the fucking lucky one here between us.

Because, I had Kes to help me through it, when I called him up one day. He listened and never left afterwards. And my mom is getting better. She’ll be fine. I get to have her and my life back soon.

And yes you have it worse. I know. I am so, so, so sorry. Your mom is dying, leaving you with your sister. If us breaking up would fix this, I’d be out already two month ago. But it wouldn’t.

I fucking love you, Jens, and you are so goddamn stubborn. I wish I could hate you sometimes. I really do.

I was the one who moved to a different city midterm, I didn’t know a single person here, my mom is home maybe two days a week, and would you have told me the moment we met, what was happening in your family, it wouldn’t have changed a thing for me, okay?

Can you at least trust me on that?

You are not to blame for my mom’s absence. But I am not to blame for yours either.

Tell me Jens. When have you ever asked me how I am feeling? I can’t think of a time. But I would have answered you right away. Instead, I kept quiet to not burden you more than you already are. However when I ask you, all I get is silence.

I don’t deserve this.

This is not okay. We should be talking to each other.

So, I am going to go home, I would have anyway tomorrow with my mom being there the night. And I’ll call Robbe on my way, tell him to come here and bear you company. I know I won’t be able stay away otherwise. And you better open the fucking door for him, because if you don’t, I swear to god, I’m going to break into this stupid house of yours and do it myself.

I care too much for you, I think.“

Lucas shoulder’s sank in a tremble. And Jens noticed he had hold his breath. His lungs burning for air.

„You are not going through this alone. Everybody wants to help you. You just don’t let them.

Think about what you want, what makes you happy. If you decide that a relationship is too much for you at the moment, I promise I’ll understand. But make up your mind. I don’t want to fight you, Jens.

I love you. And.

I don’t know what else to tell you.

I’m sorry. We just got unlucky. Figure your shit out. I’m tired of this. And call me when you can tell me what you want.“

The room dropped into nothingness as the voice ebbed away.

Lucas deserved to give his anger away. Lucas always had kept quiet at his side.

So Jens forced himself to silently watch his boyfriend walk out of the room to grab his jacket and put on his shoes. Jens had followed with his eyes until the younger boy had stepped around the corner, and had found his feet to carry him into the doorway a moment later.

Lucas had waited for him to come and see him leave. How cruel, Jens thought.

They didn’t said another word. Everything that needed to be out there was stated and ready to be dissected over sleepless nights.

The younger boy exhaled, sorrow in his gaze, that was answered by Jens with his own.

And then the bond snapped and a cold wind hit him, as his eyes kept staring at the back that vanished into the night. Perhaps he should run after him. That’s what people in movies did, right?

Proclaim their love and shower the other in apologies and heartfelt compliments. A kiss. Happy End.

Jens couldn’t fathom the depth of the despair in his tears as the waters swallowed him whole under crahing waves. At worst this was the end. He prayed it had been needed to make them right one day. For now all he could give Lucas was to follow his wish and contemplate his words.

At least for tonight.

He closed the door and decided to stay.

__ __ __ tagged: @odi-et-amo85, @tayspots

notes:

How we doin, guys, girls and pals after this?

Cos Love by Tom Rosenthal is a song I listened to a lot thinking about this clip.

But what I actually wanted to say was, that I hope that you understand where Lucas is coming from here. My whole story is seen from Jens’s eyes and I’m not going to rewrite certain parts from other perspectives. I’m not going to say that he is completely right and that he hasn’t said some awful things in this one, but try to see Lucas here. If it would have been his clip, I would have inculed this paragraph:

__ „No? Because I am pretty sure that that’s exactly the case.

You never listen. You never let me explain myself. You never talk to me. And I am not speaking about you yelling at me on random nights that you decide to burst.

I know what you are doing and it is self-destructive.”

He gave and gave and gave, until all that he was met with was an empty heart. So he would take it back, reclaim his soul and mind before it would go to waste in uncaring hands.

„Just this once you are going to stay quiet and let me tell you what I think.“ __

I hope it did it justice. It needed to happen, I’m sorry.

#week 12 #wtfock #skam #vds #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #chapped and faded #love is hard sometimes #no matter if platonic #romantic or otherwise

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blackjack-15 · 4 years ago

Text

Death, Philosophy, and the Runs — Thoughts on: Legend of the Crystal Skull (CRY)

Previous Metas: SCK/SCK2, STFD, MHM, TRT, FIN, SSH, DOG, CAR, DDI, SHA, CUR, CLK, TRN, DAN, CRE, ICE

Hello and welcome to a Nancy Drew meta series! 30 metas, 30 Nancy Drew Games that I’m comfortable with doing meta about. Hot takes, cold takes, and just Takes will abound, but one thing’s for sure: they’ll all be longer than I mean them to be.

Each meta will have different distinct sections: an Introduction, an exploration of the Title, an explanation of the Mystery, a run-through of the Suspects. Then, I’ll tackle some of my favorite and least favorite things about the game, and finish it off with ideas on how to improve it. Like with all of the Odd Games, there will be a section between The Intro and The Title called The Weird Stuff, where I go into what makes this game stand out as a little strange.

If any game requires an extra section or two, they’ll be listed in the paragraph above, along with links to previous metas.

These metas are not spoiler free, though I’ll list any games/media that they might spoil here: CRY, mention of CUR, mention of ASH.

The Intro:

It’s time for New Orleans, y’all.

Legend of the Crystal Skull is a game that’s often rated highly by the fandom, especially for its atmosphere (which is among the most well-done and pervasive of the whole series). Honestly speaking, were it not for the mental health/death/immortality storyline(s), CRY would simply be a Jetsetting game a bit out of order, given its fascination with its location (even if the amount of locations is slightly smaller).

One of the high points of this game is honestly its location and ambiance. CRY takes the idea of the “dark and stormy night” and plays it to perfection, cloaking everything in such thick atmosphere that the players, like Nancy, can’t always see the way ahead, and have to take leaps of faith every once in a while.

The characters contribute to the thick atmosphere; Bruno is a shadow, Henry’s hiding everything under a guise of nonchalance and a fishnet glove, Renée is all gardening grandma hospitality but never says anything about herself, Gilbert has Southern Manners while avoiding saying anything bad even when he means it, and Lamont refuses to get involved in anything outside his shop. They aren’t perfect suspects, but they’re good characters, and it elevates the game.

Bess’ hesitance to delve into this atmosphere makes her the perfect partner for Nancy who begins by investigating just who the Skeleton Man was who attacked her before spiraling deeper and deeper into the mysteries surrounding Bruno Bolet and his crystal skull.

But while the costumes, pageantry, puns, and secrets all contribute to the atmosphere, nothing quite reaches the same level of Sheer Aesthetic as Bruno’s last years being dedicated to finding a crystal skull. Glittery and gothic with power over life and death, it’s easy to see why the game is named after it (which, of course, I’ll get into below).

This isn’t to say that CRY is all sizzle and no substance — far from it. CRY doesn’t attempt to teach the player the entire history of New Orleans, the complex background and practices of voodoo (or any of its other sister practices), nor does it get into iguana physiology or the mechanics of how to make someone sneeze or get the runs.

While education is of course present in CRY, it’s more centered in philosophy than in hard, straight facts. Professor Hotchkiss – a returning character perfectly suited to the French-influenced New Orleans and her love of slightly sinister history – gives the mission statement of the game, summing up its central philosophical question – “Does this mean that there mysterious external forces at work in the universe of which we do not and cannot ever have full knowledge? Or does it all boil down to us? If the human heart desperately wants something to be true, does the human mind have the power to make it true?”

It’s a fascinating question, and touches on all sorts of real-life phenomenon – the power of suggestion, the placebo effect, intelligent design, among others – without ever seeming like HER is trying to Teach a Lesson. Out of all the edutainment elements in this series, CRY (and I would add ASH in here as well) features some of the most subtle work that HER ever accomplishes.

The Weird Stuff:

Of course, a discussion (one-sided as these metas mostly are) of CRY wouldn’t be complete without addressing the things that qualify it to be a truly Odd Game within the Nancy Drew franchise.

The first and most obvious is that we’re dealing with death – and a recent death at that — for the first time in a while. We’d have to go all the way back to CLK to see another death of a relative not long before the mystery starts, and Emily’s mom’s death and Josiah Crowley’s death don’t hang over CLK the way Bruno Bolet’s death hangs over CRY.

Bruno is given instead more weight – part of the mystery is figuring out who he was, what he liked, what he wanted, and what he did every day, especially leading up to his death. The house is almost a stand in character for Bruno; it reflects him perfectly, including all the things that were important to him, and just as determined to keep his secrets. A lot of Nancy Drew games have the house/location as a character, but only a few associate the location with a specific character, and CRY does it possibly the best.

The second thing that makes this game so odd is the showcasing of an abusive relationship. Sure, Summer doesn’t hit Henry or anything, but is just as abusive all the same, and the game doesn’t shy away from showing her horrible behavior and the effect that it has on Henry. He stays with her because, like a lot of abuse victims, he doesn’t think he can do ‘better’ – that somehow this is what he deserves – and the only slight problem with how it’s portrayed is that we don’t get to see Henry leave her and be happier.

Lastly, in an oddity for Nancy Drew games so far, mental illness is put at the front and center of the game (rather than being a one-off random thing not really mentioned like in CUR). Henry, separate from the abuse he receives from Summer, is obviously depressed, and the game doesn’t really shy away from showing it. Sure, they might not use the term “clinical depression”, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not acknowledged. Henry’s depression, his sadness, his feeling of being out of control and yet still tied down – that permeates every moment of the game, and especially his conversations with Nancy. The whole reason Nancy’s there at the Bolet mansion in the first place is because Ned was worried about his shy, depressed classmate.

Gosh, Ned is such a good guy. He deserves so much better than Nancy “Lacks Tact” Drew.

Unlike a lot of the “Odd” games, the odd things in CRY don’t detract from the game; they make the game what it is. It’s a bit more mature, a little more introspective, a touch less black and white than most of the Nancy Drew games have been up until this point. No characters are simply caricatures, there’s very little stereotyping (for a ND game), and it’s not pointlessly spooky or try-hard in any way. CRY is the rare game that simply is what it aspired to be; while what it aspired to be was odd (and it is Odd), it doesn’t make it bad. It makes it feel genuine and honest – and after ICE, I can’t think of anything better for a game to aspire to be.

The Title:

We’re getting to the portion of Nancy Drew games where, regardless of the quality of the actual games, their titles are smash hits every time. “Legend of the Crystal Skull” is an incredibly good title on multiple levels.

First, it tells us what the game is about – not the Crystal Skull itself, but the legend of it – the myths, mysteries, and effects of the Skull. Not only does it (correctly) indicate that this game is a little more about philosophy than it is about something concrete.

The second thing it does is establish a sense of mysticism that is reinforced the second the game begins. We’re in New Orleans, we’re learning about this Crystal Skull, it’s dark, rainy, and spooky, there’s death and specters and possibly more afoot…and this doesn’t start with the Skeleton Man cutscene, or the phone call, or even the warning on the screen to play with the lights off – it starts with the title.

The Mystery:

We begin with Nancy and Bess visiting New Orleans – the French Quarter, to be specific – for a fun little vacation, only to be met with a Dark and Stormy Night. Ned, knowing of his girlfriend’s plans to visit New Orleans, asks her if she can check up on a classmate of his who’s going through a hard time: Henry Bolet.

Determined to get the visit out of the way, Nancy leaves Bess back at the hotel and traipses over to the Bolet Mansion. When she walks in – I know, honestly, Nancy – the open door, she’s greeted by a person in a skeleton costume in the front room, rather than a miserable college student.

She’s soon knocked out by the Skeleton Man, coming to when an elderly woman offers her an odd concoction and the Skeleton is long gone. Soon, Nancy discovers that Henry’s dead uncle was in possession of a Crystal Skull that was to protect its owner against any source of death other than murder, the plot starts to thicken quicker than a bubbling roux.

CRY is home to an incredibly solid mystery, full of atmosphere, colorful characters, and even a food minigame as if to draw me in specifically. While I don’t think it’s the best Nancy Drew game by a long shot, I would say that it’s definitely the best of the Odd games, and by far the most successful mystery + atmosphere combination that we’ll have until we reach SAW, quite a few games later.

Now, let’s move on to our colorful characters.

The Suspects:

We’ll start with Renee Amande, as I think she’s our first character who is properly introduced post-cutscene (with her concoction). Bruno’s elderly housekeeper, Renee is a practitioner of voodoo (kind of) and a believer in the crystal skulls – she wants to reunite all thirteen of them to move the world to a higher plane of understanding.

Our villain, yet not our killer – not directly at least – the only thing Renee is guilty of other than attempted murder of a plucky Illinois detective is falsifying a letter. The shock of the “false” crystal skull shocked Bruno so badly that he had a heart attack and died, but Renee didn’t actually kill him. She’s one of those villains in Nancy Drew stories who commit a minor crime, and jump immediately to murder when she’s discovered.

As the villain, Renee is actually the only suspect that could even work. The game plays with Dr. Buford and the mysterious Skeleton Man, but in reality Renee’s the only one with motive and opportunity. But, given that Nancy spends 3/4ths of the game trying to figure out what crime has actually been committed, rather than working with cold hard facts, that works out pretty well.

Henry Bolet, on the other hand, is apparently catnip to a good section of the Nancy Drew fandom, and is the closest thing to a living victim that we actually have in this game. When his parents died, he was shipped off to live with Bruno – and Bruno shipped him off to military school, so he should be a bit more muscular than he is – and he’s never gotten over their deaths.

Like, “Nancy finds him crying over his parents” kind of never got over their deaths.

I’ll be honest, while I know lots of people who did Love him with everything in them, I never really saw the appeal of Henry Bolet as a love interest for anyone, or even as a compelling character. His voice actor – Brian Neel – does a great job, with his voice definitely being the part of him with the most obvious appeal, but otherwise…maybe it comes from my distaste for underdog stories, maybe it’s that I’m no good with crying people, who knows.

As a suspect, Henry’s pretty much out from the moment that he confesses to Nancy that he sold a trunk for quick cash for his abusive girlfriend. HER isn’t bold enough to have that be a lie, nor are they dumb enough to make him the culprit after that. Henry’s out of the running for most of the game, but he never really becomes Nancy’s confidante, not like other early-clear suspects.

Henry’s an interesting puzzle as a character, but that more comes from his place as the central piece of CRY’s “Oddness”, rather than any interest in him as a possible suspect.

On the other end of fandom appeal lies Dr. Gilbert Buford, whose greatest sin as a character is declaring an obvious heart attack an obvious heart attack and using regular, polite Louisiana manners for a man of his age while interacting with a character who obviously has no problem with it at all.

Dr. Buford is hard at work giving the majority of Bruno’s characterization that doesn’t come from his house to him, as well as giving a truly excellent scare when finding Bess in the Secret Meeting scene. As a suspect, Buford is a moderately good one – cagey, a doctor, knows about the Skull – but ultimately falls short as he just has too many of his own secrets to carry.

I personally like Gilbert Buford as a character, and find him an entertaining source of exposition – but then, I grew up around Southern manners (and military manners, which aren’t too dissimilar), so that might be the reason why.

Rounding out our suspect list – though barely qualifying himself, honestly, is Lamont Warrick, owner of a curio shop and intensely vulnerable to hot sauce and sneezing powder.

One can only imagine the Horror that would occur if Nancy were to mix those two allergens. Well, one can also Giggle at the mental image, but still.

As a suspect…well, even HER knew that he was a non-entity; his biggest part to play is actually after the game concludes, where he closes his curio shop in order to search for Bernie, who has swallowed the crystal skull.

I guess someone had to search for it? I’d love a follow-up with him, maybe over Labor Day, or Memorial Day, where Bess goes back to see if he’s had any luck, only to find that he found a dead body along with the alligator, and in order to not get suspected for the murder, they have to bring the body with them and pretend that it’s alive, taking it to bingo games over the course of the 3 vacation days.

Yes, that was all to set up a bad “Weekend at Bernie’s” reference. Hush.

The Favorite:

As you might have guessed from…well, most of this meta, one of my favorite parts of CRY is the sheer atmosphere that the game embodies from its beginning through the closing puzzle.

The Bolet mansion is just the right amount of cluttered yet comfortable, shadowy yet detailed, and gloomy yet homey to be a nigh-perfect location. The graveyard isn’t hard to navigate, is filled with puns, and does a lot of the character work for Bruno and (to a slightly lesser extent) Henry while allowing both characters to be private and a bit mysterious. The greenhouse is simultaneously cozy and elegant and yet slightly cage-ish and slightly claustrophobic.

Even the locations that Nancy stays away from — the hotel balcony, Zeke’s, the food truck, the secret meeting — are thick with a different kind of atmosphere: less wet, less foggy, more brightly lit, more French Quarter than haunting mansion. Bess’ locations are welcoming yet secretive, perfect for the reluctant amateur-amateur detective who just wants her vacation to be fun and mystery-free.

Adding to the atmosphere is the sheer number of cutscenes/cinematic camera usages in CRY. The opening with the Skeleton Man, Bess getting caught at the meeting, opening the final crypt, Renee shutting the tomb…they’re all so perfect, and do a great job at making you feel really immersed in Nancy’s New Orleans experience.

My favorite puzzle is honestly finding the glass eyes. CRY isn’t really a game I remember for its puzzles; they fade a little bit into the background (with the exclusion of a couple I don’t like) because they’re well integrated into the story, and because the game doesn’t really grind to a halt to make Nancy complete minigames like in, for example, CUR.

My favorite moment is split between two very different moments. The first is, unsurprisingly, the conversation with Hotchkiss mentioned above where she lays out the theme of the game. It’s a shockingly nice moment in the game, coming in the start/middle of the mystery and being a familiar face – er, voice – for Nancy to get help from. It’s a moment that lets you stop and think about what Nancy’s actually dealing with, rather than effectively pausing the game through a rhymed puzzle about the skull or other such nonsense.

The other moment is a little more obvious and a little flashy – the moment when Bess is discovered at the Skeleton meeting. The tension right before, the sudden pop-up of the skeleton mask between the boxes, the conversation afterwards…it’s just as close as possible to a perfect scene. It’s long enough before Bess is discovered that the player can kind of get comfortable, but not so long that it drags on. The moment of discovery is startling, but not scream-worthy or too scary to replay over and over or in the dark. It’s just great.

The Un-Favorite:

There’s not a ton to complain about with CRY, but I do have a few small things that make replaying it somewhat of a chore.

The first is my least favorite puzzle: the loquat bug spraying. It takes a long time, it feels shoved in the game just to have an extra puzzle, and Nancy can only take one loquat at a time. I feel like the player should be able to take up to 3, and then come back and do it again if they need/want any more loquats. Honestly, it’s a puzzle in a place where a puzzle really just shouldn’t be.

My least favorite moment in the game would probably be the chest that Henry sells to Lamont. After selling it and building it up for quite a few minutes, it’s kind of a letdown that it only has a few things it in. This would have been a great place to have more character-building work done, but instead the focus is on “how do we find it/open it” and less on “what can this do for the story”.

Finally, I mentioned it above, but I’m not a fan of how Lamont pretty much is a non-entity in the game. I’m fine with one suspect being less suspicious or having less ‘dirt’ on them than the rest, but Lamont really doesn’t have anything on him. He’s never a suspect for the Skeleton Man, he doesn’t really do anything sketchy…he’s just underwhelming.

The Fix:

So how would I fix Legend of the Crystal Skull?

I think really the only fix that I would attempt is to give Lamont a little more plot significance. Sure, his curio shop is beautiful and wonderful and important to the plot, but Lamont himself really isn’t. In order to include him more in the plot, make Lamont a bona-fide treasure hunter that manages the curio shop for cash in between expeditions. He’s heard that Bruno has a treasure that people have killed for, but couldn’t figure out what it was before Bruno’s death. He buys the chest from Henry and searches it top-to-bottom trying to figure out if it’s hiding something since it’s obviously Bruno’s personal chest.

To add a bit more importance, I’d place him at the Bolet mansion on the night of Bruno’s death as well. Renee’s there, Dr. Buford is there, Henry we’ve already written off completely in the actual game as a suspect, so Lamont should be there as well, snooping around to try to figure out what treasure Bruno’s got and if he can persuade him to sell it (or at least let Lamont see it). Nancy can match footprints in the garden to his boots, or some other method of proving he was there. I’d just like for Lamont not to drop off the map early on. It also makes his canonical ending that much neater.

Honestly, that’s it.

Sure, I’d appreciate the loquat bug spraying minigame to be fixed as well, but CRY is honestly a pretty character-based game, thick with philosophy and legends, and it doesn’t need a ton of help in that area. Make all the suspects viable for most of the game, and I think an already entertaining and atmospheric game would be just a little bit better.

#nancy drew #clue crew #nancy drew games #legend of the crystal skull #nancy drew meta #video games #CRY #my meta #long post

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rons-hermiones · 4 years ago

Text

Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Chapter Twenty Two

Ron hadn’t said a word all morning. He’s of course been quiet since everything went down just what, two weeks ago?

The person he has the least trouble talking to is Harry. His whole family and The Order are right devastated, but no one gets how he feels quite like Harry does.

Her parents were an entirely different story.

That day when they left Hampstead Hermione’s parents had showered the three boys with tender embraces and promises that things would be alright. But that shouldn’t be the case.

Not when Ron was responsible for this whole thing. Not when he spent more of his time at the Granger residence locked away in Hermione’s room, explaining to her father all the times he’s been a right tit to her over a game of chess.

He should’ve been the one giving the reassurances that he would get their daughter back, not the other way around.

That was only two days ago.

Now he stands on the chaos that is Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, still having not spoken a peep to anyone. Not even when Harry told him he’d been screaming for Hermione again in his sleep last night.

However, time was running down as the Hogwarts Express rolled up and opened its doors.

His Mum was tearful, more so than usual, probably with the notion of sending three of her mourning children off to school.

That’s right, three. Ginny, Ron, and Harry.

“Come here sweet girl, promise me you’ll write darling.” Molly cried into Ginny’s shoulder, the girl stifling a nod through sniffles.

Soon, Mrs.Weasley pulled away to embrace Harry tightly, her sobs only becoming louder, causing a slight scene.

Arthur noticed and gently patted her back as he turned to Ron, “I know you can do this son.” He said in a whisper.

After a moment he spoke, “I don’t know if I can Dad.” This man right here is his hero. He couldn’t help but be honest with him.

He dropped his hand from his wife’s shoulder and switched it atop Ron’s. “I know you can do this Ron, I know you’ll be strong. For Hermione.” He told his boy, who somehow has grown into a man.

Knowing his fathers words to be true, the youngest Weasley brother managed a nod as he grasped at his Dad’s shoulders.

“Someone will be sent there within the week, yeah? Make sure everything’s alright down in Hampstead.”

“I promise Ronnie. I’ll see to it myself. Someone from The Order will check the wards and debrief the Granger’s.” Arthur swore.

As they departed a few days ago, Bill had promised Hugo and Jean someone within the Order would be stopping by to properly debrief them and check the wards. Ron was determined to make sure this promise was kept.

“Swear to me Dad that you’ll write if anything changes,” his father opens his mouth, “I know Mum thinks I’m too young and it’s too dangerous, but I’m going mental as is, I reckon it’ll only get worse at school. Please promise me you’ll tell me what’s being done if anything, anything at all changes. Please?” He begs.

After a few moments, a little misty eyed, the man nods, “I promise son. I promise.”

The conversation ends as Molly halts herself at her youngest son. Crying and whispering sweet nothings. Words of encouragement. The promise to bring Hermione home.

“I promise Ronnie, she’ll come back. She’ll come home.” She cried softly.

He rubs his mother’s back gently, “I’ll hold you to it Mum.” Ron responds, just as tenderly.

At this Molly pulls away to gaze up at her son, who now towers over her. So proud of the man he’s become. At the things he’s able to face.

And she tells him as much, “I’m so proud of you Ronnie. Please know it, I am. You’re so strong.” She fusses with his hair gently.

Not willing to let himself cry here, he leans forward and places a soft kiss on his Mum’s cheek. Really caring less who saw.

“I’ll write, okay?”

“Okay.” She answers, stepping back into her husbands awaiting arms.

A whistle sounds as more kids pile onto the train.

“You guys need anything to help you out,” Fred winks, “you just owl us, we’ll send it in a tick.”

“On the house.” George promises, clapping Ron on the back as he smiles at Harry.

“Goodbye gits.” Ginny supplies with a watery smile.

The pair of them just grin back, silently wishing the three of them luck. Letting them know to be strong through a simple expression.

As they turn to board, Harry whispers low in Ron’s ear, “it’ll be alright mate. It will.”

Not in the mood for sentiments any longer, the ginger just grumbles. “Let’s get on this ruddy thing before anyone finds us.”

Somehow, they managed to discreetly find a private compartment, drawing the shade and sitting in silence.

As the engine gained speed and the train began rolling forward, Ron blocked out whatever nonsense Ginny and Harry were going on about. Instead, he watched the pastures speed by.

It all felt so wrong.

For the first time since he was eleven he sat here in this compartment, in their compartment, without her here. It was almost too much to bear.

No asking if he’d catch up on any assignments. No listening to her talk about her holiday as her eyes shined with joy. No shutting Harry down for wild theories.

Nothing.

And despite Harry and Ginny rattling off nearby, there’s nothing.

Just silence.

Apparently, a lot of time passed with Ron sitting like that. Gazing out the window and feeling empty.

The only thing that pulled him from his trance hours later was the door sliding open. He gazed at it with hope, because for some stupid reason, for one second, he imagined Hermione being on the other side.

Of course, she wasn’t.

“Oh finally! I’ve checked just about every compartment.” Neville told them, taking a seat next to Ginny. Diagonal from Ron.

He soon reverted his eyes back to the window, hoping Neville would leave him be. He wasn’t in the mood to socialize.

“Hey Neville.” Harry said, sitting up and trying to smile, though it faltered.

However, the fellow Gryffindor didn’t seem to notice.

“How was everyone’s holiday? Mine was quite good if I say. You see here,” he held up a pot with a pretty flower, “this is a Whispering Lily, my Gran managed to get one, rare things they are. I’m not even entirely sure what it can do. I just know it’s properties are similar to a Dancing Daisy.” He sounded off like they understood.

“You see I was hoping Hermione could help me, I’d bet she knows. I can nurse plants, sure, but knowing everything about them? Not particularly. So where is she?” He finished, at the mention of her name Ron finally looked up.

“She's not here.” Harry said shakily, though calm.

“Oh, loo?” He figured.

Ginny shook her head, “no Neville she’s not here. As in, she’s not on the train.”

It took a moment but it finally registered with him what Ginny was saying. Neville knew Hermione wouldn’t miss school for anything. Unless of course..

“No! We’ve been owling over holiday, we had been sending letters back and forth, she told me about her Gran!” He exclaimed in disbelief.

For a brief moment something bubbled deep within Ron. It wasn’t the same insane jealousy he felt when he thought of Hermione and Viktor Krum, but it was more feelings of disappointment. Disappointment in the fact that she didn’t feel sure enough to find that sort of comfort within Ron, despite sharing the same house.

He soon pushed away those thoughts because soon enough something dawned on him, “When was the last time you owled her?” He finally spoke harshly.

Neville jumped at the aggression behind his words and the look in his eyes, “uh I don’t know!”

Ron leaned forward, determined to know the truth. He knew it was far fetched to think she was owling Neville somewhere but at this point he wanted to cling to anything.

At his look, the brunette shut his eyes in thought, “I sent a letter late Christmas Eve night, it probably arrived in the morning. I haven’t heard from her since. I swear.” He said defensively, though unsure why.

Harry flicked his gaze to Ron’s nodding at Neville’s words. He can recall the golden owl that he knows to belong to Grandma Longbottom pecking on the Burrow window while the Weasley’s were at Muriel’s.

At the chosen one's gesture, the red head eased a bit, though his stomach was still turning. The brief hope now squashed and turned into terrible parasites.

“What’s this all about then? The lot of you are acting like wherever Hermione is she’ll never come back.” Neville piped up after the long tense silence.

“Of course she’s coming back!” Ron snapped sharply before he could help himself, causing the other boy to flinch.

“What I think he means is,” Harry starts softer, “is that Hermione’s Grandmother passed over holiday so she’s gone home to Hampstead to deal with it all and the arrangements.” He said, voice quivering over the lie, but to Neville it appeared as mere sadness for their friend.

“Oh Merlin! That’s terrible! Harry, please tell me next time you write her, will you? I’d like to send a letter out with Hedwig.” He responded sadly.

At this, the dark haired boy could only morosely nod.

“Have you heard from her? Is she alright?” He asked next, frantically searching their eyes.

“No Neville. We haven’t.” The youngest Weasley brother said to them.

He knew he was letting his anger get the best of him. Not anger at Neville, but at the situation he, Harry, and Ginny have been put in. More importantly, the unknown situation that Ron can only imagine is a grueling hell that Hermione’s in.

Neville takes a shaky breath, “I’m sorry if I’ve done something to upset you Ron.”

Suddenly he feels guilty, but can’t bring himself to justify his behavior.

“Ron’s just a little upset, him and Hermione never got to say goodbye.” Ginny commented softly, placing a gentle hand on Neville’s arm.

“I’m sorry mate,” and again, Neville’s apology feels wrong, like the roles should be reversed, “tell me you sorted everything out with her, yeah?” He asked hopefully.

Nothing came from the ginger but a rough growl, anger displacing his sadness yet again.

Sensing as much, Ginny piped up with raised eyebrows and a tone that left no room for argument, “Ron, don't you have a prefect’s meeting?”

And he did. Normally Hermione would drag him there ten minutes early, but this is how things are now. She’s not here.

Wordlessly, he stood and exited the compartment, needing some time to breathe. The distraction.

The only thing that registered were Harry, and Ginny’s voices assuring Neville he did no wrong as they continued their elaborate lie.

Not wanting to think about all that’s wrong, he let his body go on auto pilot to the prefects car. Just as he reached it, a body knocked into him.

“Sorry.” They said.

Turning to investigate he was left mouth agape because Draco Malfoy had apologized for bumping into him.

“Sorry?” He repeated.

Draco said nothing but instead pushed on into the compartment and moved to talk to Katie Bell, who seemed to pass back from her poisoning.

Ron remained outside for a little, mentally preparing himself for the barrage of questions that’s bound to come about his absentee partner. Another thing that also remains in the back of his mind is Draco Malfoy’s behavior, something he’ll have to catalogue and look into later.

After all, his father is a Death Eater. His Aunt is Bellatrix Lestrange.

Not realizing he’d been lingering for five minutes, he soon entered behind Ernie Macmillan.

The first five minutes of the meeting dragged on. He spent most of his time observing an uncharacteristically quiet and squirming Draco Malfoy.

Maybe he was spending too much time with Harry. Looking into something as simple as an apology and now he’s suddenly got a hundred different scenarios conjured up that involve the blonde git holding Hermione somewhere. Torturing, mocking, hurting her.

It drives him wild with rage, but he knows it’s something just capitalizing on. Something he’s determined to fixate on just to distract him from the Order’s failed attempts to bring in Hermione.

But would it do more harm than good raising suspicions with Malfoy? On the very off chance he is right, asking could only-

“And because of Hermione not being here. We’ve rearranged the schedule a bit for you Ron.”

His eyes instantly snap to Katie’s at the mention of her name. It’s used in such a nonchalant, casual manner. Everyone at the Burrow has just been referring to Hermione as ‘she’ for the better part of a week.

All he can do is deafly nod in response. His ears suddenly ringing, with all thoughts of Malfoy leaving his brain. He feels like for the first time since it all happened, the weight of his much everything is going to change is now laying on his shoulder as heavy as ever.

No more prefect rounds. No more doing homework in the common room. No more dining hall. No more classes. Hell, even no more of him watching her ignore him. Even that was better than this.

And on top of it all, to everyone around him, he had to appear as if that were okay. That he could survive without Hermione, that it wasn’t killing him.

Surely he’s already failed at that, he could barely speak to Neville without biting his head off.

As much as all of these dark thoughts swim in his brain, he knows he needs to remind himself that this isn’t forever. That Hermione will come home and they can do all those things again.

He tells himself this over and over, despite knowing that if, when, she comes home, things will never be the same.

For the remainder of the meeting the only thing that rings in his head are those three horrid words she spoke before vanishing.

Come find me.

Over and over playing out in his head. He’s so distracted, he’s failed to notice the cart is not vacant, save for Katie, and the meeting over.

“-go.” He hears her say.

Soon he shakes his head, “sorry what?”

“I said you can go, Ron.” The brunette seventh year says.

“Oh right, sorry.” Quickly he moves to exit the compartment.

“Bye Ron, like I said, let me know-“

He stopped abruptly, something just now dawning on him. Not even able to focus on the fact apparently she’d been having a full blown conversation with him.

“Hey Katie?” He halts, voice rather shaky.

“Yes Ron?” She asked with a quirked brow, almost sensing his unease.

“How did you know about Hermione?” He asked almost forcefully, “that she’s taking some time uh, away.” The ginger managed softer, willing himself not to cry.

“Oh, well Draco told me.” She responded like it was the most simple thing in the world, like that would make sense.

“He did?” Ron asked rather taken aback.

Katie nodded, “sure. He said he’d heard she was spending time with her folks,” her voice dropped into a whisper, “I had around the tower her Grandma was ill.”

Not wanting to give himself away Ron just nodded shakily, “right.”

Still, how did Malfoy know she wouldn’t be here? Could Harry have been right... no there’s no way. He’s a tosser! What would You-Know-Who want from him? Fashion advice?

Noting the far off look on his face, the Head Girl spoke again, “hey if you’re worried about doing this alone we can always get someone to help until-“

“No!” He jumps in quickly, rather loudly too, “no, I mean, I’ll be fine.” The ginger covers up

Still looking skeptical Katie nodded and offered a weak smile before vacating the compartment.

He needed to find Malfoy right now

#Ron Weasley #Ron and Hermione #ron x hermione #rons-hermiones come find me #Hermione Granger #romione fanfic #romione #sixth year #hp fanfic #hp

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