#it's utilitarianism gone even more mad | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

autisticcassandracain · 3 years ago

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Like listen I know Darkseid was almost certainly lying through his teeth here considering that literally two pages later he calls Orion his son but look,

[Image: three panels from the New Gods by Jack Kirby, showing Orion following Darkseid as Darkseid attempts to escape in a shuttle. Orion says: “There’s no escaping destiny... father!” Darkseid replies: “Don’t call me father! You were never like me! You don’t plot... you don’t scheme! You leap at life like a best of prey!”. End description.]

You know who DOES plot and scheme? Lightray.

Lightray and Darkseid’s relationship has the potential to be extremely interesting to me because they are very similar in their methods, but completely dissimilar in their goals.

Lightray is the kindest of the New Gods, a fact reiterated by numerous people. We consistently see him treat most others with kindness and respect, even when they really don’t deserve it. He is a young god who hasn’t lived through the first war with Apokolips, and as such, is often portrayed as being rather naïve and unused to the ways of war. However, he actively wants to involve himself in this new war with Apokolips, because he wants to support Orion in his fight, because he is his friend. Lightray is, without a doubt, kind.

And he’s also a giant bastard of a schemer. Rather than relying on physical strength, Lightray prefers strategizing his way through battle, something that’s often pointed out and shown. And he’s good at it! Lightray routinely comes up with very effective battle strategies and plans that save the day when brute force won’t cut it. But the interesting thing about this is, to me, the way Lightray seems to lean pretty utilitarian in his plans.

He isn’t devoid of principles or lines he won’t cross, far from it - if at all possible, Lightray prefers peaceful or at least non-lethal solutions to problems, something established as early as his first real foray into battle. But Lightray also, more than most people of New Genesis and even Orion, shows a willingness to put others in harm’s way if he believes the ends justify it. He’s also much more willing to use underhanded and dishonorable tactics to win battles if necessary. There is a calculating edge to him that can, at times, be quite ruthless.

One of the best examples of that is, in my opinion, a bit before the earlier panels with Darkseid, when Lightray deliberately shoots at Orion, scaring off some children who were helping him.

[Image: page showing a conversation between Orion and Lightray. Orion asks: “Hold! Was that you who fired it a moment ago!” Lightray, nonchalant, says: “It seems to be the favorite game here!” Orion shakes Lightray by the neck, saying: “Idiot! You might have...!!” Lightray turns more serious, saying: “I - I’m terribly sorry I frightened the boys, but I did aim very high!” Orion replies: “Amateur warrior! Return to New Genesis and live in peace!” Lightray, resolute, replies: “I won’t desert a friend who is here to fulfill a mad prophecy! This confrontation between father and son is wrong! It bodes ill for both you and Darkseid!” Orion: “Your shooting spree! Y - you really meant to wound me!” Lightray: “Who knows?! If those youngster hadn’t been there... who knows...?” Orion shakes Lightray, who is unfinlinching, saying “Fool! Fool!”. End description.]

Lightray, though conflicted about it, was very much intending to shoot Orion, his best friend, in an effort to stop him from what he considers to be a suicidal confrontation with his father. The way this was weighed is rather obvious: there is no way to stop Orion from fighting Darkseid unless he’s wounded - a wounded Orion is bad, but a dead Orion is worse - ergo, wounding Orion is the best course of action in this case. Whether he went to Apokolips with the intention of doing so, or decided it later afterwards, is ambiguous, but personally, I think it’d make sense for Lightray to have gone to Apokolips with that intention. He likely took Orion’s gear for either a quicker getaway, or as a backup plan in case he couldn’t go through with his first, either due to circumstance or because he was still heavily conflicted about it.

What ultimately stopped him, however, was the presence of some children. He ended up aiming ‘rather high’ instead, to frighten the kids away so that he could give Orion his gear. This shows the extent to which he is and isn’t willing to go; he’s willing to shoot his friend if it prevents him from greater harm, but he isn’t willing to hurt innocents in the process in order to do it. Ultimately, while Lightray has sharp edges and a willingness to employ dirty tactics, he still has a strong set of morality ultimately dependent on his kind nature.

Which puts him in a very interesting contrast to Darkseid. Darkseid, like Lightray, is primarily a plotter and a schemer. He can fight, he’s actually rather powerful, but he prefers to avoid doing so. What’s more, he actively enjoys scheming, and shows sadness when he doesn’t need to. Darkseid manipulated his way into power by carefully orchestrating his war, killing his own mother via Desaad, and then orchestrated the second war by deliberately setting Scott up to break the peace pact. He has little to no morals and will do almost whatever it takes to reach his goal.

And for what? Ambition. Darkseid wants to rule. He is obsessed with the idea of control, which is why he wants the anti-life equation so badly, and why he transformed Apokolips into essentially a giant cult in his name during his rule (something that we do not see his mother do, when she ruled). Darkseid is selfish, ruthless, and evil to the bone.

And yet, Lightray is the most obvious parallel to him on New Genesis. I haven’t read all of the New Gods stuff yet, so there’s likely to be stuff that I’m missing, but from what I’ve read, while Lightray and Darkseid don’t interact often, when they do, there’s almost a strange sort of rapport between them. The scene that comes to mind here is the one in the Orion solo, where Lightray is the first to stop forward to offer his condolences towards Darkseid after Orion’s presumed death:

[Image: panels from the Orion solo showing a conversation between Lightray and Darkseid. Lightray steps forward out of a crowd of people and salutes Darkseid. He says: “Hail, great Darkseid! I do not know what has happened to Orion, but our souls have been freed... and that can only mean that he is gone, beyond recall. Maybe beyond redemption. Perhaps in the ocompany of the Black Racer himself. He was my friend. But he was his father’s son. I am truly sorry.” Darkseid replies: “So. Of all those who stand before me, Apokolips’s noblest enemy is the first to offer consololation to Orion’s father. The Black Rather was not fate, but a simulacrum created by Metron and myself. We thought it had failed. It was designed for the sole purpose of luring Orion into a Doom Tube, a boom tube with a single entrance... and no exit, whence there is no return. It was the only way. Even I do not know if he is still alive. You were my son’s greatest friend, Lightray. I will not forget your words. Take your fellows home to New Genesis. We will not shame the memory of a great warrior. There will be no other dying this day.” End description.]

This scene is fascinating to me for many reasons, but the ones that matter right now have to do with Lightray and Darkseid’s interaction. Lightray is fully aware that Darkseid is a horrible person on all levels, but chooses to address him with respect as the ruler of Apokolips. This is interesting, since this is, in fact, a pre-established norm; in The New Gods (1971) #7, Metron is shown to forget similar manners with Darkseid’s mother, and when called out for it, to express his apologies. But that was before the first war against Apokolips, and it was Metron, who is by far the most morally dubious of those from New Genesis. To see Lightray emulating it here is an interesting choice, especially since he specifically chooses to express his condolences to Darkseid as Orion’s father, when he really has not been much of a father to him. I think it goes to show the extent of Lightray’s kind nature and the way he aims to treat most others with respect.

More interesting to me, however, is Darkseid’s reply. I would not call Darkseid ‘noble’, but he does show respect for his enemies when they do something that impresses him. (This is likely why he cares for Orion to begin with, since he definitely didn’t while Orion was still on Apokolips.) Here, he seems impressed by Lightray’s shown respect and nobility, even when waking up immediately after Orion mindcontrolled him and the entire population of at least three planets. It’s interesting to me that Darkseid ends up being impressed by and respectful of this, and I think it has a lot of implications for other interactions between Darkseid and Lightray.

I don’t necessarily have a succinct point with this essay that got way too long, but Darkseid and Lightray have a lot of potential to me as parallels and foils, and it’s a shame that not many people take advantage of it. To me, Darkseid and Lightray are mirror images of each other; they are very similar in a lot of aspects, yet polar opposites where it matters.

And I think it’d be interesting to see the both of them examine that. I feel like Darkseid would respect Lightray quite a bit, actually, and be very impressed by him; but would he respect Lightray’s difference in morality and goals, or would he think it’s holding him back? In the case of Lightray, would he be intimidated by his and Darkseid’s similarities? Would Lightray respect Darkseid, as shown in the earlier scene from the Orion solo, or would he be disappointed and disgusted that Darkseid uses his cunning for his own needs? Metron and Darkseid are often shown to have something of a rapport going on, even though, to me, that doesn’t make a lot of sense; but would that dynamic be better suited to Lightray and Darkseid? Or would their differences in morality ultimately be far too big a hurlde to overcome?

It’s just interesting to think about to me.

#lightray #darkseid #new gods #the fourth world #my posts #infodumping

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pizza-is-my-buziness · 3 years ago

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I really wanted to do a bit of fluff-ish writing today but I definitely did not expect inspiration to take me down the road of Sarah Fier/Hannah Miller but here we are. I...have a lot of feelings (unsurprisingly)?

In hopes of stirring inspiration, I looked a dictionary.com’s word of the day which was “adze” (an axe-like tool...you learn something every day!) so it was pretty inevitable that I would end up in my Hannah and Sarah feels.

Also was 1666 was the first time they kissed? Not in my universe, buddy.

Her hands are certainly going to blister, the calluses already aching after just an hour of this. Sarah pauses, huffing out a breath, wiping the sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Clearly, she’s out of practice. Work like this didn’t used to wind her so quickly, but it’s been a while that she’s had to do anything that the settlement might deem better suited for a man. Still, with her father still sleeping off last night’s drinks and Henry better suited for sweet-talking trades down at the market, there’s no one else.

Sarah sets the adze down, wishing she didn’t have to pick it up again. Still, she can put off the inevitably for a little while longer at least. Unfortunately, these logs aren’t going to shape themselves and they can’t let the hole in the barn go overnight. Not if they want to have some chickens and hogs left in the morning. The sow is rooting around in the same mud that flecks Sarah’s ankles, sniffing around for missed scraps from this morning, completely unappreciative of the work Sarah is doing to save her life. “You should be doing this, you know,” Sarah tells the pig, words falling on deaf ears. “Keep the fox from turning you into bacon.”

“Has Sarah Fier gone completely mad?” The voice comes from behind her, lyrical in its teasing. “Are the villagers right about you after all?”

Sarah presses her teeth to her bottom lip, attempting to school her features before she turns around. She doubts she’s very successful. “Holy Hannah Miller,” she teases, the nickname no longer as cruel as it had been when they were both younger and the Millers were new to Union, the new pastor and his wife bringing with them a beautiful blonde child in her perfect white dress and with ribbons in her hair. The nickname had caught on like a schoolyard chant, something Sarah still isn’t proud of, though she’d been the one leading the pack, had been the one to smear mud across Hannah’s beautiful white frock, had felt like she’d earned every one of the lashes she’d gotten because of it, especially when she remembered how Hannah’s eyes had shown with tears.

Now Hannah has a smile on her face and it only grows when Sarah adds, “I didn’t think you would be one to listen to village gossip.”

Hannah looks slightly less perfect than she had on that first day when her family had arrived in Union. The years of work, of getting her hands dirty and struggling like everyone else, had hardened her soft edges, had turned her skirts the same dingy color that most fabric has these days, and though Hannah has traded her pigtails and bows for one utilitarian braid that falls between her shoulder blades, her hair still shines like the sun.

“One can’t help but listen,” Hannah defends, stepping closer, the basket she’s carrying swinging lazily from her fingers. “Especially when it’s about you.”

“Oh?” Sarah lifts an eyebrow. “Gossip about me is of particular interest?”

Hannah has a smile like no one else in Union, not even Lizzie, who smiles more than anyone Sarah knows. Except Lizzie always smiles like she has a secret, like she’s full of mischief, like she’s one step ahead of everyone else in Union. When Hannah smiles, it makes Sarah feel warmed from the inside out, like the logs that crackle in the hearth on the first cold day of the year.

“Maybe,” Hannah says and she’s close enough now that the only thing separating them is the fence that had been put in crooked because that how her father sees the world these days. “Why are you talking to pigs, Sarah Fier? No better company?”

“Are you making the offer?”

“That depends,” Hannah says, glancing over her shoulder to ascertain that there are no watchful eyes before adding, “What’s in it for me?”

It’s second nature, these furtive glances, these quick efforts to make sure that no one is paying them any more attention than usual. Hannah’s mother can always be counted on to be on the lookout for her only child, though they’re far enough from the Meeting Hall and the Miller homestead that Sarah can’t imagine Mrs. Miller would be here now. She’d have no reason to stoop so low as to pay a visit to the Fiers.

Still, Sarah casts a few glances of her own before smiling, satisfied that her father is still indisposed and everyone else is too preoccupied with the efforts of surviving to pay them much attention. “I could think of a few things that might tempt you,” she assures Hannah, feeling that heat prickle in her belly. She forces herself to smile, to step away, aloof. “But I doubt you’d be able to keep up with my chores today, Holy Hannah. So don’t trouble your pretty head.”

Hannah scrunches up her nose, putting her basket down and slipping through the fence. They aren’t children anymore but still Hannah makes it look effortless, like they’re still young enough to play hoops or tag throughout the village, Lizzie and Abigail and Isaac on their heels. Sarah almost wishes she had faltered, lost her step on the uneven ground still muddy from the week’s rains, just so she would have the excuse to reach out and steady her.

“You’re not so tough,” Hannah assures her. “I’ll have you know, I’m quite useful.”

That is something Sarah does not want to argue with, considering the places her thoughts of taken her. Still, she smirks. “Is that so?” She gives Hannah the once over, expression skeptical. “Your mother lets you partake in work that men should be doing? Her precious daughter?”

Hannah huffs out a breath and Sarah thinks she might have gone too far, might have teased too deeply, but Hannah just kicks a mud clod in her direction, splattering the already way-past-saving hem of her dress. Sarah’s eyes widen, and she can do nothing to hide the smile on her face. “What would your mother say!”

“You’re incorrigible,” Hannah grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest, but there’s a smile on her face too. “I should make you eat this mud.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Oh…this mud?” She reaches down, scooping up a fistful, holding it up. “Is this what you mean?”

Clearly Hannah understands her meaning because her eyes widen and she shakes her head, taking a step back. “Sarah…”

She shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t. There’s work that still needs to be done and she’s made almost no progress on repairing the hole in the barn. And she’s too old to be playing games…and most definitely too old to be playing games with the pastor’s daughter.

Still.

Sarah can’t resist. She throws the mud directly at Hannah, the sound it makes almost comical as it splatters across the front of her apron, a few flecks even settling on her cheeks, and Hannah’s expression is so surprised that Sarah can’t contain her laughter. She doubles over, hands leaving muddy prints on her dress as she presses them to her thighs, not even trying to contain her laughter.

“Sarah!” Hannah protests and Sarah tries to swallow down her laughter, closing her eyes and trying to pull in a deep breath. “How am I supposed to explain this!”

Swallowing, Sarah tries to compose herself. “Just tell her the market was particularly fraught today,” she says. “Lots of competition over eggs.”

Sarah straightens, exhaling around the last of her laughter, and promptly gets splattered with mud across her bodice. Her eyes widen and Hannah grins, looking far from innocent. “I see,” Sarah says, trying to wipe the mud from the front of her dress. “If that’s the way you want it.”

Hannah’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “Sarah, wait-”

But Sarah lunges toward her, throwing another handful of mud, though it doesn’t do much damage as Hannah whirls around, hurrying out of range. If people gossip about her already, Sarah is certain they would have plenty to talk about if they happened to see her right now, running through her muddy yard with Hannah Miller, both of them laughing like girls as they attempt to throw mud at one another. As though they might somehow find a spot that isn’t already hopelessly dirty.

Hannah runs around the side of the barn and Sarah gives chase, though she quickly forgets her intentions when Hannah grabs her wrist and pulls her closer, into the shadows of the leeward side of the barn. Here, Sarah knows no one can see them unless they are coming through the woods, which no one is apt to be doing in the early winter months. She relaxes easily, the spot where Hannah’s hand is resting against her forearm feeling like scalding coals against her skin.

“You have mud on your face,” Hannah says seriously, reaching up with a finger to brush it aside. “No wonder people talk about you.”

“You aren’t exactly fresh yourself, Hannah Miller,” Sarah replies. “Your mother would surely-”

Hannah kisses her and Sarah forgets all about Mrs. Miller. Every kiss from Hannah feels like that very first one, thrilling and terrifying and like the thing that will keep her alive in this place. Hannah tastes like the winter sunshine, the chill in the air, the smoky fire she stirs to life each morning. She tastes like a life Sarah has only started dreaming of recently, like somewhere beyond this place.

Sarah puts her hands gently against Hannah’s cold cheeks, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss, her heart thundering like the church bell on a Sunday morning. Hannah pulls back, her breathing rough and uneven and warm against Sarah’s face, and Sarah is certain the dazed and dizzy look in her eyes will be the death of her.

Gently, Hannah takes one of her hands, rubbing her thumb across Sarah’s palm and Sarah swallows, suddenly flustered. “I…I know they’re rough,” she says, ashamed. “I…”

When she tries to pull away, Hannah doesn’t let her, holding her with a gentle insistence. “I like your hands,” she says softly, bringing Sarah’s palm to her lips and kissing softly and Sarah swallows, fingers suddenly trembling. “You’re strong. You’re a hard worker.”

Sarah can’t find her voice, especially not when Hannah takes her hand and presses it gently to the hollow of her throat, to the faint sliver of skin visible through the ties of her dress. It seems like she might never speak again, might never breathe either, not with the feeling of Hannah’s skin, so soft and smooth and warm, beneath the calluses on her palm. It seems impossible that only moments before she was holding the adze, bringing it down with enough force to hew and shape and wrest the logs into shape, only to be trusted now to handle something so gentle and delicate. Something so perfect.

Softly, Sarah slides her hand upward, across the curve of Hannah’s throat, to the turn of her jaw, the apples of her cheeks. Hannah smiles, closing her eyes, leaning into her touch and Sarah moves closer, pressing the lightest of kisses against her cheeks, her eyelids, and back to Hannah’s lips once more.

“We could go far from here,” Hannah whispers and these are the words Sarah thinks as she tries to fall asleep each night, her body buzzing despite the exhaustion of the day, playing over and over again thoughts of Hannah. Of her touch. Of these stolen, dangerous words and stolen, dangerous moments. “You already do the work here, everyone knows your father…” She trails off because it’s not important, not now, not with their bodies together and Sarah’s breath still struggling to return to her lungs. “You could build us a house of our own. And you could show me how to be useful, too. I could, if I knew-”

Sarah swallows. “Hannah, you’re already useful,” she says softly. “Regardless of what your mother tells you.”

Hannah smiles, so quick Sarah almost misses it. “You make me feel useful,” she admits softly. “With you…I am so many things.”

“I know,” Sarah says, kissing Hannah’s forehead. What she means is I know what you mean because that’s how she feels too.

There are so many things she longs to say to Hannah, things she hopes Hannah knows anyway. Like how she would run away from here in a heartbeat, that she would go anywhere Hannah wanted her to, that she would work herself to the bone every day in order to fall asleep next to Hannah each night.

The idea of it, of the two of them sharing a house, a mattress, the last bit of heat from a dying fire, is almost too much to stand, like Sarah doesn’t have room for all of it in her mind, in her body, in her heart. All these things she wants so badly.

“Hannah…” Sarah whispers, her lips brushing against Hannah’s once more, emboldened by the feel of Hannah’s fingers wrapped around the fabric of her dress right above her pounding heart. She doesn’t know how to begin to say any of the things she so badly wants to, so she settles, again, on the word that always slips through her mind right before she falls asleep each night: “Hannah.”

They kiss once more, right as a voice catches on the wind, drifting too fast and too close toward them. “Sarah! Where are you?”

Sarah steps back, feeling heat prickle her skin, regret churning in her stomach. “Henry,” she says softly, certain she can still taste Hannah on her tongue. “Damn him.”

But Hannah smiles, reaching out a hand to catch Sarah’s once more, for just a moment, before slipping away again.

“Sarah? Where-”

“Here,” Sarah snaps, coming around the side of the barn, not trusting herself to look back at Hannah following. “Be quiet, or you’ll wake father.”

Henry frowns, eyes darting toward the house. “He’s still asleep?”

“Sick,” Sarah says shortly and neither of them bother to point out the lie.

Henry’s face scrunches up in confusion as he looks at the two of them, tilting his head slightly. “What are you doing? And why are you covered in mud?”

Sarah picks up the adze, holding it up for Henry to see. “I was showing Hannah the work I was doing on the barn.”

“What work?” Henry glances doubtfully toward the broken wood, which looks exactly like it had this morning.

Sarah tosses the adze toward him, careful not to get it too close to her brother. “You do it then.”

“I should go,” Hannah says softly, her eyes jumping over Sarah’s face briefly before skipping toward the gate. “Mother is expecting me home with the flour.”

Sarah nods, swallowing. “Right. Good day, Hannah.”

She goes, taking the gate this time, collecting her basket and heading down the path without a backward glance. Sarah presses her lips together, trying to savor the feeling of Hannah’s lips against them, and steps forward to retrieve the adze. Henry still has a skeptical look on his face, but she knows he won’t say anything. There are times where Sarah thinks her brother is the only person in Union who knows the truth about her and Hannah, or who might possibly begin to guess anyway. Still, she knows her little brother. Since their mother’s passing and their father’s further descent into the distillery, they have become their own sort of family, a close knot of two and just as Sarah knows she would do anything for her brother, she knows Henry would do the same for her. Including, she suspects, keeping her secrets.

“Your dress is filthy,” Henry remarks, frowning at her as Sarah tries to bolster the strength, the motivation, to return to her task.

She cuts him with a glare. “Would you rather I wear slacks? Go fetch me a pair of father’s, then.”

Henry looks appropriately horrified by the idea, likely because he, too, has heard the Union gossip about Sarah Fier. Sarah rolls her eyes, turning back to the trunks that still need shortening and shaping. It’s brutal work, work that will leave her hands even rougher than they are now, work that will leave her muscles stiff and sore for days after this.

But, if Sarah lets herself imagine that she’s doing it for Hannah, for the both of them, that she’s in another place, another moment, another life, it goes a little easier.

#fear street #fear street 1666 #hannah miller/sarah fier #do they have a ship name?#sarah/hannah #also #sameena #because that was who I was imagining while I wrote this and you are lying if you also don't imagine them when you think of Sarah and Hannah #Hannah Miller #Sarah Fier

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sepublic · 3 years ago

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Thinking back, I really like Masago from Star Wars Visions, and I want to know more about her!

I think amidst the new characters from Visions, she’s kinda underrated. Aside from being a villain who actually wins... I don’t know if I’m just projecting or looking too deeply into it, but I think there’s almost a nuanced sadness to her?

When Masago mentions that her brother’s death was written, constantly brings up the inevitability of fate. I get the vibes that she’s someone who has grimly succumbed to a certain despair and defeatist attitude about destiny, had to accept it- That she used to think she could defy it, only for it all to happen anyway. And in Masago’s attempts to regain a sense of control and agency, she latched onto power, hence why she brings it up to Tsubaki as such a big deal;

But also, maybe this nihilistic attitude is what led to Masago killing her brother. Perhaps she’d reached a point where she just... gave up and into fate, and decided that she’d make the most of what was written, in as brutally utilitarian and pragmatic a way as possible, in order to at least get something from this helpless inevitability.

Hence, Masago skips the grief and just kills her brother for power, getting right to the point. It’s cold but it’s all she has left, and it kind of makes me wonder if Masago was driven to madness upon seeing a vision of herself becoming a Sith when she was younger. If she also tried to defy that only to run into it, and there’s this weird sympathy towards Tsubaki because of this shared experience.

Masago definitely seems like someone who is really attuned to this idea of destiny, and has since gone on to embrace it, no matter how horrible, so she can really make the most of it at least. And again, it’s really neat seeing her actually deliver through on her promise of healing Misa; If this was Palpatine, we’d have the same frustration transition from “Obey me and I’ll save her” to “Okay I don’t actually know how to save her but we can find out together” until “Welp she’s dead and tbh we couldn’t have figured it out, not that it matters because it’s already too late so let’s take over the galaxy!”

It’s really refreshing to see Masago immediately uphold her end of the bargain, actually accomplish that, and then demand Tsubaki’s compliance. Feels way less like a frustrating game of “Your Princess is in another castle” that keeps dodging around the point, and instead just gets right to it! Makes Masago feel like a much more chill and reasonable master than Palpatine, even if she is still Sith.

It’s different from the standard lies and deception we’re used to, and it makes Masago feel all the more reliable as a character and thus appealing. I’m also interested in what she means about ‘order’ to the galaxy and how that applies to a wider, hypothetical context for this story- Are her and Tsubaki going to start a single reign together, or do they plan to join up with the larger Sith front and contribute their own ideas?

I dunno. Masago seems interesting to me and I like how she’s still very clever and cunning despite her large frame. I feel like there’s a lot of potential depth and nuance to her character, even if she’s still undeniably evil. I doubt we’ll ever get a resolution not continuation of her storyline, but still. She definitely helps like a haunting character, esp that scene with her glowing red eyes, and I’d like to know and see more!

(She’s also voiced by Shadow Weaver, so Masago has that harsh, manipulative “I know better than you” vibes while still being interesting and even compelling to me. I’m probably being manipulated the same way Tsubaki is, but I guess Lorraine Toussaint just knows how to knock it out of the ballpark!)

#Star Wars #Star Wars visions #Star Wars Masago #akakiri #Star Wars akakiri #meta

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blinder-secrets · 4 years ago

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Count For Me

tommy x anxious reader, 2164 words

a/n: i’m not gonna say the reader is having a panic attack specifically, more that they’re experiencing a lot of anxiety, so take that with a pinch of salt pls. i’m not suggesting this is how all anxiety feels or that it can be alleviated like this every time, im just basing it on my own experiences so enjoy!

You’re sat in the kitchen, or rather, the stairwell to the kitchens. You had every intention of making it there, of sitting at the large oak table in the fore-room, and having tea. Bread. Of letting Frances relax and serving yourself. But, instead, you’re on the last step down, legs bouncing on the balls of your feet.

It can only be described as fretting, incessant worry; your mind is agonising over things already done, over what’s to come next. It isn’t guns, or business, or family arguments that’s got you. It’s something invisible. Unknown, but biting away regardless. It’s sitting on the step and thinking about everything, and nothing — it’s losing yourself entirely, feeling the hand tighten around your throat, the dread, the weight of it in your chest. You sit and you feel afraid. After all you’ve seen in the world, all you’ve been through with Tommy. It’s your own head that works itself against you now, your own commentary that rots your mind in the quiet moments. Fuck. If you said it aloud they’d laugh you out the room. If you told Pol she’d say you were sick, that you needed air and spirits, and none of this Shelby wreckage to pull you down.

‘In the kitchen, Sir.’

Oh, Christ, Tommy’s home. You hear him, direct and toward where you're hiding. From his footsteps, it seems like he’s coming from the opposite wing, so he’ll make it into the kitchen before you ever did.

He calls your name through the hallway. It bounces off the cool tiles.

‘I’m here, Tommy,’ you say back in a false tone; you dread him finding you more than the rest of it.

You’ve got maybe a minute to collect yourself, but from the way your feet are sinking through the stone of the floor beneath you, that’s not going to happen. He arrives in the kitchen, says your name again. He can’t see you from where he is.

‘On the stairs,’ you tell him.

Once he’s in front of you, your energy spikes. It’s easier to ignore the feeling when you’re with him. He tucks it away for you, somewhat, just a bit. ‘What is it?’ he asks, shaking his head slightly, his lips parted. A cigarette leaks smoke from between his fingers. He’s taken his coat off, but the jacket’s still there. Still dressed like he could leave again at any moment.

‘Nothing.’ You smile. ‘Are you back now?’

‘For now,’ he answers. He steps forward, places the back of his hand against your forehead. ‘Are you sick?’

‘No. Just wanted to sit somewhere.’

He doesn’t believe you, he knows you too well. You still your knees but they’re bouncing again before you can offer an explanation.

‘Tell me,’ he insists, clueless.

Where do you start? What could you possibly say that would make sense. I was going to make lunch, Tommy, but then I sat down here and I couldn’t get up again. ‘Nothing,’ you repeat, pausing to force a swallow. ‘I don’t know, really.’

He takes a drag. On the exhale, he offers the smoke to you, silent but willing to help. You shake your head; it’s not your habit, it doesn’t calm you like it does with him.

‘Has something happened?’ he asks. He’s patient, waiting for you to give him a way in, prepared to go slow when you need it.

‘No, nothing’s happened.’ Nothing you knew of. You were doing fine, going about the day like normal, and then suddenly you weren’t. It had already swamped you before you realised it was coming. ‘It’s just my head,’ you say, forcing the words over a breath that hadn’t quite made it. ‘I think it’s out to get me, Tom.’

He sighs. His lips pour smoke onto the tiles as he looks down. Another stress for him: you sat on his shoulders like the rest of it did, weighed him down without meaning to. You feel yourself rock forward, your head pulling into your chest, like there’s string attached from your chin to your heart and now it’s constricting. ‘Sorry,’ you pant, though you may have said it in your head. It could’ve been a thought amongst the sea and you wouldn’t have known. Sorry for the stress, Tommy, sorry for it all.

‘Hey,’ he says, repeating it firmly after a pause. ‘Hey. Look at me.’ His hand goes to your face, fingers leading your chin upwards until your gaze is on him. ‘Whatever it is, it’s just noise, alright? Just shit in the trough.’

Your lids drop a fraction. ‘Tommy…’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re here, with me, right, in the kitchen. Don’t let it pull you under.’

You don’t want to. You’re scanning him, looking for something to ground you, the gold of his cufflink, the button of his waistcoat. Nothing sticks. You’re trying to focus but it’s splitting your attention again. Filling your head with the noise, the pull, the drag. ‘I think I’m going mad,’ you say. Your head’s so tight you can’t make sense of it.

His brows draw together. You focus on the crease in the skin between them. ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘Eh? What’s worrying you so much?’

‘I don’t know,’ you answer honestly. It sounds like a plea but it’s all you can give him.

You feel like a horse on the track; everything’s past you, behind you, loud in the stands and betting against you. There’s a worry to your left but it’s overtaken by the one on your right. So much at once, too often and too fast to know which is the biggest problem, which is the one causing the damage. If you could pluck something out, you would. If you could tell him, it’d be the first thing you did. There isn’t an answer to his question that doesn’t just make it worse — the more you try to put a name to it, or explain, the harder it gets to breathe. You can feel your heartbeat in your wrists.

Swearing, you drop your head again like it’s a lead weight, letting his fingertips drag up your cheek with the motion. ‘I can’t tell,’ you say weakly. ‘Feels like I’m drowning.’

The ring you’re wearing sits loose on your index finger; you spin it around the knuckle nervously, forcing a shallow breath each time the ruby completes a loop. If you look at him again you might cry. He didn’t ask for this, he didn’t know what to do with you anymore than you knew yourself.

Clearing his throat once, Tommy puts the cigarette between his lips and bends to grab you with both hands. He takes you by the elbows, thumbs tight on your arms, and pulls you to your feet before you have room to complain. You try to avoid his gaze, but his head ducks and chases your eyes until you give in.

‘Listen,’ he starts. He takes the cigarette out, blows the smoke away before he talks. ‘I won’t let you, alright? No-one’s drowning here.’ He looks certain, dedicated, his eyes dig through yours and back into the noise. ‘There’s nothing going on in there that we can’t sort. Okay?’

You want to believe him, so you nod. The next breath you take swells your chest into his.

‘Come here,’ he says briskly, pulling you after him as he walks you deeper into the kitchen. ‘When we were in France—stand there.’ You’re put by the table. He goes to the nearest drawer, pilfering through the silverware as he continues, ‘When we were in France, they told us we had to count.’

‘Count?’

‘To still our hands.’ He turns, pushing the drawer shut with his hip, and files through the forks he’s now holding. ‘Bullets, cards. Saw John counting his teeth once.’

You blink like it’ll help you listen. Everything he’s saying is going in, but bouncing back again. It rattles in your ear canal like coins down a well.

‘Here,’ he says, offering them to you. ‘Count them.’

You hesitate. Then he grabs your wrist, sets your palm straight, and pours the cutlery into it.

‘Go on.’

Mumbling an agreement, you turn to the table and put the first fork onto the wood. One. Two. You hope he doesn’t notice the slight shake along your fingers, the clumsiness as you pass forks from one hand to the other.

‘Do it out loud,’ he guides, as he stands beside you. He exhales, dragging it out and pushing the smoke over your shoulder; you’d forgotten he even had one lit.

‘Three,’ you say. ‘Four.’

All those cigarettes. Lips barely his unless there’s one between them. They’ll get him one day, you think. The cough will get worse and then it’ll be you, on your own in this big house, you looking after Charlie, you with the ache and the grief and the silence.

‘Stop thinking,’ he chides. ‘Count.’

‘Five, six, seven.’ You sigh. The forks clatter on top of one another. ‘Eight, nine. This is stupid, Tommy. Ten.’ You turn to him, expectant of something else, something more helpful.

He just raises his eyebrows, gesturing for you to pick them up again. ‘Now do it over.’

‘Again?’

He nods. The cigarette is extinguished, flicked to the floor and crushed between his sole and the tile. ‘You do it again, and again,’ he lists, ‘until it feels like you can breathe.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

It takes four rounds of it before your chest loosens; four tens, over and over, forks placed down and picked up again as you count. He stands in silence the whole time, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the table. How he doesn’t tire of it, you don’t know. He clears his throat occasionally but doesn’t say anything until you break the rhythm.

‘I think it’s worked,’ you mumble, taking care as you set the last fork down. ‘I feel better.’

It’s not all gone, but you feel calmer. Stiller. Your hands aren’t as jittery and the room feels big again, cold and empty and utilitarian.

He sighs, heavily, thankfully. The noise loud and partnered with a rough tone. ‘Alright,’ he says. He clicks into motion, pulling his hands free and turning to you so that he can bracket them around your face. His fingers are rough, warm, grounding. The rings stamp your cheeks, cold like ice. ‘What did I say, eh? Nothing we couldn’t sort.’

You smile limply and put a hand to his wrist. ‘Thank-you, Tommy.’

You hadn’t expected him to break through it, to make you pause. Breathe. It’s usually the other way around, you calming him. You sifting through the muck. It had never crossed your mind that it would work in reverse.

‘Next time,’ he says quietly, ‘you tell me.’ His chin dips a fraction, blue eyes laced with intent. ‘You tell me as soon as it get’s too much, alright?’

‘Okay,’ you promise, nodding between his palms. ‘Sorry.’

His lip tweaks slightly. ‘What have you got to be sorry for?’ he asks. Then he tilts up to kiss your forehead and, pulling back, utters ‘my silly girl’ under his breath.

You can’t smile. The question almost loses you again. You have plenty to be sorry for, you think, handfuls of apologies shoved into each corner of your brain. ‘Let’s do something,’ you say quickly, chasing the scatter away. ‘Distract me, please.’

He kisses you, lips firm and sure against yours in an agreement, a promise. ‘I have something to show you,’ he says afterwards. His grip on your face drops and he takes a hand instead, fingers curling around your palm. ‘The new horse is here.’

‘It is?’ You cling to him, put your free hand around his bicep and pull tight to his side like the closeness will help. He looks at you like he understands. ‘Well, show me then,’ you push, almost able to smile into it. ‘She was pretty from what I remember.’

‘Very pretty,’ he agrees. ‘Come on.’

You follow him through the house and across the drive. He doesn’t stop talking the whole way, which is unlike him, but he knows any silence will just cause you to slip again, to overthink until you’re tumbling. You answer his questions, dumb as they are, like he doesn’t already know the answers. You tell him what you had for breakfast, what you read in the paper. He asks, and he drawls, and he comments on the bloom of the roses as you pass them. He keeps going and going, until you’re so wrapped up in him, and the house, and the world outside, that everything else falls quiet. Peaceful. He fills your head with his own voice and you thank him for it. You thank him, and you hold on like it’s the only thing keeping you above the water.

‘You alright?’ he asks, checking once you’ve reached the stables.

‘Yes, Tom.’ You smile, meaning it. ‘I’m with you, remember?’

#tommy x reader #tommy shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby imagines #peaky blinders fanfic #this was only short and feels HORRRRRRRRFICALLYYYY exposing in terms of my experience with my horrible brain so #enjoy but avert your eyes and forget i exist thankyou!#mostly sharing because i know we all want to imagine tommy shelby looking after us :( <3

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002yb · 4 years ago

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The world around them splinters, deep cuts splitting the earth and making it tremble. Cursed energy hangs heavy on him, smothering him until he breathes it away. All the dust that was kicked up settles slow, a reflection of turbulent emotions he forcibly tempers. His cheek stings, the crack of Megumi’s hand across his face so harsh the skin burns. Shadows lick at Megumi’s heel, less a conscious action and more the result of whatever tantrum he throws.

From the corner of his eye, Sukuna glares and feels nothing when Megumi flinches.

The shadows around Megumi shudder in time with the tremors that run through the boy’s body. Even when Megumi steels himself and glares back, the inky black at his feet tell of all the feelings in himself he can’t control. Sukuna feels a fool for being pleased for the boy calling out to him, wanting him–for being taken by the darkness in Megumi’s eyes and the snarl on his lips.

“Why?” Megumi asks him in a voice that breaks.

There’s nothing Sukuna has done that registers to him that would warrant being slapped. He shifts his head to face Megumi fully again and lifts his chin as he seethes in a low growl, “Why what?”

A city, leveled; the remains a mass grave. Sukuna remembers it differently: a battlefield, a war ground. A fight to protect this boy from his own foolishness; to save him because Sukuna will never allow Megumi to sacrifice himself for some utilitarian cause.

“Collateral damage.” Sukuna says, “It was them or you.”

Shadows eat away at both of them, but it’s how they overwhelm Megumi that Sukuna finds most distracting. It’s almost breathtaking; beautiful and disturbing all at once. Every shadow is prominent, bleeding dark in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. For a moment Sukuna’s gaze shifts, taking everything in–the shadows of Megumi’s lashes and the shadow cast by a jaw too youthful to be sharp; the shadows from the tendons in Megumi’s hands and from the cuff of Megumi’s sleeve at his wrist. The darkness creeps, spreads. It’s captivating. Sukuna wonders if Megumi can pull shikigami from these places; realizes already that Megumi can spirit a man away with the sight alone.

“It should have been me.” Megumi tells him. “My life isn’t worth–”

Sukuna’s distraction ends there, his eyes snapping up to meet Megumi’s again. The way Sukuna’s lip lifts into a snarl makes Megumi stop with his self-deprecation. Megumi’s throat bobs when he swallows; he breathes a shaky exhale and digs his heel into the ground, ready for a fight Sukuna won't give.

“Don’t tell me what your life is worth.”

Not to him.

The boy can choose to be blind to it, but Megumi’s soul is worth more than the pesky few that got caught up in the cleanup of a summoning gone wrong. It’s worth more than the entire era Sukuna was born to and the world he’s trapped in now and all the time in between.

Megumi lets out a shuddered breath, meeting Sukuna’s stare head-on.

“It was my choice.” He argues.

“You make poor choices.” Sukuna counters.

Summoning a shikigami that would take his life in order to kill a curse that was hardly special. Letting Sukuna’s vessel live, and by extension him. Calculated choices resulting in fuck ups Megumi can’t begin to control the damage of. Sukuna doesn’t hold it against him. Megumi is kind. He’s young. He’ll learn about hard choices and bitter consequences; will make better decisions after he loses the naivety that clings to him.

“What are you actually mad about?” Sukuna asks, because he’s not convinced someone with Megumi’s temperament and values actually cares about all the damage and loss Sukuna directly or indirectly caused–not to strangers; not after the fact.

Megumi looks away from him, shamefaced. He doesn’t want to speak and expose the ugliness of his true feelings, but Sukuna wants to hear them. Sukuna has patience; he can wait Megumi out of anything.

“It wasn’t just them. And it wasn’t just me.” Megumi breathes, and just with that Sukuna knows it’s about the fucking vessel. “You’re going to kill him.” With guilt. With grief. Sukuna knows already. He’s aware of the damage he’s caused, but it doesn’t matter. Let it perish or let it become calloused and strong.

“I don’t care.” He says.

“Your actions have consequences.” Megumi tells him.

“I don’t care.” Sukuna repeats himself.

“They have consequences for me.” Megumi bites back.

Sukuna stares ahead into dark eyes, jaw clenched. He knows Megumi can bear burdens more than others–it’s the burden on others that wears him down. Shadows creep higher up Sukuna’s person, pulling at his fingers, scratching his legs. There’s pressure, but not yet enough to make Sukuna bend–break.

“Then stop caring.” It’s almost a sneer. “Or learn to deal.”

If Megumi is looking for an apology, Sukuna has nothing to give. Sukuna has no regrets for saving him–prioritizing him. The world can burn if it means Megumi’s safety; Sukuna doesn’t care. There’s too much Sukuna still wants from him. He has a vested interest.

Tattoos start to fade as the vessel takes control again. Sukuna clicks his tongue in annoyance and regards Megumi with a parting look of displeasure and disappointment: “Your actions also have consequences for me.”

Megumi looks after him as Sukuna fades away, shadows withdrawing. There’s distress in Megumi’s eyes, a helplessness he’ll do well to remember.

“Value yourself more.”

#jujutsu kaisen #sukufushi #sukuna #fushiguro megumi #the simp and the tease #sometimes I reread these things and I just ??#but anyways yessss to megumi confronting sukuna #he'd have decked him but yuji is still the bro that'd deal with the aftermath y'know #also 100% think sukuna would retaliate #but somehow he just simps hard start to finish whoops #I just really love soft simp sukuna help #jjk #words

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stillness-in-green · 4 years ago

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Thoughts on Chapter 314 (and surrounding events)

Being a loose summary of several things I thought about in relation to the leaks, what they say about the series as a whole, a bit of new operating headcanon on the Peerless Thief, and a dash of how fandom is responding to the revelations. Spoilers, obviously.

This chapter makes it quite clear that the HPSC absolutely would have gone in and eliminated the PLF quietly, lethally, and wholly unlawfully if Hawks hadn't reported back the numbers that he did. The only reason the raid involved non-Commission-affiliated heroes at all is because the PLF's manpower was simply too much for the Commission to deal with via their usual methods. I'm both appalled that the disregard for human rights in HeroAca Land is somehow even worse than I thought it was and smug that that tiny little piece I recently posted criticizing the PLF's treatment has turned out to be totally justified and supported by the canon.[1] (Note that this does not absolve Horikoshi of the responsibility to, himself, treat the PLF better than paper dolls tossed into the incinerator of Plot Irrelevance when they cease being convenient to his story.) The fact that the Commission was forced to involve heroes might mean Re-Destro, Mr. Compress and the others are somewhat safer than might otherwise be the case. Because of the involvement of the unsuspecting stooges law-abiding heroes, and because the botched raid became such a huge disaster, there’s far more public scrutiny on this than would otherwise be the case. Of course, "accidents" can still happen,[2] especially in a chaotic environment, but the factors above (combined with Clone!RD murdering the bejeezus out of the Lady Prez) do, I think, suggest that there probably isn't an organized push for quick solutions going on behind closed doors.

I don't think Nagant has been around for a terribly long time or that there was an uptick in vigilantism in recent years—I think the scene where she mentions vigilantes becoming accepted as heroes is just in reference to the early history of heroism. It's in keeping with what Tsukauchi Makoto described in Vigilantes, and forms the basis of the current system—the current system that Nagant was a single cog in a big machine grinding away to preserve.

Speaking of Nagant and the system, it's interesting to me that one of the groups Nagant apparently targeted at the HPSC's behest was corrupt heroes—those who colluded with villains or specifically goaded/incited civilians into using their quirks illegally, thus turning civilians into capital-V Villains in the eyes of the law. One might easily say that targeting corrupt heroes (albeit using a much broader definition of "corrupt") was Stain's whole shtick, but it actually puts me more in mind of the Peerless Thief, Harima Oji. Harima punished greedy or corrupt heroes with theft, and presumably with a measure of declaration and exposure,[3] then distributed their money back to the streets. Someone who ridicules those who abuse their power, and gets away with it for long enough to build a reputation: that right there is a recipe for a folk hero. The HPSC, in whatever form they existed at the time, obviously couldn't let that go on—such repeated humiliations would weaken peoples’ faith in (and obedience to) the system the HPSC was trying to build. At the same time, though, it would also weaken faith in the system to openly acknowledge that system's flaws, to acknowledge that some pretty awful people had found their way into the heroics business specifically for the power and ability to abuse it that the title of Hero afforded them. Public trials would make it a matter of record that some heroes—and, accordingly, heroes at large—did not deserve the public's unquestioning faith. Obviously in a system that was built from the ground up on faith, that was unacceptable. And so Harima was branded a supervillain for exposing the system's flaws, while the corrupt heroes who embodied those flaws to begin with were—and continue to be—quietly disposed of at the HPSC’s discretion.

There's a lot of talk around about how Lady Nagant is stupid, or hypocritical, or delusional, or whatever other dismissive adjective people want to use, because she expresses a preference for AFO's rule over the HPSC's. Firstly, I think it's dubious Lit Crit to fault a character for not being a Paragon of Rationality, especially when they're under the cascading stressors Nagant has been under since she was, what, 13? 14? Forced to live this dichotomy of smiling gallant hero and ruthless covert assassin, had her life threatened by the man who'd taken her in,[4] probably dumped in Tartarus until such time as her trial could be held,[5] and kept in those ghastly, dehumanizing conditions for who knows how long? How shocking, that her objectivity might be somewhat compromised! Secondly, it's not like she's saying that AFO's rule would be a sunny walk in the park. The kanji she uses doesn't even mean "better"; while it can mean serene or tranquil, her more likely meaning is clear/transparent. Her phrasing indicates that she's aware it would be pretty bad; she's simply of the opinion that at least his rule wouldn't be a sham, a pretty lie. It would be bad, but everyone would know it. No one would have these comforting illusions they could lose at any time; if you stepped out of line and got shot in the head by an assassin, well, at least you would probably know you that being defiant was running that risk, rather than never seeing it coming because you'd been told all your life that Heroes Didn't Do That To People. Again, this is a woman whose life was shattered no less than three times by the duplicity of the highest acting authority in this comic.[6] She doesn't have to be Objectively Correct By The Standards Of Ethical Utilitarianism—nor do you have to agree with her choice that because she doesn’t want to live in the Matrix, no one else should get to either—for her opinion to make sense from her own perspective! Thirdly, while I think it's fair to say that the HPSC and AFO actually use fairly similar methods to recruit followers and punish dissenters, we have no idea how much Nagant herself knows about AFO's recruitment tactics other than her own brief experience of it. And while AFO is a controlling and manipulative bastard, at least in his case it's coming from a man who openly styles himself as a Demon King, not an organization positioning itself as lawful regulators of the protectors of society at large while secretly training child soldiers to flagrantly violate every law protecting the human rights and due process of that society's people.

Overhaul's presence is delightful, and yes, he is a victim of Hero Society, if only because Hero Society could have put him in some kind of prison-based rehab facility after Shigaraki was through with him, but chose to dispose of him in Tartarus instead, for absolutely no justifiable cause. I suspect it's only due to Horikoshi not being very interested in the harsh realities of the trauma caused by enforced isolation[7] that Overhaul is the only Tartarus escapee that talks to himself and has dissociated from reality almost completely. Overhaul's maiming was not the fault of Hero Society, nor did Hero Society force him to torture Eri and repeatedly commit cold-blooded murder. But his madness? Yeah, I'm pretty comfortable laying that one at Hero Society's feet, actually. I can’t wait for Deku to have to face the victim that Chisaki Kai has become due to levels of systemic cruelty and negligence that really ought to be criminal—and which, if this were real life, would be.

--------Lately, footnotes are really popular with us!--------

[1] Lady Nagant: *talks about how the Hero Society everyone believes in is illusory, a thin fake over a brutal reality, and that returning to the false simplicity of that status quo will only cause history to repeat itself* Me, two weeks ago: Hero Society will never stop creating its own villains so long as, every time it fails people, it does nothing but shrug and write off the victims as unavoidable, inevitable sacrifices for the greater good.

[2] Yes, I'm still highly suspicious of the "Destro committed suicide in prison" claim.

[3] Compress tells us Harima “preached reformation,” but regardless, you don’t dress up in a modified kabuki costume and waltz midair through nighttime cityscapes raining cash out of the sky if you’re trying to keep your activities a secret.

[4] And her family situation couldn't have been much better than Hawks', if she was targeted by the HPSC to begin with. I would guess she was an orphan in the childcare system, easy to move from whatever alternative care arrangement she was in, be it an orphanage, a group home, or simply mature enough despite her relative youth that she lived alone on government support payments—that kind of thing isn't as unbelievable in Japan as it is in the U.S.—to the HPSC's care.

[5] And given what we learned between this chapter and 297, I doubt she was even allowed to be present for it. Japanese law states that everyone by default is supposed to be present for their own trial, but as in the U.S, that right can be waived if the defendant proves themselves to be a threat to the safety of the judge, court staff and other attendees. And of course, what a threat the HPSC could have painted her as being!

[6] At least until Hori deigns to show us a damn Diet session.

[7] To say nothing of the physical consequences of spending six months stuck in a tiny room with no natural light while frequently being strapped into a straitjacket, of which there should also be several.

#bnha spoilers #bnha 314 #boku no hero academia #hero public safety commission #paranormal liberation front #harima oji #lady nagant #overhaul bnha #my writing?

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charincharge · 5 years ago

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Cruel Summer, Part 20

cruel summer masterlist

AN: This was supposed to be ready hours ago. SORRY. Only five chapters to go. Have I mentioned how much I appreciate all of you who read, reblog and review this? It has seriously brightened up a shitty time in my life.

Rowan feels like he’s barely slept when Aelin’s alarm goes off. He grumbles and pulls her closer, so he can bury his face into her shoulder, away from the thick rays of sunshine pouring through her window. “No…” he groans.

“Yes,” Aelin laughs as she turns over to face him. Her finger traces over his lips, and he kisses it softly. Her eyes lock with his, and he can’t help the warmth that blooms in his chest at her staring.

“What?” he asks, kissing her finger again. Her eyes flit across his face, observing him closely.

“You’re pretty in the morning,” she says, and Rowan narrows his eyes at her.

“Pretty?” he asks, incredulous. She nods and giggles quietly as Rowan climbs on top of her, pinning her hands beside her head on the mattress. “I’ll show you pretty…” he growls. His lips dive onto her neck, and he can feel her laughter against his chest.

They both hear her door open and slam at the same time. They freeze, their heads turning in the direction of the noise, praying against all odds that it isn’t one of Aelin’s parents.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Dorian stands with his back pressed against Aelin’s door, his hand covering his face again. Rowan sighs a breath of relief and rolls off the bed. He can’t believe how close that came to being a nightmare. They really need to be more careful. He grabs his work uniform, which is crumpled on the floor and pulls his pants on quickly.

“Dor?” Aelin asks from under her covers. “Why are you in my room?”

“I volunteered to wake you up,” he says, eyes still closed. “I had a feeling. Your entire family is downstairs. It’s Saturday, remember?”

“Shit,” Aelin mumbles as she rushes to her closet and throws on shorts and a tank top.

Rowan looks at the clock. Thirty minutes until works starts. And he has no idea how he’s going to escape this house with Aelin’s entire family downstairs. It’s not like he can climb out her window – he’d be spotted in a second.

Dorian finally cracks his eyes open and sees that everyone is fully dressed and relaxes slightly. He nods to Rowan, who nods back uncomfortably.

As they exchange hellos, Aelin heads straight into her bathroom and plugs in her curling iron. Rowan stands in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. He shoves his hands into his pockets and watches as Aelin starts wrapping her hair around the hot metal rod. She examines her bruise in the mirror and dabs some makeup over it with her free hand.

“Dor?” Aelin calls from the bathroom. “Can you tell my family that I am curling my hair, but I will meet them at the park shortly?” She pokes her head out of the bathroom. “Just, get them out of the house quickly. Please,” she implores him with wide eyes, and Dorian salutes her and takes off.

By the time Aelin’s hair is curled, and her family has officially left the premises, Rowan has about five minutes to make it to work. He kisses Aelin and makes a mad dash for the park.

“See you there,” Aelin calls out after him as he takes off into a quick sprint. His cross-country skills are put to the test as his feet sink through the sand with every step. By the time he reaches the park entrance, he’s only one minute late. He’s impressed with himself.

Breathing hard, he slows to a brisk walk, making his way through the throngs of crowds lined up to get in.

Rowan pauses, his brain finally catching up to him, and looks around. The park is packed. Shockingly crowded.

The line of cars to enter the park is so long, it extends past the parking lot and onto the street, and at the front gate, a hefty crowd is gathered, waiting to get in.

“What the fuck?” Rowan mumbles to himself.

Inside the park, a very stressed out Lorcan mans the admissions booth with Fenrys. “Rowan!” he calls out. “You’re here! Come help us.”

Rowan apologizes for being late, but Lorcan just attributes it to the long line of cars and waves Rowan off. He’s just grateful for the help.

As Rowan starts handing out tickets and wristbands, he finally asks Lorcan what the hell is going on. Apparently, the park was featured on some big reality show called Hometown Hotspots earlier in the week, and the park is seeing the after effects. Lorcan has never been more stressed. He’s not exactly a people person, and these people are impatient, entitled, and anxious to get into the park. Rowan feels for him.

The overflow of people is never ending, and Rowan ends up staying at admissions until well into the afternoon. He barely has time to even think about missing Aelin, being kept so busy. Until, finally, he checks his phone during his lunch break and sees he has a slew of texts from her.

WHOA, what’s up with these crowds???

You were so busy this morning, you didn’t even see me come in! Luckily, Fenrys was far more cordial ;)

Rowan glares at Fenrys, who eats his lunch across the table from him. He can’t believe he didn’t’ even see Aelin enter the park.

Lys wants me to tell you that she knows this is not a curler burn. *facepalm*

Gavin heard your name and got excited, and now my family is insisting you join us for dinner.

You’re going to go down in history as being Gavin’s favorite person ever, just for buying him cotton candy that ONE TIME.

Rowan can’t help but smile at this phone screen, despite how tired he already is. He texts back quickly.

I’ll be there.

At the last second, he adds a red heart emoji and sends it. He’s never been an emoji person before, mostly using texting for utilitarian purposes only. But with Aelin, he can’t help himself. It’s silly, he knows. But the red heart sitting in his texts is his silent way of opening up more. Of silently insinuating the three words he’s tried to push to the back of his head and not let overtake his thoughts. He smiles when Aelin immediately returns his text with three kissing face emojis.

He must be smiling like a mad man, because Lorcan chuckles loudly as he takes a seat next to Rowan and asks, “How’s your girlfriend?”

Rowan’s smile disappears as Fenrys perks up from across the table. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Uhh… no… not really…” Rowan fumbles his words.

Lorcan senses his mistake and flashes Rowan and apologetic glance.

But Fenrys is undeterred. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me, Rowan,” Fenrys pouts, sounding all of his young age. “So… who is she? Townie? Someone who works here? Rich summer home crowd?”

“Someone way out of your league, kiddo,” Lorcan says, slapping his large hand onto Fenrys’s shoulder. His voice is gruff, but Rowan sees the hears the affection in his tone. He weirdly feels like he’s turned a corner with Lorcan. Maybe they could even be friends.

“It’s nothing,” Rowan assures Fenrys, who still looks on with hopeful eyes, begging for scraps of information. “It’s super low key, so we haven’t gone public, or whatever.”

“Then how come Lorcan knew?” His whining would be almost comical if Rowan didn’t want to exit the conversation so badly.

Luckily, Lorcan saves him. “Caught them in the break room the other night.” He pauses. “Which, no one should be doing, by the way.”

“What should we not be doing?” Elide asks, entering with a giant funnel cake in her hands. She’s followed by Connall and Vaughan and Gavriel, which means that Rowan’s lunch break is up. He groans. He’s not ready to deal with those crowds again. And if the group’s faces are any indication, nothing has slowed in the minutes he took off to eat. Elide looks exhausted.

“Making out in the break room,” Rowan laughs.

“Oh please,” Elide scoffs. “What do you think Lorcan and I do every night when you guys leave?” Elide wiggles her eyebrows at Lorcan, who turns bright red. His hands tug at his long hair, unsure what to do with himself. Rowan can tell he wants to be mad at Elide, but he thinks Lorcan is physically incapable of actually getting angry with her.

“Ellie,” he whines, but she just giggles as she stuffs a piece of funnel cake into her mouth. Her lips become coated in powdered sugar, and she purses her lips and motions to Lorcan.

“Come get some sugar.” She winks, and Lorcan looks conflicted as he looks at her lips and everyone else in the room. Ultimately, Elide’s lips win, and Lorcan leans down and gives her a quick kiss as everyone else in the room whoops. His entire body is flushed as he narrows his eyes at the bystanders.

“Not a word,” he warns.

Fenrys sighs loudly. “Man, did everyone get a girlfriend this summer but me?” he asks. Connall and Vaughan sit down next to him, and as the conversation turns to summer gossip, Rowan extracts himself and heads to the kiddie section of the park, where he’ll be on rotation all afternoon.

The rest of the day is even more miserable than the first half. Children are crying, upset with waiting for hours and missing their nap times; Rowan sympathizes – he’d love a nap, too. The crowds become angrier the longer they have to wait, and Rowan realizes the park is not equipped for this many people. They have no idea how to manage the crowds. And he almost witnesses a full on riot when one of the food stands runs out of ice cream bars. It’s a mess.

Somehow, he manages to keep his cool with the angry patrons, and he practically runs back to the Ashryvers’ as soon as the day is finished.

The entire family, plus Dorian, sits outside on their back patio as Emrys brings out platters of food, which smell absolutely delicious. Fleetfoot waits happily under the table, tail wagging, ready for scraps to fall. Rowan’s stomach rumbles as he approaches, seeing the spread of salads, biscuits and corn on the cobb.

“Wine?” Aelin offers him a large glass, and Rowan accepts it happily.

Gavin runs straight for his legs and wraps his tiny arms around them. He pats the top of the small boy’s head, unable to interact much more than that in his current state of exhaustion.

“Oh, sweetie, I can get you a beer, if you prefer,” Evalin says, but Rowan shakes his head and takes a large sip of the cold wine. “You look utterly exhausted.” She holds out a chair, and Rowan slinks into it without a second thought.

“The park was…” Rowan begins, but he stops himself short, not wanting to insult his bosses. Aelin sees it in his face.

“A nightmare?” Rhoe laughs. “We know.” He fills his own glass again. “We left early in the afternoon. We were not ready for those crowds.”

Evalin sighs. “The board is meeting about it tomorrow. We need to come up with some kind of solution other than hiring people to help with the parking lot. Luckily, this summer is almost over. But if this is how it is next summer… We need to get organized.”

Rowan thought the same thing throughout the day, but he’s unsure if he should bring up his suggestion. He knows his opinion likely holds no weight with this family, despite how outwardly friendly they are to him.

“Have you ever been to Disneyland?” Rowan asks, deciding to speak up after all.

“The competition?” Evalin raises an eyebrow, and Rowan becomes slightly self-conscious. He takes another sip of his wine. But Evalin cracks a smile, clearly teasing him, and Rowan relaxes. “I’m kidding. Yes, we’ve been there. But not since Aelin was nearly a baby.” Evalin smiles wider, staring at her daughter. “All Aelin wanted to do was to meet Mickey. It’s all she talked about the entire trip. We waited for over two hours to meet him, and when we got to the front, she screamed bloody murder. Just cried and cried…”

Aedion laughs loudly. “Oh my god, I remember that. She was terrified of him.”

Aelin frowns. “Okay, when you’re a toddler and you love Mickey, you expect him to be the size of a mouse, not a GIANT.” She shudders. “I still don’t like the characters.”

Rowan laughs and rubs her arm reflexively. He only realizes what he’s done when Dorian catches his eye. He pulls his hand away quickly, and prays no one noticed. Aelin seems unfazed as she sips more of her wine.

“A-anyway,” Rowan continues, “I know Disney is very different from Playland, but… the one thing they’re great at is crowd control.”

Rhoe and Evalin nod in agreement, so Rowan continues.

“Besides hiring people to direct car traffic and foot traffic, which, is definitely an important part of it – I think they really got a handle on things when they created their app,” he explains. “It’s an interactive map of the park where you can check ride wait times, see the daily schedule, preorder food, make reservations…” Rowan looks around the table and notices all eyes are on him, listening with rapt attention. “Playland isn’t big enough to need all of that, but it couldn’t hurt to have some of it. Everyone loves an app.”

“That’s not a terrible idea.” Evalin looks to Rhoe.

Lysandra turns toward Rowan and narrows her eyes. “Rowan, weren’t you telling us you used to work as a programmer for a start up?” she asks, and Rowan nods uncomfortably. He doesn’t like this many eyes on him. Especially when he’s talking about himself.

“You did?” Rhoe asks.

“Yeah. Not for very long,” Rowan admits. “The start up went under pretty quickly. Bad investors.” He pauses, then continues. “But I did computer engineering for the Army before then. I could make you a mock up, if you wanted?”

“That is very sweet to offer,” Evalin says, her voice sounding too saccharine to Rowan’s ears. “But I don’t think we’re anywhere near that step yet.”

Rowan smiles, but he can’t help but feel like he’s been blown off. He should have known they only see him as park staff. He does appreciate Lysandra taking him seriously, though.

The conversation dies down as Emrys brings out a large plate of brightly colored lobsters. Rowan can count the amount of times he’s had lobster on one hand. It’s a delicious luxury, one that Rowan absolutely loves, but is completely inexperienced with. He watches Aelin pull the claws with a slight twist away from the body and crack the shell, pulling the meat out. He mimics her actions, but somehow ends up crushing the shell into multiple pieces with his clumsy fingers.

As Aelin dips her piece into butter and drops it into her mouth, she sees Rowan’s struggle and leans over to help.

“Here,” she whispers as she takes her knife and cracks open the knuckles for him. He feels like a child. In fact, he notices Lysandra doing the same thing for Gavin and Evie.

“I can do it,” he protests, but Aelin has already finished cracking it for him. He sighs as she moves to twist off the tail, hoping his cheeks aren’t red with the embarrassment he feels.

His embarrassment fades quickly, though, when he sees Evalin reaching over to do the same thing to Rhoe’s lobster. Rowan looks at Aelin, who doesn’t seem to realize she’s completely mirroring her parents’ behavior and smiles behind the rim of his wine glass, which has been magically refilled.

Dinner is just as delicious as Rowan hoped it’d be, and by the end of the night he’s feeling sated and sleepy and buzzed on wine. Evalin tells him he should spend the night, since he’s not safe to drive yet, but Rowan can’t actually justify wearing his gross uniform again tomorrow. And as loathe as he is to spend a night away from Aelin, he knows he needs to go home.

“I can stay for another hour or so and sober up and then head home,” Rowan says, but his large yawn gives away his current state of fatigue.

“We can give you a ride if you want?” Lysandra offers, and Aedion readily agrees, but Rowan isn’t sure how he’d get to work the next morning without his truck.

“Fireheart, are you sober?” Rhoe asks, and Aelin nods. Rowan did notice she stopped drinking after her first glass of wine. He should have, too, but she just kept refilling it. It barely takes Rowan a second to realize that Aelin was trying to get him drunk, trying to get him to stay over. He shakes his head, sorry for her failed efforts.

“Why don’t you drive Rowan home, and then you can take an Uber back home?”

Aelin agrees, and says she’ll be quiet coming back in, in case her parents are asleep. After a round of goodbyes, Aelin and Rowan walk back to his truck where it’s still in the far corner of the Playland parking lot.

He tosses her the keys and watches as she moves her hand over the gears. As they drive, Rowan realizes he’s never seen Aelin behind the wheel before, and there’s something incredibly sexy about watching her maneuver his giant truck. By the time they reach Rowan’s street, Rowan can’t wait any longer. As soon as Aelin parks, he pulls her over to his lap and kisses her.

She squeals as he plants sloppy kisses on her face. Their kisses become more heated as it continues, so much that the windows start to steam up. His hands roam across her back and slide up her tank top, relishing in her bare skin. He just wants her all the time. Always.

Aelin pulls away and smiles. “I thought you were tired.”

“I am,” Rowan admits through another yawn. “That’s why if you come up, you’re going to have to do all the work.”

Aelin snorts, making Rowan laugh. It’s the cutest thing in the world. When she snorts. No other girl could make snorting cute, but Aelin somehow manages to.

“This is what you get for getting me drunk,” he says, letting her know he was well aware of her plan.

Aelin snickers as she opens the door and slides off his lap. She pulls on his arms, and Rowan stumbles out of the cab. And when they get upstairs, Aelin shows Rowan she’s more than happy to do all the work, and then some.

Rowan’s drunk heart feels like it’s going to explode as she moves on top of him, and he has to physically stop himself from saying the three words he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about all day. I love you, he thinks to himself. I never want you to leave. I want to be with you forever.

His resistance snaps. He’s too tired, too ready to put his entire heart into this thing. The lid he’s tried so carefully to keep on his feelings, explodes. The dam bursts, crumbling and cracking under the weight of his emotions, and he lets them tumble out, spilling everywhere, coating his skin where she touches him. He is lost to her, and he’s ready to burn.

~*~*~*~*~

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#rowaelin #aelin x rowan #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #elorcan #dorian havilliard #lysaedion #charincharge writes #cruel summer au #amusement park au #tog fanfic #throne of glass

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13atoms · 5 years ago

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Nesting [Cheetah Virus!Dh!Master x Reader] [Smut]

I’ve been working on longer stuff so havent posted the last few days, but here’s 1.6k of smut inspired by @iwouldfuckthemaster ‘s recent spate of anons who are horny for cheetah!master. Am I sorry? Yeah, a bit.

With a groan, The Master slapped a screen on the TARDIS console, setting of a chain of beeps and whirrs from the faux-shack’s ceiling. He still hadn’t changed back the interior, despite groaning about how ‘boring’ and ‘human’ it looked every single day.

You suspected he liked it really, the hammocks and comfy furniture. Much more liveable than the utilitarian base TARDIS model. Plus, you’d heard him swearing at the Chameleon Circuit, apparently unable to fix it after he’d intentionally broken it.

Walking up behind him your hands found his shoulders, rubbing the tension out of his back while hunched over the controls.

“What’s up?”

“I didn’t want to be here. Stupid machine.”

You peered at the screen, seeing meaningless numbers and circles overlaid on a livestream of a mundane looking planet.

“Seems fine to me?”

“No. I’ve been here before.”

Heading for the doors to see if he’d react, you swayed your hips a little, hoping for a nice easy wander around a new area before you could spend an evening in together. No chaos, no madness. Maybe some good sex.

It seemed pleasant enough.

The Master was busy staring off into space.

“Come on! It’ll be fine! A quick walk around.”

He rubbed his beard for a moment, before grabbing his coat.

“Sure. It’s probably gone now, anyway.”

You looked at him, the ‘what?’ written across your face. He waved you off, in the way he did when he didn’t want you to worry about something which you should be worrying about.

With a shrug you left the ship, arm in arm.

As you walked the plains you’d landed on, you saw almost no one. He’d landed a short way out from any kind of civilisation, and only after a good few minutes did spot something with humanoid features on the horizon, heading away from the pair of you. You pointed them out to The Master, hoping for an interesting tale or some guess at a species, but he tensed up, dragging his feet as you tried to rush towards them.

Splitting the difference, you followed the figure from some distance behind. It wasn’t long before you were on a well-worn track.

His fidgeting didn’t escape you, the way his arm tightened around yours. Finally, when you got close to a dwelling, he froze in place.

You looked curiously at one of the locals, hoping you didn’t seem to be staring, as you took in their features. If you didn’t know any better, could have mistaken them for a bipedal version of an Earth cheetah.

You wanted to creep closer, get a better look, but the Timelord-tether on your arm stopped you. Beside you The Master grunted, dropping your arm to grab your hand so tightly it was uncomfortable.

“We’re going back to the TARDIS. Now.”

“They seem friendly –”

His hand in yours, he near enough ran for his ship, leaving you no room to argue. In half the time you taken to walk away, you had returned to his outback-style console room.

You laughed breathlessly as he locked the doors, confused.

“Daleks, Cybermen, horrifying green things made of teeth, and you’re scared of a cat person?”

He huffed.

“Not scared,” he corrected, stalking towards you. “It’s a virus.”

“What?”

“It’s a virus that makes them like that.”

You frowned.

“Like… cats?”

He nodded, never breaking eye contact with you, running his tongue across his canines. It was freaking you out a little, but you were preoccupied.

“Are we infected?”

“You’re not.”

It took a moment for you to catch his meaning, worry seeping in to you.

“Wait, are you?”

He tilted his head in thought.

“I think it’s residual, from a lot of regenerations ago. A long time ago. I hoped it might be gone, but being in this atmosphere…”

“What’s gonna happen?”

“Oh! Most likely nothing. No physical changes.”

He trailed off, and you felt there must be more to the story. He was a man usually very opposed to the indignity of running, but he’d wrenched your arm to get back into the ship, desperate to get away from the people outside.

“So, what’s wrong?”

He almost prowled towards you, gaze raking over your body, and you found yourself stepping back.

“You’re ovulating.”

It was hard not to shudder at his sheer intensity, the way he was undressing you with his eyes.

“… and?”

“And… that means I should fuck you.”

In the worn-out surroundings of the TARDIS, he pounced. Capturing you by the waist he kissed you, before biting roughly at your lower lip until you pushed his head away, and he went back, kissing your neck instead.

“You wanna fuck me?” you teased him, fingers pulling at his hair, making him mewl from the pain.

He keened in response, almost growling as his hands roamed your body. Suddenly he steered you towards the rickety couch, sinking into it. He pulled you down onto his lap, starting a pattern of biting incessantly at one spot on your neck until you recoiled in pain, then finding a different spot to start again. You could only try to capture his lips messily for a few seconds, before he returned to marking you.

Your shirt was only pulled off to extend the real estate available to him to bruise, his teeth sinking into your skin over and over until you finally managed to reach down between your bodies, unsurprised to find him hard, straining against his trousers.

He shuddered and buried his face into your bruised neck as your fingers squeezed his shaft, tight enough to enact a little revenge for the damage he had done to your neck and collarbones.

With a deep growl, he stood, surprising you as he held you effortlessly to his body. He carried you to his room, surprising you when he pulled all the duvet and blanket off the bed, throwing them into a nook between his bookcases.

He didn’t put you down, and you clung on to him as he found yet more pillows and blankets to pile up, before he finally placed you gently in the nest he’d made.

For a moment he just looked at you, inhaling deeply like he could smell the very pheromones coming off you. You noticed the slight glaze in his eyes, the curling of his lip as he appraised you.

The rest of your clothes followed your shirt, joining the nest if they were comfortable and being strewn aside if not. Your bra was shoved away, as were his shoes, as you tried to appraise what he was doing. Surely, this was some strange manifestation of the long-dormant virus?

You didn’t care. You loved every bit, and you could tell he was desperate.

The Master’s strong hands clawed into your thighs as he forced them apart, head ducking to take one long lick up your pussy, nibbling at the sensitive skin around your cunt and delighting as you jumped from the scrape of his teeth.

Without preamble, he licked you with the whole pad of his tongue, head moving as he dragged your clit up with every wide stroke, making you whine and buck under him.

“Stay down,” he grunted, stopping your from moving as he crouched over you, your body trapped between him and the walls on each side of you.

He licked you roughly again, and growled at the responding roll of your hips, nails digging into you as he pinned you down with a firm grip on your pelvis.

Appearing to be in no rush, he punished your clit with rough strokes of his tongue, until finally you whimpered for more.

“Please. I need you to eat me properly.”

The Master grumbled, almost attacking you with his mouth, his ferocity. He didn’t stop, not until your legs were shaking, core feeling tighter and tighter with every second under his attention. You groaned his name as finally, he let you cum.

He purred, lips around your clit as you fell over the edge, and you pulled his head to you with a moan.

You were still twitching and zoned out as he plunged into you, muscles fluttering against his rock hard cock. You cried out, the stretch of having him inside you was almost too much. He shushed you, even as he started thrusting. The pace was punishing, animalistic, chasing his pleasure quickly, with no concern for anything but finishing inside of you. Grunting from the exertion, his hands clung to you. The pillows he’d nestled you in were the only thing protecting your upper body from hitting the wall as his gruelling speed increased. He still had one of your legs pinned up, letting him rock deeper and deeper as you reangled yourself, crying out at the feeling of him hitting your cervix.

Shaking, he moaned something indecipherable into the open air, and you saw the sweat breaking on his brow as his whole body tensed.

With one last deep rut he came inside you, not moving as you felt him twitching, the sensation of his warm cum deep in your cunt. He held you, trembling with the effort, making you ache with how far inside of you his cock was pressed.

“Master…”

“Shh, pet.”

He bit lightly at your collarbone, moaning open-mouthed against your skin. He was heavy and limp on top of you, more spent than you’d even seen him.

You pulled one of the blankets over the pair of you, letting him rest on top of you, cock still holding his seed deep inside of you as his head rested sweetly on your chest. Accepting he would growl if you tried to move him, you let him sleep, hoping you could find a way to lure him into moving the TARDIS when he woke.

Although, perhaps you’d let him have his way a few more times first.

#dhawan!master x reader #smut #13atoms #im sorry idk if this is acceptable anymore

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glorious-spoon · 4 years ago

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When the Seasons Stop [Leverage/The Old Guard]

Title: When the Seasons Stop Fandom: Leverage; The Old Guard Pairings: Gen-ish or pre-relationship Eliot/Hardison/Parker Warnings: Temporary character death, canon-typical violence Other tags: Hurt/comfort, immortality Summary: Eliot Spencer damn well knew better than to get this close to a couple of mortals. But he never expected this.

There’s nothing new about the bullet punching through Eliot’s lung, nicking an artery and shattering a rib on its way out. He can feel the world start to squeeze and fold in a familiar way, but that’s not what worries him. What worries him is the gasping quality of Parker’s voice over the comms, the shaky way she said he’s all smashed up inside and the trail of blood zig-zagging out to the van.

Sophie’s hands grasp at him, pulling him in. Her eyes are huge and dark with tears, and Eliot can’t get the lung capacity to reassure her. Isn’t sure there’s anything worth reassuring at all when blood is soaking into the floor (Hardison will be so mad, he thinks stupidly, but it’s Hardison’s blood, his and Parker’s, and they’re sprawled there like broken toys as the van peels away into the street. There are sirens. Nate is swearing fluently and foully in the front as Sophie heaves herself through to drop into the seat beside him).

None of it fucking matters. Eliot’s vision is starting to tunnel, but he can still see Hardison gasping with blood on his lips.

“Did Eliot make it out?”

“Age of the geek, brother,” Eliot rasps, grasping for him, fumbling, fingers slick with blood. Hardison’s long fingers twitch weakly when he grips them. On his other side, Parker’s cold hand slips into his. She’s tilted back against the wall, her shirt stained with dark blood, soaking through to pool beneath her, and she’s already so cold.

She’s bleeding out, Eliot thinks vaguely, but his body is too leaden and heavy to do anything about it. His thoughts fragment into the thickening darkness, and the last thing he remembers is hoping against desperate hope that this time, this time, he won’t wake up to see the aftermath.

He comes to choking in silty water, flailing, splashing. Sinks into the dark and maybe drowns a second time before he finally surfaces. His head hits metal, and he gasps in the small pocket of air beneath it, his mind becoming aware bit by horrible bit. He’s died in a lot of bad ways since he took a bullet to the heart in the winter of 1861 and woke hours later face-down and stripped of his guns and boots in the cold Nebraska mud. But this one might just be the worst of them.

It’s too dark to see, but he fumbles until his hands close over a bony wrist, cloth and cold skin. Hardison’s, by the size. And there’s Parker floating to his left, her hair spreading out in the water and tangling around his wrist when he pulls her to him, puts a hand under her nose like he really thinks he’ll feel breathing.

Like there’s more than half a dozen people in the world who could wake up from this.

“Parker,” he rasps. His throat feels raw, and he tells himself that it’s the leftovers from breathing in river water. “Parker. Hardison. Come on. Come on.”

There’s no response. They’re cold and limp, floating lifelessly in the icy water, and Eliot can’t pretend that the heat welling up in his eyes is anything other than tears.

“Come on,” he rasps again. “Come on, Parker. Damn it, Hardison, wake up.”

There’s nothing. Just bodies, just Parker’s hair tangled around his fingers and Hardison’s expressive hands gone terribly still. Eliot drives his fist into the side of the van and feels his knuckles break and heal in an instant, and then he ducks beneath the water to check for the front of the van.

It’s empty, and he hopes with a dull, flickering sort of hope that Nate and Sophie at least got out alive. Then he goes back to pull the floating corpses of his dearest friends out through the shattered window, one after another. He loops his arms around them like this is a rescue instead of a recovery and kicks until his head breaks the swift surface of the river.

The water is deep and fast here, and it’s not easy to keep his head above it without letting go of either of his burdens, which he damn well is not going to do. He manages, at the very least, not to drown again before his feet finally find the soft mud in the shallows.

He pulls them both to the shore, scrabbling in the silty mud until they’re above the water line, and then he sinks to the ground and puts his head in his hands. Tries to breathe. Tries not to breathe, maybe, since that’s never been his problem. It doesn’t work, either way. His chest hurts like he can still feel the lingering ache of that bullet from a hundred and fifty-some years ago, but he knows it’s not that. Knows that it’s nothing more than simple grief.

He knows better, is the thing. He knows better than to get too attached. He always knew that his life would encompass both Parker’s and Hardison’s by years, centuries (millennia, if Andy is to be believed, and Eliot believes her because he’s never met another person so fucking tired of it all), but he just. He thought he’d have more time. He thought he’d get to dance at their wedding. He thought he’d get to watch Parker take over the reins from Nate and make Leverage into something lasting and real; he thought he’d get to watch Hardison going on about new computer shit for decades to come, going gray and bent and still leaning over his screens with that brilliant joy. He thought he’d get to welcome their children and watch them grow.

He thought that maybe, someday, he’d trust them both with his secret.

He thought he had more fucking time.

Something shifts to his left. Eliot lifts his head listlessly. If it’s cops, he’ll go into custody quietly. If it’s someone looking for trouble, maybe he’ll just let them kill him. Either way, he doesn’t have it in him right now to fight.

It’s neither of those things, though. Instead, Hardison’s body seizes, jerks, and then heaves upright like it’s spring-loaded. He’s hacking and coughing, vomiting murky water, his eyes so wide and wild that Eliot can see the whites all the way around. His hands dig into the mud, then lift to claw at his grimy, bloody shirt.

Cloth parts. Beneath it is bare skin, smooth and completely undamaged. No sign of the shattered bone and pulpy bruising that should be there. Hardison pats at himself frantically and finally lifts his head to meet Eliot’s eyes.

“Eliot,” he says, weak and rasping. “We—I thought—”

“Hardison,” Eliot breathes, and for a wild instant he has no idea what to think. Hardison was dead, he was dead, Eliot’s seen more dead bodies than he can count and he knows what they look like. What they feel like. Hardison was dead. Which means...

“Parker,” Hardison gasps, and then, “Parker, where’s Parker,” and before Eliot can even think to speak there’s gasping on the other side of him and Parker’s thready voice saying first Hardison’s name and then Eliot’s.

Eliot drops his head into his hands and laughs until he cries.

It takes a while to explain it. Or, to be more accurate: it takes a while to get to the closest safehouse that they can be reasonably sure isn’t compromised, which turns out to be one of Parker’s warehouses. She’s got A/C set up somehow, and clothes for both of them—Eliot recognizes the t-shirt she tosses him as one that went missing in the move to Portland all those months ago—and has even rigged up something that could generously be termed shower facilities.

“I thought you didn’t keep any of these anymore,” Hardison mumbles as she steers him to the sprayer that’s zip-tied to a pipe over a wide, shallow trough. The whole thing is brutally utilitarian in a very Parker kind of way.

“You never know when you might need to go to ground. Always be prepared.”

A ragged laugh escapes Hardison’s lips. “Boy Scouts. Cool, cool.”

Parker is busy unbuttoning his shirt; she pulls that off and starts on his pants. Hardison doesn’t squawk any objections about his modesty, which just goes to show how deeply shaken he is; Eliot turns away anyway as both their clothes hit the floor and the water sputters on. He can wait his turn. He once hiked thirty miles on the trail of horse thieves with the remnants of his own guts decorating his clothes; this isn’t even close to the most disgusting he’s ever been.

“Eliot,” Parker says firmly, and he lifts his head. They’re both naked, and he can’t quite stop himself from staring at all that smooth undamaged skin laid bare. Parker’s right shoulder is caked with blood that’s washed her entire side with red, but there’s no bullet-hole now. Beside her, Hardison is steady on his feet, standing easily on a leg that was shattered an hour ago.

They’re both alive.

Eliot blinks, then jerks his head to the side a moment too late. “Go ahead. I can wait.”

“Or you could just come here,” Hardison says, with a raw edge of humor. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Thanks a lot,” Eliot huffs. He considers trying to argue, then finds abruptly that he doesn’t have the energy. He kicks off his boots and starts pulling his clothes off, leaving them in a stinking bloody heap on the floor. Parker and Hardison both watch him in a way that makes him feel weirdly exposed. It’s not prurient, not really. He has a feeling that they’re looking at his naked body the same way he was just looking at theirs. Cataloguing the injuries that should be there, and aren’t.

Drawing some conclusions, maybe, about all of the beatings that he’s walked away from without a limp in the time they’ve known each other.

“You got some explaining to do,” Hardison says, almost apologetically, as he draws Eliot into the tub with them. He keeps a firm grip on Eliot’s elbow like he’s expecting him to bolt, which to be fair isn’t completely outside the realm of possibility. Eliot has imagined stepping into a shower with the two of them more times than he can count, but this particular scenario never featured in his daydreams.

“Yeah,” Eliot admits, closing his eyes. The spray washes over him, rinsing away the blood and river mud, but the panic—that terrible bleak echo of grief—that lingers. “I will. I promise.”

While Parker and Hardison are getting dressed, he takes one of Parker’s burner phones and goes out behind the building to call Andy.

“I have the new ones,” he says without preamble when she picks up. He knows that she knows what he’s talking about. They’ll have dreamed this, the four of them.

There’s a long pause, and then Andy says, “Good. We’re in Afghanistan. Do you need us there?”

He can hear voices in the distance. It’s impossible to make out the words over the shitty international connection, but even so he recognizes Joe’s laughing cadence. He’s heckling someone; Booker, probably. Nicky has to be there too.

Eliot misses them all so much that it aches. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Nah. I can take care of it.”

“You know them,” Andy says. “Don’t you.”

It’s not really a question.

“Yeah,” Eliot says on a breath of laughter, all the same. “Yeah, you sure could say that.”

There’s a hell of a lot that Andy could say in response, especially after the way everything went down with Eliot and Moreau ten years back, but all she does say, after a slight pause, is, “Well, good. That’ll make it simpler. You can explain about the dreams, but we’ll be in the States by the end of the week.”

Eliot laughs again, more genuinely. “Yeah, okay. It’s— It’ll be good to see you all. I miss you.”

“We miss you too,” Andy says, very gently, and ends the call before Eliot has to find a way to do it.

When he gets back inside, Parker and Hardison are dressed and sitting at the folding table. Both of them lift their heads as he approaches.

“Where’d you go?” Hardison asks.

“Had to call a friend.” Eliot makes a face. The time for prevarication is over, but that doesn’t mean he has a damn clue how to explain this. Until right now, he’s been the baby of the gang. “Andy, her name is Andy. She’s another one. Like us.”

“Like us, like us, okay,” Hardison says. “What—what does that mean, exactly? We—you got shot. Parker got shot. I had a broken leg. We all—” He shakes his head. “What happened?”

Eliot takes a breath, opens his mouth, closes it again. Finally, bluntly, he says, “You died. We all did.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Hardison says. There’s an uncharacteristic snap to his voice. He sounds genuinely angry for the first time. Scared, too. He sounds scared. Eliot wishes like hell there was anything at all he could do to fix that, but all he has to offer is the truth.

He sighs and says, to Parker, “You got a knife?”

She reaches back without breaking her eerily intent gaze to scoop a switchblade off the table and toss it to him. Eliot plucks it out of the air and opens it, then takes a deep breath, spreads his left hand out, and drives the blade into it until the point emerges from his palm. Blood dribbles onto the floor; Hardison jolts forward with a horrified noise.

Parker is still just watching him, cool-eyed and assessing. He pulls the blade out and holds up his hand so that they can watch the hole he just made heal in seconds.

“Oh shit,” Hardison says faintly. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Parker stares at him a moment longer, then holds out her hand. “Can I do that?”

“It’ll still hurt,” Eliot warns her, but he hands the knife back. She cleans it carelessly on a shop rag, then tests the edge of it thoughtfully.

Hardison rubs a hand over his mouth, then says, carefully, “Babe, please don’t stab yourself. I can’t watch that twice in a row.”

“It would heal, though.” She looks up and fixes Eliot with a burning look. “Right?”

Eliot sighs. “Right.”

She nods slowly. “That wasn’t the first time you died. Was it.”

“Not by a long shot.”

Hardison looks up at that, eyes narrowed. “When was the first time?”

“1861,” Eliot sighs. “I was guarding a mail coach in the Nebraska Territory, and we were attacked, and...”

“Eighteen—eighteen sixty-one. Okay.”

“Sorry.”

“For being old as balls?”

It startles a laugh out of him. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And there’s more of you.” Hardison pauses. “Of us.”

“Yeah. Four—” He pauses, winces. Thinks of Quynh, drowning and drowning under the ocean. Her deaths have been in his dreams for well over a hundred years. She’s been a constant companion, even if he’s never met her and probably never will. “Five more.”

“Are they older than you, or younger?”

“Older. Lots older.”

“So what you’re saying, basically,” Hardison says, “is that we’re immortal.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says dryly, “that was the general gist of it.”

Parker is starting to smile, wild in a way that’s almost inhuman. “Oh, I’m going to jump off the Sears Tower without a harness.”

“Babe,” Hardison says again, but he sounds distracted as he pulls a tablet toward him.

“You’ll still die,” Eliot tells her.

“Yeah,” she says dismissively, “but I’ll come back. Right?”

“Please don’t jump off the Sears Tower,” Hardison says absently. He chews on his lower lip as he does something on the tablet, shifting lights on the screen reflecting in his eyes. “Okay. Good news, Nate and Sophie are okay. Bad news, Sophie is in the hospital and Nate’s been taken into custody in Highpoint Tower.” He looks up and meets Eliot’s eyes, expression challenging. “We need to get him out.”

Eliot nods, relieved. “Yeah. We do.”

Hardison nods too. He looks a little easier now—with a task at hand, with proof that the others are still alive, with the knowledge that he’s still him, Eliot doesn’t know. “Okay. That’s what we’ll do. And when we’re done we’re gonna come back here and you’re gonna answer all of our questions. Right?”

Eliot considers that moment on the river bank when he thought they both were dead. He considers the interrogation Hardison is going to subject him to, and the batshit insane stunts that Parker is going to pull, and he feels himself smiling, broad and helpless. “Anything you want.”

#leverage #the old guard #my fic #blood and gore #??#i guess

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alifeasvivid · 4 years ago

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do u have any headcanons for a chubby arthur or a chubby alfred (maybe an alfred that hasn’t gone for a run in a few weeks, an arthur that snacks constantly, indulgent holidays for both of them?) i was literally just thinking about it bc thanksgiving is coming up and i always love your headcanons!

This is mainly canonverse, but you could apply it to human au too.

I hc that Arthur cannot put on weight to save his sorry life, as mentioned in this post. I think he sees food kind of as a utilitarian thing... fuel for the tank, as it were and therefore isn’t given to too much overeating such that it would cause weight gain even if it could. He’s definitely got a sweet tooth though. Like he would definitely lean more toward being dangerously underweight and he’s one of those irritating jerks who can eat literally all the things and still not gain a single pound or... stone... or kilogram... or whatever they use in the UK ;)

As for Alfred, yeah I could definitely see him putting on some pudge if he skipped more than a week at the gym... mostly on his tummy. However, he is only 19 physically and someone with his canon body type would probably have a very fast metabolism. Also... I could write a whole-ass disseration about Alfred’s relationship with food, but suffice it to say, in his lower moments, he has a tendency to be an emotional eater (likely due to starving a few times in his short life) and can therefore gain several pounds that way, which he then tries to burn off asap once he’s feeling better.

But..... chubby? Meh. I’m not really about it. I have mad respect for some people in the fandom that very much are about it, but it’s not really my jam.

#Anonymous

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justjessame · 4 years ago

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The Deal Chapter 29

My first impression of the Sanctuary was that it looked a hell of a lot like the prison. There were walkers being utilized as added security around the perimeter. Interesting idea, I thought, and wondering if eventually that would be my purpose.

As we entered the gates, flashes of my life before, at the prison threatened to overwhelm me. Lori’s death. Blood. Judith’s birth. Blood. Dad’s descent into madness. Blood. Daryl’s pain when Merle was gone. Blood. The Governor’s last stand. Blood. Every memory that came to me was tinged in the surreal redness of the blood that was spilled. And my eyes were drawn to Negan’s bat. Still coated in Abraham’s blood and brain matter. I realized that I was wrong. There were two certainties in our world. Death and blood.

I paid little attention to the people around us, but when I refocused, fighting back against the tide of memories I noticed that along the path Negan was leading me was lined by kneeling people. Fear radiated off these people, but also awe. They were in awe of him.

I followed him. Not too closely, but close enough so I could keep up without jogging. He was whistling as he walked. As though this happened everyday. Him returning with that bat coated in gore, a stranger in tow, and not a care in the world.

Inside the utilitarian building, he kept moving. Forward momentum, full steam ahead. Purposeful. And still, as he walked, people kneeled. As naturally as I drew breath in my lungs, as unthinking as I’d been walking through life, they fell to their knees and stayed there until he was out of view.

Soon we were in a nicely decorated room filled with attractive women in short black dresses. I had walked behind him, back straight, chin up, and I didn’t drop my posture when I followed him into what I could only believe was his harem. They greeted him. They fawned over him. And they paid me no attention, as though my being there was normal. Or as though I was invisible. Their conversation was an annoying buzz in my head, nothing more.

I didn’t care what they were saying, or offering to my new keeper. I was still fighting the rush of pain that had surfaced with the similarities of this place to another. And when that door was opened, so where the other ones. More loss. More pain. More blood. It was almost overwhelming. And yet, noticing that no one seemed to see anything amiss with me, I had to think that my mask had returned. That no one could see the pain that memories were dealing me. Worse than the losses, the flashes of the happiness I’d once had. The hope that I’d held so deeply. The love I’d shared with Daryl.

“Ladies,” his voice, so commanding and deep, drew me away from my inner turmoil. “This,” I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Is Jessica. Jessica, I’d like you to meet my wives.”

Harem. I kept my eyes forward, waiting for him to decide what came next for me. I wasn’t planning on befriending these women. I’d seen, when I’d allowed myself to focus on them, that I bore no resemblance to them. We shared nothing but our gender.

One wife stepped forward. Her movement, coming closer, reminded me of my past. My ability to read people, once upon a time, and decide if danger was in front of me. She didn’t look formidable. Or dangerous. But hadn’t we all learned that monsters often had the faces of angels?

“Jessica,” her voice was quiet and she was looking at me like someone might study a caged or trapped animal, deciding on my danger. “I’m Sherry.”

My eyes were on hers, and I gave a curt nod. And? I wanted to know. You’re Sherry. I’m Jessica. What did it matter?

Negan was waiting. What he was waiting for I had no clue. Did he imagine me feral? Did he expect me to lash out? Did he want me to?

“Come,” he said, finally breaking the silence that had once again fallen around me. “Jessica,” he offered, believing that I hadn’t understood he meant me. “Come with me, sweetheart.” There was another term of endearment. He’d done it a few times now, but this time I heard it. Really heard it.

I followed him. Another room. Still nice, even lavish decor. And a huge bed. I huffed out a breath. A bedroom? My eyes landing on the subtle touches that told me whose. A pair of leather gloves on the table between chairs. The hint of a t-shirt hanging loose out of the chest of drawers. Negan’s room, obviously.

He took the seat facing the door and pointed at the one facing his. I sat down. My eyes locked on his. The bat was leaning against his chair. “Now we’re face to face, and on the same level.” He took in my small stature. “Well, almost.”

I settled in for more conversation. Is it conversation? If a man who you don’t know asks if you’re suicidal, is that really chit chat?

“There’s something about you, Jessica Grimes.” He was studying me again. Full on. No need for side-eye now. His eyes locked on mine, and I waited. “What broke you?”

And there it was. A complete stranger removed my mask. “Who says I’m broken?” If I wouldn’t tell Dad, why would I tell you?

“Your eyes.” He wasn’t digging. He was sure. “Your body and your posture, even your words. They make a good show. But your eyes? It’s clear as a fucking bell.”

I didn’t answer. What was the question? Why would I deny it? Or confirm it? What’s the point?

“How long?” And once again, I knew that he wasn’t asking something as simple as the words implied. How long have I been like this? How long since I started going through the motions, a puppet in life, pretending that surviving was living? How long had it been since I’d felt something as strongly as what I felt that led me to that clearing? To him?

“I’m not sure.” And I wasn’t. It had been subtle. I’d kept it at bay. I’d fought it. And yet, one day there it was.

He nodded. He seemed to understand, which made as much sense as him caring did. “You need rest.” It wasn’t an order, it was a comment. “Rest, a check up with my doctor, and food.” His eyes roamed over my body, and I wondered why he’d think I’d need food. “Come here.”

He stood up and offered me his hand. Taking it, with more confusion than I’d allowed to show since I’d walked out into the open, he helped me to my feet. I guess that my shirt had raised, and he saw that I was armed. Knife and gun, they were pretty much my only wardrobe accessories.

“You’ve been armed this entire time and didn’t try to fucking kill me?” He asked, pulling them both from their usual places. I felt more naked without them, than I ever had without my clothes. “Why?”

Whatever he’d planned for that had made him help me to my feet, it was postponed. Why hadn’t I attacked him? Why hadn’t I tried to use my weapons to free my family? Why, when alone and on the road with him, hadn’t I fought him? Blindsided him and taken him down?

“I don’t know.” And I didn’t. There was a time, long long ago, that Jessica Grimes wouldn’t have hesitated. She would have drawn the gun and killed him stone cold dead. I thought I knew that Jessica. I guess she really was gone now.

He looked unnerved. A look that I imagined I’d shown when I saw Lizzie holding Judith’s mouth shut with her hands, as my baby sister started to turn blue. Fear. That’s what I saw on his face. Fear. But was he afraid of me, or for me?

#daryl dixon x ofc #eventual negan x ofc #The Walking Dead #rick grimes daughter #angst #alternative universe #mental illness

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dimensiontripperhibiki · 5 years ago

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The End is Where We Begin (5/?)

Bit of a longer chapter this time, guys. I hope you enjoy. Another reminder: there’s going to be no love triangles in this. Don’t worry. A reveal coming up in this chapter too so let me know what you think. Thanks for all of the likes/reblogs and messages. I appreciate it. :) “What’s wrong with you?” Kara looked up sharply at the question, her eyes going wide at the question. Lena was staring at her stoically from across the desk. “W-What? What do you mean?” “You’re staring.” Lena self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ears. She usually didn’t wear it down at work and she was worried that doing so when she was with Kara somehow made it seem like this wasn’t about work. That they were friends again. “Do I have something in my hair?” “No, of course not.” Kara laughed bashfully and adjusted her glasses. Truthfully she’d been staring because she’d been thinking about the previous night, on the roof. Lena had made her promise not to talk about it and that was a promise that Kara wasn’t willing to break. Still, Kara couldn’t shake the feeling that Lena somehow looked different today. Or the same. She had looked different last night. “You just...look nice today, that’s all. Not that you don’t look good every day you just look extra good today. Y-You know?”

“Right.” Lena stared at Kara for a moment longer before she turned back to her research. “So you mentioned that you’re swallowed by the wave of antimatter in your vision? Do you have any idea why that stops the wave from getting to anyone else?”

Kara’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall the specifics of the visions she’d seen. “I don’t know. I remember that I was flying. Fast. So fast I could feel myself burning. Like last time…” She closed her eyes, shuddering slightly at the memory of being burned from the inside out. “Last time?” Lena echoed, leaning forward. “You’ve done this before?” Kara nodded. “During a different crisis. I have a friend and he’s just as fast...probably faster than me. We needed to rewind time to keep the world from being destroyed and we almost burned up.” Lena felt her heart sink at the thought and her eyes flicked toward the far wall as if Kara would be able to tell how she was feeling just by looking at her. “I didn’t know about that. Not that I’m surprised by it. I’ve heard of Supergirl’s heroics. Even witnessed them firsthand. Burning just seems a little…extreme.” The corners of Kara’s lips twitched at the comment. “You don’t know the half of it. But hey, if I’ve done it before I can do it again, right?” Lena’s gaze flicked back to Kara. She wasn’t surprised by the comment, just caught off guard by the dark tone Kara’s voice had taken on. “I get the impression that this time is different. You’ve never had to wait before making a sacrifice. It’s always been in the spur of the moment.” “I guess you’re right about that.” Kara said softly. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m willing to do it. It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” “From a utilitarian standpoint, sacrificing one for the many is always the morally right mo…” Lena trailed off, noticing the pained look on Kara’s face. She awkwardly cleared her throat. Kara wasn’t asking that. “You’re having doubts?” “Not doubts. I’m going to do it if that’s what needs to be done.I would never let the world be destroyed. It’s my home. I’m just worried about what will happen to it after I’m gone.” Lena couldn’t deny that the thought of a world without Kara in it hurt but she refused to let it show. “What do you mean?” Kara let out a sigh and looked down at the desk separating her from Lena. She hated that desk. She wanted nothing more than to hurl it out of the window and incinerate it with her heat vision. She wanted the warmth Lena had shown her last night but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. “I worry about how Alex will deal with this. And whether I’m putting Nia in danger by training her to take my place. I’m worried that without me here, people will die when I could have saved them.” “That’s a fair argument.” Lena stood up and moved around the table until she could perch on the edge of it. “All the more reason for us to fight to keep you alive. We’re going to figure this out, Kara. Nobody’s going to die.” Kara smiled at the response, feeling her eyes prickle with tears. “I really wish I could hug you right now.” She said before she could even think to filter herself. She watched surprise cross Lena’s face, followed by sadness. It was brief before Lena’s carefully constructed walls slid back into place but Kara definitely noticed it. Lena awkwardly cleared her throat, trying to ignore the niggling desire to give into Kara’s wish. “Are we going to talk about what happened yesterday?” “Um...no? I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about it?” “What?” Lena frowned at the confusion on Kara’s face. “I mean you almost getting yourself killed. I saw what happened on the news.” “Oh, I...no. I don’t really want to get into it again. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get myself killed.” Kara huffed out a sigh. “I won’t have much of a chance to anyway. Alex suspended me.” Lena raised an eyebrow at the claim. “Suspended you? She can do that?” “From the DEO, yeah.” Kara answered. “She’s mad at me for being reckless. She’s...not wrong. I have to apologise to her. I don’t want her to be mad at me if we don’t have much time left together.” “You should tell her.” Lena advised quietly. She held up a hand as Kara opened her mouth to speak. “I know you’re not going to. But I’m not going to stop saying it. Alex Danvers may not be one of my favourite people at the moment but I know her enough to know it would devastate her to find out later and not be able to help you through it. Or worse, to find out from someone else. Trust me, it’s.painful to be lied to by someone you love.” Kara swallowed thickly at the loaded comment. “She’s always been my big sister. She’s always protected me, even when I don’t want it. For now, I can protect her.” “And yourself.” Kara closed her eyes. “And myself.” She whispered, bowing her head. “I’m not proud of it, Lena. I can’t be the girl of steel when it comes to the people I love. But I am willing to do what needs to be done.” “I know. I didn’t mean it like that.” Lena frowned as Kara glanced up at her, questioningly. “Nevermind. We’re not getting anywhere like this. Is there a way you could show me what happened? If I could see it perhaps I could see something you didn’t notice.” “Are you sure you want to see it?” Kara asked hesitantly. “Everything is destroyed, Lena. It’s not easy to watch.” “For the most part, I’ll be able to watch objectively. I don’t have an emotional connection to anyone we may see in the vision.” It was a lie and Lena knew it but she had to say something to sway Kara to her side. “It’s been a week and I’m getting nowhere. All I have are theories and dead ends. I need to see.” Kara was silent for a few seconds, visibly struggling. “I’ll speak to Kelly. I can’t tell her the specifics obviously but maybe she can pull some strings and get us into her lab.” “Good.” Lena said, relieved. “In the meantime, I’ll keep looking for an answer with what I have.” “Yeah. Um...I should go. I have...training.” Kara stood up, quickly gathering her things. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She headed for the door but paused, just shy of leaving. “Lena?” “Hmm?” Lena looked up. Kara bit her lip. She wanted to ask if Lena had meant what she’d said before, about having no emotional connection to her. She couldn’t bring herself to ask. She wasn’t sure she was ready to hear the answer Lena would give her. Not yet. “I-I, uh...take care.” Lena let out a soft sigh as Kara left the room. Her feelings toward Kara were torn but they were still present. She just didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. --- “Kara!” Alex exclaimed in surprise as she opened the door to find Kara nervously standing there. She was both shocked and relieved to see her. After their argument the previous night she had thought Kara would be avoiding her. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Do you want to come in?” “I’m actually not here for you.” Kara replied sheepishly. She slid her hands into her coat pockets. “Is Kelly here?” “Yeah, I’ll get her…” Alex glanced over her shoulder. “Kelly?!” She turned back to Kara who was nervously biting her lip. “Hey, Kara. I’m…” She trailed off as Kelly appeared at her side. “Hey, Kara.” Kelly said with a smile. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah, it’s...I’m fine. I just need to ask you a favor. A really huge favor.” Kara said, her stomach in knots at the thought that Kelly might say no. As reluctant as Kara was for Lena to see what she’d seen, she wanted to do what Lena had asked of her. “I don’t want you to think that I’m just asking you because you’re my sister’s girlfriend. I consider you my friend too. Not that I would ever jeopardize your job for that reason either, I just…” “Okay, slow down, Kara.” Kelly said with a small sigh. She placed her hand lightly on Kara’s shoulders. “What’s this about jeopardizing my job? What’s going on? Actually, you should come i-” “I was hoping that I could use your lab.” Kara blurted out, earning herself a confused look from Kelly. “For...a personal thing. It’s really important to me and I need to...well I need to show someone something from my memory. Something really private. I was hoping you could show me the ropes and then leave me to it, maybe? I know it’s a lot to ask.” “I could make it happen.” Kelly said after a long moment. “But I would need to stay with you to supervise. You won’t be able to do that yourself.” “It’s...it’s really private.” “Oh. Oh, right. I see.” Kelly awkwardly cleared her throat. “Well um…” “It’s not like that!” Kara said quickly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “It’s not a sex thing, just...it’s private.” “If it’s that important to you I could come with you.” Alex volunteered hopefully. She looked to Kelly. “If that would be okay?” Kelly was just about to nod when Kara interrupted. “No, no. It can’t be you.” “So it is a sex thing.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” “I’m not seeing anyone, it’s just...private.” Kara stumbled over her words. She hated lying to Alex but it had to be done. “Can I get Nia to help?” “Well...if you want to.” Kelly glanced between Alex and Kara. She had no idea what was happening but she was sure she didn’t want to be in the middle of it. “Thank you. I really owe you for this.” Kara said, relief washing over her. “Is Friday okay?” Kelly nodded in response. “I’ll check my schedule but Friday’s are usually free.” “Thank you, I really owe you for this. I should be going. Have a good night.” Kara offered a small smile before she turned and walked away from the apartment. She heard the door close behind her but what followed was the sound of hurried footsteps. “Kara!” Kara stopped at the sound of Alex’s voice. “I don’t want to fight, Alex.” “I don’t want to either.” Alex lightly touched Kara’s arm as she walked around her so that she was standing in front of her. “But I’d rather that then have you keep avoiding me.” “I haven’t…” Kara trailed off, her protests dying in her throat. She had been avoiding Alex. “I’m sorry.” She guiltily looked away. She didn’t trust herself to meet Alex’s eyes and not blurt the truth out. “I’m sorry for avoiding you and for what happened the other day. I shouldn’t have said those things to you. It was out of line. I was just angry.” Alex gave Kara’s arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry too. I may have overreacted a bit. You know how I can be when it comes to your safety. It’s the most important thing to m-” She was cut off as Kara surged forward, hugging her tightly. Surprised, she hugged Kara back. “I’m worried about you, Kara.” “And I appreciate it.” Kara mumled into Alex’s shoulder. “I’ll try to be more careful. But I’m always going to do what has to be done. You have to know that.” Alex let out a soft sigh. “I suppose I can’t ask for much more, can I?” She slowly pulled back, looking into Kara’s watery blue eyes. “Hold on, I’ll head home with you. I’ll even buy you dinner on the way.” “What about Kelly?” “She was just heading home anyway. She said she has work.” Alex answered. She gripped Kara’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Wait for me.” Kara nodded solemnly and watched as Alex walked away. She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. As selfish as she felt to drag Alex away from Kelly, she was relieved too. All she wanted was to stay as close to Alex as she could, for as long as she possibly could. ----

Nia breathed heavily as she punched forward, swinging her leg around before slamming her knee into the area she was imagining Supergirl standing. She wasn’t imagining Kara for any malicious reason, the opposite in fact. Kara was the person she looked up to the most but with the crisis coming for them she had to use the girl of steel as the target for her training, running through each of their previous training sessions in hope that she could find a way to improve.

She closed her eyes, paying no mind to the beads of sweat running down her forehead and onto her tank top as she remembered the latest training session she’d had with Kara. Though it was the session when Kara had almost torn her arm from her socket, it was the training session she’d needed the most. It showed that she still had a long way to go. She ducked, stepping back in an attempt to dodge one of Supergirl’s punches but flinched as she felt herself hit into her apartment’s couch. Despite pushing all the furniture to the edges of the room she still hardly had any room to train but she had to admit it was better than the other options. From Alex arguing with Kara to Kara arguing with Lena she was starting to run out of places to train.

“I could use a break.” Nia muttered to herself before she removed her obsidian lenses. She checked her watch, her eyes widening as she realised she had been training for more than four hours in the small apartment with only a single break two hours ago. She let out a long sigh as she plonked backwards onto the soft couch, sighing at how soft it was. She wasn’t sure if it was because of how tired she had been recently or the training but she felt like she could sink into the couch.

She opened her eyes sharply at the familiar feeling of her dream ability activating. She barely had time to react to where she was before explosions echoed around her. She looked to be inside of a park in National City but the ground was scorched, craters in the ground surrounded by fire. She knew she was dreaming thanks to the strange feeling of heaviness all around her body but she hoped to any god listening it wasn’t a possible future. It looked as if nothing was alive.

“Mommy…”

“No...” Nia turned quickly at the sound of a meek cry and her heart sank as she saw a little girl walking down the desolate screet, tears running down her face as she struggled to continue walking. Her knees were scraped and bleeding and her skin was covered in dirt. Nia knew what was about to happen before it did but she still cried out as a group of strange creatures lurking in the shadows lunged towards the defenceless girl, their menacing claws ready to stab into her. She watched, frozen in shock. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to do anything. She never could. Movement caught her attention and she looked up sharply in time to see a woman fly down, landing with enough force to almost knock the girl from her feet. Slowly, the dark haired woman straightened up. “Lena…?” Nia’s eyes darted over Lena, taking in light green skin tight clothing she was wearing. It was the ring Lena was wearing on her finger, radiating energy that really caught Nia’s eye though.

The green suited Lena blocked the first two creature’s attacks with a green energy shield emanating from the ring before she slammed her foot into the third creature with more than enough force to knock it into the ground, forming another crater. She turned as more creatures suddenly started to appear from what looked to be everywhere, two green energy blades appearing in her hands.

Nia watched in both awe and horror as the green suited Lean tore through the creature’s bodies with the daggers. Her suit was quickly coated with their blood but she paid no mind, continuing to fight as hard as she could to defend the child. Each time a creature came slightly close to the little girl, Lena would destroy them without a second thought before turning her attention to the next. Nia wouldn’t have believed that person was even Lena if she wasn’t seeing it with her own eyes.

“In...brightest day…”

Nia flinched as Lena started to speak, forced to create a dome around herself and the small child as the army of creatures piled onto her. Nia could see that the green energy dome was starting to crack. “No, you have to run…”

“In the...blackest night…” Lena collapsed to one knee but continued to speak through gritted teeth, holding her arm with the ring on with her other hand as her eyes started to glow green. “No...evil shall escape my sight. Let...those who worship evil’s...might…”

Nia’s eyes widened as she looked up from the green suited Lena towards the end of the street, looking for any help coming. Surely Kara was on her way. Instead she found the Monitor she’d met back in Kara’s apartment standing nearby. It struck Nia that he was looking right at her with a small smile on his face. She’d thought nothing could see her when she was dreaming.

“Beware my power, Green Lantern’s light!” The green suited Lena yelled before an explosion of green energy erupted from her, blasting away all of the creatures just as Nia started to feel weak. She knew that her dream was about to end. The last thing she saw before blacking out was the green suited Lena flying away with the girl in her arms.

“AGH!” Nia jumped up off the couch, instantly getting into a fighting stance as she looked around. As far as she could tell she was back in her apartment with no-one else around. She slowly relaxed, lowered her arms back to her side though her mind was racing. What had she seen and was that really Lena Luthor? Where was Supergirl? Was that the future? She needed to get her head straight before her roommate returned. There was only one person who could answer her questions though she knew it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. ---- “...so I figured it would be better to use a stabilized energy factorisation approach to keep the loss of energy at a minimum. That way we’re one step closer to a real, unlimited source of energy.” “Mmhm.” Hisa hummed, nodding in response to Lena’s rambling. She swallowed her food, setting aside the takeaway carton she’d been shovelling noodles into her mouth from. “Lena. I want to be straight with you.” Lena blinked at Hisa in confusion. She leaned forward on the couch and set her fork down. “What is it?” “I’m an alien.” Hisa replied, her gaze unwavering. “I just...want you to know that before we can become...friends? I know some people still don’t like the idea of aliens living amongst them which is why I try to keep quiet about it. For my sake and my family's. Not that it’s done me a lot of good..” “Oh.” Lena was taken aback by the frank information. “Why tell me if it’s a secret?” “I don’t know. There’s something about you that I trust. I want to be honest with you, as much as possible.” She watched Lena for a moment, noticing the way the dark haired woman looked away. “And I’ve freaked you out. My sister always tells me I move too fast. This is exactly why I’m single. They don’t call me U-haul Hisa for no reason.” Lena couldn’t help but laugh at that and she turned her attention back to Hisa. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I was just thinking about someone...something else. So you mentioned a U-haul? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.” Hisa smirked, relieved by the response but she quickly turned serious again. “So are we good?” Lena nodded her response. “It’s not easy to gain my trust. And I’m not looking to make friends.” “Then why am I here?” Lena frowned slightly at that. She clearly hadn’t been thinking straight when she’d spontaneously called the woman she’d met in the coffee shop. She supposed it was a moment of weakness, where she’d given into the niggling loneliness she’d been feeling since her falling out with Kara. “Don’t worry, I get it.” Hisa said with a small smile. “Either way, I’m still glad I text you my number. Maybe you’ll change your mind.” “I won’t.” “A girl can hope.” Lena shook her head slightly, trying to ignore the sting the words caused her. She remembered when Kara had thought the same thing. She’d destroyed her walls with all the power of the girl of steel and had wormed her way into Lena’s heart. Clearing her throat, Lena reached for the glass of wine in front of her and took a sip, her food long forgotten. “So do you have family around here?” She asked, trying to take the attention away from herself. “Or are you staying alone?” “My brother and sister live in the city.” Hisa replied softly, looking down at her hands. “My brother does anyway. My sister is...it’s complicated.” “Right. That woman you were with mentioned your sister, didn’t she?” Lena asked thoughtfully. “Your girlfriend?” Hisa gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “Nothing like that. You could say she has me on retainer right now.” “You work for her?” “Uh...sure. Let’s go with that.” Hisa wasn’t surprised to see a questioning look on Lena’s face when she looked up. “The people I’m working for aren’t good people. I suppose that makes me just as bad.” Lena stared at Hisa, confused by the admission. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever been so open with her, and with no reason at all. They barely knew each other yet Hisa was speaking to her like they’d been friends for years. “Got anything stronger than that wi-?” Hisa was cut off by a smash as something charged through Lena’s closed balcony door, sending glass flying toward them. She jumped up instinctively as Lena let out a startled yell. “What the hell is that?” Lena got up quickly, staring wide eyed at the alien in front of her. It was at least seven feet tall and was snarling mindlessly at them as it charged for them. “Not the time.” Hisa growled, holding her hand out. She focused her energy, focusing on her need for a weapon. Within a second a crimson energy dagger started forming in her hand. Not fast enough. She pushed Lena back with her free hand only to catch a blow to the head from the towering beast. The force sent her to the ground, pain pulsing through her jaw. Looking up she saw Lena backing away, her eyes darting left and right as she searched for anything she could use as a weapon. Spitting out blood, Hisa scrambled to her feet and rushed the Hexeron, tackling it from the side and sending them both sprawling to the floor. She lifted her right hand and plunged the dagger into the alien’s chest with a yell of anger. The alien let out a pained cry and it’s fists hit out at Hisa as she lifted the knife again, plunging it into the alien’s neck repeatedly as she tried to keep from being thrown off of it. When it was finally still, Hisa was breathing heavily, her lip bleeding from being caught in the face again. “Hisa!” Hisa looked up sharply, her heart sinking when she found that during her struggle the door had been kicked in and more of the disfigured aliens were pouring into the room. “Get to the balcony. RUN!” She ordered, struggling her way to her feet. As Lena headed for the balcony, Hisa threw the dagger at one of the oncoming aliens, hitting it square in the forehead before she turned and sprinted after Lena. “What now?” Lena asked urgently, looking over Hisa’s shoulder. “You’re not gonna like it.” Hisa flashed a bloody smile before she pulled Lena close to her with an arm around her waist. With strength that caught Lena off guard, Hisa vaulted them both over the railing of the balcony and they plummeted toward the ground. Lena gasped at the feeling of falling and hung on as tightly as she could, closing her eyes tightly. She expected to hit the ground hard but instead she landed on something soft, bouncing her upwards while she kept clutching Hisa. She opened her eyes, looking down at what seemed to be a trampoline beneath them. It seemed to be made out of some kind of red energy. “Hold on.” Hisa warned before they hit the bouncy surface again. This time she landed closer to the edge and they hopped off, landing on the ground on their feet. “What the hell was that?” Lena watched as the ‘trampoline’ seemed to dissolve in front of her eyes. “My po…” Hisa eyes flicked to the sky as a blur of red and blue shot by overhead. “Shit.” “Supergirl is here.” Lena said, relief seeping into her voice. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” Hisa pulled away regretfully. “I’ll call you. I’m so sorry, Lena.” She turned away without another word and took off down the street. Lena watched Hisa go in confusion. She stepped forward, intending to follow but she was stopped short as Supergirl landed in front of her. “Lena, you’re alright!” Kara surged forward, hugging Lena tightly. “I saw all of the blood and I couldn’t find you.” “I’m fine, Kara.” Lena said meekly, her arms hanging limply at her sides despite how much she wanted to hug Kara back. She felt like she couldn’t move. “I’m okay.” “Oh, I’m sorry!” Kara quickly pulled away, putting some distance between them. “We’re not...hugging anymore. Right. Are you hurt?” Lena managed a small smile as Kara looked her over. “I hope you’re not using your x-ray vision.” “W-What? No! I wouldn’t.” Kara felt her face warm at the insinuation but she relaxed when Lena let out a soft chuckle. “Are you sure you’re okay? There was a lot of blood.” “It wasn’t mine.” Lena answered softly. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’m okay, just a little shaken up. You’d think I’d be used to being attacked by now, huh?” “No, of course not.” Kara watched as Lena trembled in front of her. “Alex will be here soon to deal with all of this. Are you sure you’re…” “I’m okay.” Lena interrupted. “Right. Is there anything I can...do?” Lena looked away, biting her lip. She could hear sirens in the distance, slowly getting closer. “Maybe.” She muttered. “What? Tell me. I’ll do anything.” “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.” Lena steeled herself before she walked toward Kara. She saw the blonde’s eyes widen before she wrapped her arms around Kara’s waist and hugged her fiercely. “Oh.” Kara was shocked into stillness for a few seconds before she managed to gather herself and hugged Lena back. She inhaled slowly, closing her eyes as she basked in the embrace. She wasn’t sure why it was happening but she wasn’t about to complain. “Let me take you home.” “I am home.” Lena’s voice was slightly muffled by Kara’s hair. “My home.” Kara replied in a whisper. “Just for the night, I promise. And before you say anything, I know this doesn’t mean we’re friends. But you can’t stay here.” Lena opened her mouth to protest but quickly closed it again. Slowly, she leaned back. “Take me home then, Supergirl.” Kara blinked at Lena, puzzled by the comment. Lena didn’t sound as angry as she usually did when she called her that. She nodded and carefully scooped Lena into her arms before she shot up into the sky, heading for her apartment. She tried not to let herself hope but she couldn’t help but focus on the way Lena’s arms wrapped around Kara’s neck. Not tightly, like she was afraid. Loosely, like she trusted Kara not to drop her. When they landed in the apartment, Kara gently set Lena down on her feet. “Um...I’m just going to change out of this. I’ll be right back. Help yourself to anything you need, of course.” “Thanks.” Lena said softly. “I just need to make a quick call.” Kara nodded before she turned on her heel and used her speed to run to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She leaned back against it, closing her eyes. She hadn’t expected this of tonight. Lena Luthor in her apartmant. Like they were friends again. Only they weren’t. Lena still hated her and they were only forced together because Kara was going to die and now Lena had been attacked. “You can do this,” Kara muttered to herself, shaking her head. “It’s just Lena. Get it together, Danvers.” She stood up straight and took a deep breath before she walked to her dresser to change into some sweats and a loose t-shirt. She carefully placed her glasses on her face before she headed for the door again. She paused, finding Lena looking at a picture in her living room. Panic jolted through her as she wondered if she’d left the picture of the two of them lying around. She certainly looked at it enough but she didn’t want Lena to think she was being creepy. “Lena?” “Sorry, I wasn’t prying.” Lena said politely as she looked up, her green eyes coming to rest on Kara. She held up the photo she’d been looking at. “More superfriends?” “Oh.” Kara let out a soft laugh when she saw the photo Lena was holding up. She remembered Alex taking that picture after Barry and Iris’s wedding. She and Barry had managed to hug Oliver from either side and he was grinning despite himself in the picture. “Yeah. You haven’t met them, it’s...a really long story.” “Hmm.” Lena put down the picture, her gaze flicking to another picture of Alex and Kara together. “I should...probably sleep.” “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Kara said quickly. “You can take my bed. There’s a change of sheets in my closet if you need them. I’m going to be up, keeping an eye on things.” “Thanks.” Lena said softly, forcing a small smile to her lips. “Goodnight, Kara.” “Goodnight.” Kara echoed as Lena brushed past her into the bedroom. The door was pushed to the frame but not closed completely and Kara closed her eyes, listening to the rustle of sheets as Lena crawled into bed. ---- A light knock on the door drew Lena’s attention away from her work for a moment. “Miss Nal. I don’t believe we had an appointment.” “We didn’t. I’m sorry for showing up like this. Uh...I think your receptionist went home for the day. She left a note on her desk.” Nia said nervously as she stepped into the office. “What?” Lena’s expression flickered with annoyance at the new information but she seemed to quickly shake it off. “I really need to find better staff. Anyway, how can I help you?” Nia stopped in front of Lena’s desk, nervously wringing her hands. “I have something to ask you. You know who I am, don’t you? You know what I can do?” “Of course.” Lena replied with a nod. She waited for Nia to continue but when the silence continued, Lena raised an eyebrow. “Was that your question?” “No. No, it wasn’t.” Nia took a deep breath and steeled herself. “I had a dream about you and I don’t know what it means.” “I’m listening.” “Right. I had a dream about you. The future, maybe. You were wearing a suit, like...mine and Kara’s. It was green.” Nia watched Lena for a moment, noticing her beginning to frown. “And you had some kind of green crystal ring. I was wondering if you have access to anyth-” “Any kryptonite. You’re asking me if I have access to kryptonite.” Lena concluded, slowly getting to her feet. Her jaw was clenched with anger but her eyes gave away her hurt. “You really think that I’m going to make a weapon to kill Supergirl? I’m trying to save her life!” “No. I mean...I hadn’t thought about that.” Nia said quickly, her heart sinking at the thought. Kara hadn’t been there in her vision. “Are you?” Lena closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm herself. “No, I’m not. Now please see yourself out, I have work to do.” “Lena, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry, it’s just...Kara wasn’t there in my dream and I know you’re not a bad person but Kara says you can’t forgive her after what she did. I…” “That doesn’t mean I would KILL HER!” Lena slammed her hand down on her desk, causing Nia to flinch. “It’s bad enough that I apparently can’t be trusted with the truth. Now you come into my office to make senseless accusations?!” “It isn’t like that, I didn’t-” “Leave.” Lena interrupted, staring at Nia long and hard. “Get out of my office before I call security.” Nia’s shoulders slumped as Lena turned away from her. “I-I’m sorry, Lena.” Lena waited until Nia had left before she let herself relax. She took a shuddering breath, blinking away tears. It was always going to be like this. They would never trust her, no matter her intentions or how much good she did. They would always see her as just another Luthor. TBC

#Supercorp #Supergirl #Lena Luthor #Kara Danvers

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motleymoose · 4 years ago

Text

Homecoming Pt. 3: Bits & Pieces Ch. 1

Chapter 1 Ashes in a Vacuum

Fandom: The Mandalorian, Star Wars Characters: The Mandalorain (Din Djarin), Gender Neutral Reader, The Child Words: 2.5k+ Warnings: Injury, Angst, A whole lotta attitude

Summary:

I AM ALL SORTS OF ANGRY AT THAT FRAGGING BUCKETHEAD!!! He's leaving me with more questions than I have the ability to ask, and I don't like it one bit.

But dang, that little greenie is cute!

Notes:

Heya! Thank y'all for reading!!! I'm not sure how many chapters this part is gonna have, so??? We're coming up on the halfway point of the story. Maybe my editing skills will improve by then (ha).

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Homecoming Masterlist

The way everything hurt, I was sure I was dying.

Squinting at the dim, fuzzy gray light of my bunk, I ran an internal diagnostics check. With every little wiggle and flex of an appendage, I gradually realized that I was not, in fact, dying, but I wasn’t in prime fighting shape either. Slowly, gingerly, I scrubbed sleep from my burning eyes with the heels of my palms, my vision spotty and fuzzy in places. It felt good to let them linger, pressing heavily into the closed eyelids and relieving the pressure built up behind my eyeballs. As killer headaches went, the one I was experiencing in that moment wasn’t the worst I’d ever had, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like doshing kung.

Now that I was sorta awake, I took physical stock of my body. My eyes still wouldn’t clear, the large flecks of gray shadow swimming lazily in my periphery, so I used touch to see what was going on. Letting my hands do the work, I started with my head, running my fingers lightly down my neck to my shoulders and chest. Something felt off about the shape of my body as I continued to scan downwards to my hips. Foggy memories swirled inside my head, screaming and pain and choking smoke. A jumbled mess of noise and smells overpowered everything else, and the bits and pieces of the fight and flight from Bosph scattered nervously into the darker recesses of my brain.

Frustrated, I sat up, ignoring the sharp tug at the pit of my elbow and the violent, painful thumping rattling my brain. “Fragging buckethead,” I hissed through clenched teeth. He had got me in this mess. Sure, it was my fault for getting a bounty put on me, but if only he’d listened to me in the first place, we coulda avoided Bosph entirely. The anger, bitter and sparkling and pulsing red, numbed the headache and the bruises slightly. And as the ire rose, so too did the functionality of my brain.

I could focus now on what my hands had been trying to tell me: all of my possessions, from my boots to my jumpsuit and everything in between or tucked into pockets, was gone. A worn coarseweave tunic hung from my curved shoulders, the sleeves neatly rolled up around my biceps, and a newer looking pair of long johns, the baggy legs bunched around my knees, had replaced my utilitarian and well-loved apparel.

Oh Mother of Kwath! Had the Mandalorian undressed me?! I mean, I was an adult. He was an adult. And apparently I had been injured enough to warrant such an invasion of privacy. Still, I couldn’t fight the blush burning brightly across my chest and face.

So doshing uncomfortable.

Nope, nope, nope. Didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Pushing down all of the humiliation and trauma and apprehension until the feelings were little more than an annoying itch under my skin, I allowed the rage to take over a little more. It was easier to be angry than to feel anything else, the outrage a warming presence in my chilly body. It also gave me the little boost of courage for what I had to do next.

Screwing my eyes shut, incredibly unprepared for the worst possible outcome, I touched the place under my collarbone where my silver skull pendant rested, a solid, reassuring weight...

Nothing.

Instead of skin-warmed metal, I was met with warm, padded resistance. Peering into the neck of the tunic, I found a thick, dull-colored wrap encasing my midsection from under my armpits to my hip bones. It smelled of the sea on a warm summer’s day, and I wrinkled my nose automatically. Bacta. Whatever injury I had sustained must’ve been bad enough to call for the precious, oftentimes expensive goo. The wrap wasn’t so tight as to constrict breathing or some movements, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

The physical uncomfortableness brought me back to the question of why the bounty hunter was keeping me alive, but just like all the other feelings, I ignored it. I needed to find my clothes, my necklace. Get dressed. Leave this beautiful ship and her tyrant pilot behind and become a krill farmer out on the Outer Rim.

Well, probably not a farmer. A droid mech, perhaps.

The soft skin on the inside of my elbow twinged again, pulling me out of my daydreams as I reached for the blanket covering the lower half of my body. A thin, clear tube snaked from a needle inserted into a vein to a nearly-empty pouch hanging from a hook in the bunk wall. Fumbling, my fingernails worked their way underneath the sticky medical tape, peeling up an edge wide enough to pinch. I ripped the tape from my arm, gritting as it pulled hair and skin with it. Once the tape was gone, I slid the needle out of my arm with a hiss, tossing it aside to leak between the cot and the bunk wall. Whatever cocktail of drugs the bounty hunter had mixed into the IV, he’d probably added a good dose of sedative to keep me down for the count. That would’ve explained the fogginess.

And it made me so mad.

I let the full-blown, all-consuming fury in, jerking the coarseweave blanket off of me and freeing my legs. Exhaling forcefully, I tested my injured knee, poking at the matching bacta bandage. The original searing-white agony I had experienced on Bosph was muted now, less of a screaming torment and more of a dull throbbing. Healed enough to put weight on. Hopefully

Groaning and cursing at stiff muscles and bucketheaded hunters respectively, I wriggled on the bed until my bare feet skimmed the floor. The cold steel of the hull platform sent shivers through my flesh, feeding the annoyance and anger and frustration. I inhaled, steadying myself for the shooting pain sure to follow standing on both legs. Pleasantly astonished as I was that it didn’t hurt too horribly, I wasn’t prepared for the lightheadedness. The blood rushed from my face, my vision blackening around the edges.

“Oh frag,” I managed to croak before slumping to the floor in an unconscious heap. --------------- I awoke, some time later, inside my bunk. The coarseweave blanket was tucked firmly beneath my chin, the IV reinserted into my arm, and my red-hot rage completely dissipated. An imposing, blurry figure stood at the foot of the bunk, and I took my time adjusting myself from lying flat to reclining, eyes tightly shut to avoid the spinning shadows. Once I was comfortable, I cracked an eyelid. The Mandalorian’s blurred steely stare greeted me, a clear bag of liquid over one arm and a sling supporting the other.

“You’re awake,” he stated matter of factly.

“D-Didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of travelling in silence,” I replied dryly, voice husky with disuse. “By the way, where’s my jumpsuit?” I opened my eyes all the way, blinking rapidly to dispel the fog coating them. It didn’t work.

The bounty hunter harrumphed softly. “Incinerated. You had a fractured knee, two broken ribs and a blaster wound to the stomach. Plus severe retinal damage and dehydration. You’re lucky you even made it off-planet.” He angled his visor away from me to tap out something on his vembrace.

“Wait, what?”

He tilted his visor towards me and put it simply. “You almost died.”

I feebly waved the non-IVed hand in front of my face. “No, not that. Did you say you incinerated all of my stuff?!”

Ignoring me, per his style, he continued to tap on his vembrace’s control panel.

Devastated, depressed and not a little bit murderous, I glowered squintily at him. I was reeling inwardly, but on the outside I was colder than carbonite.

As he ignored me, I studied him as closely as my recovering vision would allow. I could tell there was something different in his appearance, but it took a moment for me to recognize what it was . A softer quality to his edges that I couldn’t quite understand, his body looking less defined, less bulky than normal. I blinked several times to refocus, and was rewarded with infinitesimally better vision.

“Where’s your armor, shabuir?” I sniped. I may have been more than a little miffed that all of my worldly possessions were now ash and lumps of twisted metal, and biting at a Mandalorian was a temporarily soothing balm to my aching heart.

The hunter reached over me and unhooked the empty bacta IV bag from a rod above my head, replacing it with the one he’d brought. Adjusting the solution valve, he tapped the drip chamber twice before turning his attention back to me. “There’s a spare jumpsuit in the ‘fresher. Keep the bacta wrap on for another hour, at least.” As an afterthought, he added, “We’ll be on Nevarro in a few days.” A frown tainted his voice. “Stay out of my way ‘til then.” Spinning on his heel, he marched to the ladder and disappeared onto the upper deck.

………

It took about twelve hours for me to feel well enough to rid myself of the IV and bacta wraps and get out of the bunk without having the ship buck underneath me like a wild bluurg. I took that time to cry myself to sleep, wake up and cry some more. The loss of my tools and kit was a huge blow to my self-worth, but the loss of the pendant, well. It was the only piece I had left of a life full of fear and hunger and love; it connected me to home. If I didn’t have that, where did I belong?

It took another three hours for me to get up the nerve to get cleaned and dressed. I prowled around the cargo hold, poking and prodding at the carbonite storage, the control panels and the refresher. There hadn’t been much of a chance on my earlier voyages to explore, so with the Mandalorian occupied guiding the ship through hyperspace, I felt emboldened to figure out more about him. Not that there was much to glean from my investigation; the hold contained only the basics of survival for deep space travel, and weapons. Lots of weapons.

Oh, and several beings in what looked to be forced-stasis, frozen in carbonite.

Shivering in sympathy for my hold companions, I turned and shuffled back to the bunk. What I really had hoped to find was the incinerator - most ships kept them below near the back for easy dispatch of trash - but I hadn’t found hide nor hair of one below deck. It could’ve been located above. Not exactly the safest or most pleasant location, yet with all the fire power and carbonite in the hold, it kinda made sense. No need to put three dangerous elements all in one place, if you had the room.

A little voice at the back of my head reminded me of something else: that fragging Mando had all but ordered me to stay put. If he thought for one second that I was going to listen to him, he had another thing coming. I held no ill-will against Mandalorians in general, but this one was getting on my bad side. First arresting me and then almost getting me killed and then destroying the only thing I had left of home reminded me that I only had myself to rely on, that everyone else was out to either disappoint me or kill me.

I’d be doshed if I was going to let that buckethead dictate what I could and couldn’t do, especially since he was the one who took me off that Maker-forsaken moon in the first place.

Especially since he handed me over to Mihcas without an apology.

And took my pendant and tools to boot.

Ascending the ladder turned out to be a formidable feat in my weakened condition, but I prevailed. It took more effort than it should have, and I collapsed onto the cool steel platform once I made it all the way up.

“What are you doing?” The modulated baritone came from my right. Swiveling my head, I watched as the bounty hunter stomped out of the captain’s quarters, a bundle of clothes clutched to his chest and fingers unsurprisingly reaching for his blaster. Whatever was in the bundle must have been precious, for he shifted it away from me to his injured arm. It obviously still hurt; he held the bundle in the crook of his elbow, awkwardly bent and trembling with effort.

Good.

Rage flared in my chest, licking its way up like flames and leaving a red mask pounding behind my eyes. Pushing the anger away, I clambered up to my feet. I was going to get answers, and I’d be fragged if I was going to show emotion in front of him.

“Where’s the incinerator?” I spat savagely. So much for not showing any emotion.

Obviously taken aback by my vehemence and bluntness, he cocked his helmet and pulled his hand from his blaster, resting it casually on his belt buckle. “Why?”

Simple enough question, simple enough answer. But I didn’t feel like answering him. Opening my mouth to respond, a cooing sound interrupted me. It sounded like it was coming from the bundle still shielded in his injured arm.

Snapping my jaw shut with a painfully audible click, I raised my eyebrows pointedly at him. “Trafficking something illegal there, chakaar?” Anxiety clenched my stomach in its viselike grip, and I had to force the bile from rising in my throat. I was still weak from Bosph, but if he was buying and selling living beings to make a living, he was no better than my ex-boss. No better than me. Which meant I was going to have to hurt him or die trying.

A sharp hiss of an inhale through the vocoder told me I’d hit on something. Something he didn’t want me knowing. A whispery stream of very impolite Mando’a floated in the space between us. The air was thick with tension, and both of us were patiently waiting for the other to make the next move.

The coo came again, slightly muffled, followed by a bubbly giggle, startling us out of our stare-down. The bundle wriggled, and the Mandalorian shifted his attention from me to it as the thing became too much to handle with one injured arm. Grunting either out of pain or frustration, the bounty hunter stepped backwards until he was in the doorway of the bunk. Squeaking and chittering indignantly, the lump in the clothes broke free with a victorious huff.

And it was the cutest fragging thing I’d ever laid my eyes on.

_____________________

Notes:

chakaar - corpse robber, thief, petty criminal - general term of abuse shabuir - extreme insult - *jerk*, but much stronger

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