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iceeckos12 · 4 years ago

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time travel snippet

little time travel au oneshot. season 5 jon travels back in time to season 1. from the perspectives of tim, martin, and sasha. 3.5k.

i dont think i need to tag anything, but please let me know otherwise.

Tim wakes up that morning, and it’s just like any other day.

Well—no, okay, that’s a bit misleading. Today is his first day working as an archival assistant, so he’s one part nervous, one part that breathless, exhilarated feeling you only get when you’re about to do something unfamiliar that may or may not redefine your life for the foreseeable future. When he says “it’s just like any other day”, he means that he wakes up, and he’s a normal person doing normal people things like eating a healthy breakfast and going to work.

(So, no. In short, he doesn’t realize that today is the day when It happens, that big, life-changing event that you think will Never Happen To You.)

He gets out of bed, stumbles into the bathroom. Washes his face of whatever residue that’d built up during the night, tries to scrape away the evidence of his nightmares, smiles big and bright at the mirror to see how successful his efforts were. He’s betrayed by the traitorous bags beneath his eyes, but that’s okay. Sasha taught him how to wield concealer as a shield whenever his past wore down his armor.

He shoots twin finger guns into his reflection, making soft pew, pew! noises that are almost too-loud in the hush of the bathroom. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, sauntering and humming along with the chorus of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5.

He gets to the Institute twenty minutes before he’s supposed to—not because he’s trying to impress his boss or whatever (he and Jon have known each other long enough that there’s no point). It’s just, Jon will probably want to make some sort of game-plan before the actual workday starts.

The poor man had been relieved to an almost comical degree when Tim had said yes, I’ll come with you to the Archives. It’s painfully obvious how out-of-his-depth Jon is with the whole “Head Archivist” thing. Tim’s honestly baffled as to why Elias had singled him out for the position in the first place, considering his lack of qualifications.

But, whatever. It’s fine! Tim and Sasha will be there to help him—although the third assistant is a bit of a problem, considering that they know absolutely nothing about him. There’s no guarantee that this Martin Blackwood won’t report inadequacies or mistakes back to Elias. If that’s the case, Tim and Sasha will have to be Jon’s safety net, which is partially why Tim is hoping to talk to Jon before anyone else gets there.

He also wants to talk to Jon because he just knows the man is probably working himself up over all of this. Maybe reassurances won’t do away with the source of anxiety entirely, but at least it’ll remind Jon that he’s not alone, and that he can count on Tim and Sasha.

As expected, when Tim gets there he can see a sliver of light pouring out from the cracked door of the Head Archivist’s office. He selects a desk and sets his bag on top of it, noting a set of strange gouges in the fake wood with a raised eyebrow, and then an internal shrug. The Institute issued laptop is near the far edge of his desk, and his collection of pictures are strategically placed so that he can see them all clearly.

His eyes linger over the image of him, his mother, and his brother. Their smiles are almost perfect replicas of each other, like someone took a mold of one of their faces and recreated it twice over.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. Then he shakes himself, releases a slow, steadying breath, and goes to check on Jon.

Tim’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he goes into Jon’s office.

(That’s misleading too, though. He’s not sure if Jon will be visibly calm or upset, if he’ll be on his laptop, if he’ll be picking at the skin around his fingernails, as he so often does when he’s stressed. He is expecting Jon as he is and always has been—a twenty-some year old going on sixty, who wraps his gruff, grumpy demeanor about himself to protect the soft, vulnerable core he likes to pretend doesn’t exist.)

He comes up to the door, and the soft rectangle of light that emanates from beneath the door paints the tips of his shoes gold. “Jon?” he calls softly, rapping his knuckles against the frame. There’s a soft rustling noise—papers maybe? but no audible response, so he shrugs and pushes the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Tim steps inside, a quip instinctively readying itself on his tongue—but then his gaze lands on Jon, and he freezes dead in his tracks.

Even years later, he still vividly, viscerally remembers the moment he saw Danny standing on the stage underneath the Royal Opera House, the way he’d looked...not quite right. The wrongness had been subtle, so much so that it had been unnoticeable upon first glance, upon second glance. The longer Tim had looked though, the more obvious it had become, exposing all the little faults in that almost-perfect recreation of his brother.

Looking at Jon now, it’s the first and only thing he can think of. Because—yes, there’s the long, silver-streaked black hair, there’s the rich brown eyes, there’s the pair of spectacles that make him look far older than he actually is. But that’s where the similarities between the Jon he knows and this Jon end.

Jon’s always been a small man, but his feigned haughtiness makes him seem much bigger than he actually is. Except—except this Jon looks smaller somehow, his shoulders curved protectively inward, like he’s trying to present less of a target. And there’s something about his face, too—his expression is too sharp, too much—

But the worst of it is his eyes. There’s something very wrong with his eyes.

Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Jon? He doesn’t say it out loud though, just keeps staring at Jon, a heady mix of terror and horror making any sort of reaction impossible.

After a moment Jon’s lips thin, contorted by some distant cousin of displeasure, and he rises to his feet. Tim stumbles instinctively backward, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp that’s immediately swallowed up by the apathetic stacks of books and papers surrounding them. He’s struck by the fact that if he dies here, it’s unlikely anyone will notice; he’ll become just another set of marks gouged into the desk, willed away with an uneasy shrug.

Jon freezes, lips parting subtly, as though he were about to speak. Tim feels his breath catch in his chest, unable to shake himself out of the clouded stupor his mind has fallen into.

In the end, Jon says nothing. Just releases a long, slow breath of air and sits back down, pushing his chair close to his desk. The motion looks heavy, tired, as though it takes far more energy than it should.

“You—you should go,” Jon rasps, and there’s something off about his voice too, though Tim can’t put his finger on why. He can’t cobble together enough of a train of thought to make sense of any of this, all he can think of is that clown ripping Danny apart—

He stumbles out of Jon’s office, sits down at his desk. Stares down at the cheap, fake wood, at the gouges that have marred the otherwise pristine surface. Puts his head in his hands, and tries to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

-0-

Martin’s heard things about Jonathan Sims.

He’s not usually the type to pay attention or encourage gossip, as the vivid memories of his classmates tittering cruelly whenever he walked by still leaves a sour taste in his mouth.The problem with the Institute is that the employees get bored pretty easily. Though most would consider academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal to be fairly interesting, it’s still academic research. And the subject content can get to be a bit...repetitive. There’s only so many gruesome statements you can read without thinking, oh great, more meat.

So the employees gossip a lot, and while Martin usually tries to keep his head down and avoid it, it’s difficult not to overhear some things. And from what little he’s heard, he’s...a bit concerned. Rude and unsociable has frequently been mentioned, as have arrogant and unnecessarily finicky, and worst of all, a bit of a stuck-up know-it-all.

Normally he tries not to put too much stock in office gossip—he’s well aware that the grapevine tends to exaggerate one’s most undesirable traits—but if any of it is true, then he might just be in trouble. It was hard enough being a library employee when his boss wasn’t even paying attention most of the time. If Jon is as exacting as they say, it might be enough to expose the fact that Martin has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. And if that happens, then he might get fired, and he can’t get fired, he needs this job, he can barely keep up with his mum’s medical bills as it is—

Calm down, Martin tells himself firmly, pressing his hand against his sternum, as though that will be enough to quell the rising panic. It’s only your first day. Maybe he’s nice, and we’ll actually be good friends.

(With his luck? Yeah, right.)

The Institute looms in the distance, growing closer with every terrified, grudging footstep. A shiver runs up his spine at the sight of its imposing presence, a dark, ugly blot of a building against the backdrop of the iron grey clouds.

If there’s one thing he’s good at though, it’s keeping his head down and muddling through until he’s able to figure out what is actually expected of him. He can twist and fold himself into whatever role they need him to fill, as he has done so many times in the past. Not easily perhaps, but he has always managed. The alternative is untenable, after all.

So he takes a deep breath, and shoves his panic down as deep as possible. Lifts his head and forces a smile onto his face, like a good attitude will be enough to protect him from his boss’s wrath.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Martin trudges down the stairs, giving the blank walls, the old-fashioned carpet, a dubious look as he does. The Archives themselves are as he remembers it—he’s been down here a couple of times when Gertrude made a request for something specific, but—

He pauses when he notices a man sitting at one of the desks, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders aren’t shaking and his breathing is even, so Martin doesn’t think that he’s crying? He’s just….sitting there, his stillness so perfect it’s almost inhuman.

“Hello?” Martin calls softly, cautiously, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The man looks up, revealing a very handsome face and brown eyes so dark they may as well be black. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are bright and a little wild, and his mouth is pressed into a small, tight line. He doesn’t speak, just keeps watching, blinking dazedly in Martin’s direction. Martin gets the feeling that this person isn’t entirely there at the moment, like a house in which every room is lit, but there are no people inside.

He swallows and shifts nervously back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to call for some backup. Eventually he sets his bag on the floor and shuffles a bit closer. “Um—are you—is everything okay?”

The man blinks rapidly, some semblance of awareness creeping back into his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, pushes his short, gelled hair back from his head. His hands are trembling. “I’m...yeah, I’m fine. It’s—everything’s, it’s…”

But then his gaze lands on something over Martin’s shoulder, and all the color drains out of his face, his mouth shutting with a painful sounding click. Martin quickly spins around, searching for whatever could’ve scared him so much—

There’s someone standing in the doorway of Gertrude’s office.

There are so many things that one normally takes in upon first meeting another person: their hair, their skin color, all the little wrinkles and marks that give you the briefest insight into their life. Martin looks at posture first, tends to check if a person is intentionally looming, or if they’re making themself smaller.

But all Martin can see are the eyes.

There’s—two of them he thinks, but two is such an arbitrary number when the thing you’re applying it to doesn’t ascribe to human values (he’s not sure how he knows that—how does he know that—?). That horrible, terrible gaze is an unerring arrow, all-encompassing, all-consuming, piercing the deepest corners of his mind. It hurts in some distant, nebulous way he’s not even sure he comprehends—

Then he blinks, and the sheer terror, that feeling of the horrible, violating exposure of everything that he is, abruptly snuffs out. What’s left is just a person, wispy and small, his slight frame fairly drowning in a chunky, cable-knit jumper. He’s leaning against his doorframe, his eyes—two big brown ones, rich and unfathomably sad and more than that, human—drinking Martin in, his lips parted in a soundless gasp.

“Um—” Martin glances over his shoulder, and almost leaps out of his skin when a land falls heavily on his shoulder. The man who’d been sitting in the chair is standing just behind him, a strained but polite smile on his face.

“Hi Jon,” the man says, an undercurrent of a warning in his voice.

Martin glances between the two, his confusion growing with every passing moment. This is not what he was expecting when he first came into work today, and the uncertainty makes him feel strange and off-kilter.

The person in the door swallows once, twice, then straightens, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tentative, a little ragged around the edges. “Tim. It’s, um...it’s good to see you.”

“Martin Blackwood, was it?” Tim continues, injecting a bit of cheer into his voice. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s being addressed, and he shoots Jon—this is Jonathan Sims?—an uncertain look before nodding slowly. “We’re happy to have you on the team.”

“O-Oh?” Martin squeaks, then grits his teeth and bodily forces his voice back into its normal range. “I’m—um, I’m happy to be here?”

“Good,” Tim says through a grin that looks more like a grimace, giving Martin’s shoulder a friendly pat. The look he shoots Jon is a dark, mistrustful thing. The look Jon gives him back is fragile, vulnerable, that winds the tension in Tim’s shoulders so tight it has to be painful.

Jon’s gaze flickers to Martin, just for a second—and then he disappears into his office, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Tim and Martin stand there for a second, staring at the door. Tim’s still tense as a bowstring, and his grip on Martin’s shoulder is almost uncomfortable. The air in the Archives feels stuffy and too warm, and there’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of Martin’s neck, like he’s being subjected to close scrutiny.

Then Tim sighs and lets go of Martin’s shoulder, a little of the tension bleeding out of him, and without it he looks small, deflated. He goes back to his desk and sits down, booting up his laptop without a word of explanation to Martin.

Martin stares at the back of Tim’s head for a moment, a number of questions clamoring around in his brain—what the fuck was that? What’s wrong with Jon? Why are you so obviously suspicious of him?—but the words won’t come. Breaking the silence feels...sacrilegious, somehow. Every breath of air sticks against the back of his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything either, just sits at his desk and takes out his Institute-issued laptop. Stares blankly at the screen as the machine slowly, laboriously, comes to life.

-0-

Sasha’s not entirely sure how to interpret the tense atmosphere that has descended over the Archives.

The first day she’d arrived a couple of minutes before she was supposed to, prepared to follow Jon’s direction and help him adjust as best she could. (Her feelings about Jon’s promotion...didn’t matter. She didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his fault that Elias was an old-fashioned misogynist.)

But when she’d come down the stairs, Tim and the assistant she didn’t know, Martin, had been seated quietly at their desks. They’d both had the same distant, shell-shocked look on their faces, like they’d received some shattering, horrible news. Sasha had sent Tim a confused look, but he either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t wanted to explain.

She hadn’t even seen Jon that first day, just received a polite email asking her to start organizing the statements according to the system which he’d devised.

It’s been almost three days, and nothing has changed. Oh sure, they’ve all started organizing the statements as directed. Tim cracks jokes, Martin tiptoes around them and makes copious amounts of tea. That strange tension that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, like the world is holding its breath in anticipation, hasn’t faded though. And while she doesn’t know Martin all that well, she knows that something’s still up with Tim. He seems more subdued than usual, keeps sending uncomfortable looks in the direction of Jon’s office—

—which hasn’t been open since that first day. She hasn’t seen Jon at all either, no matter how early she arrives or how late she stays. The only proof she has that he’s still alive is the polite email she periodically receives, detailing some specific task that he wants for them to do.

Even then, his emails are...odd. She’s not sure how she can tell, but they feel...awkward? Stilted? Like he’s only half-aware of what he’s typing, or like he’s only asking them to do things because he feels like he should, not because he has any actual goal in mind.

Normally she’d be frustrated by this, would complain bitterly to Tim about Elias passing over her for someone who obviously doesn’t properly appreciate the position they’ve been given—except that she knows Jon. He’d made a point to explain the situation to her himself, an apologetic twist tucked into the corner of his mouth. More than that, he’d asked her to follow him to the archives, saying that he wanted the two people he trusted most, her and Tim, to come with him.

He respects her too much not to take this job seriously.

The strangeness of the archives is only emphasized by Jon’s complete and utter lack of presence within it, but she doesn’t—she doesn’t buy that. She doesn’t believe that he’d just suddenly decide not to do the job he’d been so anxious to excel at.

More damning than anything is Tim’s complete, utter silence regarding Jon’s strange behavior, but whatever he knows about it, he isn’t saying anything. Martin is willing to talk, but he seems to be as lost as she is.

“I—that first day, Jon…” Martin shrugs, shooting a nervous glance toward the door leading to the archives. He’s been spending a lot of time hovering in the break room making tea, not that she can blame him. “He—I mean obviously I don’t know him very well, but he seemed...upset?”

“Upset,” Sasha repeats dubiously.

Martin lets out an exhausted sigh and turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. He just—okay, so, bear with me for a second, but he reminded me of this guy who used to live in my neighborhood.”

Sasha backs off, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. “Okay?”

“There was this little old couple that used to live in my neighborhood. They were—they were really sweet! The husband used to give candy to us younger kids. But um—sometimes you’d see him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch, and it was like...he wasn’t entirely there? Like, he’d just sit there for hours, rocking and staring at nothing. That’s—that’s what Jon’s expression reminded me of.”

Martin gets more animated the more he talks, Sasha notes; his hands move in broad, sweeping gestures, his expression twisting into an expression of extreme concentration. The moment he finishes he deflates again, tucking his hands into his armpits self-consciously, a hedgehog curling protectively in on itself.

“So, yeah,” he finishes eloquently.

“Huh,” Sasha says thoughtfully.

She gets back to her desk. Looks over at Tim, who’s studiously working through a box of statements, his mouth set in a neutral, concentrated frown. Takes a deep breath, letting the taste of dust and old papers sit heavy on her tongue.

Then she opens her laptop and starts looking through the catalog of cursed items that are currently being held in Artifact Storage.

(She doesn’t think that she’ll find anything, but—but just in case.)

-0-

They all get the call the next Monday morning: Elias Bouchard was found dead in his office.

#tma #iceeckos12 writes #my writing #just a little time travel au #probably wont continue this but i thought it was kinda fun

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cherry-lipbalm · 4 years ago

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a son of a bitch in a camper van. spencer reid.

3.9k words.

masterlist

the gif’s a bit blurry yet he’s still endearing x

in which things happen just like that.

Local law enforcement, accompanied by the BAU, have been sitting in a besieging of this goddamn camper van for so long now that the majority of them were highly considering setting up a tent. If it hadn't been already, it sure as hell was scraping up to be a long night.

Spencer couldn't feel his feet, and he had given up on aiming his gun at the RV a long time ago. The sheriffs had been handing out fold-up chairs for those who were observing any potential activity and hadn't resorted to lounging in their cars.

Morgan had offered his to Spencer, who took it gratefully after he got up from falling on his ass when Derek pulled it out from under him. Spencer was only just about to jump on him when they spotted Hotch's glare from over his shoulder. This is a crime scene they could practically hear him say, so Spencer settled for a harsh shove on his colleague's arm and they left it at that.

And that was probably the most exciting thing to have happened over the course of this man-watch; and that was... three hours ago, now? Time, at this point, had become unsubstantial.

"Are we sure he's even still in there?" Morgan asked, gesturing to the derelict camper van a few yards away from them. He had retrieved another chair, and was sat behind the barricade of police cars, but nonetheless held tightly onto the gun resting in his lap.

"I think so," Spencer squinted over the red and blues, assessing the vehicle. If you could even call it that; the thing was basically crumbling to pieces. As much as he believed it, he couldn't comprehend how someone was actually in there, and for so long. It looked uninhabitable.

"The whole thing’s surrounded," a new voice interjected into the conversation, "he went in, and hasn't come out. Detectives say they can see him walking about now and then."

Morgan and Reid both turned in their chairs. If the dire situation surrounding them wasn't so obvious, one could have easily believed they were on a fishing trip of some sorts, except one should know that Morgan had already taken Spencer fishing once, and the result was... eventful, to say the least. A trip to the ER and five stitches later, Reid vowed to never do anything with Morgan ever again.

"Hey, sugar. How you holdin' up?" Morgan greeted, relaxing back into his not-so-relaxing chair.

Y/N sighed, a guttural groan emitting from the exudation of her breath. She looked up to the sky, and was thankful that at least they had a pretty night to look at, because this guy was not moving any time soon.

Reid and Morgan both assessed her as she stepped out from behind their set-up, coming out of the shadows almost menacingly, into the light of police sirens and the distant lamp beaming from inside the camper van.

"I'd be holding up a lot better if this bastard did something," she said. Her feet crunched the soil as she grabbed a spare chair and planted it next to Spencer. He tried to resist the urge to pull back her chair. Emphasis on the word tried.

When Y/N's bum didn't connect with the seat, the realisation hit her too late and all she could do was let out a yell while she headed straight for the ground.

"Oh, you dick!" She cried when she plummeted into the grass. Looking at her mud-ridden hands in disgust, she didn't hesitate to wipe it on Spencer's beloved dress shirt, making sure to taint his sweater vest too.

"Hey! Hey!" He retracted frantically, shoving himself into the side of his chair to get away from Y/N and her hands that could deposit any more Earth onto him. All the while, Morgan laughed his head off, almost facing the same fate as Y/N when his chair leaned back from his laughing fit.

"Children," Hotch called, reprimanding them over Y/N's grimaces and the boys' amusement, which quickly ended when they saw the Unit Chief striding over.

"Did you see that, Hotch? That's harassment in the workplace!"

"Can I please remind you that we are on a crime scene. We are the FBI, and no doubt are going to make a lasting impression on local law enforcement, is this really how you want to be remembered?"

The three fell into sullen expressions, bowing their heads ashamedly as to not make eye contact with him. But Morgan was still snickering subtly behind his hand, and Spencer was biting down on his lip to avoid a sudden burst of laughter that he knew would be more than inevitable while they were being scolded due to the pseudobulbar effect; he'd explain it to them when they were no longer being rebuked.

Eventually Hotch did walk away, leaving them with a castigating glare Y/N knew she wouldn't be able to shake. In response, she took the subsequent silence as an opportunity to slap Spencer on the arm, hard.

"Ow!" He hushed, immediately rubbing his bicep where he was sure a bruise would be forming. If he wasn't aching he would be impressed that she managed to inflict so much pain from so low down.

"Nice one, you got me in trouble with Hotch!" She hissed. Derek had resumed laughing.

"Sorry, teacher's pet," Spencer called her. Then, whispered here we go to himself at what he had just unavoidably instigated.

"Coming from you?" Morgan and Y/L/N said simultaneously, a snark tone to their words. He pursed his lips and looked to them blankly, rolling his eyes at their unified laughter.

They all eased a bit after that, despite the wake of Hotch's wrath. Spencer pulled Y/N up from the ground, and then began to aid her in wiping the soil from her trousers, prompting an awkward encounter when he realised his hand was right on her ass. She gave him a glare, and he raised his muddy hands in surrender while he sat back down, leaving her to do it herself.

When she was somewhat clean, she dragged her chair back and sat in it, pointing a warning finger in Spencer's face as she did so to let him know not to try anything sneaky.

When she relaxed, Y/N thought the scenery was quite nice; get rid of the police cars, black SUVs and the serial killer less than ten metres away from them and it could make for an ideal holiday destination. All they needed was a couple of beers and a bonfire.

Ah, fire. Warmth! Y/N was beginning to forget what it felt like. She wrapped herself further into the complimentary FBI jacket she'd been given upon her arrival to the team. It made for cool recognition, and got her into a lot of places, but, god, did it do fuck all for practical thermal purposes.

"You're cold?" Spencer queried when he noticed her enveloping her arms around herself.

"Freezing," she replied.

"You should go in the car. Emily put the heating on in there earlier, it'll be warm now."

"What? And leave all the fun for you guys? Over my dead body," she turned her head to shoot him a smirk. He inhaled deeply, faltering a smile in her direction and let a comfortable silence fall between them. Y/N even painted on a genuine grin for him, and let the blush she felt warm her up from the cold.

The next few minutes after this go very quickly, but from what Y/N can barely grasp, it goes like this: the camper van's door is thrown open, and out comes this beast of a man who, if he had them, would have had guns blazing. This is evident from his demeanour; the word beast did not originate from his physique, no, he is a fragile, small boy, but the way he is yelling and screaming is nothing of the juvenile sort. And so, he is doing his yelling and screaming and, frankly, taking no prisoners.

All he has on him is a revolver, but it's enough for every police officer and agent to swing into action. Spencer and Morgan's chairs both fall to the ground upon the abruptness of how they suddenly stand, guns drawn. Y/N is already one step ahead of them, and fails to shield herself from their unsub behind any car door like everyone else had the sense to; even if he were without weapons, they were facing the human embodiment of the word danger.

Spencer shouts at Y/N to defend herself, but she pretends she doesn't hear because this bastard made her wait four hours in the freezing cold, the least she could do was have an eye on him, so Spencer takes her cover.

Which turns out to be the fault in this story, because Spencer loves Y/N. And anyone with a pair of eyes can see it and, unfortunately for them, their unsub happened to have a pair of eyes.

He sees the way this pipe cleaner of a man is aiming his gun at him so determinedly, and how his gaze is switching between him and this girl in a frivolous FBI jacket. And he's already blissfully aware that there's no way he is getting out of here alive, but if he is going down then he's sure as hell taking someone with him. He only has one bullet and figures it's a 2 for 1 deal judging by the way pipe-cleaner man is so obviously in love with shitty-jacket girl. And then next thing anyone knows is Y/N is on the ground again but this time a bullet has buried itself in her chest.

Spencer takes the shot, and then a few more even though their unsub has fallen to the ground. And as much as he wants to rush over to Y/N he knows he doesn't have the emotional capacity to see what state she is in, but what he does have is rage, and a whole lot of it, so he just keeps on shooting. He's already dead but that doesn't matter. He keeps shooting until his barrel is empty and Hotch is pulling him away.

A detective approaches the unsub, even though his fate is more than assured, while a flurry of people surround Y/N, falling to her side, but she's only asking for one.

"Spencer," she utters. It hurts for her to talk or even breathe but she knows the pain will only continue so she pays the small price of adding to it in order to make sure Spencer is by her side for the remainder of it all.

Morgan grabs the boy, shakes him from his trance and then pushes him through the crowd so he can kneel beside Y/N. The squelching noise of his trousers drenching in her blood almost makes him vomit, but he swallows it down for Y/N's sake. He already covered her in mud, he knows better than to be sick on her too.

"Y/N," his voice trembles, but the way he turns to shout at the people around him is so full of strength and fury that people jump immediately into action. He yells for an ambulance, even though there's already one on scene and it's just behind them, but what else can he do?

"I'm fine," Y/N manages, "I'm fine."

She was not, indeed, fine.

She tries to scramble to her feet, but finds she can't even attempt sitting up without a pain searing throughout her whole body, ripping her nerves apart like resolute Velcro.

"It's alright," Spencer says, panicked as he tries to keep her from hurting herself. He brushes the blood-stained hair from her face but regrets it when he sees how it's contorted in pain. Thankfully, she soon relaxes, until he realises that's not a good thing at all.

"No, no, Y/N, stay with me alright? Can you do that? Listen to me!"

So he's yelling at the girl he loves, which is no use because she can't hear him and her eyes are already closed. He's so desperate that he pushes her eyelids open himself, but what lies underneath is unresponsive. He holds his hand tightly over what pulse she has left.

Y/N is dying in Spencer's arms. And she can't help but think that if she was to go, she wouldn't mind it to be here and now. But, with what lingering conscious remains, she realises it wouldn't be her who would have to face the repercussions of her death, it would be her friends. Her family. Spencer.

Spencer who had done nothing but love her ferociously ever since they had met; silently and from afar, but passionately nonetheless. She loved him too correspondingly and too much to kill him with the grief.

So she takes a breath.

But he doesn't even have a chance to say goodbye, never mind ask to go in the back of the ambulance with her when she is ripped from his grasp and placed onto the gurney. The ambulance doors slam close and he forgets what it feels like to move. Morgan's hand on his shoulder feels foreign, and when he does eventually move, it's a surge of chaos.

Their unsub isn't receiving any medical attention, because Reid sorted that out irrefutably, so there's really not that many people around and Morgan isn't even fully aware to stop him when Spencer steals his gun from his holster and marches to the corpse lying in the grass. Surrounded by the greenery, the son of a bitch looks almost peaceful so, when Spencer is unloading the bullets on him, he makes sure to add a few in his face for good measure.

This time, no one stops him.

———

"How is she?" JJ asks, who's only just arrived at the hospital in a hurry after receiving the call. She's pretty tenacious considering the situation, especially when you compare her to the ball of pink and panic standing next to her.

"Is she alright? Oh, God, please let her be alright," Garcia utters. She's straight in Derek's arms, who's been crying but to no one's acknowledgement because they all decided they need to be strong, for Y/N's sake. Still, it doesn't stop JJ shedding a few tears from moment to moment.

"She's in surgery," is all Hotch says, because it's all he knows. One minute he was scolding her to get off the ground and the next he was begging her to.

JJ takes a seat immediately next to Emily, and they unanimously clutch onto each other's hands. Opposite them, Morgan and Garcia do the same. It is here that JJ realises the person who should probably be in the company of his friends the most, isn't.

"Where's Spence?"

"Bathroom," Morgan tells her. "He's been in there a while. Won't talk to anyone."

So when Spencer does come out, almost on cue a few seconds later, everyone stands up attentively and tries to decide whether they will ignore his red eyes. They do, and Spencer sits down in a chair next to Morgan. He virtually collapses into his side.

Morgan is reminded of their fishing trip turned ER trip a few months prior. From the way Spencer is resting dependently on his shoulder, the days are identical, except this time Spencer's pain isn't physical and can't be fixed with five stitches.

Everyone looks at Spencer with evident pity, so he burrows himself further into Morgan's t-shirt. When Derek feels the wet indication of tears, he stands up with an arm wrapped around his shoulders and says "let's take a walk".

Spencer doesn't want to, but he's already reached the grieving stage and his body and mind are no longer connected. The only way in which they are associated is that Spencer's mind is mush and his limbs are moving so similarly sluggishly that Morgan is verging on dragging him along the hallways.

Just when Spencer is thinking that Morgan has really just brought him to aimlessly wander the corridors, his friend stops him and holds onto his shoulders. He notices how he has to look away for a moment because he never really managed to register just how bloodshot his eyes were.

"Listen here, pretty boy. You got a girl in there who is fighting for her life. She is, without a doubt, scared, okay? So you need to be strong for her and for yourself, alright? And when she pulls through, because she will, you've gotta take that strength, and you've gotta use it," Morgan said. He was prodding a finger to Spencer's chest to try and get his message across, but he had no idea what that message entailed.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you gotta get your girl, man," his shoulders dropped.

Spencer's face portrays a small smile like he always does when he's hopeless, and his mutterings are almost drowned out by the incessant beeping of hospital machinery, but Morgan catches them.

"What if I don't get a chance to?"

They're interrupted then, much to Morgan's gratitude, because he really didn't know how he was going to respond to that.

Hotch is at the end of the hallway, his chest rising quickly in a pant. Spencer fears the worst.

"She's out."

And suddenly, nothing else matters. Not to Spencer, at least. He shoots off down the hallway like a rock in a catapult; so quickly that Morgan doesn't even ascertain his disappearance until the news has sunk in and he's chasing after him too.

He keeps thinking that. Nothing else matters, nothing else matters. He repeats the mantra in his head while he meanders frantically through the halls; he lost sight of Hotch a while ago when he raced past him and now he's realised he doesn't even know where Y/N is. Nothing else matters he justifies when he bumps into a nurse during his frenzy and doesn't have the time nor consideration to apologise.

When he reaches a small empty square, with four hallways sprouting from it, he cradles his hands behind his head and tries to control his breathing; something he's forgotten how to do correctly. He steps forward, hoping his feet will just know where to go.

Somehow, they do.

He's only taken one step, but when he advances into the hallway to his right, he hears someone breathe his name; it's weak, and feeble, but he'd know her voice anywhere.

His mouth is already agape when he looks over. The door is wide open, just like his eyes with a mixture of hope and fear-stricken astonishment. Inside the room the team is crowded around the bed, looking down on the fragile agent.

Just like before, he forgets what it feels like to move. His feet are stuck in place and even though his mind is racing there is no telling his limbs to do... anything. So, for now, he just peers into the room. Y/N's eyes are begging him to enter but he can't bring himself to do it. If he walks in that means it's real. The heart monitor, the bandages, the dried blood coating her neck that the nurses missed in their clean up: it's all real.

"Reid, trust me. This is a hell of a better ending, okay? This is the one you want," Morgan clasps his hand down on Spencer's shoulder, hissing to him to try and spark some kind of unlikely reaction, but to no avail. Spencer didn't even realise Morgan and Hotch had caught up to him.

He enviously watches them enter the room with such ease. They kiss Y/N's cheek and hug her close. Morgan leans his hands on the end of the hospital bed and tries to talk to her, but she's only looking at Spencer with betrayal in her eyes.

Before Spencer can whisper a futile apology and rush out of the hospital, his brain almost goes into override, suddenly providing him with all the reasons he should do anything but that.

He sees Y/N's face, the way she smiled at him before. The way she's always smiled at him. He hears her laughter, feels her touch. He feels the warmth he experiences whenever she is near. And suddenly, again, nothing else matters.

Nothing but you.

Hotch instinctively lets a hand hover over his holster due to the precipitous manner Spencer barges into the room with. The sole of his shoes squeak against the floor in his hurry and Y/N would grimace if she had the space to because next thing she knows Spencer's lips are on hers and his hands are encasing her face in a way that doesn't make her feel claustrophobic like she always thought it would.

She can't help but think how embarrassing it is that her coworkers are watching this scene unfold —her boss too, and she knows he'll probably be obliged to give them some talk about appropriate behaviour between colleagues, but she doesn't care. Nothing else matters but Spencer.

He doesn't stop there, Spencer wants to kiss her more and Y/N is more than happy to allow it. Her fingers can only fondle the wrinkle of his shirt because it hurts to much to raise her arms, but Spencer is practically lying on top of her and she can get a good feel of his torso through the clothing. His warmth radiates onto her and she hums happily against his lips. When he begins to pull away, she grabs onto his tie and doesn't let him.

She thinks a few of the team have turned around, because it's eerily silent except for a few sniggers from —who she assumed— Morgan, and excited squeals from —who she knew was— Garcia.

When Spencer pulled away, successfully this time, he let out a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he croaked.

"For what?"

"I should have covered you."

"Shut up. From what I've heard you covered me pretty well," she said, and Spencer knew she had been told about his vengeful face-shooting incident. He bowed his head, and smiled weakly when Y/N pulled him back up from his tie. It became less weak when she pecked his lips.

"I'm okay," she whispered to him, like they were the only ones in the room, "we're okay. He's gonna rot for it."

Spencer nodded, and what he couldn't say in words he made up for in affection: his kisses were short, but none lacked the passion that was necessary to tell her how he felt. She felt every one of his kisses throughout her body. Where her chest ached with the pain of being shot now burned with a feverish love for Spencer.

"I, uh, I am going to have to hold a seminar on fraternisation next week," Hotch leaned forward to interject, which worked a treat in eliciting the laughter needed to brighten the mood.

Those that had turned swirled back on their heels and beamed at the new couple. Spencer sat on the edge of Y/N's bed, his hands encased around hers and resting on his lap. They exchanged assuring glances momentarily within the soft conversations of the team.

When Y/N looked up to Spencer again she smiled, and he knew she was thinking the same thing as himself: these people matter, and you, you matter the most.

fin.

#spencer reid gifset #spencer reid #dr Spencer reid #dr reid #Spencer Walter reid #dr Spencer Walter reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds one shot #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #Spencer reid fanfic #Spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer reid x reader #Spencer reid imagines #Spencer reid imagine #Spencer reid one shot

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thedeviljudges · 3 years ago

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the devil judge + the seven deadly sins

so, i made a gifset about who i thought falls under the seven deadly sins. and also shameless plug - please go reblog the gifset i made for this. took me ages to do.

but i figured i might as well make a meta post to correlate. so this is that post. it’s not everything i could discuss. i could be here for hours more, truth be told. but i hope it’s enough to chew on.

while i feel like a lot of these are going to be a no-brainer, i still want to talk it through because idk. i can, and i want to, and i feel like it, lmao.

gluttony

the elite are privileged and have an opportunity to indulge so much more than the general public, but in many different ways. this is shown throughout the show in the fact that they can indulge on luxury food, have political power, they can make a phone call or snap their fingers and everyone must follow their orders.

and the thing about gluttony is that there is always more to be had. you take a little and then realize it’s not enough and so you ask for more. case in point: in episode 11 when sunah suggests that yohan could be the new president, the current one gives her an alternative: dictatorship. because it wasn’t just enough for him to be an actor and the presiding president.

you’ll also know they turn in on themselves - the two other guys in the elite group. one who owns the company and the other dude - i really cannot remember their names and what they do, but y’all know who i’m talking about. it was so easy for them, when threatened, to fabricate documents to give to yohan about each other in order to get ahead. gluttony is only shared in the relationships we have until one realizes they can take a little extra of the pie. it’s the selfishness of having all the leftovers. gluttony cannot necessarily exist without someone else’s sacrifice.

lust

i kind of had an ah-ah moment when i was talking this over with @technitango. i was trying to decide who was going to be lust because lust is portrayed very, very differently in this show than what most of us are used to. we, of course, know sunah who lusts after a life of indulgence and riches because she equates that with respect more than actually wanting it because it’s monetarily worth something.

but then i realized the public is lust because of their need for justice. i won’t say revenge necessarily because they’re doing as they’re told when given the judge show. but we can quickly see how that evaporates into something akin to bloodlust, for criminals and people who normally get away with shit, to have their fair taste at conviction for their misdeeds. we even see it with yohan’s fanboy club - the lust that comes from adoration and dedication.

and even more so, the public is easily swayed and so is the nature of lust. it follows in the vein of needs and wants, and as soon as new information is presented, however may false, so does the wants and desires of what people want sway. how easy was it for them to turn on yohan for a split second on two occasions - on two accounts of bribery.

envy

envy, above all, is about wanting what others have because you do not have it yourself. it may not be exactly what they have, but a form of it. some people don’t necessarily want money - they want what it can by, which is time, health and material goods.

sunah is the perfect example of this. she envies respect and recognition. she talks about bright and shiny objects, and that’s true to her kleptomania tendences, but more than anything, she wants to be seen as an equal because being poor with a vastly different upbringing means she’s looked down upon by those she thinks matters.

which also begs the question why she feels the need to seek validation from people in higher statuses to begin with when she can be the exception and not the rule - form her own understanding and environment to show others that the typical way of the elite is not actually all it’s cracked up to be - to which we see when she has no one to celebrate her victory with. it’s lonely being at the top. you get to your goal you thought you wanted but then what?

more importantly, sunah also envies family, relationships and simply put, human interaction. she wants to be cared for and treasured, and she looks for that in her position of power. because then all eyes are on you. because then that’s what people care about. what she fails to see is that those eyes are just as fruitless and just as wavering. to be a leader means people loving the idea of you but not you as a person.

“people of envious nature are sometimes stimulated to seek to emulate those who have completed some great achievements and in doing so achieve something great for themselves,” according to Understanding Philosophy.

wrath

while i realize that gaon not might entirely fit the wrath trope, he certainly has his moments, and i think he’s lived with a tampered flame since his parent’s death. he just learned to briefly put it out in the form of distractions and a false sense of righteousness and justice. it isn’t until he meets yohan that someone finally gives him the okay to feel the entirety of his emotions, that lets him breath and tells him it’s okay to feel anger and hurt. and while gaon ultimately chooses not to exact revenge, his wrath is what led him to becoming a judge and walking away from his teenage crimality.

gaon transposed his wrath into seeking justice, transformed it into livelihood, and reformed his narrative so that he was no longer angry and a teen with rash emotions. it was simply redirected and never really forgotten. yohan turned that redirection back around onto gaon’s ultimate heartache. fueled with that, it became easier to justify himself and his actions.

the most pivotal moment of turning his back on this mindset is, of course, the minister’s suicide, where he takes a good look at himself and doesn’t like what he sees. at this point, gaon’s upset isn’t necessarily at yohan but at the situation in which they got themselves into. because the thing is, gaon doesn’t absolve himself from what they did. he doesn’t turn a blind eye to that and try to dismiss it. he owns up to what happened and confesses how he feels to yohan and how he has to leave for his own good, and in some indirect way, for yohan’s, too.

with yohan, his ultimately weakness, despite never admitting to it, is family. his wrath comes in the form of anger when the ones he loves are threatened. yohan lives by a moral code of loyalty because that means you won’t be abandoned, and as a child who lived with that verdict since the day he was born, it’s an ever-pressing theme of his.

thing is, wrath comes in two particular forms for yohan. again, one is family and the second is the rose-colored glasses he’s given himself in his revenge story. he’s always had a goal to presumably make right the wrong for taking away isaac, but within that, 10 years is a long time to plot revenge, to the point where it becomes so much easier to lose yourself to that, to become enraged with it and forget the initial goal all along. we see this in his inability to form the bonding moments needed with his niece and his casual throwaway comments over people’s lives - the comment he made to gaon about moving on to the next plan, and the ultimately nail in the coffin of pushing gaon to leaving him.

his fury has also led him to convince himself his own humanity is nothing short of a lie. therefore, it’s easier to justify the means to an end because of his own self-worth and self-deprecation. it’s almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy: he even admitted to gaon’s mentor that he is an abyss. he’s referred to himself as nothing but an animal or a monster - all characteristics of despondency to survive and to justify what he’s doing. sort of like a catch 22, yohan claims he’s an animal/monster and behaves as such, but because he behaves as such, it means he’s an animal/monster.

wrath for gaon and yohan are very different yet the same. they are slow-burning, and that’s a dangerous type. it’s actually interesting when you think about the fire imagery surrounding the two of them because flames are quick to lap at anything in its wake, to destroy within a matter of minutes. and yet for the two of these men, their internal fire eats them from the inside out, painfully, until they’re almost unrecognizable to others and to themselves.

sloth

sloth was a little more difficult to pinpoint because of its characteristics. it was either the minister versus the mentor, both of which i think could work in this role. however, i chose the minister simply because she’s featured more and intertwines heavily with the plot line.

soth is a medieval translation of the Latin term acedia, meaning “without care.”

the ultimate characteristic of sloth is often identified as laziness, and while it’s easy to argue that the minister hasn’t been lazy in her ability to get where she is, she became as much when she started lying to get to her position. isn’t lying known as the easier way out? it absolves you of responsibility, of putting in the hard work, of apologizing and making things right. in the end, she had a goal and found the easiest solution to get there through her lack of responsibility for the roles she more than likely swore an oath to.

but that also translates into the other attributes of sloth: a failure to do the right thing, lack of emotions for people or of the self, and the fact that it “hinders man in his righteous undertakings and thus becomes a terrible source of man’s undoing” according to The Seven Deadly Sins: Society and Evil.

while i think there are a lot of components of sloth that may not necessarily fit the minister, the apathy and carelessness are enough to showcase her aggression, despondency and restlessness when what little efforts she does put in do not go her way. another interesting thing to note is that many of sloth’s traits correspond with symptoms of mental illness, such as depression and anxiety. it’s an interesting thing to note given the way the minister chooses to end her life.

greed

i don’t know that jinjoo would’ve had any provocation to the limelight if it wasn’t for sunah’s direction, but she’s eager to please and wants to be useful. it’s only natural for her to want more because it’s clear she’s a career woman, loves her job and has a heart for serving the people.

but like gluttony, greed is also that little thing that plants itself and can take on a life of its own. you start looking for justifications as to why you can’t have more than what you do, and in jinjoo’s situation, she’s already overlooked through no fault of her own. and it’s not that gaon and yohan are doing it purposefully, which is what makes their neglect heartbreaking, because truthfully, they’re after the same thing jinoo is. sure, it looks different and the foundation of it is different, same with their motives. but they’re all three judges on a residing bench working to exact justice - even if all three of them have their own personal agenda.

i don’t think jinoo fully aligns with greed, but she does want more for herself, and i think that’s only natural. you can tell she has a heart, and she’s keen not to be overlooked. this isn’t her pain point so much as it is she knows her worth and is more than ready to do what it takes to get where she wants. this, in and of itself, isn’t necessarily a bad trait, but we can see how it leads to being deceived, especially for someone who’s been left in the dark for so long.

she is enticed by the glitz and the glamour of being a head judge, but you can tell she feels some remorse and guilt for those thoughts at times. i think her sense of greed is a battle within herself more than it is extremely outwardly.

pride

soohyun’s pride comes in the form of her imbalance with right and wrong. her sense of righteousness and justice is so far leaning, even more than gaon’s. it can be chalked up to her being a cop, but we’ve seen instances of this outside of her role within that agency. her pride doesn’t let her see beyond saving gaon and getting to the bottom of every mystery that comes her way.

it also comes in the form of impulsiveness and her savior complex, putting elijah in danger, for example, instead of waiting for backup. it’s not necessarily from a belief that she can fix things all on her own, but she sees injustice and immediately jumps in. another case in point is her and gaon watching yohan wreck the minister’s son’s car. she’s ready to go stop him, but gaon pulls her back, most likely because at that point, they hadn’t been observing the situation for very long to get a read on it. also the fact that at that point, neither of them truly knew yohan and his capabilities.

but as to where her characteristics come from, we simply don’t know beyond that of gaon. it’s unfortunate because we don’t have much of her backstory, so there is no real understanding why she so firmly believes in entities of regulation beyond keeping her friend out of jail. she prides herself on her work and what she’s able to accomplish, which is why it’s devastating to her to have to protect gaon by cleaning up his bloody handprint.

aristotle is of the belief that, “pride, then, seems to be a sort of crown of the virtues; for it makes them greater, and it is not found without them. Therefore it is hard to be truly proud; for it is impossible without nobility and goodness of character,” from Nicomachean Ethics.

but pride for soohyun isn’t about honors or rewards. it’s for herself and her capabilities, her ability to protect gaon, and the virtues she’s set as the precedent for herself. because sometimes it’s not even about establishing morals and ethics upon yourself. it’s about feelings/intuition, logic and observation. and no, i don’t mean the feelings she has for gaon. there are things that humans do, both actions and words, that we inherently know are bad without someone telling us as much and without the rules of the world seared into our brains. there are some things we know, for a fact, are wrong to us as individuals.

for soohyun, she knows that gaon’s actions, and even her own, have consequences. from what we’ve seen, i think it can be argued that it’s really about not doing those actions to prevent an outcome - not necessarily from a place of being just and right. that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand good morals/ethics, but again, we have no background of what her internal guidance actually is.

to put this in layman’s terms, we’ll use gaon wanting to stab the conman in his youth. soohyun knows it’s wrong because it will incriminate gaon and therefore she stops it. gaon’s gone to her because he sees her as a moral compass. but is her own internal navigation rooted in justice the way gaon had to find it in the judicial system, or is hers rooted in her pride of keeping gaon safe? she stops him from doing things that will get him in trouble, but is she stopping him because the action itself is wrong or because the outcome will result in undesirable consequences for the two of them?

and of course, there is a flipped argument to be had there - i’m not arguing that gaon stabbing the conman would be right or justified. but what i am saying is that for her, her worldview is the only right one, and when anyone steps out of that, even gaon, it becomes a bit of an issue: the pride she has for that is palpable.

every character indulges

truthfully, every character has at least one form of these sins rooted in their characterization. some are larger than others, but the breadth of it can be explored even further for each. and that’s what makes them more realistic and not just characters written on a page or following a linear progression of their writing deity.

the seven deadly sins are also notoriously rooted in religion. they’re also a defining feature of aristotle’s works that represent the golden mean, in which each vice is parallel to a virtue.

the devil judge is so layered, but i think at the heart of it, it’s about humanity at its core. sprinked in are the philosophies and contradictions and what it means to look in the mirror, what happens when we’re blind to seeing our true selves and most importantly, how much changes when we’re swayed by our own misgivings. it really asks us to understand nature versus nurture, that people must find a belief in something to keep them going, and how futile our hopes and desires can actually be if we’re not carefully regulating ourselves, nevermind the entities established by society to regulate us, too.

the entirety of the show genuinely begs the question as to who is truly right, who is truly wrong, and if it’s even possible to find the correct answer.

#x #the devil judge #the devil judge meta #*#*the devil judge #so i have some Thoughts #probably not very good ones but ya know

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astaroth1357 · 4 years ago

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How to Calm Your Demon Boyfriend; Vol 1

Tame Demons, Save Lives

Notice: Due to an impending lawsuit for libel and misinformation, Mammoney, Inc. has filed for bankruptcy. All past guides from their company have been revised and re-released. All future printing will be handled Solo Man, Press.

It's bound to happen to everyone, right? You’re just trying to enjoy a nice night with your cherished hellspawn then suddenly something sets them off! Now they're on the verge of wrecking humanity and all you're trying to do is flag down the waiter for more breadsticks…! Well have no fear! Consider this your handy guide to How to Calm Your Demon Boyfriend, tailor-made to whatever model you just so happen to be attached to! Follow our advice and you'll know just how to turn your enraged creature of damnation right back into the affectionate lover you know them to be!

This volume only covers how calm your demon if he’s mad at SOMEONE ELSE. If you’re looking to calm down a demon who’s mad at YOU please seek Volume Two!

Lucifer’s mad at Someone Else

Your action should depend on who he’s mad at. Unfortunately, there is a diverse amount of people who irritate him... For simplicity's sake, we recommend first seeking out our supplementary materials: How to Deal with Greedy Scumbags and How to Resolve Demonic Family Squabbles. Both should prove useful.

Assuming now that his irritation is caused by someone outside of the family there shouldn’t be too much to worry about. Lucifer is a very composed demon… unless someone (who’s name is not Diavolo) tries to order him around or belittle him in any way.

You must act quickly, there is no time to chastise the stranger for their foolish error.

Appeal to logic first. Unless he is truly incensed, he should still be willing to hear out the reasons why going full demon on the situation may not be the best idea.

Hopefully, your reasoning skills are sufficient enough to make a good case for staying calm and he should (begrudgingly) agree with your advice and maintain composure.

However, if he is truly that mad then desperate measures are in order… Threaten to tell Diavolo if he does anything. This should stop him, but he will be very unhappy with you pulling what amounts to the “I’m telling your boss” card.

Smooth this over with him after tensions have settled. Ideally, you have very good reasons for doing such a thing. He may end up agreeing with you in hindsight (but never expect him to say so).

Mammon’s mad at Someone Else

This should actually be a very uncommon event. Mammon is irritable at times but rarely will he express his anger to such a degree that you must step in.

Should this happen it is likely because you are in danger and we first advise you to sit tight and not hurt yourself. Mammon is on the way.

Once he is there (and for some reason you wish him to be merciful), demonstrate to him that you are, in fact, fine and desire to leave. It may take some coaxing, but he is a pushover and will likely relent if you plead insistently enough.

If you are not, in fact, fine then there is nothing to be done. He will not show mercy even if you want him to. Just sit tight and focus on not dying until he can get you to emergency services.

Leviathan’s mad at Someone Else

He’s probably jealous of someone so he’s feeling angry and insecure.

Physical contact is important, it will remind him that you’re with him and want to be with him. Find a way to touch him in an intimate way; cling to his arm, lace fingers, or catch his cheeks, etc. It is a physical demonstration of your bond.

Get his eyes off of whoever has him worked up because if he gets too upset he may lash out... Gently coax him to either look at just you or stand directly in his line of sight like you’re blocking a TV screen.

Now build him up! If he’s feeling bad that he can’t do A, remind him that he’s fantastic at B and who cares about A anyway? If he’s wishing that he were C, well screw C because you like the fact that he’s D. Soothe that self-confidence as a supportive lover would.

Once he’s sufficiently reassured, distract him with something otaku-related. Mention a new show, point to kind of anime reference, or offer to go play games. The crisis should now be averted so enjoy your adorkable demon once more!

Satan’s mad at Someone Else

The name of the game is deescalation because otherwise someone’s probably going to get maimed.

Satan is not going to want to show his worst self to you if he can avoid it (he’s a little image conscious that way) so you can use that to your advantage. Your very presence alone is a bit of a buffer.

Appeal to reason, but never ever say that he’s overreacting. That will cause an instant snapback and anger him even more.

Remind him of the reasons why he should’t give in to his temper. One at a time now, don't pile them on. He needs time to consider each one.

Do remember that really these are only suggestions and not orders, if you tell him “Sit back down because you’ll cause a scene” then it’s a scene you’re going to get.

If all else fails, attempt to get him out of the scenario entirely. Make up some excuse and try to coax him to leave. It may or may not work based on the strength of your arguments before. If it’s REALLY not a good idea to be mad right now, he will likely let himself be taken away.

But know when to fold’em. Satan is the Avatar of Wrath. If he feels truly justified in bringing down the Hammer of Rage, then there may be no stopping him. At that point, find a safe place to stand and wait it out. He’ll get it out of his system soon enough...

Asmodeus’ mad at Someone Else

Asmo is a diva when he's mad. There's no reasoning, there's no logic, this is very much a "yes dear" situation.

Just placate him as best as you can at first. Chances are what has him so irate isn't very major anyway and can be easily taken care of. If, in this case, it’s a person then deftly assess what sort of person you are dealing with to find the right solution.

Store/restaurant employees will likely make up the bulk of these interactions… In these cases, I suggest stepping in for Asmo as a “representative” of sorts in order to spare them the brunt of his fury.

You will be the best go-between to your boyfriend and the rest of the world that just doesn't seem to understand his (lengthy) requirements. Act according to his interests, but remind him gently to have realistic expectations of what can be done.

If Asmo is unable to have his way, he will turn to you for comfort and consolation. You need not agree completely with his perspective, but be very empathetic to his plight and try to frame the situation as reasonably as possible.

Physical contact is paramount to Asmo’s emotional wellbeing, so cuddle your boyfriend back to happiness!

If the other person is one of his brothers… Pick your battles wisely. Please consider our helpful supplementary materials: On Demonic Family Relations & Asmodeus and the Public: Dos and Don’ts

Beelzebub’s mad at Someone Else

It is advantageous to always carry emergency snacks around Beel and here is one of the many reasons why.

If you are dealing with an angry Beel then you are either in a situation where he’s being denied food or someone has hurt one of his family members.

If it is merely an issue of food, gift him the emergency snacks (preferably stay stocked on some of his absolute favorites for maximum diversion) and then allow the other person a chance to exit the confrontation.

Promise to take Beel to the nearest possible food source, uphold said promise, and then there’s no need for bloodshed.

If someone has hurt one of his family members* or dare say you… Consult our supplementary material: My Protective Demon and Me

*Important Note: If someone has hurt Belphegor I strongly suggest simply leaving the area. There is nothing to be done, best to seek safety and wait for others to assist you. Do try to avoid the falling rubble on your way out.

Belphegor’s mad at Someone Else

Belphegor is a bit of an irritable demon, however, it should take significant prodding for him to be enraged enough to cause any trouble. He’s quite lazy.

If there is something irritating Belphie, he is far more likely than the others to just leave in disgust. He will most likely try to convince you to leave as well. This will only be a problem if, for say, you don’t want or are unable to leave.

Keep a very close eye on Belphegor throughout the interaction. Make note of any changes in posture, tone of voice, and other subtle physical indicators of exasperation. They may be slight, but it is crucial to know when his patience is wearing thin.

Ideally, you can speed up the encounter before he reaches his wit’s end.

If he begins to make an excessive amount of snide or biting comments then he is reaching his boiling point and it is time to leave... Now.

End the conversation, take Belphegor, and calmly go. He will not fight you.

Secure the nearest place you can for an emergency nap/snuggle session, preferably one that is both safe and clean, and remain there until he’s soothed again. Attempting to leave early will aggravate him.

If you are truly unable to leave there’s not much that can be done… take a step back and try to stay out of the line of fire. He will likely end things quickly so he can get back to napping as soon as possible, be sure to accompany him there.

To see how to calm down a demon who is mad at YOU, consult Volume Two: So You’ve Pissed Him Off Have You?

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor

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geekgirles · 3 years ago

Text

Your Heart

Chapter 5 -- Research

Word Count: 12429

READ ON AO3

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Tucker complained for the umpteenth time.

After realising the only way to end his regular meetings with Lady Arcana once and for all would be finding information on the portals she could use to help him close them, Danny took a very-Jazz-like decision; to immerse himself in countless moldy, old books in search for answers.

Only he dragged Tucker and his sister along to put an end to the torture sooner. A decision which, whereas Jazz encouraged wholeheartedly, Tucker was none too pleased with.

“Oh, quit your whining, Tucker.” Jazz admonished from the floor, a few volumes piled up around her. “Every time you complain, it’s precious time we’re wasting. Maybe I don’t mind being holed up here reading with you, but something tells me you’d much rather be tinkering with your PDA than doing this.”

Annoyed by Jazz’s accurate observation, Tucker, who was lying down on his bed, set the book he was reading down on his lap. “I’m just saying, a quick Internet search would give us many more results in a matter of seconds. If you’re worried about wasting time, then I think spending hours scanning for even the smallest piece of witch-related trivia is ten times more time-consuming.”

But Jazz wasn’t going to relent any time soon. “We already tried things your way, Tucker. Remind me again how much useful information we found online?” When her question was met by silence, she smirked, focusing again on the book she had open on the floor in front of her. “Thought so.”

“Okay, so the first few results were all about conspiratorial nutcases claiming the witches are actually aliens from a faraway galaxy and that what we call ‘magic’ is really superior technology our tiny, human minds can’t understand,” he paused to breathe, “but those were just the first few articles! I’m sure if we keep on looking, we’ll find something useful.”

“Do I really have to remind you that the most useful thing we found was a Satanist group’s website? I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly looking forward to joining them anytime soon.”

Leaning back against his bed’s headboard, the techno geek crossed his arms, feeling defensive. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Will you two just stop?” Danny finally had enough. He slammed the book he’d been reading shut before setting it down on his desk, where his own pile of books lay. Leaning back on his chair, one leg over his knee, he crossed his arms as he sent a stern look at his sister and best friend; the kind of look a father would give when scolding his misbehaving children.

Even though they had legitimate reasons to be cranky at each other, a selfish part of him thought the only one who could really act out of line was him. Tucker and Jazz tended to forget what really was on the line. True; if they didn’t find a solution to the random ghost portals soon, that could lead to severe repercussions on both dimensions, and dealing with Lady Arcana was both dangerous and nerve-racking in every sense of the word.

But the real danger came from within.

Although Danny had tried to limit their use as much as possible, the Witch Queen’s presence demanded he wore the Ring of Wrath and the Crown of Fire in hopes of forcing the sorceress to think twice before double-crossing them. But the mere use of the two mystical items was far more terrifying than anything the entire witch clan could have thrown at him.

There was something inherently...evil encased in the ring and crown. Danny was sure of it. Damn, he could feel it with every fiber of his being. Even before donning the all-powerful objects for the first time during his coronation, the moment he held them after stripping them off of Pariah Dark’s form, they were already calling out to him.

And the most horrifying thing was that he wanted to heed their call. The relics promised infinite power to whoever was in possession of them. When, ironically, the dreaded things took possession of their wearer! After a brief moment of doubt where he almost fell into temptation and gave in, Danny understood wearing the ring and crown meant the total enslavement of his soul.

Ever since then, he lived in fear of succumbing to temptation and letting their sinister energy consume him. Whenever he had no choice but to wear the Ring of Wrath and the Crown of Fire, Danny found himself fighting an uphill battle against the hypnotising pull of power emanating from them. It was more tempting than using his powers to get back at Dash for all the wedgies. It was more inviting than dating Valerie, regardless of the very real possibility of dying by her hand. It was more dangerous than accepting to work with Vlad, who foolishly coveted the very same torture he endured every time he put those two horrid artefacts on.

Because it was a literal deal with the devil; power in exchange of his soul.

And to think he had to endure all that every time he met up with the queen of the two-faced creatures responsible for such evil in the first place, just to convince her against doing anything foolish...It was irony at its finest.

With gentle spins of his chair, Danny kept looking alternatively at Tucker and Jazz, who were blissfully unaware of his inner musings, as he talked to each of them. First was Tucker. “Tuck, I know you’ve considered books a waste of time ever since we plugged you into the Cramtastic Mark 5 to break Ember’s spell, and I’m sorry for dragging you into this, but Jazz’s brought all these books from the library and we need as much information as possible.”

He then turned to his sister, who was laid facing down on the floor. “Jazz, same thing goes for you. Except the ‘book-hating' part,” he hastily added, “you know as well as I do that if there’s someone who can find anything on the Internet, it's Tucker. Just, give him time.”

His two teammates exchanged glances before giving up with an eye roll. “Whatever,” they said in unison before getting back to reading.

Danny wasn’t quite finished, though. “There’s also the fact that I’m not even sure we’ll find anything useful in the first place. I mean, what Lady Arcana needs is either an explanation on what’s causing the portals to manifest, or a spell that can counter it. And I highly doubt we’ll find that sort of information in books from the public library.”

“Maybe if they were from Hogwarts…” Tucker snickered at his own joke. When he noticed the twin glare the siblings were sending him, he sobered up. “Sorry.”

Jazz rolled her eyes as she changed her position from lying down to sitting up, cross-legged. “That doesn’t mean we won’t find anything useful, Danny. If anything, just learning more about the witches should be of help when dealing with them, right?”

The halfa sighed. “In theory. But Tucker’s right; we’ve been reading for hours and we haven’t found anything useful, or even that we didn’t already know of.”

“Thank you!” Tucker deadpanned as he clapped his hands sarcastically.

Danny ignored him in favour of continuing. “I mean, what’s to learn about them? Their background is completely irrelevant to the issue at hand. Knowing of the Salem trials isn’t going to help me prevent disaster from happening!”

“And don’t forget we don’t even know how to tell true facts apart from naysay.” Tucker pointed out, a finger raised in the air as if that’d give more credibility to his point.

But Jazz insisted. “All the more reason to find out more about them! For instance, Danny, what did you know about witches before meeting this Lady Arcana?”

Her brother gave a noncommittal shrug. “Only what Frostbite told me and what I read in the pages I found from Sojourn’s missing journalーand no, I’m not going to let you read them, Jazz; it’s too dangerous. Besides, I don’t even have them anymore,” he was quick to add, recognising the inquisitive look on his sister’s face all too well.

Annoyed at how well her brother knew her, and at Tucker’s ill-concealed snickers, the aspiring psychologist turned her head away in a huff. “Fine, keep your sister away from fascinating topics. It’s not like I’ve been keeping your secret for years; even from you.” She punctuated with a meaningful look.

If the look on Danny’s face was any indication, they’d had that same conversation too many times before. “Jazz, careful; you know emotionally blackmailing me will get you nowhere. It’ll make me want to keep more things away from you.”

The redhead stood up and got closer to him. With her arms crossed, she used her brother’s seated position to tower over him for once, since she had long lost the ability to look over his shoulder once Danny finally hit his growth spurt. “And you know trying to play hero and keep me away is going to solve nothing. If anything, it’s only going to make me want to help you even more.”

Watching the siblings from the comfortable distance his bed provided him, Tucker knew things would only get nasty if he let the tension escalate from there. He let out a wolf whistle, effectively capturing the Fenton kids' attention. “Wow. You know you two spend too much time together when you start using the other’s methods to get what you want.”

Danny and Jazz furrowed their brow in confusion. “What do you mean?” They asked in unison.

Changing his position so his back was resting against his wall rather than his bed, which also allowed him to easily look them both in the eye, their friend just shrugged nonchalantly. He wasn’t going to say anything else; their attention was no longer directed at each other and that was enough. “Nothing. Hey, how about a break?”

“A break?” Danny echoed, incredulous. “Didn’t we just argue about wasting time? Tuck, we can’t take a break now!”

Seeing where Tucker was getting at, and that he had a very good point, Jazz sighed. Turning to Danny, she put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. “Tucker is right. We’ve been at it for a few hours now. We’d better take a breather and continue later, when our minds are sharper.”

Danny was about to protest when he noticed their matching expressions. They were both tired after doing nothing but searching for clues for hours and bickering with each other. If anyone deserved a break, it was them. And as his own exhaustion finally kicked in, he realised, so did he.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s stop for a while.”

Satisfied, Jazz gave her little brother some space as she flopped down on his bed. “So, Tuck.” When his head snapped at the sound of her voice calling his name, she continued. “How’s your latest lady friend doing?”

It took the African American young man a moment to understand who she was talking about. “You mean Camille?”

“If that’s her name, then yes.”

“Oh, we don’t hang out anymore.”

“What?” Jazz gasped. “Why?”

Tucker looked at her uneasily. Danny, on his part, remained quiet, just listening to their conversation. “Uh, no offence, Jazz but...I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with my best friend’s sister; close as we may be.”

That made her frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just...there’s things you don’t talk about with just anyone. And what happens between you and the people you choose to fool around with is one of them. I mean, how would you feel if my mum tried meddling into your love life?”

She just made a derisive sound at the back of her throat. “Excuse me? That is completely different!”

“It is not!”

“Oh, really?” Jazz put her hands on her hips, an eyebrow raised. “Please. Tucker, I’m Danny’s older sister, not our mother! Moreso, I’m the eldest by two years,” she put two fingers up to stress her point, “it’s not like I babysat you or cleaned your diapers. It can’t be that embarrassing!”

Refusing to say any more, Tucker just fell backwards on his bed, arms crossed. From his chair, Danny could only roll his eyes good-naturedly at their banter.

After a beat of silence, Jazz tried again. “Was it your issues with commitment? Did she want more but you got scared?”

Exasperated, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, he turned to his best friend. “You can intervene whenever you like, you know?”

Danny just leaned back on his chair, his arms folded behind his head and an easy grin on his face. “Nah, I’m good.”

Abruptly getting up from his bed, unamused, Tucker walked over to his desk and turned his computer on. His back turned to the Fenton siblings, he started fidgeting with a program he’d just opened. He had no idea what to do with it, but he figured it’d be better than Jazz butting in on his love life.

“So...is that it?” she ventured hopefully.

Groaning loudly, he rubbed his eyes before fully facing the current thorn in his side. “Has it ever crossed your mind that the reason why I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with you is because you’re going to try and psychoanalyse me?” Seeing as there was no reply, Tucker took it as a sign that she’d finally let it go, so he turned to face the screen.

...only to hear her whisper to Danny. “How much on them having trouble in bed?”

His face burning hot in embarrassment, Tucker slammed his head against the desk, startling the two other people in the room. At least Danny would never betray him, would he? No, he wouldn’t. It totally went against, like, fifty rules in the Bro Code.

Unfortunately, Danny was having far too much fun seeing Tucker squirm under Jazz’s scrutinising, psychological curiosity. “Well, from what I’ve heard…”

Oh, no! No way in Hell was that traitor selling him out like that! If Danny wanted war, he’d give him war, Bro Code be damned! Getting up with startling speed, Tucker yelled loud enough to drown Danny’s voice out. “Danny’s met a girl!”

Both siblings blinked slowly at him before simultaneously screeching, “What!?” Although it was impossible to tell which of the two was more bewildered by the revelation.

In an instant, Jazz was on her brother like a vulpture on an animal carcass. “Danny, is that true? You have a girlfriend?” Suddenly, she looked much more offended than dumbfounded. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

“No!” he quickly denied, before all but flying from his chair and going over to his so-called best friend to smack him on the arm. Hard. “Tucker, what the fuck?!”

“Language!” Jazz admonished.

“Where did you get the idea that I got a girlfriend? What, you’ve listened to me talking about how I fear for my life whenever I’m in the same room as the short-tempered, curse-inducing, infuriating Queen of the Witches of Amity Park and you obviously thought, Oh, man. That’s true love right there and then?!”

“Well, that definitely didn’t stop you from crushing on Valerie back in high school…” Jazz pointed out meekly.

Seeing Danny’s eyes glow green for a fraction of a second was enough to make Tucker sweat bullets. “Jazz, you’re not helping!” He squeaked. “And, dude, you’re freaking me out a little with the way you’re burning holes in my skull. At this point, I really wouldn’t put it past you to have suddenly developed heat-vision or something…”

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Danny finally got out of his best friend’s personal space. He was still pissed, though. “Talk.”

Straightening his clothes, Tucker rolled his eyes. “My, aren’t you sensitive today.”

“Well, duh! You just said I have a girlfriend! Could you be so kind as to tell me who so I don’t forget our anniversary or, I don’t know, her face!?”

The techno geek made a ‘pfft’ sound with his mouth, shrugging the notion off with a motion of his hand. “I never said you had a girlfriend. My exact words were ‘Danny’s met a girl.’ If you two are too obsessed with your love life to pay close attention to what other people say, that’s not my problem.”

“Okay, so who’s this girl?” Jazz asked, still curious.

“Yes, please, enlighten us, oh, King Tuck.” Danny quipped sarcastically.

Tucker frowned, not appreciating the quip at his past mistake, but he spoke nonetheless. “Dude, it 's Sam.”

There was a beat of silence where brother and sister just stared at him before Danny whispered, shell-shocked, “Sam?”

Jazz, on her part, was both shocked and confused. “Wait, who’s Sam?”

He would’ve smacked him right then and there if it weren’t for his best friend having ghost powers he could blast him with. “Well, duh! Dude, have you or have you not met a girl named Sam recently? Because, I’m warning you, if you thought she was a guy, I’m telling on you. I don’t care if she beats your ass; you’d deserve it.”

“Ooh! A girl capable of kicking my baby brother's butt? Now I gotta know who she is! Also, Tucker, language.” The aqua-eyed girl half-heartedly scolded him, before her expression turned into a pensive one as she redirected her gaze to Danny “...are you sure you don’t have a type, though?”

“Sam and Valerie are nothing alike!” Danny exclaimed, throwing his arms up at his sides. Then he turned to Tucker, his hands now curled into fists out of sheer annoyance. “And of course I know she’s a girl. I just don’t understand how on Earth you’d come to the conclusion that I’m into her or something.”

Not for the first time, Tucker rolled his eyes before getting up from his chair and draping his arm around Danny’s shoulders. “And, again, I never said you were. I just said you’d met a girl…” Danny didn’t like that mischievous glint in his eyes one bit. “It just so happens I know you two enough to know you’d immediately assume I was talking about a lady friend, which would then make you forget all about moi.” Tucker explained with a cheeky grin. “And, lo and behold, it worked!”

Danny narrowed his eyes on him. He hated it when Tucker used their everlasting friendship to play him like a violin. Jazz, on the other hand, hated having her queries ignored. Taking a deep breath, she raised her voice to deafening levels. “Hello? Can anyone tell me who this ‘Sam’ is?”

“Agh!” Both halfa and techno geek exclaimed, taken aback. Nursing his ear, the youngest Fenton glared at his sister. “You're louder than my Ghostly Wail, you know that?”

“I can attest to that.” Tucker muttered, equally annoyed.

Both sighed in defeat when Jazz limited herself to arching an eyebrow at them with her hands, curled into fists at her sides, stubborn as ever to get her answers. “Jazz, it’s no big deal. Sam is just a friend of Tucker’s who knows an awful lot about the occult and such. He thinks she might be able to help me with you-know-who.” He explained as he sat down on his bed next to her, Tucker following suit.

“Wait, Tucker is friends with a girl that’s not me?”

The aforementioned boy took offence at that. “Is it really that weird to see me hanging out with a girl because we’re friends and nothing more?”

The Fenton kids just stared at him blankly. “Dude, you literally hit on anything with a skirt. Remember the drag queen?”

The techno geek spluttered at that, while Jazz couldn’t help but chortle. “Dude, you promised to never bring that up again!”

Danny only chuckled at his best friend’s flushed face. “I don’t think you’re in any position to complain, Tuck. After all, you did break that poor queen’s heart...”

“Why, you!” Face burning hot in embarrassment, Tucker threw himself at Danny, ready to strangle him, ability to blast him to smithereens be damned! His own body reacting instinctively, Danny lay down on his back as he grabbed his best friend’s wrists. The two would’ve started roughhousing hadn’t it been for Jazz getting caught in between.

“Hey! Stop it you two!” With a superhuman strength that could only be attributed to an older sibling separating her little brothers, Jazz shoved Tucker off of Danny, while she kept the latter down with a hand on his chest. A few minutes passed before the two calmed down. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she turned to Tucker, trying to keep the original conversation going. “So this Sam could be of help?”

Willing his own breath to steady, Tucker nodded. “Yeah. Sam’s a Goth, so she’s very interested in all that. In fact, she’s been of help before.”

Danny’s interest perked at that. “What do you mean?”

“Remember when I’d come up with a solution to defeat certain ghosts this past year? Like Medusa, or that giant Hydra, and such? That was all Sam!”

“Now that you mention it, it did take me by surprise that you’d suddenly know what a hydra even is…”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence…” he quipped, before shaking his head to keep himself focused. “Anyway, whenever those ghosts appeared, I’d remember Sam talking about her latest mythology-related acquisition she bought from her favourite bookstore. So I just called her up, used the very convenient ghost in case to ask about its weakness and, ta-da! You’d have your way to beat them!” He exclaimed, proudly puffing up his chest. After a moment, he deflated, another thought in his mind. “The only creature she never told me about are unicorns, though. I don’t know why.”

“Maybe it throws off her entire dark, cynical persona.” Jazz guessed. Becoming Goth was a common coping mechanism for when people lost someone dear. For all she knew, this Sam could’ve lost a loved one and abandoned all things traditionally cute and girly as a way to put up a strong, undaunted façade, constantly exposing herself to the darker side of life in an attempt to grow desensitised to such things.

“Maybe,” the bespectacled young man shrugged, “but if you ever meet her, don’t go around saying things like that. Somehow, I doubt she’d appreciate having her entire identity picked out and analysed.”

As Tucker and Jazz kept on bantering with each other, Danny’s thoughts were elsewhere. If what Tucker was saying was true and Sam had indeed marked the difference between victory and defeat during those ghost attacks, then it really would be better to have her by his side.

Despite his years fighting ghosts and what he’d learned from Frostbite, his knowledge was limited to the Ghost Zone, which was why the presence of mythological or legendary ghosts tended to demand more of him than, say, facing off against Technus, or Johnny 13. Magical artefacts and abilities fell under that category, as well.

Aside from the lack of portal-creating and visits to the Ghost Zone, the witches, on the contrary, seemed to be knowledgeable of ghosts. And that put him at a clear disadvantage he couldn’t afford. But if Sam also happened to know about witches, maybe even partake in rituals for the sake of it, then having her near would be for the best. He would only have to make sure to keep a close eye on her in case the witches found out and went after her in retaliation.

And also, deep down, he was sort of looking forward to meeting her again.

...............

The seemingly never ending corridors were doing nothing to alleviate her already suffering nerves. Despite the velvet-carpeted floor that would other times muffle her heavy steps, she now felt as if every step she took resonated throughout the manor like the screeching tiles of a wooden floor. From the rich, maroon walls were hanging the portraits of every astounding witch their clan had ever witnessed; from queens and Council members, to especially adept sorceresses or even heroines who had saved their sisters one way or another. All those women she usually looked up to for guidance in difficult times now seemed to be silently judging her with their cold, unforgiving eyes.

She walked in complete silence, afraid to disturb the peace if she were to utter a word. After discovering the grimoire she used to travel to the Ghost Zone wouldn’t be of any help in her mission, Sam was blindly following the beginning of a hunch; the spark of an idea whose outcome she still knew nothing of. But, even if she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, it was all she had.

Sam had no choice but to follow that inkling.

Hurriedly trying to keep up with her, Star and Paulina were close behind. Once again, their position within their Queen’s inner circle allowed them to understand Sam’s thought process better than most. Only they knew the true reason behind the Queen’s unprompted visit to their clan’s archives.

“Your Majesty, what do you expect to find inside thー?” Before Star could so much as finish her question, Sam interrupted her.

“Indeed, Star. I would appreciate a warm bubble bath with deadly nightshade leaves.” The queen said, not even stopping to look back at her ladies-in-waiting.

To any other person, that cryptic message would have meant nothing but the typical request one would expect a queen to ask her personal maids of. But Paulina and Star knew better. Asking for deadly nightshade was Sam’s way of telling them to keep whatever she was up to a secret. By asking Star for a deadly nightshade bubble bath, she was instructing them that absolutely no one should find out about the true reason behind her visit to the archives.

Exchanging knowing glances with Paulina, the blonde lowered her head slightly, fully aware that her Queen was watching her from the corner of her eye. “Yes, your Majesty.”

And with that everything that had to be said was shared between them.

Time was of the essence.

Aside from the evident danger she faced every time she travelled to the Infinite Realms, there was the added possibility of being spotted by humans, regardless of how far away from civilization their meeting spot was. If anyone ever took notice of the three mysterious figures fraternising with ghosts, Amity Park’s greatest known threat, questions would soon arise.

And whenever humans had questions, they turned to the so-called experts on the matter for help. While Sam wasn’t sure those incompetent Guys In White even suspected their existence, she still wouldn’t put it past them to investigate for the sake of burning tax money in some new toys. Those greedy, government puppets… Worst of all, if they took a genuine interest in her kind, they might as well be done for, and not necessarily because the GIW were good at their job…

If word got out that witches were real and living among them, the citizens could get scared. And whenever humans got scared, especially if it was of things they couldn’t quite explain or understand, that fear turned into aggression. If they kept wasting any more time, one day she’d open her door to find herself face to face with an angry mob.

And to think it’d all be because of a group of incompentent ghost hunters who couldn’t even drive away the very same treacherous creatures responsible for her people’s need for secrecy in the first place...it was irony at its finest.

However, despite the spike of anxiety in her chest, Sam couldn’t help but go back to her last visit to the Ghost Zone. Phantom’s attempts at dissipating the tension had been, as much as she hated to admit it, a welcomed thing. And yet, it was a little unnerving to learn the Ghost King shared her views on formality and the power of intimacy, because it made him look more human than she would ever be comfortable with.

In all fairness, it was difficult to imagine Phantom talking like anything but his usual, cocky self in the first place. From what little exchanges the news broadcasts had been able to catch on camera during the years, the white-haired spirit tended to get overly familiar with his opponents, getting under their skin with puns or witty comebacks thrown at their expense. Still, as unusual as it was, Sam couldn’t help but feel that, perhaps, it would’ve been better to keep on using their respective honorifics. Because Phantom addressing her like he would any other misbehaving ghost, like she’d seen him do dozens of times over the years, somehow made it all the more...real. She truly was talking to the infamous Ghost King on her own volition.

That thought alone scared her more than she’d ever be willing to admit.

Before Sam could dwell on the matter any longer, a grating, shrill voice snapped her out of her thoughts. A voice she knew all too well and would do just about anything to never hear again unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Sammy-kins!”

Stopping in her tracks, eye twitching in annoyance, the lavender-eyed girl forced a smile to materialise on her face as she slowly turned around to face the mother of all monsters. Her own. “Hello, Mother.” She forced out.

Pamela Manson was an average witch; the only thing stellar about her was her ability to distract humans with her lavish parties and over-the-top socialite persona. A woman obsessed with social status and appearances, Sam’s mother constantly got on her case due to her own disregard for the very things Pamela lived for.

Mother and daughter were opposites in almost every aspect.

Whereas Sam prided herself in her individuality and ability to go unnoticed unless she truly wished to make her presence known, Pamela was obsessed with blending in a way that would always draw all eyes to her.

Sam believed in standing up for a change, without fear of taking big steps as long as they led her to a better world. Pamela considered things to be fine as they were, and that the only changes that should be implemented were small, insignificant ones; such as her daughter’s fashion sense.

While Sam was a rather cynical individual who still cared about everyone deep down, her mother was preppy and optimistic, but her aspirations were limited to what could benefit her and her family.

But what truly set them apart was Sam’s insistence on being inconspicuous to the human eye; her coven’s anonymity her top priority. As opposed to Pamela who, had she been queen, would’ve accidentally exposed their secrets in her first week after being crowned; tops.

In all fairness, it wasn’t that Pamela didn’t care for their clan; it was just that she couldn’t resist flaunting what, she believed, made her better than everyone else.

And, right now, she believed her daughter’s manners could be much better. “What’s with the cold greeting, Sammy-kins? We haven’t seen much of each other in over a week and that’s how you treat me?”

On second thought, Sam much preferred her chances against an angry mob over spending five minutes in the same room as her mother. “Sorry, Mother, but you caught me in the middle of something important and…”

“What could possibly be more important than what I’m about to tell you?” Pamela questioned, her hands on her hips.

“Perhaps finding a way to save two dimensions or, at the very least, our people, but you’re right, Mum, what was it that you wanted to tell me?”, was what the raven-haired witch wished she could’ve said, but instead she opted for, “And what is it that you have to tell me?”

Instead of answering her daughter, however, Pamela directed an expectant look at her two ladies-in-waiting who, upon noticing her steely glare on them, immediately straightened up before lowering their heads in submission. “Greetings, your Ladyship.” Paulina and Star droned, their heads low.

Although Pamela was never queen herself, as mother of the current leader of the clan she was to be regarded with respect. A fact the woman would constantly revel in and fully take advantage of. Smiling in contentment, she sighed. “Ah, much better. Now, Sammy-kins, I was thinking we could take some time away from your schedule to have a little chat on your wardrobe choices?”

Ugh, not that again. Ignoring her mother’s offended gasp, Sam turned on her heel to make her way, once again, to her original destination. Star and Paulina hurrying up to leave ‘her Ladyship’ behind and keep up with their queen after flashing her mother a pair of matching sheepish smiles

Unfortunately, the one thing Sam seemed to have inherited from her mother was her stubbornness. Quickening her own pace, the clicking of her high heels behind her haunting Sam even in her dreams, Pamela caught up with them in a surprisingly short amount of time. Having no choice but to breathlessly talk to her daughter at the same time as she tried keeping up with her would not be enough to get her to give up on her pursuit.

“Seeing as we have much more important matters to discuss, I shall gracefully ignore your previous insolence.” Luckily for Sam, her mother missed the way she rolled her eyes at her. “I know this...Gore style of yours��.”

“It’s ‘Goth’, Mother…” Sam corrected her, but her efforts fell on deaf ears.

“ーis just your way of rebelling against the world because things don’t go your way, but don’t you think enough is enough? You’ve been dressing like a mortician since you were twelve!”

“If you’re done patronising me and the way I choose to present myself to the worldーwhich, not only have you insulted in every possible way but, allow me to remind you, is not just a phaseー, I really do have more important matters to attend to.”

And with that, she sped up past her mother. It should’ve been the end of that conversation, but Pamela always had to have the last word. “But what about the clan? Don’t you think it’s selfish to compromise us like that?”

That stopped the Witch Queen dead in her tracks, the unexpected stop causing Paulina and Star to tumble back a few steps. Once they registered what Pamela had said, their blood ran cold; the stiffness in Sam’s posture only confirmed their unspoken fears:

Sam’s mother had just crossed a line.

Fists clenched so tightly at her sides she could’ve drawn blood, her teeth gritting in aggravation, Sam hissed, not even turning around to face her mother. “What did you just say?”

Brushing her daughter’s anger off as just another tantrum, Pamela calmly walked over to where she stood, looking over her handmaidens’ shoulders. Resting a palm on Sam’s shoulder, a hand that, although meant as comforting, came out as condescending, mocking; the older witch spoke up. “I’m just saying, you’re always advocating for our anonymity, yet you seem to ignore that people will immediately associate your obvious, stereotypically witchy outfits with real-life witchcraft. All that black and those dark colours, the ripped fabric, the metal ornaments… Sammy, don’t you see? That’s like wearing a sign saying ‘I’m a witch! Come and lynch me!’”

Taking advantage of her turned face, Sam narrowed her eyes on her mother. She dressed like a WASP housewife from the 50’s when she was a Jewish woman living in the 21st centuryーshe was in absolutely no position to criticise her looks!

How dare she? How dare she?! Using her duty to protect her people against her just to get her to wear some frilly abomination because she couldn’t fathom the idea that her daughter would want to be her own person?

It was moments like these that Sam missed Grandma Ida the most. Her grandma would’ve guided her in her darkest hours, giving her useful advice to approach the situation, but never making decisions for her, letting her live and learn instead! Grandma Ida would’ve never tried to use her to push some personal agenda on the clan.

But Grandma Ida was gone, and Pamela was there to stay.

As insulted and, although she’d never let it show, hurt as Sam was, going to the archives took priority. Stowing her conversation with her mother for another time as she resumed her march down the hallsーpreferably when she’d be alone in her roomーSam shrugged her off the best way she knew; through biting sarcasm. “Oh, please. If I were nearly as ‘obvious’ or ‘stereotypically witchy’ as you say, Mother, I’d decorate this place after the Sedlec Ossuary.”

Pamela furrowed her brow in confusion as she, too, resumed her walk. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s talking about a Czech chapel fully decorated with bones and skulls.” Star helpfully supplied.

Paulina, on the contrary, shuddered in disgust. “Ugh, I’d rather not. I’d feel like I’m always being watched…”

Star tilted her head to the side. “How? Skulls don’t have eyes.”

Ignoring the handmaidens, Pamela opened up her mouth to speak when a raised hand from her daughter, who had abruptly halted, stopped her from even getting a word in. “As lovely as catching up with you has been, Mother,” Sam started, voice laced with sarcasm, “I’m afraid I must go. I have important matters to attend to, as I already told you, that I must take care of, in private.” She stressed before turning the doorknob of the large door before her and walking inside, swiftly letting her bewildered mother out after she all but slammed the door shut in her face.

Leaning her back against the door, Sam let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. No matter how much time passed, her mother would always be a she-demon worse than any ghost. God forbid Phantom ever met her; if he were to take a page out of her book, Sam would personally burn herself at the stake.

“Is Pamela too much for you?” A sultry voice coaxed her out of her thoughts.

Opening up her eyes, Sam could feel the relieved smile forming on her face at the sight of the witch she most wanted to see at the moment. “Delilah.” She breathed out as she separated herself from the door, walking over to her friend to grab her hands in hers. “You have no idea.” Sighing dramatically, she let her head fall on the crook of the shapeshifter’s shoulder, eliciting a chuckle from her.

“Oh, I don’t need to.” She said, gently patting her queen’s head. “Just by looking at you I can tell; you look like you’ve suddenly lost ten years of your life!”

“Make that twenty,” Sam grumbled.

Separating herself from her leader, their hands still holding each other, the turquoise-eyed sorceress got to the point. “Well, what brings you here? As much as I love your visits, I thought you’d be busy with your little escapes to the Ghost Zone?”

Sam averted her gaze, the wooden floor suddenly much more interesting than a few seconds ago. “It’s precisely because of that that I’m here.”

“Oh?” Delilah tilted her head, slightly. “Okay...So, what are you here for, then?”

To her bewilderment, her queen’s eyes continuously darted from one place to another, as if expecting to be ambushed any minute now. “Are we alone?”

An odd question, but not necessarily a bad one. Putting her fingers on her chin in thought, the Council member tried to remember if she’d seen anyone that day. “Hm, I think Stephanie might be somewhere around here, engrossed in a book. But you know her, it’d be easier to get me to leave the archives than not seeing that girl with her nose deep in a book.”

Stephanie was probably with them. That was not a bad thing. Stephanie ought to find out sooner or later. Wringing her hands nervously, Sam willed her eyes to look at Delilah’s own curious turquoise ones. “I need your help with something.”

That caught her attention. “My help?” Sam nodded. “My, Sam, you’re starting to worry me.” Delilah admitted as she got closer to the Goth, her hand hovering over her shoulder but never close enough to actually rest atop of it, afraid that the sudden contact would startle her. It was unusual to see her so suspicious of everything around her. Maybe… “Did the ghosts do anything? Are we going to war?”

That seemed to snap the younger witch out of whatever she was going through. She didn’t lower her guard, though. “No, no. We’re not going to war.” She shook her head as she let Delilah gently guide her to another section of the archives. “But in order to avoid just that I might need to do something crazy…”

Delilah wrinkled her nose at that. “Something crazy? You’re not going to marry that Ghost Punk, are you?”

Startled, Sam jerked away from her touch, shuddering in discomfort. Where would she get such a ridiculous idea? She and Danny Phantom? She almost wanted to laugh. Instead, she let out a derisive sound from the back of her throat. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“So, what is it then? I’m sorry, Sam, but you’re not making any sense right now.” The shapeshifter insisted. “If we’re not going to war, and you’re not going to marry the Ghost King, what do you need me for?” Taking a few steps, she got closer to the young monarch, their faces mere inches apart as she tried looking for answers in her amethyst orbs. “What could be so serious that you’re so unnerved, Sam?”

Delilah’s intense gaze made her squirm, but she had a point. She couldn’t expect her to help her, no questions asked. For instance, she wasn’t just the best shapeshifter of the clan, she was also a Council member, and the archives guardian. She was the one tasked with keeping their people’s most precious treasure, their history and knowledge, safe. And considering what she was gonna ask of her, Delilah was in her right to know exactly what was going through her head.

Steeling herself for what was to come, Sam straightened her spine, returning the intensity of the older witch’s gaze in earnest. “I need you to grant me access to a certain type of book.”

Delilah’s posture relaxed. “Is that it? Why didn’t you say so sooner? Sure, just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll let you take a lookー.”

“I mean,” Sam cut her off, “I need you to grant me permission to take the book with me, outside of the manor...and into the Ghost Zone.” Her voice wavered when she muttered the last part.

“Oh...I see...” The guardian’s expression immediately sobered up. She cleared her throat, awkwardly. “And, what type of book are you looking for?”

Now things were going to get really ugly. “I need a spellbook detailing everything we know about the Ghost Zone, specifically, its portals.”

For a while, Delilah just stared at her, almost unblinkingly. The good news was she didn’t appear angry or outraged as Sam had predicted, the bad news, however, was that her empty, unreadable expression was much worse. At least she’d have known what she was thinking had she been yelling at her for her idiocy; questioning her mental health. But as it was, Sam was almost as lost as her.

After what felt like an eternity, Delilah finally found her voice. “So you…” she quieted down, trying to find the words. “You want to take one of our most sacred texts to the Ghost Zone?”

Sam winced. Somehow, it sounded way worse when she said it like that. “I know it’s asking for too much…”

“Saying that’s an understatement wouldn’t even begin to cover it.” The Council member scoffed. “Seriously, Margaret would have a cow! And don’t get me started on Wilhelmina…”

“I know!” Sam was quick to reassure her. She was perfectly aware what she was asking of her might be a little excessive, but she wasn’t completely delusional! She knew just what kind of reaction their fellow Council members would have... “I know, but...the only way to ensure our people’s safety is helping Phantom. And he needs help closing numerous unstable portals that are suddenly opening. I thought the book I’d been using to get to the Infinite Realms would have the answers, but its contents were thoroughly underwhelming.”

Just like she did in Phantom’s lair, Sam got the spellbook out of her skirt before handing it to the guardian. In turn, she inspected its pages, concluding that, indeed, the book hadn’t much to offer. “Please, Delilah, you know I would never ask this of you if I didn’t think it’s our only hope.”

Sam wasn’t one to plead. The young Council member knew this better than anyone. She was headstrong and determined; the entire clan knew there wasn’t much that could be done to dissuade her once her mind was made up. Margaret herself found it to be both a blessing and a curse, while Wilhelmina thought it was a curse. Period. And Delilah...

Delilah prayed to all things above her that she wasn’t about to make a mistake. Sighing in defeat, she flashed Sam a small grin, earning herself a triumphant smile in return. Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, she motioned for her queen to follow her with a slight jerk of her index finger. “Come with me, your Majesty. I know just the thing.”

Sighing in relief, Sam allowed her eyes to wander around the manor’s archives. She really couldn’t blame Stephanie for loving the place to the point of practically making it her second homeーthe sight was breathtaking.

The circular room, surrounded by large panel windows, located right below the Council Room, which put it in the three-story manor’s second story, was one of the best examples of a Pocket Dimension Spell put to good use. Countless shelves filled to the brim with colourful, leather-bound books went on as far as reached the eye; hanging proudly from the ceiling, the arrow-shaped banners with her clan’s signature colour and emblemーa black rose over a royal purple backgroundーadorned the room; leaning against the shelves, golden ladders could be seen moving on their own accord; which was almost as impressive as the floating books that flew from one place to another by flapping their two covers like an eagle would flap its wings.

Walking through the numerous aisles, letting herself be, one again, amazed by the sight, Sam caught a familiar figure from the corner of her eye. Turning her head to the source, she found Stephanie Baker, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back against a shelf’s lateral plank, an incredibly dense book perched on her lap.

Sensing someone’s eyes on her, no doubt, Stephanie lifted her head up and away from her book, before a grin was plastered on her face at the sight of her queen. Her enthusiastic wave was answered by Sam’s much more subdued one, alongside a small chuckle. “She’ll never change; she’s at her happiest when surrounded by books,” Sam mused to herself.

She and Delilah kept walking in silence, but with each step she took, the Goth couldn’t help but furrow her brow, anxiously. They were getting further and further away from the archives’ hot spot, the zone with the most activity disappearing in the distance until she almost couldn’t make it out anymore. Just where was she taking her?

Her question was answered when her guide halted abruptly in front of the wall. An empty space that, unlike the other walls encasing the archives, wasn’t even decorated by a portrait of one of the previous guardians. Not sure what to expect, Sam tilted her head to the side, speechless. “Uh...Delilah?”

But Delilah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her back on her and extended her hands, palms open, in front of her. “Clavis mysteria!”, she chanted, her carefully coiffed onyx braid dancing around her, as if swayed by a sudden strong breeze. From her palms emanated a green fog that, as Sam could only look on in awe, speechless for an entirely different reason; seemed to open the wall in half, the resulting, uneven, wooden dents making way for it.

An eternity or a few minutes could’ve passed, and Sam would be willing to believe anything she was told, when the green fog manifested again, carrying a rather large object with it. When the Witch Queen realised what it was, she could only gasp in astonishment.

Levitating before them was a royal blue, leather-bound book. Intricate designs were scattered throughout its back cover, engraved in gold. Two such designs, a pair of golden, twin swirls, flanked an equally golden fleur de lis on its spine. But the most amazing thing, what truly showed the book’s importance, were the golden letters, glinting under the light, on its cover:

Arcana’s Grimoire

Mouth hanging open, the young witch could only gape at her friend, completely blown away by the revelation, as the grimoire landed safely on her hands. With a small chuckle, Delilah pushed some loose, black locks obscuring the right side of her face aside. “Sorry. No matter how tightly I tie my braid, spellcasting always messes my hair up.”

Her throat suddenly very dry, Sam swallowed before managing to speak, a finger pointing at the manuscript. “Is...is that…?”

With a knowing smile, Delilah nodded. “Arcana's Grimoire. If you want to find answers on what’s causing those ghost portals to open at random, this baby is your best bet.” Stretching her arms towards the queen, she handed the book to her, who held it with as much care as one held a newborn for the first time, almost reverently. “The grimoire holds the answers to all those questions time made sure to erase.”

“I-I…you...t-the book...” Sam stuttered, not sure what to say. “A-are you sure you want to entrust the g-grimoire, Arcana’s Grimoire, to me?”

“It’s risky, I know. But you said it yourself, you wouldn’t ask me to grant you permission to take a spellbook out of the manor if you weren’t convinced it’s our only hope.” Those few loose strands falling on her face, a stark contrast to her dark mane, she lay a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder, a soft smile on her face. “And I wouldn’t hand the grimoire to you if I didn’t think it’d be safe with you.”

Eyes widening at the Council member’s words, Sam couldn’t do anything but send her a grateful smile in return. Clutching the grimoire close to her chest, she promised, “I’ll guard it with my life.”

Internally, she made another promise, only this time, it was much more violent than solemn. “And I swear, if Phantom so much as looks at it wrong, I’ll ask Danny to lend me some of his parents’ weapons and hunt him down myself.”

................

“You’re lucky this place sells some of the best pastrami sandwiches I’ve ever had, dude. Otherwise, you’d be on your own.” Tucker said in between bites of his heavenly pastrami with honey mustard sandwich. Wiping some sauce from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, earning himself disgusted looks from the two other people present, he wagged a finger at his best friend. “Seriously, though. Who would’ve thought Sam would have good taste in restaurants?”

He winced when the Goth in question elbowed him on his side. “I have excellent taste in food in general, thank you very much. It’s not my fault only 9% of the global population can appreciate it.”

Once again, they were meeting up at the You Mocha Me Crazy, which, at this rate, was going to become their new favourite hanging spot. Unless Sam was willing to forego her vegetarian ways and ask for a Double Meaty Nasty Burger with extra bacon with them. Somehow, that seemed unlikely. Luckily, during their first visit Sam had introduced Tucker to their selection of sandwiches and cold cuts, making it easier for the techno geek to warm up to the café.

After that successful first meeting, the trio decided to hang out whenever Danny needed Sam's help to write his ‘paper.’ All they had to do was ring or text Sam, and she’d tell them when she was free to meet.

Today was one of those days she was free and the guys were in need of her help. The three were lounging around a small coffee table Sam named ‘her spot’, for it was where she usually had her coffee or worked on her assignments in peace. The fact that she was good friends with one of the baristas also helped keep the space free of any ‘spot-stealing-squads,’ as she lovingly referred to ‘those vultures.’

Nursing his aching side, Tucker rolled his eyes. He’d already lost count on how many times they’d had that same conversation. “Is there anyone free from your vegan wrath?”

“For the last time, I’m ultra-recyclo-vegetarian, not vegan.”

“What’s the difference?” Danny intervened, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Vegans tend to waste almost as much food as non-vegetarians. Ultra-recyclo-vegetarians make the most of every single meal.” Sam explained, forking a piece of tomato from her salad. “That’s where the ‘recyclo’ part comes from.”

“I thought that was freegans.” Tucker frowned, still munching his sandwich.

“I’m surprised you even know what that is.”

“You and me both.” Danny said, turning to look at Tucker with a curious expression on his face.

Rolling his eyes, the techno geek shrugged them off. “You meet the craziest people on Tinder.” He explained offhandedly. When he took notice of his two companions’ horrified expressions, he almost doubled over in laughter. Clearing his throat, he turned to Sam. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

Shaking her head to erase the traumatising image that was Tucker’s love life, Sam started. “What? Uh...oh! Right. Ehem! As a matter of fact, there are people excluded from my ‘ultra-recyclo-vegetarian wrath.’” She corrected. “I’d never force people without enough resources to go vegan. Such as the Inuit community. Besides, those guys barely hunt anything compared to rich jerks with questionable hobbies, and they use everything of what little they do hunt.”

“Handy people.” Danny mused, before returning his attention to his laptop, resting on top of his lap, one leg crossed over his other knee. “Now, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but we’re here to help me with my...with my homework, remember?”

If Sam thought the way he seemed to overthink his words was weird, she didn’t let it show. “Yeah, you’re right.” She said as she turned her torso around, reaching for her notes inside her spider backpack. “Okay, you two. Lay it on me; what do you want to know?”

Tucker and Danny exchanged a glance, before the blue-eyed boy ventured. “Well...Sam, you’re the expert. What can you tell us of...um...of the witches.”

Scanning through her notepad’s pages, Sam froze at Danny’s words. Could her people’s secret have been discovered already? Before risking compromising her sisters, she had to test the waters first. “Why are you doing your paper on witches in the first place?” Her voice came out a little colder than she intended.

Tucker furrowed his brow, taken aback by her sudden guarded posture, while Danny just rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Uh...why not? The seminar I signed up for is on mythological creatures and folklore, and witches are one of the most legendary myths ever...right?”

Alright, that made sense. But she couldn’t be reckless, she had to make sure Danny didn’t pose a threat to her coven. “Yeah, they definitely are. I’m sorry, it’s just...with all the ghosts constantly attacking Amity Park, I thought, ‘why witches?’, you know? I mean, your parents are experts! If you just asked them for a little bit of help, your assignment would immediately turn into an easy A, wouldn’t it?”

Taking a gulp from his espresso, Danny carefully thought what to say next. He couldn’t let Sam think he had some sort of ulterior motive for asking about the mystical group of women; he’d promised Lady Arcana her people’s secret would be safe, after all. So he did the only thing he could; he expertly lied. “Well, I don’t really like having things handed to me, you see. What’s the point in signing up for a seminar if I’m just going to get an easy A thanks to my parents, you know what I mean?”

Tucker had to fight the urge to laugh at the irony of the situation. Oh, what Danny wouldn’t have given just to get easy A’s during high school... When his two friends turned to him, Sam looking at him in confusion and Danny quietly begging him to keep his mouth shut, he played it cool by taking a sip from his drink.

“Anyway,” Danny continued, “I just thought ghosts would be...I dunno...too mainstream? The assignment is supposed to make me do research on mythological creatures, and nowadays it’s pretty obvious ghosts are anything but mythological.”

“Witches aren’t far behind, either…” Sam internally mused, sipping from her macchiato. Holding the carton cup with both hands, she decided sharing some information with Danny and Tucker would be safe. She’d just tell them the basics, debunk some Hollywood myths...the usual. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Danny echoed, hopefully.

“Okay.” Sam repeated with a smile. “Anything in particular you want to know about?”

“Just...anything you can tell us, really.” Tucker said, leaning forward with his hands between his legs.

“You’re gonna have to be a tad more specific than that, guys.”

Crossing his arms, the Astrophysics student thought long and hard. What was it that he really wanted to know about them? Well, the answer to that was obvious. His only real question was why? Why did they do what they did? If only he could figure that out, then maybe he’d know how to approach Lady Arcana. But there was no way he could ask that without exposing who he was. And it wasn’t like Sam, of all people, would have the answer anyway.

So instead he asked, “What’s their origin?”

That startled Sam, who almost choked on her lettuce, Tucker quickly coming to her assistance and patting her back. After massaging her throat and swallowing her food, she looked at Danny with an inquisitive eye. “Come again?” She croaked out.

“What’s their origin?” He repeated. “And...and I don’t mean this as in...as in a history lesson. Like, when did witches first appear or anything. If I wanted to know that, I’d just read a book or watch a National Geographic documentary. I-I mean, how is a witch even born?”

“Do I have to explain the birds and the bees to you guys, too?” She asked with a coy smile, having recovered from her coughing fit. Despite the seriousness of his query, the violet-eyed girl couldn’t help but tease him.

Danny flushed in embarrassment. He had to admit, he’d handed her that one. Shaking his head, he chuckled. “I’m good, thanks. You might need to talk to Tuck, though.” He joked, earning himself an offended gasp from his best friend, who punched him lightly on his arm in protest. “But, nah. I guess a better question would be, what makes a witch...well, a witch?”

Sam had to admit, it was a good question. Even if it may risk her people’s secrets, such depth earned the blue-eyed boy some respect from her. Not many people went beyond the basics when looking for information. Most would be content with reading the first few paragraphs of a Wikipedia article. But Danny… Something about the intensity of his ocean blue eyes made Sam feel he was more similar to his parents than he’d originally thought; despite having no interest in ghosts himself. Somehow, he shared their inquisitive and curious mind, albeit from a less scientific approach. Just by that question alone, she immediately understood Danny Fenton was much smarter than people gave him credit for.

Exhaling, she began to explain. “Believe it or not, the one who got closer to the truth was Harry Potter.”

“You mean the children’s book with the extra creepy white dude?” The bespectacled young man raised an eyebrow, before exchanging disbelieving glances with his best friend beside him.

She just chuckled. “Yeah. Witches are human women who were born with the innate ability to do magic, setting them apart from the rest.”

“So...this is witches vs muggles that we’re talking about.” Tucker insisted.

“Yes, Tucker.” Sam said with a bit more bite than she intended. “Point is, being born different tends to alienate people, and considering we’re talking about magical-powers kind of different…”

“The witches were alienated and persecuted by society.” Danny finished for her.

“Bingo.” The raven-haired girl picked up some photocopies with different articles printed on them and handed a few copies to both of them. “Although nowadays most people bel-know witches aren’t real,” she caught herself before her subconscious could rat her out, “some cryptology experts theorise they just eventually flocked together to keep whatever magical gene they had inside the coven. You know, as a precaution to avoid further persecution.” To this day, she still couldn’t believe a group of nutjobs would be right on the money. The sole idea was ludicrous, and yet…

“So, that’s it?” Tucker asked, looking up from his own set of photocopies, incredulous. “Witches are just humans who, inexplicably, won the superpower lottery?”

The Goth just smiled sheepishly at him. What could she say, anyway? Though witches weren’t against scientific discoveries or careers (Star herself was studying to become a mathematician), magic sort of was their thing; literally. So nobody had ever really delved on why or how they’re different from other humans.

Scratching his chin in thought, Danny tried reconciling what Sam said to his own encounters with the spellcasters. When he thought about it, Lady Arcana and her witches really weren’t any different from any other citizen of Amity Park; the only surprising thing about them was their Queen’s unique eye colourーher being breathtakingly beautiful didn’t matter since her personality needed an awful lot of workーand their characteristic ability to do magic...and maybe their questionable taste in pets.

But that was it.

Other than that they were as human as his own family. Even their hatred of ghosts was in synchrony with the town’s general opinion of him. Perhaps if he treated the Witch Queen as any other girl, things would smoothen between them. It made sense that part of her prickly personality was a result of him consciously treating her differently than he would treat others. Deep down, she knew they were unwelcomed, and therefore, built walls around her to avoid getting hurt.

“Look at you, worrying over making the Witch Queen feel comfortable around you...You’re a lost cause, Fenton.” Danny resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself, having more important matters to take care of. “Sam,” he called out to her, startling her and Tucker out of their own conversation, “is there a way you could tell us about their spells or something?”

It was a risky question, he knew. But, as useful as learning to deal with the witches was, what they really needed was a way to put an end to the crisis threatening both dimensions. And the only way to do it was by finding a portal-related spell.

Eyes widening at his question, Sam could feel her stomach churning ominously. That question was a bit too specific for her liking. Depending on how she handled the situation, she could either masterfully take care of it or put her subjects in danger over a potential misunderstanding. “Their spells? What do you mean?”

Danny pretended to look through his own set of copies, trying to appear nonchalant, as if his question were born from mere curiosity, rather than a sense of impending doom. “Nothing, really. I was just curious. I mean, would witches even cast spells, or would they voluntarily just manifest their powers like ghosts do?” As he spoke, his mind raced back to the floating book Lady Arcana had, without any kind of warning, shoved in his face during her last visit.

The Goth had to resist the urge to spit in disgust at the notion of being compared to those disembodied remains of human consciousness. She took a subtle breath to ease away her repulsion. “It’s hard to say.” She lied. “Since there’s no clear evidence that true, real-life witches ever existed, ーand I’m sure they don’t, obviouslyー.”

“Obviously.” The two men seated with her echoed.

“ーthere’s no definite hypothesis explaining if they truly casted spells or not. For all we know, their famous rites and ceremonies could just be that; ceremonies belonging to pagan religions that were thought to be witchcraft by Christians.”

“Any chance we might be able to find any spell on the Internet?” Tucker wondered, readily taking his trusty PDA out of his pocket, causing Danny to sigh tiredly upon noticing the device in his hands. While Tucker used his tablet and computer when doing assignments or playing video games, that was solely because the screens were bigger. He’d actually been in a loving, committed relationship with his PDA since he first got it when he was 14. As time went by and technology evolved, instead of adjusting with the times, he put all his engineering knowledge to use with the sole intention of updating his baby and never having to part ways from her.

It was both kinda cool and a little disturbing, to be honest.

Leaning back on her chair and crossing her legs at her knee, mirroring Danny’s own stance, Sam propped her face on her hand, a bored expression plastered on her face. “Although I do find your commitment to recycling that old thing of yours instead of falling for the capitalistic trap that is technology consumption commendable,” she said, and Danny was sure his eyes must’ve popped open at seeing her utter that long-ass speech without so much as pausing to breathe, “sometimes I worry about you.”

Offended, Tucker frowned at her, only clutching his PDA tighter in his hands. “I’m mercifully going to choose to ignore everything you just said except for the part when you call me ‘commendable.’ Now, can I look for information on the Internet or not?”

Leaning forward, this time resting her chin on her knuckles at the same time as she propped her elbow on her bent knee, Sam shrugged, not really caring. “You can try, but chances are you’re only going to find Halloween articles from children’s magazines, or weird Satanist websites asking you to offer a sacrifice in exchange for joining them.”

As Tucker flopped back down on his chair with his arms crossed, pouting and grumbling something along the lines of, “Damn it, Jazz…”, Danny tried fishing for more information. “So they don’t really cast spells?”

The discomfort came back. She knew Danny was only trying to be thorough with his assignment, but that didn’t change the fact that his questions hit a little too close to the mark. “The only way to find out for sure would be meeting one in real life.” She said in a voice so low, even with his enhanced senses Danny almost didn’t hear her.

Noticing the tension suddenly coming off of Sam, her previously laid-back and even playful posture changing to a much more tense one: legs crossed tightly, her shoulders stiff, both hands clutching at the fabric of her shorts…; Tucker decided it’d be best if they let the topic go for a while. And so, he did what he did best:

He abruptly changed the topic.

“So Sam,” he called out to her, quickly getting both her and Danny’s heads to snap to him, “I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

“Tell you what?” What was he doing?

“What’s your deal?”

Sam blinked. “My deal?”

The teal-eyed young man just nodded. “Yeah, what’s your type?” He asked as he leaned forward, mindlessly toying with his PDA. “Because in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve not seen you once with a boyfriend, not even a fling.”

“Tucker, you’ve known me for a year.” She reminded him. “Not necessarily as much time as you make it out to be.”

“Hey, a lot can happen in a year!” He defended.

“Tucker himself has had three different girlfriends in the last three months.” Danny added.

“See?” Then, he turned to his best friend with an unamused expression on his face. “But, dude, don’t say it like that; you make me sound like a player.”

“I’m just saying,” the black-haired youth put his palms up in surrender, a lazy grin on his face, “it’s not bad for a guy who was rejected by every single girl back in high school.”

Tucker just glowered at him, before turning his attention back to Sam. “So...back to the question; what’s your type of guy?”

She could not believe this was happening. Back when she was a teenager, a tinsy bitsy part of her she tried very hard to suppress secretly longed for talking about girl stuff with the other girls her age from her clan. Something as silly as talking boys, makeup, or any other teenaged-girl nonsense with other people would’ve made her lonely childhood all the more bearable, and now…

...now she was being offered to talk about boys...by other boys...at twenty-one. And the worst part was that she was actually considering it. Her life could not get any more complicated than that. Sighing through her nose, unable to believe how low she’d stooped, she gave in.

Her type...that was a good question. Back when she was still in her early to late teens, she would’ve said she was looking for a unique guy. The type of guy who valued his individuality and who was above all the pointless trends dominating the public with their pre-fabricated, market-targeted predictability. A guy who didn’t fall into any of the classical high school cliques: someone who wasn’t a brainless jock, or a geeky kid, or one of those posers who hid behind a fake dark persona to get people to pay attention to him.

Someone who embraced being different rather than exploited it.

Someone like her.

But all those fantasies turned out to be nothing more than that; fantasies. Delusions. Sooner or later she’d have to open her eyes to the world. She just wished Gregor hadn’t been the one to open them up for her… After that fiasco, Sam finally learned what she was truly looking for in a partner. “...a good guy.” She practically whispered in the end.

Tucker and Danny exchanged a confused glance once their initial surprise at Sam’s sudden reply, after several minutes of silence, had worn off. It was the former who spoke up, “...I’m not sure that qualifies as ‘a type.’”

“Of course it does!”, she protested. “Just like girls stereotypically fall for ‘bad boys’, we can also fall for ‘good guys.’ And I’ve had my fair share of bad boys, thank you…” she muttered before looking away from them.

Something about the way Sam said those words hinted at a lot more going on than just a teenage girl crushing over a guy with a motorcycleーand hopefully not a ghost one who only wanted her as a vessel for his real girlfriendー, but she seemed to have closed herself off completely. Danny wanted to ask her about it, but something in the way her position stiffened changed his mind. No way would Sam open up to someone she'd just met over something so personal.

Instead he asked, "And how about looks?"

She flashed him a small smile and that alone made his entire week worth it. "I'll admit, I do have a soft spot for guys that aren't exactly average."

Tucker scoffed. "Well, duh! I'd also pick a supermodel over a plain-looking chick any day of the week..."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

Despite the seriousness in her voice, she eventually broke down laughing, the other two joining in on the fun soon after. As her giggles quieted down, Sam stole a furtive glance at Danny. The way he seemed to sense her discomfort despite barely knowing each other and making an effort to keep her mind away from unpleasant thoughts was enough to make her heart flutter, making her blush slightly at the realisation.

She shook the feeling off, though. Danny was sweet, and maybe a little cute despite his, apparently, natural awkwardness, but she wasn’t looking for romance, having much more important things to take care of. Besides, he really wasn’t her type, cute as he may be. Still, that didn’t change the fact that she wanted to thank him for his help in some way. And, against her better judgement, she knew just what to do.

An hour passed by until Tucker had to bid them goodbye, saying he was going to be late for class if he stayed with them any longerーalthough he really, really wanted to skip that lectureー, and so, he left his two friends to their own devices. Another forty minutes or so later, it was finally time for them to go to their respective classes, too.

Rolling her eyes at Danny as he opened the door for her, but thanking him nonetheless, Sam stepped out of the café, her companion close behind her. “About the spell thing you asked me about earlier…” she started, her words coming out of the blue and tearing Danny away from his own thoughts, “I guess, if witches are actually just humans with magical powers, then it’d make sense if they’d need some sort of way to activate said powers…”

Mouth slightly agape, he finally found the words, “You mean like a password or something?”

She looked over at him from the corner of her eyes, a cryptic smirk on her lovely face. “Maybe.”

Turning to face him, her smile widening but never losing its mystery, she waved before walking past him, “See ya, Danny.”

Danny slowly waved at her in return, unbidden, too gobsmacked to form a coherent sentence. Because just like that, she was gone.

40 notes · View notes

daughter-of-arda · 3 years ago

Text

Winter Winds--Chapter 1

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: none

Author’s Note: Contrary to the persona I've created, I also write for Lord of the Rings.

——————————————————————————

As much as Pippin loves Frodo, he’s about two minutes away from turning around and going back to Rivendell.

In Rivendell there was always a bowl of fruit nearby in case he became peckish. Elven music floated on the air, very different from the upbeat songs of the Shire but no less fun to listen to. He could wash his feet daily, sleep in a proper bed, and wake up to the promise that second breakfast would be just as large as first breakfast had been.

Here, even though the group is only a few miles from the edges of Rivendell, luxury (or even simple cleanliness, Pippin could argue) is nothing more than a whisper on the biting wind.

It’s not that Hobbits are adverse to traveling in the wilderness, or hesitate to get their feet a bit muddy. Pippin has fond memories of him and Merry traversing Hobbiton and the Shire, splashing through creeks and crawling into gnarled root balls to escape the wrath of those they had played (harmless) pranks on, particularly Farmer Maggot.

In fact, on any other day Pippin would have enjoyed traveling outdoors with his newfound companions. Gandalf holds good conversation if one is willing and able to work through his riddles. Gimli the Dwarf is a bit intimidating, but Pippin can tell his heart is in the right place. He’s mostly left Legolas alone because Sam is already bombarding him with questions of Elvish culture, and he has enough tact to know that one curious Hobbit is enough. The woman from Rohan, Harwyn, is funny, and she and Boromir can send creative insults back and forth for hours. There’s always Merry and Frodo to talk to and reminisce with by the fire, if he’s feeling a bit lonely, and Boromir seems to have made it his personal responsibility to watch over him and Merry, keeping them warm during the night and even attempting to teach them basic defense.

It’s hilarious to watch Boromir train Merry, especially since the former hasn’t realized his protégé is left-handed, and said protégé doesn’t seem in any hurry to correct his mentor’s assumption.

Finally, there’s Strider. Why and how the Ranger found them in Bree Pippin still doesn’t quite know (he’s pretty sure those questions were answered at that Elvish council he and Merry unsuccessfully tried to sneak into), but he’s proven his trustworthiness. Strider is an honest man, if not a mysterious one. He certainly knows how to stay alive in the wilderness, and seems to recognize exactly where they are within the neverending landscape of short brushland and scattered pockets of trees.

Pippin has faith that Strider will lead them well, if there ever comes a time when Gandalf wanders off, and he is wont to do, and doesn’t return for some time. Strider is confident, strong, and—

Gone.

Pippin stops his meandering thoughts, immediately halting. Merry, who is walking next to him, slows also.

“Anything the matter, Pippin?” he asks, concerned. No one else hears him, continuing to trudge southward. Hobbit voices are easily lost on the wind, Pippin is learning, so it makes sense that no one stops.

“Where did—?” Pippin starts, turning in place and feeling foolish when he sees Strider behind him, about fifty paces away, crouched and looking at something in the loose dirt.

“He’s been doing that,” Merry says, thankfully not poking fun at his friend’s misplaced panic. “Ever since we left Rivendell. Stops every so often, looks at something on the ground, then calls like a bird.”

“What sort of bird?” Pippin asks.

Merry shrugs. “Nothing I’ve ever heard. Sam might know, but he’s busy talking to the Elf.”

Strider brushes past them. His travel-worn cloak whips around his ankles. He smirks slightly at their puzzled expressions, gesturing for them to catch up to the group, and Pippin wonders how much of his and Merry’s conversation he heard.

——————————————————————————

For the rest of the afternoon, instead of counting foxholes, Pippin counts how many times Strider stops. Interestingly, he doesn’t always look at the dirt. Occasionally he runs his calloused fingers along the bark of a lone tree, or stares off into the west.

By nightfall the curiosity is eating at him more than his own hunger (and that’s saying a lot, as the group refused to stop for afternoon snacks), and he desperately wonders what Strider is searching for. Perhaps he’s tracking a terrible beast. Gimli does say that Goblins and Trolls sometimes wander down from the peaks of the Misty Mountains.

Pippin frowns. From Bilbo’s stories all those years ago, Trolls seem to make a great mess wherever they go, crashing through the trees and tearing up entire bushes for the sport of it. What Strider is looking for is much more subtle. Goblins are certainly cunning enough to sneak about, but surely someone else would have noticed by now if they were being followed by them. Sam’s pony Bill, for one, is acutely aware of who is a friend and who is a foe.

The fire cracks at his feet. Harwyn teaches Legolas some phrases in the language of her country while Gimli drifts off. Sam has somehow been pulled away from the Elf’s side, and is resting next to Frodo and Merry, blushing at their good-natured teasing of his obvious crush on one Rosie Cotton. Boromir’s belongings are stacked to one side but the man himself is missing at the moment (he remembers Boromir saying something about relieving himself), and Strider and Gandalf are sitting on a nearby protruding stone, talking quietly.

Merry offers him a mug, calling his name and gesturing for him to join their little huddle. He takes it without peeking at its contents, but relishes its warmth. Nothing really tastes like anything when all Pippin can think about is Strider’s odd behavior.

“Strider,” Pippin begins cautiously. Both the Ranger and the Wizard look up, and Pippin swallows nervously. “Is everything alright?”

The man frowns. “Yes, unless you’ve noticed something.”

Pippin almost says something about the stopping, and the dirt and the trees, and the bird calls, but he stops himself. Strider can have his secrets. It’s not his place to reveal them.

“Nothing,” he hears himself say. “I haven’t noticed anything. Just making sure is all.”

——————————————————————————

Pippin wakes with a start, a cold burst of wind rushing over his face like a bucket of icy water. The wind has assaulted his blankets, exposing his feet to the cold, and no matter how much he wraps them up they remain resolutely freezing.

Of all the things Hobbits don’t like, cold feet is high on the list, and Pippin is no exception. He draws his feet into the blankets, cringing when his frozen toes brush against his leg.

All thoughts of comfortable sleep have been driven from his mind, thanks to the wind, so Pippin stands, deciding to sit by the fire until he warms. The flames have been kept alive and strong, oddly enough, but right now he doesn’t really care. If it’ll warm his feet, he’ll happily pledge loyalty to the blaze for the rest of his days.

Yes, that is what he’ll do. Maybe he’ll drag his bedroll over to the fire, so he can stay warm even in slumber.

Rubbing his eyes, he freezes.

There are two Striders sitting by the fire, keeping watch.

He backs up, frightened, wondering if he should yell or run or grab his sword and charge, but he steps on a dried leaf that crumples noisily and the two figures turn to face him.

The one that Pippin decides isn’t Strider, but a pseudo-Strider, turns to real-Strider and says something in what sounds like Elvish. Real-Strider grins.

“Come, Pippin,” real-Strider says. “Warm yourself.”

Slowly, he edges toward the fire. Pseudo-Strider and real-Strider are very similar: light skin, dark hair, and a willowy build. But edging closer now to pseudo-Strider, he can see that there are some differences between them. Pseudo-Strider has longer hair, and sharper cheekbones.

And pseudo-Strider is a woman.

“I am Ealawen,” pseudo-Strider says. “I have been following you for a day.”

There’s a hint of an accent, much like what real-Strider has. It must be the Elvish that influences her Westron. Ealawen stands, and Pippin recognizes her cloak. It’s similar to Strider’s. Maybe it is Strider’s.

It occurs to Pippin that maybe Strider wasn’t tracking a beast, but a fellow Ranger.

“Come by the fire, little Hobbit,” Ealawen continues. “The winter winds are hostile, especially when they know who is traveling their roads.”

Strangely, the term of endearment doesn’t annoy him like it would if someone else had given it. He creeps toward the blaze, still cautious, and real-Strider chuckles, loosely holding his smoking pipe.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Ealawen,” Pippin says, remembering his manners but settling down so real-Strider is between him and the stranger. “But who exactly are you?”

“A friend,” the woman replies mysteriously, and Pippin wonders if it’s a requirement of a Ranger to be annoyingly vague. “I wish only to explain myself once. You are not the only one who does not know of me.”

Pippin says nothing more, but the two Rangers continue to talk softly as if he hadn’t interrupted them at all. They don’t ask for his opinions on things, which is good because he doesn’t understand much of what they’re talking about in the first place, and soon Pippin finds his head bobbing tiredly. His feet are warm now, and his exhaustion has returned. As his eyes slip closed, a heavy cloak is thrown over his small body, and he sighs into its warmth. The cloak smells of fire smoke and wet leaves, and reminds him of the Shire.

——————————————————————————

A sharp prod jolts him into awareness. Merry stands over him, grinning.

“Morning,” he greets, pushing a plate into his hands. “Sam found some winter berries and Legolas shot a hare for us. Sam cooked it up nice and it goes wonderfully with the dried fruits from Rivendell. Frodo got the best bits, though, but it’s good enough to have something warm. There was frost in the night, you know!”

Pippin blinks. Merry’s words aren’t making much sense. It’s too early for complete sentences.

“And whose cloak is that?” Merry continues, speaking entirely too fast. “Doesn’t look like one of yours. It’s much too large for a Hobbit anyway.” Pippin looks at the heavy fabric that’s enveloping his body. It’s deep green and a little worn, but kept him plenty warm during the night. Strangely, a silver brooch in the shape of a rayed star is pinned along the collar, looking much too ornate for a cloak as simple as the one around him.

He’s never seen Strider in anything other than black and as much as the others like him, Pippin doesn’t think they would sacrifice their own warmth for his own, so the cloak must belong to Strider’s friend, the mysterious female Ranger. He turns toward the log she had been resting on.

Both she and Strider are missing. A scan of the nearby surroundings shows that they truly are gone, and Pippin wonders if he imagined last night’s entire encounter with the female Ranger, in some strange cold-induced hallucination.

But he still has what he assumes is her cloak.

“I met someone last night,” Pippin says suddenly, wanting to get this secret off of his conscience. Strider may be able to keep secrets, but Pippin certainly cannot. “A female Ranger, I think. She didn’t say much.”

“Is that who Strider was looking for yesterday?” Merry asks in quiet excitement, scooting closer to him.

Pippin nods. “She’s the owner of this cloak,” he whispers. “I don’t know where she’s gone, though.”

“Probably with Strider. He’s gone too.”

Gimli’s surprised shout draws both his and Merry’s attention, however, and Pippin doesn’t get the chance to tell his friend anything else about his odd encounter. The pair stand, looking to the Dwarf, who lunges for his axe leaning against a nearby rock.

In front of him stands Strider. Ealawen is next to him. If the pair had looked similar in the night, the day highlights their differences.

Ealawen’s hair is longer and straighter than Strider’s, and is loose, whereas before it had been pulled back in a simple braid in the light of the night fire. She’s clad in a plain loose shirt tucked into tight brown pants, with short brown boots on her feet. Standing next to Strider, she’s only a few inches shorter than him but still plenty tall. Probably the same height as Legolas.

A half-full quiver of arrows rests on her back, and a short hunting bow is in her hand. What seems to be most concerning, however, is the gleaming sword on her hip. It seems that every pair of eyes is looking at the threatening weapon. Boromir, standing close by him and Merry, has his hand on the hilt of his own sword, as does Harwyn. Legolas, perched up behind him and many heads above him, on a rocky foot of the upshooting mountains, studies her closely, but seems to pick up something that the others don’t and quickly lowers his bow, hopping down lightly and with all the poise of his Elven heritage.

“Aragorn!” Gimli shouts, breaking the tense silence. “There’s two of you!”

“No, Master Dwarf,” Strider says calmly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I am myself, and this is Ealawen. She is a Ranger and an ally.”

“Is that so?” the Dwarf challenges, hoisting his axe threateningly. “There are no female Rangers, lass. How did you find us?”

“I swear on my sword that I am a Ranger, Dwarf,” Ealawen says. There’s a hint of challenge in her otherwise light tone. “Dwarrowdams are rare, but that does not mean they do not exist.”

Gimli, if possible, grows angrier. “Dams have nothing to do with daughters of Men!” he spits.

“I am not a daughter of Men,” Ealawen replies forcefully. “I descend from the Dúnedain of Númenor and it is my duty as a Dúnedan and a Ranger to defend the western peoples from the beasts of the Wilderland.”

“Why do you think we haven’t seen any sign of Goblins or Trolls, Gimli?” Strider asks. “Ealawen keeps the mountains clean, from the south point of Rivendell to the Glanduin.”

“I will vouch for her!” Pippin says loudly, drawing attention away from the two Rangers. He makes his way toward the two, clutching the heavy cloak.

“Pippin!” Boromir hisses, but he ignores him.

“This is yours, miss,” he says once he’s picked his way over the protruding toes of the Misty Mountains. Ealawen smiles lightly and with some sadness, taking her cloak from his hands. Strider’s dark eyes study him.

Merry appears behind him. “Meriadoc Brandybuck,” he announces, bowing. “At your service.” He smirks mischievously. “Call me Merry, though. And you’ve already met Pippin.”

Pippin feels his face warm as Ealawen nods.

“Yes, I have met this little Hobbit,” she says, swinging her cloak over her shoulders and clasping it with the brooch. Her sword becomes hidden by the fabric, and the tension in the company lessens.

“Prepare to move,” Strider says, stepping away. He’s finished studying his intentions, Pippin guesses, and is now slipping into the role of leader, since Gandalf has wandered off again.

“We can’t just trust the lady because a foolish Hobbit gained her favor!” Gimli shouts, and he grunts when Legolas smacks the back of his head. The Elf comes forward, and Pippin’s guess is confirmed: they are within millimeters of each other’s height.

“Hobbits are exceptionally intuitive, Master Dwarf,” Ealawen says, grinning and mirroring Legloas’ special Elven-style greeting. “It would be wise to trust their instincts.”

“Introductions can be performed on the road!” Strider yells over his shoulder, and Ealawen laughs. It’s a pretty sound.

She shepherds the Hobbits to their packs and kneels, helping Merry with his twisted strap.

“How did you find us, miss?” Sam asks, hovering anxiously by his own pack. He’s standing in front of Frodo, shielding him from what could easily become a threat.

“Aragorn, or Strider as you know him, followed my signs, Samwise,” Ealawen says after a moment, looking strangely at Sam’s protective stance. “It is my duty to guide you through my territory. I can lead you as far as the Glanduin, which is still many leagues south.”

Boromir stomps by. He gives Ealawen a withering glare as he passes.

“Don’t mind him, miss,” Pippin says, giving her a toothy grin. “I don’t think he much likes strangers.”

“Or Rangers!” Merry chips in.

“Or women,” he adds, nodding.

“My old Gaffer said that refusing help is a folly, regardless of its gender,” Sam adds, warming to Ealawen when she shoots him a sly wink. “And even though we’ve only known you a bit, you seem genuine enough to trust your help.”

——————————————————————————

The day crawls by with the pace of a limp garden snail. Ealawen spends most of her time next to Strider at the front of the group, speaking accented Westron. Pippin guesses they’re catching each other up on recent occurrences. Life as a solitary Ranger means news is often months old, and Pippin catches a few familiar phrases about events as far back as Bilbo’s 111th birthday party.

During the midday meal Gimli slides up to the female Ranger with a gruff apology. Ealawen accepts it with a nod, then asks him of his weapon preferences, and the name of his axe. There’s no other way to get a Dwarf to open up as quick as asking them about their weapons, Pippin thinks, when Gimli enthusiastically launches into the tale of his father joining the Company of Thorin Oakenshield himself on a quest to reclaim Erebor, and passing down his trusty battle axe when Gimli came of age, training him personally on the finer details of beheading enemies. Any remaining tension between the pair melts away as Ealawen listens intently, even though Pippin knows that she already knows the story of Thorin’s Company, as she and Strider had mentioned Thorin and his queen Branna a few times during their lengthy discussion the previous night.

Gandalf reappears soon after, simply saying “Ealawen,” nodding, and continuing on.

Boromir is the only member of the Fellowship still cautious of the woman but he attempts to remain cordial all the same. He offers her an apple, one of the last pieces of fresh fruit from Rivendell, but other than that small interaction he largely ignores her, speaking to her only when spoken to first and sitting on the opposite edge of their little circle. But there is a little tension—the Man of Gondor had very nearly ripped Pippin’s arm out its socket pulling him down to sit next to him, and shoots Ealawen a challenging look when it’s his cloak wrapped around his and Merry’s shoulders to fight the nippy wind, rather than hers.

Ealawen doesn’t seem bothered and stands to speak with Strider and Gandalf, occasionally pointing and gesturing to the south or east. Minutes later, the group is moving once more.

While Sam is interested in Elves and has once again adhered himself to Legolas’ side, much to the Elf’s amusement, Frodo asks quietly if Ealawen would talk of the Dúnedain.

“Would you also like to hear, little Hobbit?” she asks, and Pippin nods. Merry joins as well.

“All true Dúnedain come from the island of Númenor, to the far west,” Ealawen begins, looking wistfully onto the winter-withered shrubland. “Our ancestors, the Númenoreans, left their sinking island to come to Eriador under the rule and guidance of Elendil. We are in the easternmost part of Eriador, for reference,” she grins, eyes sparkling. Then she grows somber once more.

“The Númenoreans split into two groups, those in the north in the kingdom of Arnor and those in the south, in Gondor. Both prospered together for a time, but plagues from the east hit the north harder. The two kingdoms were separated fully after Elendil’s death and evil beings attacked the north. We were dispersed. Our kingdom was destroyed.” Ealawen smiles sadly.

“Some of the northern Dúnedain became Rangers of the North, like Aragorn and myself. They worked to keep peace in the lands. Others retreated to the Angle south of Rivendell, while a few went to the western edge of Eriador.

“The Dúnedain of Gondor intermarried with lesser Men. Their lifespans shortened. They became weaker. Today only a few pockets remain, and even then their bloodlines are tainted.

“It is a glorious history,” Ealawen says, “but it is also a sad one. The time of the Dúnedain is waning, I fear. Those in the north are scattered, while those in the south have lost their bloodlines. Like Dwarves, there are more males than females, and at times it seems easier to let go of our heritage than to fight for it.”

“What if there was someone to lead the Dúnedain, like Elendil had?” Frodo asks slowly. “What if someone could reunite the two groups?”

“Many would answer the summons,” Ealawen muses, staring at Strider’s back as if knowing something special about her fellow Ranger. “And many others would not. We all walk on the ruins of kingdoms who believed in their immortality. To attempt to preserve our rule is a decision we all must make.”

“Wait a moment,” Merry interrupts. “You said the northern Dúnedain work to keep the peace.” He waits for Ealawen’s nod before continuing. “And if you all pick an area of land to protect from the Wilderland, as you call it, why haven’t we seen any others?”

“The Dúnedain do not influence the lives of those they protect,” Ealawen answers, and Pippin really wonders if she took riddling-lessons from Gandalf. “Very rarely do we reveal ourselves to outsiders.”

“So you’ve been watching the Shire all this time, then? And Bree? And the Brandywine and Weathertop and all of the lands in between?” he asks.

Ealawen smiles slightly. “You are very perceptive, little Hobbit,” she says quietly, almost sadly. “It is no wonder you noticed Strider’s calling for me.”

Before he or the others can ask any more questions, she ruffles his hair and falls back, walking next to Legolas, whose keen eyes are the last of the Company. He nods to her in greeting, and the two speak softly, occasionally pointing at a clump of twisted trees, or the imposing ridge of the Misty Mountains.

“I like her,” Merry says, sounding more cheerful than usual. “She’s a bit sad and her name has too many vowels in it, but I like her all the same.”

——————————————————————————

Three uneventful days pass. Pippin doesn’t take watch. Even though Hobbits have excellent vision, he’s easily distracted. He may be foolish but he knows enough to recognize that him watching the night is about as helpful as putting up no watch at all.

Ealawen has as much stamina as Legolas and for two straight days Pippin doesn’t ever see her sleep. Maybe she does fall into slumber in the darkest hours, settling down next to Strider after tucking her own cloak snugly around him and Merry, who have taken to sharing a blanket and bedrolls to keep warm, but even if she doesn’t, Ealawen is as sharp as ever, and no sign of exhaustion mars her pale features.

On the third night Legolas and Gimli take watch, freeing Ealawen to sit around the fire for leisure rather than duty. Her body looks tired, however attentive her eyes may be, and Pippin drags Merry off to bother Boromir instead of Ealawen, giving her a half hour’s silence with Strider instead of a half hour’s entertaining two young Hobbits.

Boromir is glad to hone their sword-fighting skills, however dismal they are at the moment, and laughs for the first time since Ealawen’s appearance. Pippin makes a note to spend more time with the Man of Gondor, both to give Ealawen peace and raise Boromir’s spirits.

But by the time Sam and Frodo rescue him and Merry from Boromir’s intense training, calling for supper, Pippin wants nothing more than to be rid of the man’s face for at least a week. Merry looks about how he feels and collapses onto his half-fixed bedroll with a groan, bypassing food entirely.

“Might be about time to reveal your handedness, Merry,” Pippin grins, wincing when he reaches for his bowl and feels his arm protest the stretch.

Supper is venison, shot clean dead by Ealawen and Legolas hours earlier when they had first stopped and made camp. She had made quick work of the carcass, and Pippin decides that venison isn’t all that bad, although he still prefers good home-cooked Shire food.

When he’s finished his third helping (the buck had been impressively large) and feels a little more alive, he sets his bowl down for cleaning up later and makes to go sit by Ealawen. She’s had enough of a break from his company, he thinks, and he’s become quite attached to her.

But Ealawen isn’t to be found. Panic seizes him until he realizes all her belongings are nearby, so she hasn’t left forever, but that doesn’t stop Strider from noticing his impatient twitching.

“She’s gone off to store the skin somewhere she can find it later,” he explains, not unkindly and gesturing broadly to the east. “And she took her sword. She’s been feeling the same tension Legolas has, and believes a host of Trolls have crested the mountains. But do not worry, Pippin,” Strider adds, watching his face morph into panic once more. “Ealawen has been defending these lands for years. Even a quest of such import as this will not stop her from her duty.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf chuckles. “If ever the lady returns you must thank her profusely, Peregrin Took, for she is the reason you have been allowed to live such a comfortable existence in the Shire for all these years. She fights Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, and the occasional Spider that dares venture this far west, to the ignorance of those she protects.”

If Gandalf’s words are meant to be a comfort, Pippin thinks there’s a better way of going about it, and the Hobbit falls asleep cold and worried, Ealawen’s cloak around her shoulders rather than his feet.

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tsvestidiabolus · 3 years ago

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It’s that time again, fellas. A new chapter of memento vitae, my Yamato/Robin multichap fic is out!

summary: Robin joins the Beast Pirates. This wasn't by choice. AU, Yamato/Robin endgame.

if you would like to read it on tumblr, the whole chapter is under the cut! Please considering reblogging and supporting my Romato agenda.

At one point Robin would have given up everything to be out in the ocean, and now all she wanted to do was to return home. Of course, this was no longer an option, so the only alternative she could consider was to drown herself, and that didn’t sound pleasant either. In the end she was forced to live, and that was the greatest punishment the world could give her.

Having travelled almost four weeks with King - a name she couldn’t tell if he deserved or not - Robin was beginning to grow bored with each passing day. Not that she particularly minded that, for it was a far better alternative to whatever King had in store for her. But still, the anticipation was almost killing her, and the jeers and sneers from his crew didn’t help. It was like they knew that something was to happen to her, and the fact that she didn’t know frustrated her to no end.

Sometimes, on rare occasions, King would visit her. He would never speak a word, merely stare, and she would never speak a word, looking straight back at him. She didn’t know what he was thinking or doing in those little stare-contests of theirs. She wondered if he thought of a hundred ways to kill her, as she did him. Whatever the case may be, she was winning. Two wins to her, one win to King. Spending hours and sometimes days awake did wonders to help for her to stop blinking.

Most humiliating was when, during the times where she was allowed to eat, the pirates would taunt her. It always came down to them either placing the plate of food just out of reach, or not bothering to unlock her arms from her cuffs. They could easily have done so; the cuffs were clamped tightly around her ankles too, but apparently it was more enjoyable for them to watch her struggle to eat with just her mouth, like a dog. The pirates had laughed and mocked her, throwing as many obscene words her way as possible. Robin ignored them, for the most part. She’d rather live in humiliation than die for their satisfaction.

Still, that didn’t mean she could forget any of their faces.

Robin spent her time counting her teeth, when she wasn’t trying to catch a glimpse of outside her cell. Not that the view really told her much about where she was, but the smell of sea salt and fresh air was certainly more favourable than the stench of burning leather that lingered in her cell after King’s visits. If she were adept at navigation, she could probably tell where she was from smell alone. She wasn’t, though, and being able to tell where you were from scent alone seemed like a pretty useless ability outside of mere curiosity.

On what could have been the eve of the fourth week, Robin was greeted by King once more. Though, this time he seemed impatient. Irritated. The flame on the back of his neck was crackling violently, to the point where Robin was afraid it might set the room on fire. It didn’t, though. Unfortunately.

“Change of plans,” he said. “We’re taking a detour.”

Robin looked up to him, knitting her brows together. “A detour from where?” she asked. Just as a casual reminder that he still hadn’t told her where they were going.

King ignored the question, of course. “You will be removed from this confinement shortly. I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“Ecstatic.”

“Don’t talk back to me,” King snapped.

The inferno flared up for a moment before dying down to a gentle blaze. She found her eyes drawn to it once more, taking in the wintry wrath of a man who lived by fire. This was not someone to trifle with - she couldn’t take the same chances with him as she could with the other, hot-headed pirates. He would not kill her, but a sense of dread followed him, like the calm before a disaster. Robin told herself she wasn’t scared of pain anymore. Robin was a very good liar.

She swallowed. Perhaps it was best to do as he said for now.

“I trust you know what will happen if you try to escape,” King continued. “We may need you alive, but that doesn’t mean we need all of you.”

His gaze travelled over to her wrists hanging loosely above her head with an almost ravenous stare. Suddenly Robin felt the need to hide her arms from him. The implication didn’t sit very well with her, and her arms were her most useful asset besides her mind. To take them away would be to take away her very will to fight. But she couldn’t hide them, as they lay bare for King to see, and she had the chilling sensation that he was slicing them up in his mind.

Although much of his face was hidden behind that abhorrent leather mask, Robin had the feeling he was smiling at that moment with what could only be called sadism.

“I trust I have your full cooperation?” King asked - the first question he had ever uttered in the four weeks.

What choice did she even have?

“Yes,” she answered, head hung low.

“Good.” King left the prison, letting her linger in the stench of ash and burnt leather.

It took less than a day for Robin to find out what exactly King meant by a ‘detour’. Detours, as it turned out, meant battle. She was taken, still cuffed in seastone, to a room far below the deck, only able to catch a glimpse of the sun and a faint outline of an island they were approaching. The pirate escorting her said something about how she should be grateful they were offering her so much protection. Robin imagined shoving her fist down his throat.

The pirate shoved her roughly into the new prison - not so much a cell as before, but actual sleeping quarters now. A single king bed laid in the corner of the room, the walls covered in ornaments and spoils of war. The walls were painted black half-hazardly - but on closer inspection, they were not painted, they were burned. She was in the berth of the ship, and whoever this room belonged to - she had a pretty good idea - was someone of importance here.

Just as the pirate began to say, “Now listen here,” the whole room - no, the ship itself - rocked, and the two were thrown against a wall violently.

Cursing profanities, the pirate was the first to recover, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s started already?”

“What’s started?” Robin asked from the floor, unable to stand up. “What’s going on?”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” The pirate stomped his foot with every word. His skin was pale, and his eyes were wide, and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. For someone who was reacting like a petulant child, he was keeping his balance quiet well despite the tremors and shaking the ship was experiencing. Unlike Robin, who was already weakened by the seastone cuffs.

The pirate locked the door, her only exit out of the room, and shoved the keys in his pocket. Robin briefly wondered if the keys to her cuffs were in the ring - a thought that was swiftly replaced by a blinding white pain. Her head was turned to the side, and she tasted iron in her mouth.

“Don’t you even think about it,” the pirate snarled from above her. He patted his pocket. If he didn’t look so frightened by whatever was outside, Robin would be intimidated. “We’re just making sure you’re not seen by anyone.”

Robin struggled to sit up, leaning against the wall. The pirate seemed to enjoy watching her suffer and humiliated, the one thing giving him satisfaction during this clearly troubling time. Finally, she could sit up somewhat properly, her hands tied behind her back and blood dripping from her nose - broken.

She glared up at him.

“Whatever’s outside is enough to warrant King moving me from my prison,” she said. “If it’s a Marine or Government ship - which I doubt, as King knew beforehand that I would have to be moved, and the only way I can see them being an issue is if they caught you by surprise - then I wouldn’t have to be worried, and you wouldn’t have to be worried. If it were an enemy pirate ship, the only reason you would be scared this much is if they were considerably more dangerous than you are -”

“SHUT UP!”

“- so I can only assume it’s a pirate ship out there, and, if they know who I am, then they must know of my abilities,” she continued. “The reason I’m here is because you can’t risk losing me.”

From the moment the pirate’s hand twitched and she felt the impact against her temple, she knew she was right. Such a visceral reaction wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

Feeling a sort of satisfaction along with the throbbing pain in her head, Robin’s eyes travelled from the pirate to the door. The trembling and rumbling continued, along with screams, yells, gunshots and cannonfire. It was pure and utter chaos outside, that much she could tell. But still, if there was the slightest chance she could be removed from King’s prison, and run away freely…

“HELP!” Robin howled. “PLEASE, ANYONE!”

Her voice hurt from not being used, but that didn’t stop her from screaming her lungs out. A little humiliating, true, but anything, anything was better than staying with these pirates for any longer.

The pirate swore and lunged forward - Robin ducked underneath his reach. He banged his head against the wall, groaning in pain while Robin lifted herself, struggling heavily, to her feet. Without another word, she ran for the door and slammed against it with her shoulder.

“I’M IN HERE!”

The door didn’t budge. In fact, she barely made a dent on it. What was worse, the pirate was now recovered and glowering at her. With a raging cry, he ran forward again like a bull, and tackled her to the ground.

Snap.

Robin did not make a sound, but the Beast did. A small gasp escaped his lips and he jumped back off her, the weight gone from her arm. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt though. Internally she screamed, oh how she screamed, but externally she merely tried to get up onto her feet once more, determined to throw her body against the door again.

The pirate snatched her arm before she could begin running again. She winced at the sudden pain jolting up her body, grinding her teeth to stop herself from screaming.

“King’s gonna fucking kill me,” the pirate groaned as he pulled her back from the door. “We’re not supposed to hurt you -”

Robin bit him.

He kicked her shins.

It was a mutual relationship they had.

She didn’t know how long they scuffled for, her only weapon being her teeth while he retaliated and made her bruise in return. All the while the ship trembled and rocked dangerously, causing the pair of them to stumble and fall every-so-often. Their fight was only halted when the door suddenly slammed open - not opened by unlocking it, but by sheer force.

The relief on Robin’s face was bright, and her smile lit up for the first time in months. This was it, her saviour had come. She could finally rest easy and escape this place.

“ZEHAHAHA!”

For some reason, the laugh sent chills down her spine, and she didn’t know why. In her vision stood a hulking mass of a man, the stench of alcohol and smoke and blood wafting from his direction. She would have gagged, had she not been so desperate to leave at that moment. The new pirate grinned down at her with hunger, half of his teeth missing. Robin looked up to him with pleading eyes.

“Didn’t know King was into that!” the stranger said, amusement clear in his voice. Whipping out a pistol in his hand, he shot the Beast dead and leaned towards her, leering. “Little girls ain’t my thing, but who am I to judge him?”

His grubby hands grasped her throat, lifting her up off the ground. She choked and struggled against his hold to no avail - he was simply too strong for her, especially in her weakened state.

“Now, now, why do ya look so familiar?” He tilted his head, bringing Robin closer to him. The pong of his breath was overwhelming now. It took all of her energy not to throw up. “Ah! I know!”

He leered at her, and Robin felt her heart sink.

“Nice ta finally meetcha, Devil’s Child! ZEHAHAHA!”

---

Marco prided himself on being one of Pop’s commanders. It was the greatest honour one could have onboard the Moby Dick - no, in the seas. Not only was he trusted enough to be a commander in one of the Emperor’s ships, but he was deemed important enough by the Government to have almost a billion berries on his head. He was flattered, honestly. But in his mind, he - and everyone else onboard the Moby Dick - were priceless.

Unfortunately, it was not the Government who were so desperately fighting for their lives against him in that moment, nor were it the Marines. No, it was a rival pirate crew. How incredibly dull. At least, that was Marco’s first reaction.

Then he spied the flag that the enemy ship sailed, and heard Whitebeard’s distinct “GURARARA!” from behind him, and excitement ran up his blood like a shot of electricity.

Kaido’s crew.

Marco grinned from ear to ear, his brows narrowed down to a look of pure hunger for battle. He squatted on the railing of the Moby Dick, blue flaming wings flickering behind him. The rest of the crew readied themselves, armed with whatever weapons or powers they could use. And Whitebeard sat proudly behind them all, grasping Murakumogiri in his hand. They were all ready for a challenge.

More importantly, they were ready for revenge. They’d heard what happened to Oden, and while they weren’t willing to attack Wano in the case that one of their own would be hurt or worse, Kaido was not enough of a fool to declare war on Whitebeard for attacking one of his ships in neutral territory.

“You’d better have some grog on you, brats!” Pops declared. “My kids are hungry!”

The Whitebeard Pirates cheered and cried out a war cry.

On the other ship, there was silence. Not a single word uttered, despite them seeing a crowd of Beast Pirates on the deck. Then, Marco felt a thumping in his chest, a vibration in his very bones. A distant BOOM, BOOM, BOOM that reverberated throughout the ocean, but not a sound that was cannonfire - no, this was… bizarre. This was something that he couldn’t explain. This was…

Funk.

The rhythm pounded against their skin, making even the ocean ripple and waves crash against both their ships. An island nearby was hearing the full burst of funk, seagulls soaring from the tops of trees with a unified screech - a sound that could not be heard over the blaring music. Marco did not feel scared, certainly, but there was an air of confusion around the Whitebeard Pirates. He glanced back to look at Pops. Whitebeard looked unimpressed.

Shrugging, Marco turned his attention back to the Beasts’ ship. This certainly wasn’t Kaido onboard, by any means - he wouldn’t be so theatrical. So vain. Whoever was onboard the ship, whichever poor soul had encountered an Emperor, was relishing in this moment.

The enemy ship rocked from side to side, not enough to tip the whole thing over, but enough to cause the pirates to almost lose their balance. Marco stood up from his perch. He was curious about what sort of pirate was making such a noise.

“I’ve got a plague, and that plague is funkin’!”

Some of the Beasts dispersed, creating a path along the deck.

“It excites me to my core, I’mma chunking!”

Finally, the pirate came into view - a man Marco had never seen before. He was a massive, round-figured man, one that danced to the beat of the music. His body jiggled with every move he made in an almost hypnotizing fashion, the blond braid at the back of his head bouncing up and down. He entered the scene with flair, with vanity, and with so much theatricality that Marco thought he was overcompensating for something.

“LET ME HEAR YOU SAY IT! ONE, TWO…!”

Not a word was spoken amongst the Beasts, nor the Whitebeard Pirates. Marco could practically sense Pops growing impatient with every second that passed. It seemed he wasn’t the only impatient one.

The round man whipped his whole body around to face his crew and roared, “YOU USELESS MAGGOTS! CAN’T YOU GET THIS SIMPLE SHIT RIGHT?”, before throwing a nearby barrel at them. Most of the crew ran away before it could hit them, save for a large boy with pigtails, who felt the full force of the impact. The poor boy was holding a transponder snail in his hand, and didn’t see it coming.

Marco just decided that he didn’t like this man very much.

Evidently, Whitebeard didn’t either. The old man slammed his naginata down, shockwaves reverberating around them as he unleashed his haki. “Who the hell are you, brat?” He didn’t have to raise his voice to a shout to be heard over the thumping music.

The said music stopped, and the round man turned to stare at Whitebeard. A moment of silence passed between the two ships.

“HOLY SHIT? WHITEBEARD?” the man screeched, his jaw dropping. He began to sweat bullets. “YOU DIDN’T SAY HE WAS HERE!”

One of the Beasts said something incoherent in the man’s ear. That seemed to calm him down somewhat, as he turned back to the Whitebeard Pirates.

“UNFORTUNATELY FOR YOU, I DON’T HAVE ANY GROG ON ME!” he declared. “BUT I GOT SOMETHING THAT’LL SEND CHILLS UP YOUR SPINE! LISTEN UP, I’M QUEEN! AND I GOT SOMETHING THAT’LL BLOW YOUR MIND!”

He raised his arm and lowered it quickly. Then, everything happened at once. All the cannons on their ship exploded with a BOOM, the cannonfire approaching their ship at a rapid pace. Marco and the others were able to knock most of the balls into the ocean, but some hit the Moby Dick - barely scratching it, of course. But it seemed that didn’t help the Whitebeard Pirates at all.

After a moment passed, smoke began erupting from the balls. Purple smoke.

Marco swore. Poison gas.

He screamed at as many as he could to cover their mouths and to get inside - he would be alright, with his powers, but what about the rest of them? Jumping up from the railing, he covered the old man and his brothers in his flames in an effort to protect them from the gas.

In a manner of moments, the worst of the fog lifted, but by then it was too late. Half the crew was choking and writhing around the floor. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The Beasts had, in that time, sailed to them, and grappled at the Moby Dick with their own galleon. Pirates were climbing up ropes, weapons in hands, and prepared to battle.

The fight had begun.

#one piece #nico robin #one piece fanfiction #yamato #op fanfiction #romato #;; my fics #memento vitae

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sophi-s · 4 years ago

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In Their Hollow Heart

Chapter I: Sealed Fate

Fandom: Hollow Knight video game

Words: 9,153

Characters: The Hollow Knight, The Pale King, The Radiance

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Sickness, Angst, Mind manipulation, Gross imagery, Permanent injury, Mentions of vomit, Suicidal thoughts, THK really needs a hug :(, SPOILERS for the game (That's a lot of warnings, :O)

Summary:

There is a good reason why the Hollow Knight doesn't discuss with anyone what happened in the Black Egg Temple.

--------------------------------------------------

In the eternal kingdom of Hallownest there were many places one could without hesitation call decrepit or desolated at best. Especially after the plague of the Old Light has swept through it like a tidal wave. None of them, however, were able to match the current state of the Crossroads. Many of the inhabitants left in panic once they realised it was the epicenter of the vile Infection, leaving the place nearly completely abandoned. Crossroads were unfortunate enough to be the first area to succumb to Her wrath. But that was years ago. And only recently the orange veins shriveled up and receded, much to all bugs' relief. Their King had finally found the solution to the frightening disease of Dreams and Mind that now seemed like a distant memory. The sickly sweet smell of the plague of the Old Light made place for a stale aroma of dust and dirt of underground tunnels, as though nothing had ever happened.

The Hollow Knight however - even with their void-dulled sense of smell - could still detect the nauseating scent drifting through the caverns. Hovering nearby wherever they went. Or maybe it was just them? Were they already going crazy? Maybe. Maybe not. A barely noticeable tint of orange invaded the corner of their vision… Do not think. They reprimanded themself, forcing the vibrant color to disappear, as they stood before a gaping entrance to the temple of the Black Egg. An accursed place that would soon become their tomb. They tried not to compare it to being buried alive… But no matter how you look at it, unless the King finds a way to get rid of Her for good this will be their final resting place. A grave. And they would be a living corpse hidden inside forever. A frightening perspective… Do not.. Even though they were trying their best to hide it, they were in pain. Pain so great that it had them trembling, unable to cry out or make any sound to voice their suffering to be honest. Do not speak… An alien feeling, as though someone had poured liquid fire into their body, ever since the source of the Infection was placed within them, was constantly there. It's been barely half an hour, yet it hurts so much already… The Goddess was more powerful than they ever imagined. Do not feel. Easier said than done. But they can fight it. They have to fight it. For Hallownest. For the King… their father.

The Pale Monarch in question silently stood beside the Pure Vessel, staring off into the impenetrable darkness filling up the temple constructed for the sole purpose - one it shared with the Hollow Knight - no discernible expression on his face. This was it. Once they enter here, they won't leave. A one way ticket to their damnation. As tempting as it was, the Hollow Knight did not make a move to look at the Pale King. That would mean they have thoughts and feelings. They weren't supposed to. They didn't want to disappoint him. He tried so hard to save this kingdom and he desperately needed his child to be pure, devoid of any emotion, without a mind or will… the Hollow Knight hated that they weren't pure like their father wanted them to be. They detested it. But for him they had to be pure. They couldn't fail him. They wouldn't fail him. She can push against them all She wants, they're not going to break that easily. With a soundless groan, they blink away the bright pinpricks swirling before their eyes and shudder at the heat welling up in their chest only to be cooled down by the Void in their heart. It will take some getting used to… No one said it's going to be easy to hold onto a raging Goddess of Dreams. But they can do this. Right?

"Vessel."

Automatically, the Hollow Knight turns their head to face the owner of the stern, seemingly indifferent voice as he addresses them, and shoots a glance at the Pale King looking up at them with as much dignity as he can, considering he was barely up to the Vessel's hip by that point. They always found it strange. That after their second molt, their father started to have to look up at them. How fast the time had passed.. Not so long ago, they were just a hatchling, no taller than the King's shoulder, following him obediently wherever he went, always fulfilling his orders without a second of hesitation. Just like he wanted them to. And now? They were towering over him like he did over them back then at the summit of the Abyss.

It was not the curiosity that made them turn to the King. They shouldn't be curious. They can't. It would mean their inevitable failure before their task even truly began. Because that's what they were always meant to be. Emotionless. Empty. Hollow.. But no matter how hard they tried, they weren't. They never were… However, they were immensely good at their act. Without a single sound, the Hollow Knight watched their father for a moment as he tried to find the right words. In a very odd, sort of amusing way, the Pale King knitted his eyebrows in annoyance and sighed in exasperation at his own height before making a beckoning gesture with one of his four hands while the other three remained tucked into his white cloak. Amusement. It makes one want to chuckle at something one finds funny.

"Come down here."

Not waiting a second, the Hollow Knight bent down and noisily got on one knee - dropping much heavier than they intended due to the pain which was for now blessedly dissipating - to be on the eye level with their father. The Pale King was a mysterious creature. A Wyrm, a God of Mind and Soul, taking a form of a small bug, always aloof and regal. But sometimes, the façade would slip to reveal something more than a cold monarch without care for anything other than Hallownest. He didn't seem to care about hundreds of vessels that died in the dark depths of the Abyss. He didn't seem to care when Xero was executed for treason (executed might be s bit of a stretch. The moth died where he stood when he attacked the King). And he didn't seem to care when the allied Mantis Lord succumbed to the Infection on his own volition after the tragic loss of his only daughter. But Wyrm’s child knew their father too well. Up this close, even with his stern mask of a ruler in its place, the Hollow Knight could clearly see that he did, in fact, care. The dull look in his dark eyes spoke volumes. Sadness. This one makes one want to cry and takes away the will to do anything. His glimmering, half-translucent wings quivered ever so slightly.. He cares. He cared when their mother, the Root, had left the White Palace and hid away in her gardens when grief and remorse became too much for her to bear. He always cared, even though very few could see it. And now, he cares that he is about to lock his only surviving offspring away with a furious moth Goddess sealed inside of them. Condemn them to an endless torture. Was it too late for regrets?

For just a short second, the King stepped a little closer to the Pure Vessel. Reached out… The black heart hastened in their chest, partially because of anticipation and partially because whatever this gesture made them feel caused the faint haze to fall over their sight again. The pale hand stained black with Void was inches away from the Hollow Knight's cheek, they could practically feel it rest on their shell already. Was it to be the first and the last time their father found it in himself to actually openly and consciously grant them a small sign of affection? Was it?

Before the blackened claws could come into contact with their white shell however, the Pale King closed his eyes in defeat and turning away slipped his hand back into the folds of his cloak. A new feeling, like many others before it, was forced down to not give Her this satisfaction that She's winning. Disappointment. When one doesn't get something much awaited. Or when something doesn't meet one's expectations. Reminding them again. Do not hope. The Hollow Knight didn't make a move aside from the occasional shiver caused by the burning in their gut and in their head. Maybe he was right not to follow through with it.. Yes, he knows it best. It will be better this way. No distractions to keep the Pure Vessel from containing the Radiance.

"Stay strong, Hollow Knight.. Do not fail me."

Never, father.

The Hollow Knight was glad their facial expression cannot really change as it now would be scrunched up in frustration and a little bit of anger. This one they were rather familiar with. Makes one want to hit something or be surly. They were thinking. Again. Why is it so hard? Sometimes, they really wished they were born without a mind. At least, they wouldn't have to fear disappointing their father. And maybe just once he would have a reason to be truly proud of them.. Fortunately, the plague didn't seem to take advantage of their lapse in self control. If anything, the spiteful presence behind it recoiled almost in disgust as it listened to their short thought. Good.

"It is time. Come."

Their father solemnly stated and slowly stepped into the Egg, the Hollow Knight following close behind, begging their legs not to fail them when they felt like their limbs were empty. Pure Vessel focused on the sound of shuffling metal, the plates of their armor scraping against one another, the only sound in the thick silence of the Void pressing against the walls of the temple, as they walked after the familiar, soft, pale glow of their father's form through the pitch black darkness - just like that fateful day of their birth - ignoring the intricate white sigils forming wherever their and their father's feet fell. Merely the close proximity to the Void filling up the temple made the Radiance hiss with alarm. She and this darkness were mortal enemies since the dawn of time. The Void was pressing against them as well, a house for the Old Light. They only hoped-... No. Do not hope. Breathing in the cold, still air and exhaling without a sound, the Hollow Knight repeated the words in their head. Echo of it seemed like a mantra they kept wordlessly saying to themself whenever in doubt of the success of their purpose.

Do not think.

Do not speak.

Do not hope.

Do not feel.

"Hollow Knight."

Their head perked up in attention at their father's call. He stood beside a stone tablet glimmering with white lights forming into words. To the Hollow Knight, those were just meaningless symbols. Like those scribbled on the letters his father was writing. They lacked both of those abilities - reading and writing - but with these tablets it wasn't necessary. The chunks of carved stone were infused with Soul after all, allowing everyone to know the message placed upon them. Gesturing to it, the Pale King didn't look up at the Knight.

"Lay your hand upon it and claim its wisdom. My last gift to you."

A gift? One of the few they'd ever received, with others being a necklace from their mother (a solid silver teardrop stored away in a simple locket on a delicate chain), the pure nail from a skilled nailsmith at the request of their father once they reached adolescence and a small, wooden figurine of a spider from their younger half-sister Hornet. Kneeling down in front of the glowing tablet, the white light reflecting in their spotless armor and washing over their features, the Hollow Knight did as they were told. Almost immediately, the magic crept up their arm and the words inscribed on the tablet turned into a quiet but unmistakable whisper in their head.

Vessel. Though bound, you shall know the state of the world.

Hallownest will be whole again.

As confusing as those words were, soon everything became clear once the Hollow Knight's vision for just a sliver of a second was projected through the fabric of reality and wandered across Hallownest before quickly returning to the tablet before them. Their father's last gift… Whenever they wish, they could gaze upon the land they'd saved. The land they'd freed from the clutches of the vengeful deity. The world that would move on without them while they silently remained on their post to guard it from the plague that crippled minds of its inhabitants. They wished to thank him. They really did. But they knew they couldn't..

"Go, Vessel. Fulfil your destiny."

It was hard to miss the slight crack in the Pale King's voice as he said it. Was he having second thoughts about the whole thing? Too late to back out now. The Infection was nested within the Child of Void. No turning back. No regrets. Shaking through another hot spasm, the Hollow Knight mustered up the strength to straighten up and dutifully walk off into the depths of the Black Temple, switching the roles with their father who was now following them. The Vessel didn't want this to end that way. End in an eternity of suffering with no one but a Goddess to keep them company in the stillness of the Egg. But they had to do this. They were born for this. Even though they were scared. This here makes one tremble. Heart and breath hasten, and this awful lump grows in one's throat as the stomach twists unpleasantly.

The memories of their early years passed through their mind. When they were barely a few years old but already wielding a nail rather skillfully and training with the Fierce Drrya, while their father watched from afar with a ghost of a smile on his face. He was proud. Proud of his son. And right now, the very same son was about to make him proud this one final time.

Stepping into the large, circular chamber, the Hollow Knight took in their surroundings. So this was their new home then.. just as dull and bleak as the entire Crossroads. Why would it be any different? They weren't to indulge in luxuries here. They were to keep the plague at bay. And that's exactly what they are going to do. At long last, the Pure Vessel stood where it was intended to ever since their nubby paw pierced through the blackened shell of their egg. Looking at their appendage now, it was far from nubby. Long, slender fingers ending in short but still rather sharp claws they never used in favor of the long nail that now rested on their back. One they unsheathed and with one firm strike stabbed it into the floor where it would remain as long as their duty held and took their place in the middle of the smallest stone circles that the floor was made out of. In an instant, the entire temple started to tremble, twisting and churning as reinforced chains of pale ore shot out from the far ceiling, with metallic clanking surrounding the Hollow Knight, wrapping around their body like vines, tangling them in the merciless grasp. Scared again.. Out of the corner of their eye, the Hollow Knight saw their father, finally looking at them and while he showed no guilt, no dismay over shackling his only child, his hands were fiddling with the hem of his robes. A nervous habit. Then, just like that, the floor was gone from underneath the Vessel's feet as they were lifted up into the air. Seconds later a white Seal of Binding flashed over their entire form, as well as on the chains holding them in place and the process of Sealing was complete.

The Hollow Knight tested the chains around their body. Seem sturdy enough… Pale ore is no ordinary material after all. At a quiet sigh coming from the King, they turned to look at him. And he… he was preparing to leave the chamber behind. With his head low, his dignity and regal posture nowhere to be seen as he reluctantly walked towards the archway leading out of the temple. Something in the Vessel's chest twisted unpleasantly as he did. Maybe it was just the Infection? No. It's the sadness.. Look back. Please, look back… If he cares, he will. Just when they brushed the perspective away, the Pale King halted for a short moment to glance over his shoulder at his last surviving child. He did. He cares and he proved it this one last time.

"Goodbye, Hollow Knight.."

He offered and quickly disappeared into the blackness once and for all. The Hollow Knight knew this would be the last time they saw him until the Radiance breathed Her last. Do not feel… They turn away from the doorway and lower their heavy head onto their armored chest with a sigh. The burning pain wasn't as troublesome as it had been minutes ago but present nonetheless. But for Hallownest and their father, they could endure. It still may turn out just fine. They can handle this!

Goodbye, father.

The burning intensified for a beat. Breath in, breath out. It subsided just as quickly. They can handle this…

(Day 1)

The first day is always the most difficult. Hours were passing so obnoxiously long.. one after another, each an eternity in the perfect silence of the Egg. Seconds ticked by in their solitude, making them feel rather strange. As though with each second a small bit of their life was leaving never to return. Perhaps because that’s how it was. Every second spent in the vault was irreversibly lost to them. Every second they could live in the Palace again, beside the Five Knights. Beside their-... No. They firmly shook their head, immediately regretting their decision due to the nausea settling in their stomach. They were never supposed to live. They were just a vessel. A tool. No thoughts, no desires. No bonds with the world they left behind. Liar.

After the first twenty-four hours of vigil, the Hollow Knight started to hear something. A steady, rhythmic thumping seemingly without any clear source. They weren't easily frightened but this unidentified sound was driving them crazy. Where was it coming from? Was this Her attempt to agitate them and torment them? As though the steady fire inside was too little.. Strangely enough, the Radiance seemed rather… passive. She retreated into the farthest reaches of their supposedly empty mind like a grumpy child who'd been grounded by her parents for mischief. Unfortunately, that was most likely not the case. They could bet their head that She was already planning something. Thinking how to get under their skin, to snap them. But was this sound one of Her tricks?

After a couple more seconds, they realised that it's not. In the silence so thick that it would seem loud, Hollow Knight's senses were gradually sharpening, catching the smallest disturbances. And this rhythmic sound was one of them.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum..

Ba-dum…

Their heart of Void thrummed calmly. To be honest, the Vessel was relieved. Relief.. It comes when something bad doesn't happen or ends. No tricks so far. Only their heart. Nothing else. For now the Infection seemed awfully docile. Almost nonexistent. The only sign of its presence was the continual flame swirling around in their body and occasional lights dancing in the periphery of their vision. As painful as it is, the longer it stays that way, the better.

(Day 15)

Just like they suspected, after the first day it became easier. The time seemed to pass faster than it initially did. Even if the silence broken only by their heartbeat was growing maddening. The Hollow Knight kept themself sane by counting seconds, minutes and hours. If their count was without a fault, it's been over two weeks already. Fifteen days, to be exact. Fifteen days in solitude. No voice to speak to them, no familiar face to look at. They missed everyone… Longing. When one desperately wants to see a person or a place again...

Their mother. Lovely, pale Root with sapphire blue eyes, humming softly to herself. Gentle and loving. The Five Knights. Fierce and stern Drrya, their teacher. Surprisingly cheerful and witty Hegemol, clad in a massive set of armor, wielding a mace they found so enormous when they were little. Morose and serious Ze'mer, an outsider, speaking with a funny accent, a silverfish lady with nigh unmatched skills of swordsmanship. Caring and kind Isma, a responsible woman with love for plants. And of course Ogrim. A loyal and tough warrior with a warm and soft inside of a good friend. With the only smell that accompanied them being the sweet, awful smell of sickness, the Vessel realised they were actually missing the distinctive odor of the dung beetle. As odd as it may sound, they would take that stench over the scent of Infection any time now..

And of course, there was their father. The one who's light led them out of the Abyss, the one who practically raised them. The one who's presence made them… happy? One's heart warms up, a smile tries to pull at one's face... Do not feel. The reminded themself when heat began to grow stronger, focusing deeply to make the Void push the unpleasant sensation down. Do not think. It was even more difficult to make the thoughts cease now. There was a whole eternity for them to muse about various things. And with each thought the disease seemed to gain in strength before they inevitably pushed its alluring brightness aside. It's not that bad yet.. They can still do this.

(Day 27)

Hollow Knight, is it? I wonder if the Worm knew how "hollow" you truly are, voidling.

The taunting call reverberating through their pale shell interrupted the Vessel in counting seconds of the slowly passing twenty-seventh day of containment. This voice… soft, strong, yet laced with so much hatred that it seemed to drip from the lips which spoke it like venom. It wasn't there before. She finally found the audacity to try and talk to the Vessel. They shifted uncomfortably in their shackles but didn't react to the taunt. They knew they couldn't. They merely kept counting.

My, so quiet and obedient! A good, little pet dancing to the Worm's tune.

Shuddering, the Hollow Knight chased the dots of orange away from their sight. To distract themself from the Goddess, they peered out at now thriving Hallownest, its citizens carelessly trotting down the streets of the City of Tears, the endless downpour never bothering them in the slightest. They missed the sensation of rain trickling down their shell.. It was relieving to see how much value their duty holds. Wandering across the alleys, the Hollow Knight noticed something that wasn't there before. In the middle of the central plaza was a fountain. It stood there ever since they remembered but this time a large statue crowned it. Surrounded by three smaller figures, it was them. Stoic and silent, head bowed in a loyal gesture, hands on the hilt of their nail in front of them. A cold piece of stone, a reminder of what they did for everybody.

Memorial to the Hollow Knight

In the Black Vault far above. Through its sacrifice Hallownest lasts eternal.

Of course their father would raise a monument to their deed. A faint memory of them posing for such a statue passes through their feverish mind. It was still somewhat surprising it was there as the Hollow Knight never thought that they deserved such recognition. After all, what were they but a weapon? Surprised. Something one was not expecting to happen actually happens.. Still, many bugs stopped beside the statue, sometimes praying, sometimes saying their thanks, sometimes even offering small gifts. And sometimes merely staring in wonderment and gratitude, each of them baffling the Hollow Knight greatly. Confused. This one... They had no idea how to define this emotion. It simply happened every time they couldn't understand something and that was it.

Look at them.. They adore you. I wonder what they would say if they found out you're nothing but a fraud.

No reaction. They are the Pure Vessel. Her tricks won't work on them. By all means, the Hollow Knight was self-distanced enough to ignore any and all insults directed straight at their person. Because, as their father wanted, they refused to be a person. A tool feels no shame, no anger, no outrage in the face of even the most foul profanities. And so they didn't. The Radiance hummed to herself when they remained cold and indifferent.

You are a strong one, I'll give you that. But it won't be long. Soon, you will be mine.

A harsh push against their mind was not enough. Although a faint orange light came to be in the Hollow Knight's eye sockets, it was soon viciously assaulted by tendrils of Void and brutally extinguished. Suppressing a shiver caused by a stab of pain in their thorax, the Hollow Knight bowed their head, bracing themself for whatever the Goddess of Dreams has in store for them. They will not fail Hallownest. They were ready.

(Day 79)

Breaking the Hollow Knight wasn't as easy as the Radiance suspected at first. She kept on trying, attacking their pride (of which they had none), their self esteem (also barely noticeable), the sole purpose of their existence itself. It took Her around eighty days to figure out that none of this was working and it left Her delightfully frustrated. Counting seconds was becoming more and more difficult however. Her constant activity made it harder to keep track and focus on anything else than pushing back against Her.

More and more often, the Hollow Knight saw the lights in their vision, swimming around the chamber and trying to devour their eyesight as they stubbornly kept stifling the plague down. The pain was getting stronger day by day.. How much longer can they keep it at bay? You are the Hollow Knight. The words of the Pale King came to them. Yes. Yes, they are. They have to be. The Radiance has yet to draw an answer from them. Nothing She did thus far made them reply to anything She said. If they did, it would be game over. They cannot fail.. They cannot… And to make sure She won't take control over them that easily, the Hollow Knight avoided sleep to the best of their ability. Falling into the misleadingly comforting embrace of even a short slumber would mean yielding their consciousness into the Realm of Dreams where they would be at their most vulnerable. Almost eighty days without sleep… Even though as a Void born child of two Higher Beings the Hollow Knight didn't find the sleep mandatory for survival, the lack of proper rest and the wrestling for control with the enraged moth Goddess as well as the burning pain have taken their toll on them. How much longer…?

The Pale King would surely find another solution. Soon enough! He wouldn't leave them to rot in this place. He wouldn't.. Would he? Just to make sure, they projected their vision towards the White Palace and towards their father's workshop which was in utter disarray. Pieces of white armor were everywhere as well as stains of liquid Void and unfinished Wingsmoulds resting lifeless on many shelves. It is not surprising to find their creator there, slumped against his desk out cold. Before, every time he worked himself to the point of collapse, the White Lady would come for him, scoop him up in her branches and gently carry him back to their shared bed. But now there was no one for him to retrieve him from his never-ending work. The Hollow Knight tries their best to choke down the feeling of pity when not even a single retainer comes to the workshop if only to place a blanket around the King's shoulders. They were forbidden from entering this place… Pity. This one's tricky. It feels almost like sadness but not quite. It's... sadness directed at someone else who is in difficult situation or a sorry state.

Oh? Could it be that you love him?

A pang of cold, unexpected fear dropped into the depths of their burning stomach once the Vessel realises their grave mistake. They left themselves open before Her. Their minds became one and the same from the moment She was trapped within their body. And they foolishly let themselves be read like a book. A mist of orange fully cloaked their eyes as the suffocating heat rose up to their throat. Now their thoughts (Do not think!) and all their secrets were Hers.

How unusual… and how fortunate for me!

(Day 156...?)

What is this place? The Hollow Knight silently wonders as they look out at a sea of golden clouds gently illuminated by the sun in the distance. They didn't remember a place such as this in the entire Hallownest and they'd seen much of it during their imprisonment and before. All around them is just a sea of cotton like clouds covering everything in sight aside from the amber sky and the aforementioned sun. Perhaps they're on some tall mountain peak in Howling Cliffs during particularly good weather? It would add up.. Only…

Something felt off.

Especially when the Hollow Knight looked down at themself. Their armor shone in the light while their black chitin seemed to consume the brightness instead of reflecting it. Just as it always has been. But it doesn't mean it sits right with them. While peering out at Hallownest, they weren't able to do that. Or even move, so to speak. Chains and all. And another thing. They don't remember attempting to peer out in the first place. All of the sudden they are horrifyingly aware that the rays of the sun, seemingly harmless and soft felt like boiling acid on their Void body. Looking up in mounting panic, they realised that the sun was not actually a sun as the orb of light unfolded, revealing two magnificent wings reaching out as if to embrace the skies-

It was all they needed to jerk back into consciousness with a jolt. The bright orange was once again in their vision, stronger than ever, the scorching heat threatening with asphyxiation. The Hollow Knight attempted to take a deep breath… but the sound they unintentionally produced made them freeze in their bindings. Ever since they hatched in the deepest pit of the Abyss, they were unable to make any sort of sound aside from quietly inhaling and exhaling, even if they were panting from exhaustion after the climb. Now however… Every struggling breath they took came out as a disturbing, wet and gurgling wheeze as though something was clogging up their lungs and hoarse throat. Every breath was loud and unsettling and they felt themself shaking uncontrollably.

They'd fallen asleep. Fool, fool, fool! Exposed themself to the Radiance directly. Thank Wyrm, they managed to wake up at all. But still, the damage was done, the orange film coated their vision and the hot pain seemed to throb just underneath their black chitin, waiting to emerge at any second. The Hollow Knight shifted and tried to pull their legs up but any movement seemed to upset the Infection even further, causing it to thrum louder and more painfully through their flesh.

Looking down at their body was the catalyst. Never before have they thought their Void that served as blood could run even colder but this short glance was all it took to prove them wrong. Uneven buds of developing pustules were forming on their chest and abdomen, pulsing alongside their pounding heart, the orange color slowly surfacing beneath the clear black. Their right shoulder also seemed to be suffering the same fate. The Hollow Knight abruptly becomes dreadfully aware of the sweet taste of rot in the back of their gullet, so sickly nauseating that it makes them retch. In just a few ragged heaves they expel a gout of pure Infection that dribbles down their mouth and splatters across the floor of their chamber. No.. no it cannot end like this…

It wouldn't be so painful if you stopped resisting, you know..

Focus, Vessel. Focus!

Do not think.

Do not speak.

Do not hope…

Do not… feel!

And focus they do. Struggling to even out their breathing, coughing a couple more times to clear their respiratory system of the radiant pus, the Hollow Knight reaches into their core, to the purest Void that remains within and fights the Infection off as best as they can. The Radiance present in their head doesn't hide annoyance when they manage to make the glowing cysts recede back into their shivering body, leaving almost no trace suggesting they were there in the first place. The orange light in their eyes flickers out of existence, swallowed by the Void. The Hollow Knight finally stops desperately clutching at the cloth of their cape with their claws but don't let themself relax fully even as the Radiance admits Her temporary defeat and moves out from the forefront of their mind to the back. Droplets of sweat rolled down their mask alongside a couple of midnight black tears emerging from their eye sockets. The orange in their vision left only to be replaced by darkness that took their hearing and made them feel sick in the stomach again.

The Hollow Knight nearly passes out from the effort of reigning in the Infection but they push through the swimming darkness and fight for each raspy breath. They cannot fall asleep again. If they do, they are done for. Scratch that, Hallownest is done for! They need to stay sharp, stay strong! They wouldn't fail their father. The more they struggled, the more painful the whole ordeal seemed to be. Visions of the suffering's end were tempting but they knew they couldn't stop resisting. They won't let Her win. Focus. They need to focus. Just like many times before, the Vessel returns to counting. Day one hundred and fifty… six. Eight hours (?), thirty-three minutes and nine… teen seconds?

How long have they been asleep? Too long, is the answer. One hundred fifty-six days...- or was it already fifty-seven? What time of day was it in the moment of their imprisonment? It was morning. No, no it wasn't… Evening. But late or early evening? One hundred fifty… Wait, no. Sixty-five? Sev… seventy-five? They can't tell anymore. It was just… long. So much for that idea.. But if it has been so long already.. maybe their father will come back for them any day now? Please… Do not hope… Swallowing thickly only to hack out another glob of sticky pus, the Hollow Knight looks up, letting the black tears perfectly intertwined with orange drip down their chin. How much longer…?

(Day one… two hundred…? Maybe three…)

Release me, voidling.

Never.

Bring the pain to an end. Destroy the Pale Usurper.

No…

You cannot contain me forever.

I will as long as I can..

Keeping the maddening haze of the Infection at bay was slowly but surely becoming more and more difficult. A week or so ago the Hollow Knight lost feeling in their right arm, partially because of the chain and partially because of the swelling of cysts pressing against the metal. Before, the chains fit neatly without too much discomfort aside from the fact that they prevented almost all movement. Pustules on their thorax reemerged soon after those on their shoulder, throbbing with searing pain. A faint hue of orange smoke was crawling around the chamber floor like carrion worms. The Radiance was growing restless, desperately trying to break the Vessel, searching through their memories they tried so hard to keep hidden, looking for ways to make it easier for Her. She shamelessly filled them with doubt, attacking the feelings towards their father which shouldn't exist in the first place. And unable to ignore it any longer, the Hollow Knight made a terrible mistake and replied with their thoughts.

He abandoned you. The Worm isn't coming back.

No. You're wrong.

Don't you see what he's done? Have you forgotten what lies in the Abyss beneath this kingdom?

Corpses. Mountains of corpses of their newly hatched siblings who never got a chance to live. Majority of them died within eggs, stillborn. No cost too great. Their father once told them. Could it… could it be that he was wrong? Impossible! She's just toying with them. Believe and trust nothing.

I have not. Their sacrifice was needed..

But to what end?

What was the worst, the Goddess changed Her tactics. She no longer hissed with hatred and anger and used brute force of Her will. Instead, Her voice grew softer. More gentle. Alluring and carrying a promise of peace and release from the unending nightmare. Almost motherly.. They knew it to be only an illusion concealing the cruel deity beneath.

For Hallownest.

Child, he has you so fooled. He fears me and cares not about this world. He cares not about you. Think about it…

With a shudder, the Hollow Knight feels Her presence recede slightly but never fully leaving. Do not think. Do not listen to Her. They shift in their bindings when their head begins to spin, calling them into a sweet embrace of blessed unconsciousness but they hold fast. And that's when they hear something hit the floor with a wet, sickening "thwack!". This sound makes a spike of fear jolt down their throat mostly occupied by the Infection. What was that? There's nothing here with them that could make this sound. Did they imagine it? Looking around for the cause of the strange noise, the Hollow Knight glances towards the source. The floor below them. And they freeze, feeling their heart drop to their heels.

The Vessel was a warrior at heart. They were used to grisly sights and gore. Had seen plenty of it too. But this was just too much. Right there, like a silent taunt lies a black, limp arm. Their arm, they realise when they look to the right where their shoulder abruptly ends with a cluster of Infected tissue. The severed appendage too was coated in the orange goop in the place where it detached from the Knight's body. The disease had eaten through their flesh until their arm had nothing more to cling to and after the slightest movement just… fell off. They draw a wheezing breath when the fingers twitch once in a last reflex before the entire arm dissolves into a puddle of Void which soon disappears without a trace.

Wyrms above, they were rotting. Decomposing alive. Melting like a faulty Kingsmould. At this point, death would've been a blessing. But if they had to die, they'd rather go out the proper way! Defeated, felled in combat like a knight they are. Not falling apart, piece by piece until… Before, they thought they knew fear. What they felt now however, was a whole new dimension. An excruciating sob wracked their body as Infected tears fell from their eyes and where the droplets met the floor, pulsing, orange veins of Infection sprouted like vines from seeds and crawled their way around the entire chamber, developing large cysts but thankfully not straying out through the archway. Still, the Hollow Knight looked up at the not so distant ceiling as more tears fell. They cannot do this anymore.

Father… please… take me home.

Their head drooped in defeat as their body trembled both with pain and fear. It's only a matter of time before the Infection breaks free and sets out to devour Hallownest. And the fault was on them. Because they weren't hollow. They were just another failure created by the Pale King. A broken vessel that failed to fulfill its purpose. Soon, the dawn shall break. And it would be their fault.

…Help me…

(Another day of torment…)

Droplets as black as sin were falling to the floor freely where the Hollow Knight crumbled to their knees, shaking like a leaf on a gale under the dreaded golden light. Void was seeping out from a wound inflicted by a spectral nail stuck above their hip. They can't, they can't do this.. They tried to fight her in the Dream, doing their best to avoid summoned blades, rays of light and orbs of magic but to no avail. She had won. Failed. Worthless. Flawed. Shattered.. This was their last chance to fend off the Infection festering inside of them. And after a torturous fight they’d failed. They had broken their promise to their father. When did they make it? Can't say for certain. It was so.. so long ago. How many days before have they lost count of the days of containment? Too many.. Far too many. Was the Radiance right? Has their father truly discarded them like a broken tool? He wouldn't… he just needs more time. But they don't have that time! They will break any moment now.

Like on a cue, a warm, soft wing brushed against their face, making the Hollow Knight look up into a pair of luminous, golden eyes staring at them from behind the ruff of dense, cream-colored fur that seemed to glow. For just a moment they had to lift their only arm to shield their eyes from bright luminosity. No wonder the old tribe of moths called their deity "the Radiance". They gawked at Her, the Goddess who caused them so much pain, who wished to destroy Hallownest out of spite against the Pale King. Was this hatred justified? They cannot tell. But now it doesn't matter. What does matter is that She is hovering before them, radiant and mesmerizing. Once their sight adjusts, the Hollow Knight finds it impossible to look away. Instead they stare like hypnotized. With a flick of Her wing She extracts the blade from their wound, making them stiffen in pain and fall back down. Still, they watch Her without blinking and weakly pull themself to their feet to shuffle closer in this trance. Where was this strange, soothing music coming from? Can She hear it too or has their sanity finally left them for good?

The Pale Wyrm took my children away from me. I only wish to have them back.

Even in a haze of feverish delirium, the Hollow Knight struggled to reject Her words. Lying wretch, if She wanted her children back, She wouldn't be hurting them. But.. She was so… beautiful, so damn convincing in Her deception! No… they can't.. She can't be...

Just like you wish you hadn't abandoned your twin..

All gears in their brain ground to a sudden halt. Twin.. Their chin trembles. The Radiance… She dug through them into their most guarded and most painful memory they ever carried. As though there has been a spell cast on them, the Hollow Knight feels their vision fade and travel back in time to this very moment. To the metal platform in the Abyss and a tiny figure of their twin struggling to pull themself up after the gruelling ascend. Their gazes met for the whole three seconds, one hopeful and begging the other uncaring and empty. And in this short while the Hollow Knight felt. For the first time in their short life. Felt the urge to turn back. To come with rescue to their exhausted sibling. But the pale light of the King, their father, was quickly heading out of this accursed place and with a twinge of an unknown feeling they later learned to recognise as guilt (one wishes to not have done something one has done..), the Pure Vessel turned away and trailed after the Wyrm who soon shut the doors to the Abyss with a bone rattling crash, sealing it forever. The imaginary sound of their twin's shell shattering on the ground and the dread-inducing wails of their Shade haunted the Hollow Knight for years to come. This has been one of those instances when the Hollow Knight was glad they have no voice and they couldn't scream in their sleep. They wished they could turn back time. That they returned and helped the struggling child onto the platform, even if it would cost them everything they gained later. It felt… wrong. They left the sibling they shared their egg with, the one who spent the time before their hatching snuggled against the Hollow Knight and embracing them protectively. This one thought stalked them through their entire life. You let them die.

Set me free, Vessel. I will ease this pain. And when I claim what's mine, it shall be my turn to release you and allow you to fade into the darkness you were born from. And then you will reunite with your lost siblings…

A violent shiver was all the answer the Hollow Knight had for Her. No voice to cry suffering. A thinking mind.. A strong will to break.. They swallowed in agitation, still unable to take their eyes off the Goddess.

Do not fight anymore..

Do not think.

Do not speak.

Do not hope..

Do not…

No more.. They were so tired…They can't keep this up. The cold, collected exterior of the legendary Pure Vessel cracks apart. She's too strong… Forgive me, father… With a sigh, the Vessel shuts their eyes as the Radiance pulls them even closer into an embrace and after Wyrm knows how long, they give up. I tried.. I really did... With the tips of her wings, the Radiance cups their cheeks and presses her forehead to their own. In the deep black eyes appear small pinpricks of orange, like pupils, slowly expanding to replace shadow with light. Sometimes trying is not good enough... They could imagine their father's voice saying that.. and he'd be right. As always... The pain that was tearing them to pieces from the inside for ages started to subside, their whole body seemed to be pulsating with heat. Just make it stop…

In the depths of the Black Egg Temple, the limp body of the Sealed Vessel dangles suspended above the ground as it had for many long years ever since the time seemed to come to a stop. No movement, not a sound as they keep their stoic vigil over the Old Light. No mind to think. No will to break. No voice to cry suffering. The Hollow Knight born of God and Void to take away the blinding light plaguing the dreams of Hallownest. All of this is a one, cruel lie. After countless years of imprisonment and service to the Pale Monarch their willpower spectacularly shatters to pieces. Orange pustules erupt from their torso as the sockets in their mask flare up with the same sickly glow, the voice in their head mingling with their own distorted thoughts.

Kill… Crush Contain him Her.. Destroy Seal away the false king the Old Light.

The searing light behind their eyes is all they see as with a horrid crunch the shell above their right eye socket gives out. A crack forms all the way towards the base of their horn as they draw a disturbingly garbled breath. No longer in control of their own body, they strain against the reinforced shackles strengthened by Seals of Binding like a feral animal to the point when the chains and armor begin to dig into their chitin painfully. Faced with failure, the Hollow Knight wheezes again, tilts their large head back gathering all their strength, feeling the years of suffering pressing onto them. Opens their mouth…

No mind the Pale King Usurper had created. Only strength.

And s c r e a m s.

…

Nothing was ever the same since that terrible, terrible day. The Infection began to spread once again, taking minds of all bugs it touched. The Hollow Knight remained trapped in the Black Vault in chains, a snarling, panting beast thirsting for blood and revenge. But in moments when their own self rears its head through the cloak of orange, even if barely for a glimpse, they are overcome with unimaginable pain forcing them back into submission. Fighting Her felt like having their lungs torn clean out. They beg death to claim them for their failure and their weakness. Hallownest was quickly dying and all they could do was watch as the thriving kingdom was brought to ruin. Because of them. Because they weren't pure like they were intended to. Because they let the Radiance take over.

However, even those short moments of clarity left them when one day an odd sensation rippled through their entire being. Something left them. Something they didn't even know was there until they lost it. A presence, cold and comforting, a stark contrast to the blinding brightness of the Radiance. For a while they weren't sure what it was until a grim realisation eventually dawned on them when they searched for the White Palace only to find... nothing. Only emptiness behind a crumbling gate where it once stood tall and majestic. It was the Pale King. It was his presence they felt. And this presence was suddenly snuffed out like a candlelight. Just like that. The Wyrm was gone. His light faded and left Hallownest and its inhabitants behind. How…? The entire Palace, their home along with all memories vanished.. What happened? Could he be… dead…? The mere thought caused them to halt their struggling breath. Not a single part of their being could come to terms with what just happened once they understood. No... No, it’s impossible, it can’t be true!

No amount of denial would change the reality. The Pale King is gone along with the whole court. Everything around ceased, even the earth itself seemed to pause at the disappearance of the Wyrm. Only the brightness of Her domain was surrounding the Hollow Knight as they stared forward into nothingness in disbelief. Half of their shredded mind was clouded by a spectre of a distant memory. Two figures. One bright as the moon itself, the Pale King in all his glory. The other, much shorter, Void incarnate. A small Vessel with two horns crowning its head. The Hollow Knight cannot hear what the Pale King was saying, it was too long ago and their memory seemed to be failing them as of late. All they did remember from that moment, a day or so after their arrival to the White Palace, was exacly what played out before their eyes. The Wyrm absent mindedly rested his hand on the Vessel’s back as he kept talking. A slight weight seemed to fall in the very same place between shoulder blades of the Hollow Knight but no hand was there to offer comfort. From a very far away, they heard the Pale King’s voice, barely a faint echo.

“Until the end of time, they shall always remember what you’ve done for them. As will I...”

In seconds the vision of their past became undone before them, leaving them alone and at the mercy (or its lack thereof) of the Dream Goddess. Their already fragile heart broke thousand times over, the last shreds of their hope faded away and globules of orange pus rolled down their face instead of inky Void tears dripping onto their armor, tarnished by the passage of time. He said he would remember.. Always...

Father… why…?

When the Radiance told them the Pale King abandoned them, they didn't believe Her. They found it inconceivable. He wouldn't leave them on purpose.. Something horrible must've happened. He… he cared… He-… Rearing back, the Hollow Knight once again cried out in dismay with the borrowed voice of the plague.

Why have you… forsaken me…?

Time has lost its meaning that day. Seconds slipped past the shattered Vessel. Weeks passed without notice and the disease raged across the faded land. How long has it been since the departure of the Pale Monarch…? A month, a year… or maybe a decade? Hard to say. The Hollow Knight spent it in a numb haze, unable to wrestle the control the Radiance had over their body, because they simply.. had no will to do so anymore. All they could do on their own was look around the dark chamber but they had no wish to do so either. Instead, they stared at a wall with blank eyes. No sense. No hope. No death. No relief.. Only pain and sorrow. Burning wrath of the Dream Goddess. She lied. The Wyrm has disappeared, possibly perished in some tragedy that brought down the entire White Palace.. If he was gone, where was the release She promised? No, it was no longer about the King. She just wanted the end of Hallownest for the sake of vengeance alone.. This was not a motherly longing for lost children. It was a punishment. How could they have been so foolish…?

No longer did the Hollow Knight find strength to resist. It left them with their beloved father. Did he leave because of their failure…? Or was he truly gone? No longer did the Hollow Knight find the will to look out at their old home. They couldn't muster up the courage to gaze upon the land they failed to protect. But perhaps if they had seen what became of the eternal kingdom, their heart would fully break and maybe the sorrow alone would grant them the peace they begged for for so long now. All they could see was the bright, scorching light. Nothing more, nothing less… Why won't She let them go? A dark, not entirely unwelcome thought crept into their head. If only they could reach their nail.. all it would take was a quick stab through the heart. It rested below them where they had left it years ago, now tarnished and covered in dust, just out of reach. Even if they could grab it though, their only arm remained in chains, immobilized.. Was this a punishment for thinking they can match the strength of the Radiance? If so… they very well deserved it. Gurgling up a pathetic sound, the once great Hollow Knight trembled.

Father… I failed you... I'm sorry…

They thought as though this apology would mean anything or be heard by anyone aside from Her. And She didn't care. But they needed to, wanted to say it. If only they could… Maybe he would hear them then and mercifully grant his child their final, desperate wish.

… please, let me die…

--------------------------------------------------

There is the first of two chapters. Hope it's decent, I have NO idea how to portray the Hollow Knight. I'm abysmal XD

I know I said it's gonna be a short fic. People who have been following me for a while probably know me well for being a liar but god DAMN. I got a bit carried away and the other chapter isn't going to be shorter :O

#hollow knight #hk the hollow knight #hk pure vessel #hk sealed vessel #hk pale king #the pale king #hk the radiance #infection #I don't see the PK as a complete ass #just so you know #but still shame on him for never hugging THK

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forever-rogue · 5 years ago

Note

Boba x You: Eavesdropping and, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Oh my sweet Boba, you know I’m always weak for him…I hope you enjoy. This gets a little…spicy, so 18+ only :)

»»————-　♡　————-««

Boba was a strange man. An enigma most people would argue; at least you surely would. He presented a hard exterior, keeping his true self hidden from view between layers of armor and hardened walls that had been built up through the years. He barely spoke, at least to people in the world outside of his ship or Mandalorian culture, or you.

That’s why the first time you had come across the intimidating bounty hunter, you were sure it would be your undoing. You’d all but expected your inevitable end. He’d come into the cantina you were working at, not by choice, but by servitude rather, looking for a quarry and easily capturing the man that served as your employer. You’d watched everything with wide eyes, scared, nervous, and unsure of what to say or do.

Hiding behind the bar, you hoped that he wouldn’t notice you and opt to leave instead. But the stomp of his heavy footfalls soon met your ears and he stood over you, his shadow falling over you as you looked at him nervously. He seemed to study you for a moment, as if he was trying to contemplate your fate, but quickly crouched down and offered you his gloved hand, “come on.”

“What?” it was a broken whisper that fell past your lips as you gingerly took his hand and let him hoist you up. You thought you’d feel worried…scared even, but a sense of relief washed over you. He offered no more explanations as he strode out with you following closely behind, unsure of what was going on. He offered no more explanations; you asked no more questions.

He’d led you back to his ship, your boss in tow, spewing all lots of expletives at you, claiming you’d set him all up. In reality, you were just as confused as to what was going on as he was; you knew his was a crook, but you’d never known he was that much of a crook; not enough to warrant the wrath of a Mandalorian bounty hunter anyway. The fact that he had forced you to work there for minimal pay for years should have told you everything you needed to know.

Boba had remained silent - stoic - as he stepped foot onboard his ship and quickly froze the man in carbonite. You watched with wide eyes as he added the man to his collection, unsure if you should say something or thank him or…anything. He went about whatever he needed to do, and you sat on a crate, quiet and waiting for further instruction. Eventually, after what seemed like a small eternity he came back over to you, offering you a change of clothes, instead of the near rags you were forced to sport for work.

“Thank you,” you said softly as you took the clothes from him, clutching them tightly to your chest. He lingered for a moment, almost as if he was unsure of what to say.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he insisted, his voice, despite being modulated by the helmet, was warm and rich. It was a pleasant change from the normally harsh and cruel voice that was yelling at you, “no one should be treated like a caged animal.”

“I…” your throat seemed to close up with emotion as you listened to his words, surprised by their gentleness. You hadn’t expected a bounty hunter of all people to be like this. He gave you a nod, signaling that he understood what you meant, “I’ll change and be on my way.”

“Where will you go?” he asked without facing you, but helmet tilted slightly in your direction. Where would you go? You had no idea. There really wasn’t anywhere for you to go. All you had was the cantina, and you knew going back wasn’t an option anymore.

“I don’t know,” you admitted with a small shrug, “I’ll find some place.”

“Without any credits?” he had a point and a small pout crossed your lips. While you were thankful for your freedom, you weren’t sure where you would go, or what you would do. He seemed to be able to read your mind, and let a low sigh, “you may stay here.”

“Here?” you repeated quietly as he gave you a slow nod, “with you?”

“Who else?” he quipped, a soft amused tone to his voice. A smile spread across your features at the bounty hunter as he tried to play it cool and calm, “I could use a hand keeping the ship clean and in order.”

“It just so happens that I’m very good at that,” you joked, “and I’m pretty handy with a blaster-”

“We’ll see about that,” you were almost positive that he had an eyebrow raised at you underneath the helmet. Biting your lip, you started to slid off the crate as you held out your hand to him. He hesitated for a moment before taking yours and giving it a firm shake, “I’ll show to the fresher and you can change. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” you admitted, still taken aback by how warm and kind he appeared to be. It wasn’t that you automatically assumed he would be a gruff person, unkind and proud, but it just wasn’t what you pictured from a Mandalorian, “I…I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Boba,” he said with the a nod as he turned on the light in the fresher, closing the door behind him as left to give you some privacy. Boba, you repeated softly to yourself. You decided you liked that name. You decided you liked him.

»»————-　♡　————-««

Over the next several months, you worked closely with Boba, getting to know him more and more, tiny piece by tiny piece. He was an interesting man, and if you were being honest, you wouldn’t have thought there was this much to him. But there was - from his origin to the loss of his father, to his career as a bounty hunter and dwindling number of Mandalorians. Everything about him captivated you.

He spoke often you to, after the first few weeks, much more than to anyone else, and he often found himself asking you if he was boring too much. But he wasn’t; he kept you hanging onto his every word. He asked you, often, about yourself as well, and you found yourself at a loss. There wasn’t much to tell in your opinion, especially having spent most of your life as a slave, but he listened with rapt attention to your every word.

It was still sometime after that that you were privileged enough to see him stripped of his armor and helmet, remaining in only his underclothes. You weren’t sure if it had been intentional, or if he’d meant to change, or he really didn’t care, but it still caused a blush to rise up in your cheeks. You’d cleared your throat awkwardly before knocking on the entrance to the cockpit to make sure he had time to tell you to leave or throw the helmet back on if he so desired.

But instead he’d turned to you, a lazy half smile on his lips as he motioned for you to step inside. He was handsome, much more than you had expected, but that didn’t even matter; you’d already well fallen for him, and the man he was, not his looks. But there was something about those dark messy locks, the little bit of stubble covering his face, his honeyed eyes, and the warm, tan skin that set your soul on fire. He was…exquisite to put it simply.

After that first time that he had showed himself to you, fully, as he was, and you didn’t bock at him, he seemed to do it more and more often. At first, it was just in the evenings, once the excitement of the day had died down and you were in for the night. That turned into the mornings as well, before he had to leave for the day, whether it was after a bounty, or whatever else he had to attend to. And even that, after a while, turned into whenever he was on the ship, or around you. Boba seemed to relish in the fact that he could be himself, truly and fully around you, without fear of judgment.

It was some time before it was apparent that the two of harbored…some sort of feelings for each other, but it was never enough for to be completely positive and want to act on those desires. Sometimes it was a light, lingering touch here, or a lasting gaze there, soft spoken promises of something more.

On one particular night, you had gone into the nearby town late to fetch some food and supplies with the crowding of the day time, promising Boba that you’d return soon. He’d seen you off with a smile and waited around for you, but after a while grew impatient. He knew you could handle yourself, he’d made sure to instill some of his Mandalorian training to you, but he still wondered what could be taking so long. Instead, he retired to the small space that served as his bedroom and flopped onto his cot, staring at the metal ceiling. It had been a long week; he was exhausted and tense with stress.

When he’d been stressed in the past, he would easily take care of it himself, often resorting to touching himself and finding sweet relief through an orgasm, but lately…well, it didn’t hold quite the same appeal as it once did. For some reason, knowing you were there with him, only a few feet away really, made him feel wrong and…dirty. That’s not to say that he hadn’t touched himself; no he’d done that plenty of times, in the sanctity of the sanistream where the water could muffle his groans and you were sure not to just walk in. Those were the times that he enjoyed the most, images and thoughts of you occupied his mind as he pictured your mouth around his hard cock, about thrusting into you mercilessly instead of his hand. It was always your name that spilled from his lips as he came.

This particular night, he decided to throw caution to the window, getting up and closing the door to his sanctuary, but not noticing when it remained slightly open. Laying back down on the small cot, he undid his trousers and yanked them down, taking his already hard cock in his hand, and stroking himself to the thoughts of you.

Of course you had chosen exactly that time to return.

Humming softly under your breath, you stashed away the food and supplies you’d acquired from the market, keeping an eye out for Boba. But he was nowhere to be found.

“Boba?” you called down the long hallway softly, looking around for his tall silhouette. When no response met your ears, you decided to check the cockpit, but didn’t find him there either, figuring that mean he must have been in his bedroom. You walked to find him, but stopped dead in your tracks just before his door, when you heard a few soft moans emanating from inside the room. Oh.

You knew you should have walked away, but instead you found yourself peeking inside, your attention captured by the soft sound of your name coming from his lips. You felt warm, hotter than you had in a long time as the sight of him stroking himself and thrusting into his hand met your eyes. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you came to the sudden conclusion that he was touching himself…to you.

Deciding to not intrude on the sanctity of the moment any further you slowly backed away, vowing to yourself that you would pretend that you hadn’t heard or seen anything. For some reason it surprised that he would be so bold, but at the same time, you’d done the exact thing many things yourself, often late at night, long after you’d both retired to bed. It was always his name that escaped your lips as you’d bring yourself to orgasm, despite your best efforts to muffle your soft whimpers. You often wondered what if would be like having his fingers inside you, how his mouth feel between your legs as his stubble scraped against your delicate skin, how he’d fuck you until you were begging him to stop. But no - that was not for right now.

But as your luck would have it (of which you appeared to have very little), you stumbled over a misplaced crate and fell on your bum, a small shriek of surprise leaving your lips. Kriff.

You tried to regain your balance and run away, but you heard some scrambling coming from inside the room, followed by a hasty pair of footsteps. He would know almost immediately what had happened; your face turned a brilliant crimson as you tried to come up with a quick lie on the spot.

“Y/N?’ his own face was flushed as he tried to play it off like he hadn’t just been in such a compromising state, “w-what happened?”

“Boba,” your voice was about an octave higher than normal, causing you to cringe internally, “I, ugh, I just got back..I was coming to find you and I tripped. Y-you know how I am.”

“What…” he stopped himself, treading carefully, “what…did you…are you okay?”

“I didn’t see or hear anything,” you said so quickly it all came out in a rushed whisper as Boba raised an eyebrow at you, “nothing at all…cross my heart and hope to die.”

You groaned internally at yourself, wishing the metal of the floor would open up and swallow you whole. He knew. Of course he knew. You weren’t exactly being subtle. You weren’t sure if you or Boba were more embarrassed.

“Okay…” he said quietly, offering you his as to help you up. You stared at his hand, knowing where it had just been and he seemed to catch himself, switching to the non-dominant one and helped you up.

“I…” you trailed off, unsure of what else to say without making the situation any worse. You were looking anywhere but his face as you got ready to run away hide and pretend this never happened, “I totally didn’t hear anything.”

Boba’s expression faltered slightly as you tried to brush past him, but he reached out and grabbed your wrist. You stopped and swallowed the lump in your throat as tried not to panic directly in front of the bounty hunter.

“You saw,” it was a statement, pointedly not a question, “you…heard.”

Hanging your head, you decided it was better not to lie to him. He’d be able to see right through you anyway. Instead you turned around, catching your bottom lip between your teeth, “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I just got back and was looking for you and I tried to walk away as soon as I realized.”

“No…” he let out a sigh, annoyed that he’d been so careless, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have…”

“No, no you didn’t make me uncomfortable at all,” you weren’t sure if you were doing the right thing, effectively letting him know you didn’t mind because….well, you felt the same, “I…”

Your words caught in your throat as you met his dark, warm eyes, an unsure expression etched on his face. Nervously, you took a step closer to him, raising a trembling hand as you touched his face, running a hand over his cheek. He caught your hand with his, grip tight like a vice as he studied your face.

It happened before you knew it; he pulled you into his arms, crashing his lips onto yours in a feverish, bruising manner as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He smelled of clove and spices, and tasted sweet, just like you had imagined. Why had you waited this long to kiss him?

His hands found your waist and he held you close, his hard on pressing into your center. He drew a soft moan from your lips, and you could feel him smirking against you. Breathless, feeling drunk off of his kisses, you pulled back, and he rested his forehead against yours, an intimate Mandalorian kiss.

“Boba,” your voice was barely above a whisper as you admired his handsome face, “if you need help…finishing what you started, just say the word.”

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he took your hand and slowly guided it to his erection, a low guttural sound coming out of his mouth as you palmed him from through his trousers, “do you feel what you do to me? Just the thought of you gets me like this.”

“You should see what you do to me,” you whispered against the shell of his ear, feeling him shudder slightly against you, “how wet I am for you. How often I think about you touching me, making me cum.”

Without warning, his hands went back to your waist and he picked you up. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around him, going back to feverishly kissing him as he walked towards the cot in his room.

“Boba,” his name feel off of your lips like a prayer as he laid you down, looking over you with hungry eyes; you were prey and he was predator, “please.”

“You want this, right?”

“Yes,” you reassured him, taking his hand and lacing your fingers through his, “I’m yours. Yours and only yours.”

That was all it took before he was on top of you, his mouth finding yours as he murmured sweet, filthy nothings in your ears. His eyes met yours as he gently cradled your face between his large hands, “I am yours.”

“So claim me.”

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #reader insert #my og mandalorian #star wars #requests

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 13.2k+

summary: “You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.”

warnings: swearing, a dash of drama, a seasoning of angst.

notes: Wow. Suffering for a week was worth it because I wrote this whole thing in like 2 days. I apologise if I haven’t responded to your comments on the last update. I’m a clown, it is known. I love you all though. Please enjoy. *rubs hands eagerly* :)

children of ares series: 01 | .... | 09 | 10 | . . | 12 |

He remembers sunshine.

He remembers the sea breeze.

He remembers laughter. Unsure but carefree; happy.

It’s easier to remember you like that than to think about what’s currently happening. Better than thinking about you in those damp, cold tunnels. Better than imagining how very easily it can all go wrong.

It’s easier to think about his home, a year ago, and the stinging disappointment of knowing you won’t be there for his birthday transforming into something else—something joyous.

Tarasov had changed his plans last second, putting your own plans of flying out to Naples in jeopardy and it was not the first time Santino had contemplated murdering the Russian, all consequences be damned. But you found a way to see him. Found way to come to him. He never asked how. A part of him had never cared enough to know because you’ve been simply there and it had been enough.

Santino remembers every single detail about those three days. Because it was like something straight out one of his dreams.

You, in his home.

You, smiling and happy.

You, sleepy and comfortable and open.

He recalls the warmth of you in his arms as he spun you in a clumsy circle till you were both dizzy with laughter. He recalls the too sweet taste of that god awful wine you brought because you couldn’t find anything else last minute. He did get drunk.

But on more than just the wine.

The next day when he came from the family meeting with his head splitting apart and his throat dry from the hangover, he found you with Gia, cooking and chatting. The older woman had taken it onto herself to teach you some words in the local dialect and your efforts were valiant if a little awkward.

Oh, but the sight of you.

Hair messy, feet bare, a pale sundress wrapping around your frame and a wide smile on your lips as warm Italian sun bathed you in a golden glow. Standing in the same spot he’s seen his mother stand a hundred times, and it had been like a punch right in the heart, right through him.

You had turned towards him a few, breathless seconds later and your smile had widened at sight of him and—

And if he hadn’t already been stupidly, irritatingly, pathetically in love with you by then—

That would have been the final straw.

Sometimes, he still wishes it was as simple as wanting to fuck you. Simply get it out of his system and move onto another pretty face—of which there had been plenty. But no. Of course not. Of course, you had to attach yourself to him, burrow yourself under his skin so fucking deep it’s like a permanent ache— longing, need—that he can’t get rid of.

Because now…

“How long has it been?”

The guards shift at his tone, wary. None of them want to speak first but they also seem to know that keeping silent will only unleash his barely suppressed wrath quicker.

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Sir.

Not boss.

Because he isn’t one. Not to these lowlife Camorra nobodies. At least before they showed some degree of respect to him as an heir. But now he’s just…what even is he? An afterthought, an irritation. To everyone.

Only twenty minutes though.

During planning, they determined that it would take fifteen minutes just to get there, and that’s assuming they don’t run into any trouble first.

He works his jaw, restless. He hates waiting. He fucking abhors it. He’s been waiting for almost six years—his entire goddamn life—and he’s tired of it already. But it’s not like he can do anything short of taking his pistol and marching into the filthy tunnels to get you back himself.

He wants to. But he’s not a complete idiot despite what you believe him to be.

So he waits. He paces back and worth, his expensive shoes sinking into the wet mud and gravel beneath them. The rain is coming down heavy and harsh now, beating against his umbrella in a relentless rhythm of strength.

He just needs you to come back out already.

Come on, amore. Come back to me. Come and call me your idiot. Just come back.

Time stretches; slow and sluggish.

Twenty minutes become forty and then fifty.

Sunshine, laughter, the gentle expression on your face when you danced, when he gave you his mother’s necklace—

The ground beneath his feet trembles.

He halts, immediately thinking that he’s imagined it, but then a muffled series of bangs echo that shake the ground once again, stronger this time. The guards' curse, pulling their weapons out as if that’s going to do anything.

Underground.

The tunnels.

Explosions.

A destructive chain of concrete, water, and death that stretches far, far too wide.

They’re also pyromaniacs. Experts from what I’ve gathered.

It is then, only for the third time in his entire life, that Santino D’Antonio feels awful, raw sort of fear flood through his veins, leaving him completely immobile.

No.

You dream of sunshine.

You dream of sitting in the sun’s embrace and burning, burning, burning.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Fire doesn’t scare you. It has never hurt you, either.

Darkness you fear because it drips with pain and loneliness. Water you hate because you can’t breathe with it lodged in your throat. But fire rages around you and keeps you safe in its destructive cocoon, letting you have your momentary peace.

Golden tears drip down your cheeks as you kneel on the burning, golden surface. Perhaps you are repenting, perhaps you are mourning. But there is something missing and you want it back—a distant, painful ache you can’t shake but one that tugs you back, back, back—

“Why are you crying, viper?”

A touch against your hair, gentle but firm. It brings you no comfort though. In fact, it leaves you feeling cold deep in your bones even if you don’t pull away.

“Because I am alone,” you whisper through hot tears, your eyes sore and throat tender. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

“There is no shame in being alone.”

You curl deeper into yourself, your forehead pressing against the scorching surface. “But I don’t want to be alone. I just want to be happy. I want to be free.”

A hand smooths over your head once again, patient and kind. Something inside your chest coils at the contact. “There is no happiness for you on this path. You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A weak breath escapes you.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

“To you.”

The hand on top of your head stills. “Yes,” the voice confirms mildly. “To me. You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. That is how your story began and that is how it will end.”

Your head lifts, but the figure in front of you blurs through your tears

and

then

you

fall.

Darkness spits you out with a violence that jolts your entire body back to wakefulness.

A slow groan slips out first before you even open your eyes.

There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and when your eyes open they feel grainy and dry.

The room is vaguely familiar with its sleek and modern interior.

You try to inhale and find an oxygen mask over your face. Gritting your teeth, your clumsily pull on it. It takes three tries to drag it to one side of your cheek. Almost immediately breathing becomes more difficult, your throat sore and aching, but you ignore it.

Fingers suddenly latch onto your own and you jolt.

Dizziness is slow to pass, as is the queasiness you feel rolling through your stomach like a heavy rock, but when your vision finally settles, a wave of relief washes over you.

Familiar, brilliant blue eyes are staring back at you, unblinking.

Ares is gripping your hand so tightly her own hand trembles and you want to tease her about her unwashed, still dusty hair and red eyes but don’t.

She’s alive. Relatively unharmed except for few scratches and bruises against her neck.

The sight of her sends a rush of memories back into your skull.

The tunnels.

The Lovers.

The male—Lucien—setting the explosions off.

A weak rasp escapes you and your fingers tighten around Ares’.

She looks awful. If she’s this bad then you can’t even imagine what—

“Santino?” you croak out, trying to sit up but her fingers constrict around yours, near painful, and you still.

He is fine, she signs when she releases your hand. Physically.

You understand the addition for what it is.

Swallowing weakly, you dip your head slightly and move onto another pressing inquiry.

“The Lovers?”

Her expression tightens and the subdued worry in her eyes transforms into ice; honed and piercing.

Got away in the chaos, she signs and her tattooed fingers tremble again before she clenches them and drops them into her lap abruptly. She looks both furious and upset all at once and it’s startling to see. Ares is cocky, confident, brilliant. Seeing her as anything other than self-assured is unsettling.

You’re about to ask her what’s wrong but before you can she sniffs and her hands form slow signs, letting you piece together her next words little by little.

I could not call for help. You were dying and I could not call for help.

Your heart squeezes.

You can’t even imagine what she must have felt.

Ares. Ares who was left by her parents at an orphanage when she was still a baby—no more than two weeks old, simply because unlike other children she never made a sound. Because they believed that there was something wrong with her, some form of defect that made her unwanted in their eyes. Ares who never allowed her muteness to hold her back or define her. She was the one who reshaped the world around her as she wished. She was strong enough to stand for herself, fight for herself.

Ares who had been chosen by the heir of Camorra to be his right hand.

A title and an honour never held by another female in Camorra’s history before.

And to be stuck in those tunnels unable to call for help, unable to do anything when she’s always been so capable, so ready to face down whatever came her way—

“How?” comes your fragile whisper.

Ares swallows and blinks her eyes, glancing away. You allow her that moment, though the gratitude in your heart should make it clear that she doesn’t need to hide from you.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They’re simply a sign that you’re alive.

Your phone, she signs with a little twitch of her mouth. You still had it on you. I messaged S-A-N-T-I-N-O. Had you partially dug out of the rubble by the time he found us. I have never seen him look so afraid before. Had you stood less than a foot further back you would be dead. Lucky you got away with only a concussion and a dislocated shoulder.

“Lucky me,” you repeat softly, your voice frayed, and place your hand on hers, squeezing. You can’t bring yourself to ask why he’s not beside you like she is. “Thank you, Ares. If it weren’t for you—”

Her eyes flash and her mouth twists into half a snarl. Do not dare thank me. You saved my life.

Your own eyes sting and you force out a soft, exhausted, “We’re a team.”

Her mouth presses shut at that, and she examines you shrewdly. She licks her lips once, and you know its more about controlling her emotions when she glances away again, her tattooed fingers squeezing around yours once before she lets go.

Perhaps we are all more than that.

Yes. All this time you’ve been so afraid of calling them your team you never considered the notion they might have become something even more important. Something like family.

Your eyes flutter shut and you smile slightly. “We are, we…”

The world slips into a comfortable, infinite dark again.

When you awake next, Ares is gone.

But someone else is beside you.

His head is bowed, his thumb delicately tracing over your knuckles.

You’re at the penthouse, you realise distantly, and it’s stopped raining outside.

Your oxygen mask is missing but you feel clearer, steadier, this time around and blink owlishly to clear the remaining fuzziness from your vision. Then, you take a moment to gather yourself and observe him.

Santino’s shoulders are curved into a tense, weary line with his tie loose around his neck. You only need to look at his messy hair to know he’s destroyed his usually immaculate, gelled curls by continuously running his fingers through them.

I have never seen him look so afraid before.

He asked you to sacrifice everyone and anything to walk out of those tunnels unharmed, but instead, you had placed Ares’ life above your own.

You’re glad that you did not make him any promises because he’s no doubt upset as it is.

You turn your fingers carefully, tracing your fingertips over the tanned surface of his smooth palm. He freezes at the dainty touch, his head jerking up as his wild stare takes you in.

“Hey, grumpy.”

His breath hitches slightly before he relaxes his shoulders.

You can almost see the invisible weight dropping away from him, and it makes you feel even worse. If the situations were reversed—

Your fingers settle on top of his.

After a moment, his expression clears and his own hold on your hand constricts.

“Foolish, brave woman,” he mutters tightly in Italian. “Why must you always do this to yourself?”

“I couldn’t let Ares die,” you reply softly because you can see the bags under his eyes, note how his skin looks more wan and tired, and a permanent frown seems to have settled between his brows. He worried and it’s your fault. Even if he won’t admit it, won’t voice it, it’s marking every inch of him. “I failed, Santi. They knew about it. About the underground and the water, and I was too weak—and—I failed—”

His expression turns stormy in a blink. “You did not fail,” he shoots back hotly, his eyes flashing. “I assure you, (Name). When I find them, I will make them beg for death long before I grant them the mercy of it. They will pay for what they did to you in blood.”

“How did they get away?”

Santino sighs, looking down for a moment. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s on me. Once the explosions went off, I called all the teams to a search, regardless of their location,” he divulges and you understand the heaviness in his tone. It was a choice he had to make. A choice between potentially stopping the people after your heads, or looking for you. You’re not foolish enough to think that Santino won’t have sacrificed the rest of the team if it had meant stopping the Lovers. “If it hadn’t been for the phone Ares found…”

He fades off, staring at your joined hands and you trace your thumb over his knuckles this time.

“I—”

“Do not say sorry,” he breathes, his voice soft with fury, just barely leashed. “Do you know what it felt like, hm? Hearing those explosions. The silence after was far worse, amore, I assure you. Then the searching and the waiting. Do you have any idea what it felt like, seeing Roberto pulling you out of that wreckage? Covered in blood, unconscious, barely breathing. It was like—”

His mother.

His mother all over again.

Bloodied, barely conscious, choking, and then eternally still.

You remember every word of his story.

With his gaze empty and hair wet, he had sat against the backdrop of a Chicago blizzard and told you every last detail of what happened. And it had since seared itself onto your mind, onto your heart. Every single word of it. That night had been the first time you saw cracks in his cocky demeanour. The very first time you saw him as a normal man. More than a nuisance, more than an arrogant mobster prick with a one-track mind.

You try to keep your breathing steady but fail. “I’m sorry,” you choke out anyway because you need to say it. “And thank you for finding u-us.”

His head rises slowly. “I will always find you,” he tells you, his expression serious. “Always. I promised to never abandon you, amore.”

“Even with one ear?” you joke through a pained smile.

Santino exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing and he mutters a bitter, “Hm, yes. Despite their best attempts, you still have an ear,” he informs you and you ghost your fingers over the bandage. There is dull ache there but nothing as bad as it was before. “It will heal quickly because it was a clean cut. Almost like—”

“He was trying to mark me,” you assume and he nods shortly. You can almost taste his keen rage. He’s like a band stretched too wide to a point of snapping. “Well I gutted the bastard, so I feel better already.”

Shifting in your spot, you wince immediately at the shooting pain down your shoulder and neck, hissing under your breath. Santino presses his hand against your shoulder, pushing you back gently.

“You are not allowed to move,” he chides, giving you a displeased look. “While the injuries are superficial, you do need to rest. Tsk, troublesome woman.”

“Shut up Mr If-It’s-Dangerous-It-Turns-Me-On.”

His lips part, outraged, but for a long minute, he only gapes at you before his mouth finally snaps shut. You can’t quite hold back your snort of laughter and wince in pain right after. His expression makes it worth it though.

“Wicked tongue,” he notes with an arched eyebrow; an invitation to play. “Throwing around such accusations, hm?”

You grin slightly at the way your teasing cools his rage, soothes his worry. “And you’re a bossy bastard. Were you like that when you were little, too?”

One side of his mouth twitches upwards; a half-smile, and another victory for you. “I have you know that I was very charming when I was little, cara mia. Can’t you tell?”

It takes effort to control your outright cackle this time, and he leans closer, his own eyes dancing with mirth as a faint smile lingers across his face, too.

“I’m sure.”

He gazes at you, seemingly lost in thought before his mouth opens and closes again. He wants to say something but you can read his hesitance, though the reason for it is unclear.

“What is it?”

He swallows before his eyes drag back to you again. “Do you ever wonder how different things might have been if we met first?”

You feel his words clatter through you before settling inside your bones.

Right up until that moment, you never have.

The past is a dark pit, you don’t like remembering or thinking about on a good day much less lately.

He meets your steady stare and you think about his question carefully. Try to consider how different things are between you now compared to when you first met. All that you know about him now oppose to then.

“Well,” you begin deliberately, thoughtful, “Considering that I looked no better than one of Bowery King’s little rodents for most of my life and you were Camorra’s darling prince…I think you would have hated me on sight. And I you.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

But before he can retort, you continue, this time with a faint smile. “But with time…well, I won’t say you would grow on me but maybe I would find you less annoying. Maybe I would learn that outside of that spoiled, cocky, asshole demeanour you’re half-decent on the inside. Maybe. And maybe with time, we could be friends, too. And I would trust you while you would have no choice but to stick with me because I’m the only person in all of Italy that could handle your little tantrums.”

His lips stretch into a slow smile, his demeanour lighter now, calmer. The look in his eyes is gentler too and you rest your cheek against the fluffy pillow, still peering at him.

The silence between you is softer this time as well, almost hazy.

“I think,” you begin in a hoarse whisper. “That if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you.”

His expression creases, coming undone slowly as his lips part in wonder. His grip on your hand constricts again but this time it doesn’t ease off quickly. He’s clutching onto you, his Camorra ring cutting into your skin but you let him.

Because it’s true.

If you had never met John, everything between you would be so easy.

But that’s not the reality you live in.

Reality is that you’re no longer sure if you’re capable of the type of love you felt for John anymore.

And what you feel for Santino—

You’re not sure when you fade away again.

The next four days are a slog.

You’re able to walk and move around mostly freely by the end of the first day but Doc is as strict as always.

Rest, and more rest, and no strenuous activity with your previously dislocated shoulder or you’re looking at permanent joint damage. Considering how much you rely on your hands, and the fact that you have two psychopaths still out there somewhere who want you dead, for once, you listen to his orders.

You eat. You sleep. You work on getting rid of the layer of dust coating your tongue whenever you speak.

It makes you feel antsy but you rest.

It also doesn’t help that you have three not-so-subtle guard dogs scrutinising your every move.

You’re not sure who is worse Santino or Ares, or both. Roberto usually backs away from one hard stare but Ares is not so easily moved, and Santino might as well be an immovable object.

When it comes to your recovery, he doesn’t compromise.

His men have been working hard on tracking the Lovers or any remaining members of the Black Dragon but they have seemingly vanished from the face of the Earth. That’s more worrying. You have now lost the element of surprise. But they came out of the confrontation between you with far more severe injuries.

You can still hear it in your dreams though.

Lucien’s cold, soft voice promising you a dance next time you meet.

Your whole body tenses whenever the memory comes back to you which is often. There is no doubt in your mind that you will be seeing him again soon. But he won’t catch you off guard like that again. This time there will be no darkness or water. No weakness for either of them to poke and exploit.

But there is something else.

A shift.

You feel it in the very foundation of every interaction Ares and Santino share with you around. They are good at masking it but you know them both too well. Something is happening, some sort of disagreement, and both are trying to hide it from you. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re still in “recovery” or because it’s something sensitive and Camorra related.

While they have never hidden anything family related from you, there are still boundaries you have never tried to step over. You’re not Camorra. Some things you are simply not privy to.

So you wait for Santino to bring it up first. He always addresses things out loud, unable to contain himself if something is plaguing his mind. Sometimes, on occasion, he even seeks out any advice you have to offer.

But not this time.

He seems to have retreated into himself a little too much.

Your interactions haven’t changed but something in his regard has.

It’s like he’s removing himself, taking a step back, preparing for something.

It worries you—it worries you because you have seen this once before. The last time it happened, John left you and shattered your world into pieces.

You can’t—

“You shouldn’t go,” he mutters as he watches you put your shoes on. “The Lovers could still be out there. Waiting.”

“Winston is old school,” you inform him with a brief, reassuring smile. “He doesn’t do business over the phone. And I’m not about to go to the Bowery King again. Besides I look worse than I feel, you know that. Enough resting.”

He steps closer, blocking your path and you look up at him.

It’s been comfortable spending the last few days with him. With Ares and Roberto and the other guard. Comfortable to a point it’s easy to forget everything going on outside the penthouse walls.

“How do you know he will even help, hm?” he questions but you can tell it’s only an effort to divert your attention. “He cannot get involved in these affairs, you know this, cara mia.”

You dip your head in a nod and ignore the slight twinge in your still bandaged ear. “Yes, and he also likes making exceptions…sometimes,” you say, giving him a pointed stare.

Santino exhales slowly, and mutters a defeated, “Stubborn.”

A grin blooms across your face but it withers moments later as you stare at him. Perhaps—

“What’s going on, Santi?”

His face is calm, his stare focused on you as always. His eyes never stray too far from you whenever you’re around but it’s only lately that you’ve become so aware of them.

He touches you with his eyes almost as gently as he does with his hands. Like he can feel you with his gaze alone.

“Is something suppose to be ‘going on’?” he wonders, his accent twisting his question into something almost teasing, and if you weren’t so sure that something is, in fact, going on, you might have dropped it.

You stare at him expectantly, and after another moment he sighs, one of his hands slipping into his pockets. “Do not worry, amore. Everything is fine.”

“Promise?”

His eyebrows arch, his expression practically oozing arrogance. “Have I ever lied to you?”

No. He’s always been honest with you. Often painfully, directly so.

Your eyes snag onto his tie and you reach forward, smoothing your fingertips over the silky material. The dark brown tie with blue pattern is familiar to you—as is the golden pin with pale green gem holding it in place.

Both presents from you.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek. “If anything happens—”

His hand settles on top of yours and your eyes jump up to him. There is something heavy about his scrutiny and his hand lifts in the air between you, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheek. “I should be the one saying that, no?” he muses and his eyes roam over your features with that flustering intensity. “Trouble follows you everywhere, bella. But I will keep you safe.”

“That’s rich. You’re just as bad as I am.”

He only offers a slight, crooked grin in reply and you shake your head in mock disbelief, pulling away from him and checking the pistol under your coat.

“I’ll ring you after I’m done talking with Winston,” you inform him and give him one last look over your shoulder as you pull the door open. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, grumpy.”

He lifts his hand in a slight wave but doesn’t answer.

And you wonder the entire elevator journey down why it makes you feel so unease that he didn’t.

The doorbell rings just after 1am.

John straightens, his bones creaking as he raises his head slightly and listens.

He’s not expecting guests, and certainly not at this hour.

His mind jumps to you for a brief second, wondering if perhaps something awful has happened after all. He hasn’t heard from you in days but he’s also been busy himself. Finally, his revenge was completed, and the remains of his old life now buried once again.

He treks up the stairs, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that plagues his every step. A shadow of a figure stands behind the door patiently, knowing to wait instead of just leaving. And not you. He knows the shape of you as well as he knows his own, and whoever has come is unlikely to be here for a pleasant chat at this hour. There is a brief instant in which he contemplates not opening the door at all.

After the events of the last few weeks, he just wants to sit and—

Perhaps just sit and think and be with his thoughts for a bit.

With a subdued exhale, he pulls on the handle, the door swinging open silently.

The sight that greets him on the other side stills something inside him.

A familiar man. A man who helped him get out stands before him.

Five years have changed Santino D’Antonio. There is something about the way the man now holds himself that’s different to whatever recollections John still has of him from years ago.

He knew an arrogant, charismatic man who liked setting things on fire just to see if they would burn to nothing or endure. The Santino he remembers never cared about anyone or anything except for himself. That’s why John has always felt so apprehensive about Santino’s keen interest in you—an interest the man has never tried to hide, not even from him.

“John.”

No smirk; not even a show of superiority with which Santino always handled his affairs so effortlessly. Something more cunning, more honed and focused, stares back at him and John’s instincts go on high alert. He has changed.

That focused calm almost reminds him—

Of you.

The same way your cool mocking with Perkins and the priest inside Viggo’s church had reminded him of the man standing at his doorway now.

“Santino.”

The Italian extends his arm and John clasps his hand in his, shaking it even as his eyes skip over the man to take count of his many guards. A familiar, elegant face catches his attention and John’s eyes pause on the woman he recognises from the cemetery.

She’s a friend.

Yes, apparently Santino’s guards are now your friends, too. The woman’s eyes narrow on him when their stares meet, judging and warning all at once, and John drags his stare back towards the Italian.

“May I come in?”

It’s a polite, pleasant request—just barely.

Something in the man’s expression tells John that even if he were to refuse, he would still hear about the reason for this late-night visit regardless. There is just enough iciness in the man’s stare that guarantees a confrontation John would rather avoid.

“Of course,” he says instead, opening the door wider and inviting the Italian inside. Santino steps forward, turning to nod his head at the woman. His second in command? John doesn’t let his surprise show as the door closes. “Café?”

“Grazie.”

John pauses by the entrance to the kitchen, gesturing towards the lounge. The man nods his head in thanks but his expression remains solemn.

It pulls at something—a worry—deep inside his gut. “Is it V?”

Santino’s eyes snap to him, something sparking there, but he controls his expression. The man John knew was expressive and easily provoked. That, too, seems to have changed to a degree.

But he shouldn’t be surprised. That Santino has changed, or that you have, either. Five years is a long time, and the forming picture of that time he was away…

He doesn’t know the specifics, but all the implications press against his heart like a weight.

A part of him doesn’t want to even consider how bad it might have been for you.

Hunted, hurt. All because of him.

“No, (Name) is fine.”

Your name—your real name; it flows from Santino’s tongue like molten honey. He utters it with ease and familiarity, an intimacy that shows years of use. Once, John was one of the select few to know your real name, and he can’t help but wonder what the Italian had to do to gain that level of trust from you.

Something buried deep, deep down coils tortuously at the thought of it.

He blinks and turns to enter the kitchen, moving towards the coffee machine as if on automatic. Silence reigns from the hallways where he left Santino for a few minutes before his voice floats over.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife, John.”

He can’t help but wonder if the man means that.

The last time they saw each other, on the night of his task, Santino wore an expression of such poorly controlled fury that John expected the Italian to pull a gun on him instead. He never asked what had put him in such a foul mood because his only focus had been on getting out. The Camorra heir never did pull a gun on him, though his parting words have haunted John regardless.

“Have a very happy life, John.”

Back then, Santino had sounded like he was cursing him. Wishing him the exact opposite of a happy life. One of the many reasons why his sudden change of heart from not helping him to helping him has never quite made sense to John.

“Thank you.”

Another pause follows.

“And the dog?” Santino wonders loudly. “Does he have a name?”

John leans his palms against the counter for a moment, exhaling, “No.”

If you are fine, then there is only one other reason as to why Santino might be here. Why he would seek John out now.

He gathers the coffee cup in his hand and walks towards the lounge. Santino is already there, shrugging off his finely made overcoat. As always, the Italian man is immaculate. Every seam and inch of him breathes power and money.

He sets down the espresso in front of the man before sitting down himself.

Santino doesn’t waste time though. He’s barely seated before the man begins speaking, “Listen, John,” he says promptly. “With all sincerity, I don’t want to be here.”

That much is true. It’s perhaps the most honest thing Santino has ever said to him. Irony, perhaps, at its finest.

But it also only confirms what John has been dreading.

“Please, don’t,” he says softly. “I’m asking you not to do this.”

But Santino appears unmoved by his request, by his subtle pleading not to go down this path. His green eyes take John in coolly and he shakes his head slightly, pulling a familiar object from his suit pocket. The familiar round curve of the Marker gleams in the light and it clangs deafeningly onto the table as Santino places it down between them.

“No one gets out and comes back without repercussions, John,” he tells him tersely, and a muscle inside Santino’s jaw ticks with a subtle clench. There is a spark of something like resentment there for a second before the man pulls it back, hides it. “Don’t be so quick to forget that the only reason why you are here, like this, is because of what she did for you. If it weren’t for her, you won’t be sitting here right now. So all of this is in part hers…and mine.”

John stares at him, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

His genuine confusion seems to give the heir a pause too, and Santino releases a shallow breath, a sudden understanding gleaming in his too clever, too conniving eyes.

“So you don’t know,” he concludes and this time his bitterness is palpable. He’s still more controlled than usual and John decides he’s better off waiting for some semblance of explanation. What do you have to do with— “She never told you, did she? To spare you, I presume. Ah, such kindness from someone you disregarded so easily.”

That stings but it’s deserved. He could try and explain to Santino that what he did was the only way to make sure you lived, but judging by the pinched expression on the man’s face, he doubts Santino would care much for his reasonings.

But the fierceness in his eyes…

Since when does Santino D’Antonio care—

“Why do you think I changed my mind about helping you, hm?” Santino speaks up, dashing his thoughts apart and John listens, an awful understanding starting to take place instead of confusion. “It’s because (Name) came to me, heartbroken and haunted, and asked me to help you with your Impossible Task. And I did, for her. You owe her your life. A debt that needs paying, John.”

“That’s not yours to call in,” he whispers tightly.

But Santino’s words are sinking in and—

After the hotel. After saying something as final and as destructive as If you walk out of that door, I never want to see you again to still go asking for help on his behalf—

“No, but this is.”

The Marker slides closer towards him.

He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t want this.

You had given him this life, this time with Helen. You could have told him what you did but you never did. If it hadn’t been for you, Santino never would have helped him. Not after Tokyo.

“Take it back.”

It’s like a switch being flipped, and Santino’s calm expression seems to stutter, straining, before he manages to rope himself back in. But this time his anger is palpable.

“Take it back?” he repeats sharply.

A slight nod. “Take it back.”

He doesn’t want this life that’s bled him dry again. This life that has made him sick with guilt.

“A Marker is no small thing, John,” the Italian intones icily, his eyes blazing as his fingers motion between them. “For a man to grant a Marker to another, is to bind a soul to a blood oath.”

He knows. He knows this but—

“Find someone else.”

Whatever final shred of self-control Santino seems to be clinging to cracks briefly. He reaches forward abruptly, grabbing the Marker and John hears the tell-tale click of the device opening. In an instant, he is faced with a bloody imprint of his thumb inside the metal. His oath.

“Listen to me,” Santino hisses, his previous pleasantries forgotten. He points his finger at the blood and his head tilts with a mocking little smile. “What is this? Hmm? Do you remember? This is your blood. You came to me asking for help and I helped you. She suffered because of your negligence and then you broke our deal by keeping her away from me instead.”

The Italian releases a laboured breath and gathers his fleeing composure swiftly. Swallowing, he tries again, calmer this time, “Honour the Marker, John, and I’ll have the power to always keep her safe. You can go back to your...make-believe, and never hear from either of us ever again. If you don’t do this, you know the consequences.”

John exhales, his head dipping downwards.

He can still see your expression at the Continental when your phone rang. How your severe, taut features had softened at the name on the screen, and lightness in your voice when you had picked up, “Hey, grumpy.”

How much has changed between you and Santino?

Are you—

His head turns and his stare snags onto a photo of him and Helen.

Helen.

God, he loves her. Misses her daily. His time with her was the happiest he’s ever been.

You get involved in this world again, and there won’t be a ticket back this time.

You bought him this time and he regrets so many things. Regrets not doing a better job of warning you, preparing you, protecting you, trying to fix things between you sooner.

And even after everything—even now, you still understand him better than anyone. Understand how he doesn’t want this, can’t handle the thought of being back much less actually going back.

He could. But there would be no way back. No second ticket just like you said and whatever he is—whatever little good there might still reside inside him—would be wrecked and destroyed beyond repair if he did.

Helen wants him to find happiness again.

So even if it’s you.

Maybe because it is you, he turns back towards Santino and tells him, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

The Italian’s expression falters, growing slack. He regards John critically for a long moment and snaps the Marker shut, pointing at him. “You are always that guy, John,” he retorts calmly, his voice soft with accusation. “You have no idea how much suffering you have caused her. This is the least you can do.”

He places the Marker between them again; a final chance, and waits.

John stares at it.

I’m respecting your decision to stay retired.

“I can’t help you,” he whispers heavily, and slides the Marker back across towards the Camorra heir. “I’m sorry. She understands.”

He knows you do. That you will. He hopes you will. He doesn’t want to lose you again.

It’s in a slow look upwards from the Marker to his face, that John sees a glimpse of the old Santino again. That cold-blooded rage that’s practically spilling out from him as he lightly licks his lips, trying to keep himself in check. But no matter how much he tries to contain it, Santino’s anger is so tangible John can almost feel its destructive burn.

He rises to his feet, and Santino does too. The Marker is already in the Italian’s hand and he pockets it carefully. He then slips his tightly clenched fists into his pockets, too, and cocks his head in a proud, scornful manner. If there’s one thing John can say about Santino, is that the man has never flinched away from his stare. Never looked away or lowered his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s arrogance or genuine lack of fear but he’s always admired that in Santino.

The Italian’s next words might as well be a knife straight to the chest though.

“You don’t deserve her,” he states calmly, coldly, looking him up and down as if disgusted. “You never did.”

Then he turns and walks away without a backwards glance.

For a moment, John is rooted in his spot, unable to form a coherent thought in his suddenly too empty head.

He follows after the heir moments later, dragging his feet after him.

Santino pauses in the doorway of his home, fixing his sleeves as he gives John a dispassionate little smile.

“You have a beautiful home, John,” he remarks thoughtfully, glancing around briefly with a slight grin. It dies seconds later and Santino turns away, dropping his overcoat around his shoulders with a sweep of his arms. “Buona notte,” he calls out loudly as he walks away.

John closes the door with a soft click and moves across the hallway a few deliberate steps at the time. His eyes trace over his home slowly, savouring the sight and the feel of it. He lifts a photo of him and Helen to his face, staring at those adoring, happy faces.

He can’t recall the feeling of that happiness anymore. Everything in his life has turned to ash.

A distant crash tears through the house and he raises his head.

The world around him promptly explodes into flames.

“Charon.”

The man greets you with a faint glimmer of levity in his eyes. His glasses reflect the light emitting from the computer in front of him, and he inclines his head in your direction.

“Miss Vipress. It is a pleasure to have you back with us again,” he says and your own smile stretches. “How may I help? A doctor, perhaps?”

Biting back a sarcastic retort, you quirk your eyebrow at his deliberate baiting and lean your elbows on the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” you reassure, tapping your fingers in a restless little rhythm. “Winston?”

Charon’s lips flatten in a professional line, and you already know what will come out of his mouth before he speaks. You have seen him adapt this cast many times before.

“Sir is currently away on business but he will be back by the morning,” he divulges and clicks the computer keys a few times without even glancing down. “Should I schedule a time for you?”

You both know it’s a formality and nothing more than that. For the sake of equality and appearance, you still “schedule” appointments if there are people around. Usually, you go to Winston whenever you please and the man has no choice but to put up with you. Obviously, he loves it when you do that.

But right now, Winston may be the only one able to get you information on where the Lovers have disappeared to. The rules state he can’t get involved in such matters as a manager but Winston is Winston. He lives by his own code, too. One you can’t help but respect and imitate yourself.

You hope he’ll help you because the alternatives make you battle down a weary groan.

“Please,” you voice politely, stilling your fingers when Charon’s attention drifts towards them. “As early as you can.”

He inclines his head in a courteous manner, ever the professional. “Of course. I’ll be sure to let Sir know you are looking for him as soon as he arrives.”

Bobbing your head, you let your hand settle on your phone and glance towards the lounge.

“Thanks. I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Anything good on?”

A thin smile appears on the man’s face, and his rare show of amusement surprises you.

“I do believe your favourite dessert is being served today, Miss.”

You snort, pushing yourself away from the counter with a brief look over your shoulder to make sure you’re not falling into anyone.

“Lucky.”

Giving him another smile, you move towards the lounge, definitely ready for some food.

During the brief walk, you also take a moment to text Santino.

Winston is out. Will be back by the morning. I’ll stay at the Continental for the night. Breakfast tomorrow?

You send the text and sit down at an empty table further away, grabbing the menu as you get comfortable. This thing is so long and changes so often that reading it feels like reading a fresh newspaper every time you come here.

You’re barely done with the starters when distinct footsteps approach your table.

“Sorry I’m not ready to order yet,” you call out without looking up. “Can you give me another five?”

No answer.

And then—

A scent tickles your nose. You know that scent. The strong, heady cologne.

Your head jerks up, your muscles locking at the sight of a large, looming figure standing before you.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time you’ve seen him.

Everything from the strong, sharp cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and the icy, bored gleam in his bright blue eyes. His large, muscular build is as menacing as it’s always been, as is the pitch-black suit he wears that only accents it. But the most telling is the heavy tattoos marking almost every inch of his skin apart from his face. The ink is masterfully etched along his fingers and peeks from under his shirt as it trails all the way up to his neck.

He’s the type of man you would cross the street just to avoid.

“Lady Camorra,” he greets gruffly with a derivative curve of his mouth.

It splits his face apart into something as handsome as it is terrible. His beauty isn’t really beautiful. His beauty is the type you can cut yourself onto but still be fascinated by it.

Cool metal settles inside your palm, your body rigid.

He scoffs at your reaction and wanders towards the empty seat, gracelessly dragging the chair back as he seats himself down without permission. “Relax,” he mutters, irritated, and then adds a mocking, “And don’t forget about the rules.”

He looks huge seated against such a small, intimate backdrop. Danger crowds you, your instincts recognising the predator before you, and you slant your body at an angle, your fingers smoothing over a vial of poison in the seam of your coat.

No paralysers. Not with the Lovers still around.

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl lowly and he tracks your subtle movements with dull disinterest.

“Oh dear,” he drones with a slight sneer. “Did I accidentally reveal one of Santi’s wet dreams? My bad.”

“What are you doing here Hector?”

The man before you smirks, his expression morphing into something frightening, and the Camorra’s Devil bares his teeth at you in what passed for a polite greeting for him.

“Sightseeing.”

Your expression tightens, and you don’t bother masking your heated glare. “Feed that cork of shit to someone who actually believes it.”

As if Hector, one of Camorra’s elite guards, would come to New York for sightseeing. Hector who is known for his ruthlessness, for his unbreakable loyalty to Camorra. He was handpicked by Giovanni himself, recruited when he was only eight, and made into an elite guard at age eighteen. Only four such positions exist, and these individuals protect and answer only to the head of Camorra and no one else. He was the youngest and first non-native Italian to ever inherit the position. Many say Giovanni favoured Hector even above his own heirs for his brutality alone.

From what you’ve seen of how Giovanni D’Antonio treated his children, you would be inclined to agree.

Hector reaches into his jacket, and his smirk stretches at the way you gradually lower the menu onto the table, your blade glinting between you.

But the man only pulls out an envelope from his pocket, placing it between you. The cut is familiar as is the faint perfume exuding from it.

“Judging by your frowny little face, you already know what this is,” he notes and taps his knuckles against the invite once before his tattooed fingers lift. The rings donning them click softly and you follow the motion. You once saw those hands break bones like popsicle sticks. Effortless, quick, and brutal. “Good. That means I won’t have to waste my breath explaining it to you.”

Your eyes meet his warily. You don’t trust him or this entire encounter. “Why is she inviting me?”

To invite Santino to the inheritance ceremony is one thing, but you—

Hector sighs loudly, leaning back in his chair as if this conversation is already boring him. He grabs a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one with expert ease. As one would expect from two pack a day man.

Sometimes it still surprises you his lungs haven’t given out yet.

“Why won’t she?” he ponders with a tone that implies he doesn’t care to hear your thoughts on the matter. The vicious set of his features disappears in a puff of smoke but you don’t blink. Hector is not the type of man you take your eyes away from if you want to live. “She’s about to inherit Camorra and you’re the Vipress. You’ve worked for Camorra plenty of times before. Maybe she’s simply trying to build bridges.”

This time, you scoff. “Funny. Considering she’s the one who burned them.”

How funny that Gianna would come seeking to make amends now. After all this time, you don’t even think you’re upset or angry at her anymore but the timing of this leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“Bore someone else with your little dramas,” Hector deadpans and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “If she was stupid enough to make an enemy out of you, I don’t particularly care.”

Your eyebrows lift, and you regard him coolly.

Giovanni’s prized little monster. Best of the best.

But Giovanni is dead now. And Camorra is in suspension.

It’s then, more than ever, that you see the reason for Hector’s dismissiveness.

He doesn’t want to be here. But he is, and Camorra doesn’t just send its best killer for delivery service. No matter how much of a personal touch Gianna may believe you will require.

“Don’t tell Hector.”

Step had known. His hesitance during your call days ago suddenly makes sense.

“Careful,” you purr slowly and tilt your chin. “That’s your new boss you’re talking about. Show a little respect. I thought you liked Gianna.”

He snorts, and slants his head back, staring at the ceiling above. Completely unconcerned with the fact that he’s baring his throat to you. He’s one of the very few you won’t immediately call an idiot for doing so.

“Like her? This has nothing to do with liking her or Santino better. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about either of them. Same bullshit over and over again with those two. ‘Papi loves me best’, Papi didn’t give a shit about either of them,” he mutters tensely, and his attention swings back to you, his pale eyes cutting. He leans on his elbows, the cigarette between his fingers still smouldering. “Giovanni loved Camorra and that’s who I now serve. The family, not the individual. Besides, you of all people should know respect is earned, not demanded.”

You toy with the blade on the table, your fingertips grazing against the honed edges.

The door is wide open for a metaphorical knife so you sink it deep.

“Yes, it must be very hard no longer being Giovanni’s favourite little pet,” you drawl knowingly and watch the way his eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. “Why are you here, Hector? Why didn’t Gianna send someone else? Why not Cassian?”

“Cassian,” Hector begins pointedly. “Is probably too busy fucking her to have time and play the delivery boy. Maybe she simply knows I’m your favourite,” he adds knowingly.

The fucking nerve of this prick.

The blade slips in between your index and middle fingers, and you spin it on the table smoothly; once, twice, thrice.

Hector watches the little show, a shade amused.

“When Giovanni threw me out of their estate, I recall your hands on me,” you remind him, and there is a frigid bite to your soft words. “If Gianna wants to make enemies, then she did well in sending you to me.”

His head tilts and he puts out his almost gone cigarette against the silver spoon next to him before glancing back towards you.

“Giovanni was my boss,” he states flatly. “If he had asked, I would have put a bullet in your head, too.”

It’s that simple for him. He, unlike you, or John, or even Santino doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate.

That’s always been Giovanni’s genius. His ability to assure such absolute loyalty through any means necessary the individuals in question don’t even hesitate in carrying out his orders. Most in Camorra are recruited young so by the time they grow up, they have nothing else outside of it. Camorra is the only path for them; a maze without end. All the way until their deaths, and then they’re replaced in a matter of hours.

You have never met anyone who embodies Camorra more than the man before you.

“Assuming you could.”

A glimmer of a chilling smile graces his face. “Sweetheart, I’m not like the other three,” he points out lightly. “I would snap your pretty, little neck faster than you can blink.”

“You would be dead before you reached me.”

Hector makes a small, amused sound at the back of his throat, and shakes his head a little, a flash of white teeth filling your sight. “I’ll admit, things have been pretty boring without you around to cause havoc. You know how they get. So stiff.”

You hum, contemplative. “Is that why they sent you?”

Hector doesn’t like to waste his time on pointless chitchat, but he hates stupidity even more.

He nods his head, pleased you’ve caught on, and plays with the lighter between his fingers. It’s a motion just slightly too agitated to come off as completely casual though.

“Yes, well, it’s not every day darling Santi goes around throwing the word of old Camorra around, now is it?” he speaks and his tone is monotonous. “Do you think the old fuckers took it well? When they learned he tied the entire family to your whims? And now that you’re free of your chain it gives you a little too much power for their liking. What happened with the Lovers? Well that’s a pretty good reason to call in the said oath, now isn’t it?”

Your throat is dry and your own fingers are still around the blade. It had slipped your mind. The fact that for Santino’s oath to be binding, he would have had to inform the family head in order for it to be officially acknowledged. Since Gianna has not officially taken over yet, the news would have reached the collective council of Camorra first.

You can’t even begin to imagine the reaction that room had to learning about what Santino did.

Which makes you wonder only one thing.

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

This time, Hector does laugh. It’s a wrapped, ugly sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. Like the act itself is unfamiliar to him.

“If I were you would be dead already,” he states mildly and seems entertained by the slight, annoyed pinch of your expression at his statement. “But no, not yet. Hence the invite.”

“So Gianna wants to buy me instead,” is your bitter, tepid assessment.

The harsh planes of Hector’s features crease with exasperation.

“I don’t particularly care what she wants,” he shoots back briskly. “I’m only here to make sure that Santino doesn’t fuck up again because he’s so desperate to stick his cock inside you.”

He ignores your seething glower and rises to his feet, throwing the lighter in the air before catching it easily in his palm and pocketing it. He fixes his suit as he stares down at you, judging every scrape and bruise marring your face. The expensive, dark material stretches over his powerful, tall frame and you watch him carefully.

“Relax already, but do grow eyes at the back of your head,” he advises, almost pleasantly, and looks you up and down, unbothered by your glare. “I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

And then he leaves you sitting at your table alone, your appetite long since gone.

You take the painkillers dry, not wasting time with water as you emerge onto the terrace, letting the warm sun wash over you.

Today is pleasant. These last few days have brought a spell of bright, warm weather and you can’t help but incline your head towards the light.

It reminds you of your dream when you just woke up after the attack but you shake it off, trying not to think about it.

You’re here only for the man you can already see seated at the table and drinking tea.

Winston’s head lifts at the sound of your approach, and his sharp gaze does one quick sweep over you before he takes another sip of his tea.

“Good God,” he mutters dryly before you can speak. “Did they drag you through those tunnels by the hair?”

Rolling your eyes, you huff a small breath, falling unceremoniously onto the empty chair before him.

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” you retort dully and pinch your voice lower. “I’ve missed you, V. So good to see you’re alive and well, my dear.”

Winston pauses, giving you a flat stare but his eyebrows furrow slightly as he examines you closely, seemingly confused. Maybe even a touch surprised.

“Hmm, you are in a chipper mood this morning,” he notes, sounding just a bit nonplussed, and takes another sip before writing something down in his notebook. “Handling this better than I expected.”

That gives you a pause.

“Handling what better?”

This time it’s Winston who pauses, his pen scratching to a halt as he looks up at you.

“You didn’t see Johnathan on your way up here?” he questions, his voice deceptively calm.

Something sinks in the pit of your stomach; an awful, curdling feeling of unease.

“John?” you murmur, confused. “Why would I see John here?”

John should be back home. Back with his dog. Enjoying his retirement. He should not be here, at the beating heart of your shadow world.

Winston’s expression eases into a cool mask you have seen hundreds of times before, and his next words make your heartbeat spike just slightly, “You don’t know.”

You force breath into your lungs. Slow and steady.

“Winston,” you begin softly. “Know what?”

The man sighs deeply, the look in his eyes probably the weariest you have ever seen, and he moves the teapot in your direction.

“Join me for tea, dear,” he says and gives you a look that makes you sit up. “I’m afraid this will be rather unpleasant.”

You have no idea what expression you have on your face but whatever it is, it makes Roberto cringe. His anxious stare as you approach is telling enough.

“V, wait!”

“Don’t.”

It’s a rasp of fury that manages to freeze the guard in front of you and makes his partially extended hand fall back to his side. His expression is torn, almost pained as he peers at you.

“He did it for you.”

He might as well have dropped a burning match into your stomach that’s full of gasoline ready to scorch its way through everything it comes into contact with.

“For me? For me?”

Ares steps from behind Roberto, her expression guarded and your glare narrows on her.

She knew. What happened last night must have been the reason for the tension between her and Santino over these last few days. The blood roaring inside your ears drowns out the sounds of lively chatter around you. The gallery is full, but you will see him. Regardless of the audience.

Roberto moves to the side, the look on his face full of understanding if not trepidation, and your eyes slide back to Ares. She’s blocking your way, but even she cannot hide Santino from you. Though you can tell by her expression it’s not because he ordered her to do so, and more so because neither she nor Roberto wishes to witness this confrontation.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit about what either of them wants right now.

He did it to keep you safe.

You ignore her words, instead biting out a grim, “Get out of my way. Now.”

Her blue eyes watch you for a tense moment, but she moves eventually. Only one small step to the side.

You brush past them both without a word.

The muffled noise your shoes create as you walk down the hallway echoes around you, and you emerge into a small section that houses a well-known collection to you.

He sits in front of an enormous painting of a battlefield, silent and alone. But doesn’t speak a word as you approach even though you’re the only ones here.

He knows you well. So he knew you would come.

This morning you woke up to a simple: Something has come up. Dinner instead?—Santi without any additional information.

Now, you know the something in question was going to John’s home to demand payment for a Marker you had no idea even existed until this morning. John never told you, and neither did Santino.

Winston thought you knew about the deal made to get you out of Tokyo, but he was wrong.

For his help in getting you out, Santino had asked for a blood oath in exchange. An oath he almost tied you to as well, even if he ended up changing his mind last second.

Bitterness in your chest swells till it’s almost suffocating you as you come to a halt before him.

His expression is serene, a melancholic smile lingering across the seams of his mouth while he sits with his hands clasped in his lap.

You’re so angry, you can’t even form a coherent thought, much less words. But he speaks first, still not looking at you.

“When I was little, my home used to be a kaleidoscope of colour,” he begins, and his voice is soft, almost dreamy. “Paintings everywhere you looked. My mother—she adored art. She even had a painting studio in the west wing. Did I ever tell you that?”

You don’t answer and he still doesn’t look at you.

“To be fair,” he continues after a beat of suffocating silence. “She was not particularly good at it but she loved it so that my father used to buy all these expensive paintings for her to hang around the house. One day, I worked up the courage to ask him why he would pay so much money for something he did not care for. To him, it was nothing more than a bit of paint on canvas. He had no interest in art nor its beauty. So I asked him, and he thought about it for a long time. So long that I feared my question might have angered him, but no. Mhm. He leaned back in his chair, blew out a puff of smoke, and said to me: ‘They make your mother smile.’ As simple as that. You see it was then I realised it had nothing to do with how much money they cost, or even the prestige of owning them. He bought them simply because they made my mother happy. Her happiness was worth any price to him.”

He pauses, swallowing thickly, and his lips tremble for a second before he presses them into a tight line. “Of course after she died, his indifference grew into hatred. He demanded that every painting was to be removed from his sight and from the house. The once vibrant walls of my home became cold and barren. And now, hm, now I look at these paintings from my childhood but they are only distant echoes of a past long since dead. Now, I see what my father saw. Some paint on canvas and nothing more.”

There is something lonely about his expression. About the way he stares at the grand painting before him like he’s half a foot in his past and half in the present.

“What did you do?”

It comes out softer than you’ve intended, but your anger hasn’t cooled—not even at hearing his little story.

Finally, Santino looks towards you. His eyes take you in and his slight smile sharpens.

“Judging by your expression, amore, you already know,” he states and blinks a few times before looking away. The smile on his face is growing colder and colder by the second, and you hate it. “Let me guess. Was it Winston?”

But you’re too angry right now and cut straight to the heart of it. “You blew up his house.”

John’s home; a home that’s a lot more than just a home to him. That house has been a part of Helen too. One of the very few reminders of her, and it was a place of comfort for John—a place where he could be soothed by the happy memories they’ve shared. And now—

Now it’s ash.

“And he refused a Marker,” Santino announces, his tone growing colder, more unforgiving. “We both know I could have demanded his head for that alone.”

You suck in a deep breath, taking a step towards him. “You had no right to that Marker in the first place!”

Your words are like a whip, brimming with fury, and Santino’s self-control crumbles. He rises to his feet abruptly and steps towards you too, his eyes a green flame.

“No right? I had every right,” he hisses and points his index finger between you. “We are not children, cara mia. We do not hand out charity, especially not me.”

Your slight chuckle is icy, as is your sarcastic smile. “No, you don’t,” you agree softly and your heart clenches in your chest. Why would he do this? Why else if not— “You just couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by, could you?”

Ever the businessman. Ever the need for more control.

Santino leans back with an understanding exhale of breath as he regards you.

“You think this is about power.”

“Isn’t everything with you?”

He saw an opportunity to get a Marker from the most feared man in the world, and he took it. You’re not foolish enough to believe it’s because whatever Santino felt for you back then was so pure and special.

But those words hit something deep, you can tell.

You don’t think you have ever seen him so furious in all the years you have known him. Except, maybe, once before. Back in Chicago. When that man—

“Let me tell you something about your precious Johnathan,” Santino bites out, his voice forcefully calm, but only just barely. “Let me shed some light onto his heroic actions in regards to Tokyo because clearly you either don’t know or could use a reminder. How many days were you stuck in that pit, amore? Hm?”

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending.

“Ten days,” he forces out after a brief pause, and his words quicken with his fraying temper. This is not new. This is years of bottled-up frustration, spilling out at the most inopportune time. This is a result of you refusing to discuss John or anything relating to him for years. “Next question, when did John come to me, do you think? Did he ever tell you, hm? Did he?”

“No,” you choke out.

“No,” he repeats, but doesn’t look surprised by it. “How delightful of him. Day eight, cara mia. Over a week. But wait, it gets better. It was Winston who contacted him about you being missing. So he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to check on you himself.”

Those words burn and sting and tear at the leftover shards of the girl you once were. So long ago now. Because no matter what, that’s exactly what you always feared, isn’t it? That either John didn’t notice or didn’t care enough. But you were the one who cut contact with him before Tokyo, so can you really blame him for not noticing your absence sooner? Can Santino?

For a very long time, you did.

But you’re tired of feeling the suffocating shroud of hatred and bitterness all the time. You’ve moved past it.

“Next question—and you are going to love this part, amore—how long do you think it took for my people to track down who took you? Hm?” he proceeds without waiting, and in every word he speaks, you hear the days, weeks, months, years all of this has plagued him. A storm he’s been holding back because it hurt you too much to talk about it. But everyone has a breaking point and it seems like Santino has reached his. “Six hours. Only six. You were there for over a week suffering and alone while dear John was busy charming, dining, and fucking some woman while I found you in six hours.”

Your heart, oh your heart, it hurts. It hurts so much it’s an effort to keep yourself still, composed.

Six hours.

Did it really only take Santino six hours to track your location?

All those days of pain and torture and—

You feel sick. Deep in your stomach, deep in your soul.

“So forgive me, amore, but demanding a Marker had little to do with having power over him,” Santino tells you, a bit calmer now, even if his breaths are still uneven. “It was a punishment. I am punishing him and I will continue doing so because it will never be enough. Because he failed you, broke our agreement, and then almost broke you, too. Because I, unlike you, am not so forgiving when it comes to his sins, cara mia.”

You stare at his tie, confused and speechless.

Another present from you. A little piece of you given to him because—

Because he’s important to you.

“He didn’t know,” you whisper weakly, trying to digest everything you’ve just learned.

“Oh, but if he loved you as much as he claimed,” Santino tells you quietly, and you see his expression soften a touch at your helplessness, his previous rage retreating somewhat. “Then perhaps he should have.”

You’re not sure what you can say in defence to that. If anything.

Your eyes find his and you search his expression for—

You’re not sure what, exactly.

“What did you ask?” you ask him instead. “To kill the Lovers?”

Why else would he want to drag John Wick into this? A quick, clean sweep to get rid of your enemies. A way for both of you to stay out of a volatile situation and safe while John hunts them down.

Santino stills and something in your stomach sinks at the look in his eyes. It’s that retreat again. Like he’s mentally preparing himself for whatever is going to happen next.

“Ah, not quite,” he says cautiously, and you can see him measuring his words—a rarity. “That is only a temporary solution. There will always be the next enemy and the one after that, yes? The only way to keep us both safe permanently...is if I become the head of Camorra.”

A breath shudders out of you, and with it the numbing understanding, a realisation of what he’s saying. There are only two ways he could become the head of Camorra.

If Gianna passes him the title willingly in an official ceremony.

Or—

“No,” you breathe, pained, and see his expression crumple at your reaction. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Santino.”

He reaches for you, desperate, “It is the only way—”

You jerk away from his touch.

“She’s your sister!”

Santino chuckles, his expression stony and his wild stare cuts away from you, frustrated.

“My sister—” he begins and cuts himself off abruptly, exhaling once before he looks back at you. He takes a step closer, only a step separating you now. “Let’s not stand here and pretend that if the situation was reversed she wouldn’t do the exact same to me, amore. Tell me, if she set her loyal dog onto me, would you still be so defensive of them then? Still call them your friends? Or would you let them kill me? Eh?”

The anger blazing inside your chest grows cold and hard in a blink. Stinging hurt follows swiftly after.

“How dare you?” you whisper softly and his lips part, a glint of regret appearing before he masks it quickly. “How dare you stand there and ask me that? After everything,” you practically gag on the last word.

After all these years. After everything you’ve been through together.

Santino’s hands slip inside his pockets, a shield against you when you can see how your reactions are affecting him, weakening him.

“Perhaps it’s because unlike saint Johnathan, I don’t get all my sins blindly forgiven,” he states evenly, an old resentment coating his words. “Tell me, (Name), do I even exist in your eyes? Or am I simply a replacement?”

His words are delicate, almost like a part of him knows the answer but is preparing to hear you confirm it.

And you feel so angry—so angry he would just assume he knows how you feel better than you do.

“Stop. Stop dragging John into this when what this is really about is you,” you whisper harshly, your voice hoarse as you stare up at him. “This is all it’s ever been about. You and your thirst for power. You were always going to do this, weren’t you? You always wanted the seat above all else, except now you can stand there and feel justified in your decision.”

He smiles at you; an empty, distant thing.

“What is it that you want from me, (Name)?” he wonders curiously. “Do you want me to play at being a good man? Well, I am not a good man. I always thought you knew that.”

Shaking your head, you hate the helplessness you feel rolling in your chest, the despair of knowing how terribly everything is about to crumble apart.

“I never cared about you being good,” you confess gently, weakly, and his jaw clenches so tightly you can see the rigidness of it. “But how many will die in order for you to take that seat?”

Too many. All because of Chicago and what you both did. Or perhaps it would always end up the same. With both of you here, aching with things unsaid.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

Santino hums, mock thoughtful. But his expression is still vacant. “Do you want me to confess the depth of my indifference then? Is that it?” he murmurs calmly and frees his hand, placing his fingers against your cheek, his touch as tender as always. He leans closer until you can almost feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Very well, cara mia. I would let everyone at Camorra, this city, and even my own sister die if it means keeping you safe.”

Your eyes burn as you stare at each other.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it, you will never be loved like that again.”

“Is that what you think I want, Santino?” you wonder faintly, leaning your cheek into his palm for a fleeting moment. “For you to tell me you would let people die for me?”

His grin grows more crooked and his eyes devour you like he’s imprinting the sight of you to memory.

“No, amore. I want you to understand that I don’t need them but I do need you.”

If this happens—if John does this, it will unleash a storm you will never be able to force back into the genie bottle. It will destroy everything you have ever cared about or change it irrecoverably.

“Take it back,” you plead, your voice thick. “The Marker. Take it back.”

The light in those familiar, green eyes gutters out. “Take it back?” he echoes distantly, and his hand drops away from your face. “If it were for you, (Name), I would not even hesitate.”

His hand lowers, his fingers tracing over the chain around your neck. Your expression contorts, your eyes fluttering shut briefly. “But I know you’re only doing this in an attempt to spare him. So no. For the first time, I’m afraid I must refuse you.”

The weight of his words settles inside your heart, squeezing it painfully. You feel hollow and empty all at once.

“Then we’re done here.”

You turn away from him, staggering away. But his hand latches onto your wrist, pulling you back.

His stare is frantic, desolate.

“Amore—”

You yank your hand out of his hold violently, breathing heavily as you meet his stare, “Don’t call me that! I’m not your ‘love’,” you choke out, your voice cracking as you add a trembling, “I’m not your anything.”

He reels back as if struck, his lips parting and his eyes—

I will never abandon you.

Spinning around, you stride away and don’t look back once.

There is nothing left to say.

. . .

an: ah, things we do for love, eh? :)

jkhfsdjkhf i aM SO READY TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS AND THEORIES ABOUT WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT *AHEM* we also got both Santi and John POVs this chapter and hoo boi they were rushed and bad but any feedback (and whether you would like to see more of them) are welcome!!! also, if this chapter reads a bit at a rapid-fire pace, that’s intentional. domino effect, and we’re in the thick of it now heh. also,,,, hector? he’s going to be pretty important so keep him in mind. reddit crew sorry for the delay but here he is as promised lol. as always, I can’t thank you all enough for supporting this dumb series. it, and you guys, bring me so much happiness it’s crazy <33

see you next time!!

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #john wick imagine #riccardo scamarcio #keanu reeves #fic: children of ares

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