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kpopfanfictrash · 4 years ago

Text

fu-

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jungkook

Word Count: 1,983

Rating: 18+ (sexual imagery)

Summary: An accompanying drabble to Five Dates. This drabble takes place after the events of Five Dates and is Jungkook + accidentally teaching Namjoon’s child a swear word.

[ PART OF MY JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY DRABBLE GAME ]

Staring at the phone held in his palm, Jungkook contemplated one of the most difficult quandaries of his existence, including that time you asked if he liked your new haircut.

The answer was yes, by the way. The answer was always yes, unless you hinted at no and even then, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Jungkook’s current quandary involved you but was far more serious than any haircut-related inquiry. All you’d sent Jungkook was a singular text. Five words, eighteen letters in total.

Y/N: the line is super dark [8:34 PM]

Re-reading the text, Jungkook felt utter despair. To anyone else, it might seem nonsensical, but you’d been trying to conceive for nearly three months and a dark line meant you were ovulating. This would be their third attempt at getting you pregnant; a feat certainly not helped by your irregular cycle. Ovulation tests at least gave a window of when you were fertile.

You’d tested yourself this morning and the line had been fairly light but that had apparently changed over the course of the day. Jungkook chewed on his lower lip, staring at his phone and unsure what to do. Based on what you’d written in your baby planner, he needed to drive home right now and fuck you.

Except, of course, he was currently baby-sitting for Namjoon.

Dejectedly, Jungkook plopped down on the couch. Namjoon’s daughter was around eighteen months now and had been asleep for nearly thirty minutes, but Namjoon and his wife wouldn’t be home for hours.

Shoving a hand through his hair, Jungkook let the strands fall where they may to glumly text you back.

Jungkook: I’m babysitting for Namjoon tonight, remember? ☹️ [8:36 PM]

Y/N: shit [8:36 PM]

Y/N: what time will you be home? I need to get up early tomorrow for that book drive ☹️☹️ [8:37 PM]

Jungkook: Namjoon said around 11 :/ his mom gave them tickets to an opera or something and they promised to make an appearance [8:37 PM]

Y/N: 11?? That’s soooo late [8:38 PM]

Y/N: you could’ve cum inside me twice by then [8:38 PM]

Jungkook: fuck, Y/N…. [8:39 PM]

His heart raced, leaning back on the sofa. Nothing in the world made him so hard so fast as the image of your cunt, stuffed to the brim until his cum dripped down the sides. Jungkook had been treated to the image often over the past few months and didn’t think he’d ever get sick of it.

The whole ‘baby planner’ thing had thrown a kink in romance, but Jungkook tried hard to ensure you lived in the moment. You were a planner at heart and tended to get caught up in how long it was taking, why you hadn’t conceived yet – Jungkook assured you these things took time. You may as well enjoy all the sex before you had an actual child to take care of.

A slightly dreamy smile crossed Jungkook’s face at the thought. He couldn’t wait to be a dad. It was part of the reason he baby-sat for Namjoon as often as he did. Namjoon was the first of their friend group to have a kid and, as exhausted as he seemed, Jungkook had never seen his friend so happy.

It was clear from the way he looked at his daughter and wife that Namjoon was entirely smitten. Jungkook wanted that with you – he wanted a family, another player on their team.

Forcing himself to stand from the couch, Jungkook began to tidy Namjoon’s place. The more distracted he was, the less he’d think about you spread out on the bed, cum dripping from the sides of your used pussy.

Jungkook paused in his cleanup, emerald throw-pillow in hand to squeeze shut his eyes. Fuck. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes as his phone dinged again.

Y/N: couldn’t someone else come and finish babysitting? :) [8:41 PM]

Y/N: jimin, maybe? [8:41 PM]

Y/N: or Seokjin? [8:41 PM]

Jungkook hesitated, but already knew the answers to your questions. Jimin was out of town and Seokjin had posted a story on Instagram about date night. Picking up a blanket and stacking toy, Jungkook exited the room to enter Namjoon’s apartment.

Apartment was a loose term; Namjoon and his wife had the entire floor of the building. Jungkook paused outside the nursery, listening to hear if anything was amiss. The door was open partway, allowing for light to spill in from the hall. Jungkook poked his head in to see their daughter snuggled under her blankets.

Smiling softly, Jungkook stepped in and placed the blanket on top of the rocker. He set the stacking toy in the toy chest and saw you’d texted again. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Jungkook shielded the screen with one hand to open the message.

His heart lodged in his throat when he saw you’d sent a photo of you sprawled on the bed, black lingerie on. A low, frustrated whine left his throat.

“Fuck,” Jungkook said sadly.

“Fuck?” garbled a tiny voice in the darkness.

Jungkook froze.

Eyes wide, he turned to see Namjoon’s daughter standing, tiny hands clutching the bars of her crib. She had just been asleep – when had she managed to do that?! As Jungkook began to panic and hope she hadn’t really heard, she let out a bright laugh and bounced.

“Fuck,” she said, clear as day. “Fuck!”

Jungkook slowly closed his eyes. He was toast. Namjoon’s daughter could barely articulate what she wanted for dinner, but now had the capacity to absorb swear words with ease.

“No,” he groaned, opening his eyes. Rushing forward, he dropped to his knees at her crib. “No, baby, no. We don’t like that word, right? It’s a bad word. You’re not bad! You’re good! You’re a super-sweet angel, who –”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook slowly hung his head. “We’re doomed,” he muttered.

Down the hall to the front of the apartment, Jungkook heard the elevator ding. Double shit – like he’d told you, Namjoon and his wife weren’t supposed to be home for hours.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon’s voice called from far away. “Where are you?”

Starting to panic, Jungkook lifted his head. “Okay,” he whispered, giving the toddler a pleading stare. “This is just between you and me, right? Right?”

All he got in return was a round-eyed look and happy coo, so Jungkook had to hope that meant yes in baby-speak. Jungkook heard footsteps in the hall.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon poked his head into the nursery, squinting at the darkness to find Jungkook on the floor. “What’re you doing?”

Jungkook hastily pushed himself to his feet. “Nothing!” He beamed widely at Namjoon. “I just thought I heard her moving, so I came in to check and –”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook stopped in his tracks at the word happily chirped behind him. Namjoon’s eyes widened in horror, his gaze darting to his daughter who stood in her crib. Jungkook, also wide-eyed, stayed where he was.

Slowly, Namjoon returned to Jungkook. “Was that…” He sounded strangled. “What did my daughter just say?”

“Uh…” Jungkook gave him a weak smile. “Funk?”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry,” he groaned.

“Did you…” Namjoon inhaled. “My daughter can barely speak in full sentences and now one of those sentences is going to include that?”

Before Jungkook could respond, Namjoon’s wife appeared behind him in the hall. She wore a flowy, floor-length dress and crystalline earrings. When she saw Jungkook, she waved.

“Hi, JK!” Her smile widened. “Thanks so much for baby-sitting. Sorry we’re home early – the opera was such a bore. I convinced Namjoon to leave as soon as his mom saw us. I missed my angel,” she sighed, entering the room to cross to the crib.

Jungkook reached out to stop her, but before he could –

“Fuck!”

Namjoon’s wife halted, blinking in surprise at the crib. Then, against all reason, she started to laugh. Both shoulders shook, her right hand coming up to cover her mouth and hold in her mirth.

Both Jungkook and Namjoon stared.

“Oh my gosh,” his wife laughed, bending over the crib. “Is that what you learned tonight, hm, pretty girl?”

Jungkook watched in total astonishment as Namjoon’s wife tucked her daughter in, smoothing her hair to brush a kiss to her forehead. When she straightened and turned, she seemed mostly amused.

Finding Jungkook, she arched a brow. “Your handiwork, I presume?”

“I’m so sorry.” Jungkook kept his voice to a whisper, not wanting to wake their daughter again. “It was an accident, I swear.”

Again, Namjoon’s wife grinned. “It’s fine,” she said, waving them into the hall. “Let me guess – Joon freaked, huh?” Her husband adopted a guilty expression. “She’s a toddler, she’ll forget this by next week. And if she doesn’t, then she’ll have something for show and tell when she starts preschool, huh?”

She laughed at their shocked expressions, reminded Namjoon to pay Jungkook for baby-sitting and then left to wash up.

Namjoon stood alone in the hall with Jungkook, who frowned. “Were you supposed to be paying me this entire time?” he asked, turning to Namjoon.

“I’ll get you a pizza or something,” Namjoon said stiffly.

Despite his wife’s words, he still looked somewhat pained and Jungkook’s shoulders dropped.

“I really am sorry,” he said again. “I know your wife said everything was fine, but I am. It was an accident – I didn’t think she was awake!”

Namjoon shook his head slowly, starting to smile.

“Ah, it’s fine,” he said with a laugh. As he walked them towards the front door, he glanced curiously at Jungkook. “What happened, though? Stub your toe on one of her toys?”

“Does that happen often?”

“More times than I can count.”

Jungkook laughed. “Nothing like that. I was just texting Y/N.”

Namjoon’s brows shot upwards. “Is something wrong?”

“No, um…” Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, the opposite.”

They came to a stop at the elevator and Namjoon turned to face him. He had an amused look on his face as he pressed a button. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. We’re, uh…” Jungkook glanced over his shoulder. “We’re trying.”

Namjoon’s expression became almost comical. “You are? Shit, JK, that’s amazing!” Reaching out, he pulled Jungkook into a tight hug. When he finally let go, Namjoon grinned. “Damn, I can’t wait for there to be another dad in the group.”

“I mean, we’re only trying,” Jungkook hastened. “Y/N isn’t pregnant yet. She’s actually ovulating right now, which is why I was swearing. She wanted me to come home and – you probably don’t want to know all this,” he said, cutting himself off at the look on Namjoon’s face.

A look Jungkook read completely wrong, as it turned out.

“What are you waiting for?” Namjoon blurted as the elevator arrived. He practically shoved Jungkook inside. “Ovulation is no joke, man! Get the fuck home and put a baby in Y/N!”

From somewhere in the apartment, Namjoon’s wife called, “Language, Joon!”

Namjoon turned in surprise. “Really?” he called back. “I thought we could say that word now. You know, since the cat’s out of the bag? Anyways,” he said, returning to Jungkook. “Get out of here!”

Shaking his head, Jungkook stepped onto the elevator. “Okay. Weird, but thanks! And sorry again!”

As he waited for the elevator doors to close, Jungkook heard Namjoon leave and pulled out his phone to text you back.

Jungkook: coming home now xx [8:55 PM]

Jungkook: Namjoon and his wife hated the opera, left early [8:55 PM]

Jungkook: think there’s still time for twice tonight? [8:55 PM]

You answered almost immediately.

Y/N: I’ve always liked a man with ambition ;) love you. Hurry home xx [8:56 PM]

kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

#jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jungkook writing #bts writing #jungkook fluff #jungkook drabble #bts fluff #bts drabble

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starculler · 3 years ago

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Whumptober 2021: Day 6

Word Count: 2271 || Read on AO3

Tags/Warnings: Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Emotional Hurt

No violence. Only ✨emotions✨

Obi-Wan woke in a room not his own with the smell of blaster-fire and charred flesh in his nose, tasting it on his tongue so clearly that it nearly made him sick. He exhaled one long, slow breath that did nothing to purge the lingering traces of his nightmares, and opened his eyes to thick, black darkness. His brows furrowed, frowning as he struggled to clear the sleep-haze from his mind, a task that had grown considerably harder over the years. He spared a brief, token effort on remembering what he might have done, or where he’d gone, the day before to find himself in a stranger’s home, but only shrugged it off when nothing came to mind.

Perhaps, he mused with only a touch of sardonic humor, the suns’ heat had finally gotten to him and he’d broken into some poor farmer’s home. Whose, he hadn’t the faintest idea considering he only really visited one and this was, most certainly, not the Lars’ farmstead. He would know, he’d been inside once after all — a week spent in a guest room as he’d delivered little Luke to his aunt and uncle. Any subsequent visits had been … difficult.

Luke looked so much like his father sometimes.

He sighed, shoving the thought forcefully away, and focused once more on the room, straining see a little better. The walls, he noticed first, were bare except for a few occupied shelves whose contents he couldn’t even begin to guess at. A single window peered out into the world, tinted black by a light-blocking feature he remembered using … Before. The floor was much the same: spartan, with only a low table in one corner with a cushion to sit on and the bland bed roll he’d woken on. A bitter tang of nostalgia crawled up his throat, lodging there like a bottle’s stopper, and he struggled to swallow around it.

Shoving that away too, he clambered inelegantly to his feet — noticed he still wore the rattier robe and tunics he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eschew along with everything else — and made his way to the room’s singular exit. The door opened with barely a brush of his palm over the panel next to it. He made to move out into the home proper with a steadying hand laid on the frame’s cool metal. And froze.

“Anakin?”

His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, almost too soft to carry across the larger living space to the spitting image of the little boy he’d raised, failed, and left behind, burning on a bank of churning magma on Mustafar. He couldn’t breathe, lungs seizing and stuttering as they refused to work. He gripped the door’s frame harder, knuckles white and fingers little more than pricks of insignificant pain where they dug into the sharper edges. Anakin’s screaming roared in his ears, violent hatred and pain alike with faint echoes of the single plea he’d let slip from his lips somewhere in between before Obi-Wan had turned his back and waled away.

Anakin — oh Force it was Anakin — twisted around on his cushion, one hand braced on the long, low table in front oh him while the other lay flat on the floor, when he heard his name called. Obi-Wan’s gaze caught on his Padawan-braid, so short still that it barely brushed the boy’s — a boy. He was just a boy now, younger than twelve and a picture-perfect replica of the child who lived only in Obi-Wan’s memories and Luke’s shadow — shoulder.

“Master!” Anakin flashed him a bright grin, his blue eyes practically glittering with the strength of his joy. “You’re awake! Finally,” he said, excitement turning to a familiar teasing tone that tore Obi-Wan’s heart to shreds. “I almost thought you’d sleep for forever, and then who’d help with my lessons?”

The boy’s nose scrunched, his distaste for his lessons made clear in the way the word dropped from his mouth like a particularly foul piece of rotted food. Obi-Wan swayed where he stood, mouth suddenly drier than Tatooine’s desert as he stared. Then, faintly and feeling all too much like the very words he spoke had stolen free from him without permission, he said:

“Master Windu would, he’s told me so many times himself. He does so enjoy your company.”

It was a joke, one of several he’d indulged in often after having noticed Anakin’s distrust of the Council. A reassurance as much as something to make the boy laugh. Mace Windu had never told him he’d help with any of Anakin’s lessons, but Obi-Wan had never once seen the Master turn a youngling down when they asked him for help. Oh, he thought with a painful pang in his chest, Mace had loved the younglings, from the tiniest initiates in the Crèches all the way to the padawans, no matter what his severe countenance might have portrayed. He’d tried so hard to show that to Anakin, to teach him that Jedi — even and especially the Council — were, at their core, kind and compassionate. Had his Padawan ever truly known that, or was it another failure to be laid at Obi-Wan’s feet?

Anakin scoffed and rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Yeah, and I’m a heard of Bantha,” he said with a snicker. Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched despite how he wanted to be sick.

“You certainly smell like one,” Obi-Wan replied by rote, more of a murmur than the steady sarcasm he’d once thrown at his Padawan. Anakin squawked regardless, all faux-offense as he puffed himself up for a comeback, but deflated suddenly to squint at him instead.

“Are you feeling alright? You look…” Anakin floudered for a moment and settled on a bland, hesitant, “not good.”

“I,” Obi-Wan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “No,” He admitted, slow. Reluctant. “No, Padawan, I don’t think I am.”

The trembling in his hands hadn’t stopped and his chest still hurt and his stomach had managed to twist itself into nauseating knots as he stood there, still in the open doorway to the room, he realized, that had once been his at the Temple. Anakin’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet, anxiety flowing off him in sharp, erratic waves that only further soured the bitter, ashen taste in Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“Do you need a healer? Are you hurt? Kriff, uh, should I— I mean— I’ll go grab someone, Master, I’ll be right back, okay? Real quick, I—”

“No!” Obi-Wan winced. He hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t meant to put that hurt, wide-eyed look on his Padawan’s face. He’d just —

Obi-Wan watched Anakin’s familiar, blue lightsaber cut through another Jedi, horror curdling in his stomach. It was all he could do not to be sick, but he forced himself to continue looking at the security feed Master Yoda had found. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t be blind to this any more than he could turn back time and undo it. So he watched, ill, as his former Padawan, his friend, his brother, cut down Jedi after Padawan after Initiate until none at all remained in the place they had both called home.

“No,” he croaked, softer, blinking back the stinging heat in his eyes. He lifted the hand not helping keep him upright, clammy and shaking much more obviously than before, and made as if to reach out but stopped short. “No,” he said again, so low he barely heard himself, pulling his hand back to clutch at the fabric over his chest and wondered if he’d suffocate on his feet.

“Master?”

Anakin sounded so scared even as he took a tentative step forward, his hands fisted into the hem of his tunic. Obi-Wan wanted to rush to his side, to comfort him as he’d once done so many years ago. He wanted to run, to flee from the face of this apparition — the ghost of a boy who’d chosen to become a monster because he’d failed as a Master. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep: for this boy, for himself, for the scores of Jedi massacred to mark the end of an unjust war. For the galaxy being crushed under a Sith’s oppressive thumb. For the children of his former student, who would be called upon one day. Who would lose friends and family alike as they worked to dismantle the bloody legacy left to them.

He almost didn’t notice when his legs gave out, choking on his own ragged, wet breaths as Anakin cried out, alarmed, and ran to his side. Obi-Wan flinched away from those small, calloused hands when they reached for him, curling into himself as he struggled to breathe, but his Padawan was nothing if not determined.

He gasped when Anakin’s fingers brushed his arm, searing his skin through three layers of worn fabric. Whined when they traveled up to his shoulder, and hissed, a pained and wounded sound torn from him when Anakin pressed the palm of his hand to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck. Slowly, with a care he’d rarely seen in his Padawan, Anakin maneuvered himself in front of him, hunched and twisting as the hand on Obi-Wan’s neck pulled until he’d knocked their foreheads together.

How long had it been since he’d sat so near another sentient being he trusted? Since he’d been touched so familiarly? Kindly? Luke, perhaps. Little more than a toddler, freely affectionate with the man who’d carried him across the stars and sands to the home he’d remain in.

Obi-Wan didn’t settle. Didn’t calm. His breathing hitched and every inch of him shook so hard he thought his bones might rattle right out of his skin. The stinging bite of fresh tears lingered in his eyes and every limb was weighed down with the same deep exhaustion that had dogged him since he’d left Luke with the Lars’ and lost the only source of immediate responsibility he might have distracted himself with. He did, however, reach forward. Brushed his fingers over the front of Anakin’s tunic and felt the rough material, caustic and abrasive against the suddenly sensitive digits.

“Are you—” Obi-Wan swallowed painfully, his own saliva turning to grains of coarse sand. “Is this real?” he asked, whisper soft and broken. “Are you real, Anakin?” His padawan pressed harder against him in response, puffing out an incredulous breath.

Obi-Wan wondered if he’d melt from the heat of his brother-friend-Padawan’s touch, as skin-crawling as it was a burning, aching comfort for all it seemed to set him further on edge.

“I’m real,” Anakin said, voice strangled. Obi-Wan could taste his fear. Felt it soak into his skin and curl around his heart. “I’m real, Master, I promise. I’m here. I’m real.”

“Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s voice cracked on the name as a sudden desperation washed over him, urging him to reach out further. To pull and clutch and hold his Padawan as close as he could, breathing raggedly against his short, brown hair as Anakin hid his own face against his neck, letting a few tears soak into the collar of Obi-Wan’s tunic. He rocked them both, letting Anakin hold on to him as to him as fiercely as he did his Padawan.

An eternity might have passed there between them as Anakin cried and Obi-Wan babbled — apologies and reassurance and a half dozen other words he’d meant to tell his Padawan over the years tumbling clumsily from his tongue — until the intensity eased, leaving them tired and tangled up together against the room’s cool wall. Obi-Wan let his eyes slip closed, just for a moment. Let himself soak in his brother’s presence, young and bright and much too old to be held like this, half asleep and slumped over him. But he didn’t let go.

He brushed his fingers over Anakin’s hair, short and bristly except for the bundle tied back into a short nerftail, and breathed in the citrus scent of the hair products his Padawan had favored those first few years in the Temple. Leaning his head back against the wall, he let himself drift into his thoughts. Into the Force. Out past the confines of the room, through the halls, and across the Temple, jaw clenching as he felt the bright, living presence of hundreds of Jedi. Thousands. So many his head spun.

His breathing hitched, and he wrapped his arms a fraction tighter around his Padawan. Strained to squeeze his eyes closed harder until he saw blurry, red shapes dance across the darkness behind his lids.

It felt so real.

This. His Padawan. The sights, smells, sounds, even the taste of the Temple’s chill air. Anakin had said he was real. Obi-Wan had squeezed him, had him currently in his arms safe and close and whole. He shuddered, exhaling a wavering, wet breath.

Perhaps, he let himself hope as he drew back to himself, it had been a vision. A warning from the Force — a life lived in the span of a few hours’ sleep. He let the thought comfort him, burying his nose in his Padawan’s hair as sleep slowly claimed him.

Obi-Wan woke in a room he recognized, the sweet, tangy scent of citrus thick in his nose, so vivid he could practically taste it. He exhaled one long, slow breath, letting himself savor it for a moment longer, and opened his eyes to bright light, sandy-colored walls, and the sweltering, suffocating heat of Tatooine’s long, dry days. His fingers curled into the rough, thin, ragged bedroll he’d all but tossed himself into the night before. Alone. Utterly and completely alone.

For the first time since his family were slaughtered at the hands of his student,

Obi-Wan wept.

#whumptober2021 #no.6 #touch starved #star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #fic #emotional distress #my fanfic

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tabbyrp · 4 years ago

Text

@goodlawman

Cont from here [x]

Investigating a homicide didn’t fall under the marshal jurisdiction but protection did. When news of the second murder of a bartender made it into the paper and a pattern emerged instead of a possible singular issue between the first victim and the one committing the murder, Raylan started to hover in the background of Tabby’s workplace, finding a booth or table to work at to stay out of the way but still keep an eye on her. Not only was she his CI but in the time they’d known each other, a bond had formed and like hell anyone would bring harm to her.

When the third murder occurred and the state police were still at a loss, Raylan insisted on seeing Tabby home every night she worked and wouldn’t hear otherwise. It was how he wound up putting chairs on top of tables that night after closing while Tabby finished up some tasks in the back. Momentarily distracted by a text from Beth, he wasn’t aware of another presence nearby until something forcefully twisted the outer doorknob and the mechanism fell to pieces. Raylan slid his gun from the holster, taking aim at the doorway about where the heart of a man of average height would be. Quicker to adjust that way.

The light night breeze brought the scent in before the arrivals appeared, most normal to his heightened sense of smell except the hard to describe scent underneath it all. While he couldn’t put it into words as well as he might other things, he still knew it immediately - death. A particular scent for a particular creature that woke with the sun’s setting, one that he shared enough commonality with and yet the unique circumstances of his resurrection made for some differences from. Raylan prayed Tabby stayed in the back a few more minutes while he dealt with the situation.

Four of them in all but only one familiar face. Raylan’s lip curled up in disgust as the other vampire threw open his arms with a laugh. “Well as I live and breathe, if it ain’t my old friend Sheriff Bullock. Guess that shot I got off wasn’t so lucky after all, huh?”

Lucky enough. If it hadn’t been for Beth - Rebecca - finding him in that alley and the choice of paths given to him in the afterlife, well, that may have been a different story. One in which he wasn’t standing there on this night between the door to Tabby and his murderer.

George tilted his head towards the door, the smile growing. “How ‘bout you join us for dinner and we all catch up?”

The door into the bar’s kitchen smashed open hard enough that later he was surprised it stayed on its hinges, the two tumbling across the floor until they smashed into the stainless steel counter, Raylan ending up on top. George snarled up at him, flashing fangs, and Raylan drew back his fist, promptly nailing the vampire hard enough across the face to leave a horseshoe imprint on his face.

He caught Tabby out of his peripheral vision just before he landed another hard jab, taking advantage of a stunned George to get up from the floor and grab the bartender’s arm, pushing her ahead of him towards the door that would lead out the back. “Go! I’m right behind.”

For perhaps the first time in their friendship, Tabby obeyed Raylan instantly. She did not argue, like she had when the marshal first commenced his nightly vigil. She did not bombard him with questions, even if a simple ‘what the hell is going on’ may have been justified considering the guy Raylan had body slammed possessed crazily sharp incisors and a remarkably high pain tolerance. Instead, she ran.

Long used to getting outside with hands full of weighty trash bags, Tabby slammed into the metal touch bar and the exit door swung open in turn. There was never enough light in the small car park to the rear, the need for a stepladder to replace broken bulbs enough of a reason for it to be relegated to the bottom of the task list. She was aiming for her car, a beaten old truck redeemed by a cherry-red paint job, when the painful awareness that her keys were in her backpack, which was sat safely in her employee locker.

Tabby faltered, a half-turn to her head as she thought to ask Raylan if they were taking his car. Maybe they should aim for the street. Or the fence to the rear. It had been a sizable number of years since she had been forced to scale a chain-link fence, and even Mr Long Legs behind her would need to climb rather than jump it, but there was a good range of alleyways to hide within on the other side.

In the pair of split seconds she debated, a loud metallic clang caused Tabby to startle. Then a figure rose from the bed of her truck, the noise suggesting that it… she… had somehow launched straight into it from the shadows. Running would only bring Tabby closer and she skidded to a halt. Stocky and weathered, with hair that dropped in waves to her shoulders, the woman curled up a lip, revealing even in the darkness another glistening fang.

“Take another step and I’ll break her legs.” Empty eyes stared part Tabby to aim at Raylan, each word carried a feral hiss and the cold certainty that not only did this lady mean it, but she had the capability to make good on the threat. Something what would have been ludicrous thirty seconds earlier, if Tabby had not witnessed Raylan leave an imprint of his ring in someone’s face. “I hate it when the heart is running like a jackrabbit. Makes the blood bitter.”

“Fuck you, psycho.” Tabby’s answer came before she could even question the wisdom of provoking an apparent serial killer. The mere existence of one within spitting distance was enough to turn her soul to ice. One of her deepest-set fears brought to life. But she hated being terrified, let alone confused about what was going on, and wilful defiance felt a better option than meek compliance. Plus, it did not matter the track records this woman and her pals inside had against bartenders. They hadn’t come up against Raylan Givens before and Tabby would always bet on him.

#goodlawman #verse: blue moon of kentucky (vampire au)#honorable mention #brooklynislandgirl

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shimmershae · 5 years ago

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Sometimes logic is the most, I don’t know, logical thing to apply to a situation.

Because Daryl Dixon has shown every*damn*body who his number one priority is this season.

He’s dropped wholeass conversations and pretended like people in front of him were all but invisible to meet Carol Peletier halfway on a dock when her ship come in and sweep her up in his arms and off her feet in the most exuberant and happily relieved hugs ever and essentially ignored the rest of the people loitering around because his vision narrowed strictly to her.

Right before that, he blew off discussions and scouting trips to investigate whether the latest big bad threatening the communities’ safety had returned in favor of waiting for her ship to come in and he continued to blow the whole situation off to get Carol alone for some quality just Carol and Daryl time.

Knowing the Whisperers were still out there, he still daydreamed of escaping to somewhere new and leaving everybody behind—everybody except Carol because she’s the only person he can envision actually escaping for and with.

The man made her a friendship bracelet and flirted and blushed in her presence like an awkward dork with a crush.

He expressly told Carol he needed her to stay.

He bodily restrained her from taking a second shot at Alpha when the bald baddie taunted her and he looked past any misgivings he might have had to tell her he believed her about the Whisperers nobody else had seen but Carol.

Before that, he came running when Carol screamed his name in that old school and fat chance convincing me he didn’t help carry her injured ass all the way to the same infirmary that he waited outside of like a worried husband.

He’s made her dinner trays with flowers, looking out for her physical well-being when she’s been lost in her ongoing grief and he felt powerless to help with it.

His thoughts, this season, have rarely strayed from her and his eyes have been open and watching out for her because he wants to be her safety net while she’s been struggling so very much with Henry’s loss and her consuming need for vengeance. I mean, granted. Daryl Dixon is no fuss, no muss pretty much 24/7, but have y’all ever seen a man get his ass ready that quick to follow a woman without some kind of promised benefit to him? Yeah. Naw.

He did his version of getting the Dixon flirt on again when they were tossing acorns at a can—because they be cutely competitive af.

Daryl Dixon when teased by Carol Peletier about whether his budding friendship with a sweet and seemingly perfect fellow community member could be more? Deadass told her with utmost seriousness and sincerity that it wasn’t like that—not at all.

And then proceeded to pocket the double capper acorn Carol gave him as a good luck charm right over his heart and later gaze at it longingly in the privacy of his own room.

When they were doing their good cop/bad cop routine with the captured Whisperer, Daryl only really lost his cool when the Whisperer made some lewd and disrespectful comments to Carol.

The man has argued for her to sit the more potentially dangerous missions out and remain in the relative safety of Alexandria.

When she went along anyway? Again she was his primary focus. So much so he stopped her from walking into a literal trap, called her on her bullshit, and comforted her when the tears come in a way that honestly? Daryl Dixon has never really shown the inclination to do. By thumbing her tears away from her cheeks, hugging her tight and nuzzling her hair while telling to tell him. To open up to him with her feelings and her fears. And that they “have a future.”

Carol was so much in his sights on that same mission that he immediately recognized when her attention strayed and sent their group running after her into the unknown.

He followed, of course, and Carol’s name was the only name that ever passed from his lips. She was the first person he sought out in the darkness. The first one he encouraged to follow him to relative safety.

When her claustrophobia reared its ugly head, he was the one informing others so that they might offer their own comfort and he didn’t stand a second for Magna getting all up in Carol’s face.

He asked Carol to follow his light when her claustrophobia had her frozen. Everybody else, including a dear sweet deaf woman and her sister—also losing her hearing, were told to follow his voice. 🤦‍♀️

He let Kelly’s ass somersault at his literal feet and gently tugged Carol to safety.

He followed her back into that dark cave and pleaded to her with tears in his eyes and emotion tightening his voice to come back with him and he was all about getting her to safety when that faulty dynamite slipped.

Daryl Dixon didn’t even look back to make sure any of his other friends and community members had made it out of that cave until he knew Carol Peletier was a safe distance away.

Try convincing me his ensuing emotional breakdown wasn’t just as much, probably more about Carol breaking her recent promise to him to think more clearly and be more cautious. Helpful word of advice? Stop while you’re ahead.

Instead of scouting out an alternative way back into the cave to possibly rescue C0nnie and Magna later? The man tried to singlehandedly take on the source of so much of Carol’s grief—Alpha herself, when he so recently discouraged Carol from such a lone wolf action—and ended up seriously injured as a result.

Back at Hilltop? In spite of the hurt he felt, Daryl told Carol perhaps the truest truth there is when he said “I’m never gonna hate you.”

During this same time frame, he made little reference to the two people lost at the cave. Not because he doesn’t value their lives because he does. But he values the community’s overall safety more and the only times he’s ever been shown to blink in that regard? It’s always been because of Carol Peletier.

After the fall of Hilltop, when he and Negan crossed paths and Negan alluded to Carol as Daryl’s girlfriend? Daryl doesn’t even blink. And whereas before, the safety of the community mattered more? The man chills with someone he deadass hates waiting patiently all night for Carol to come back to him. Let’s not even talk about how many hours he probably paced and waited inside Alexandria’s gates.

So. Who do y’all suppose has been Daryl’s number one priority all damn season? Huh?

I’ll give you three guesses and the other two don’t count. Just for giggles I will demonstrate who it ain’t by giving a basic outline of the kind of focus her bond with Daryl has gotten.

At the beginning of the season, Daryl was on his way down to the docks to wait for Carol’s boat to come in with he crossed paths with a new friend and Dog happily sought out pets because what Doggo of any salt or intellect will turn down pets from a pair of kind hands that have fed it before?? Daryl and this friend shared a cute little two second convo that was interrupted and abandoned with his first sight of Carol waving at him like he was her sweetheart there to welcome her home and this friend basically ceased to exist from that moment until her sister went missing for a short while.

Daryl, already being present after accompanying Siddiq to Hilltop and caring about the overall welfare of the communities and such, helped in the search for Kelly and even told this new friend a funny story about his own (departed) sibling as a means of comfort and gave her hand a reassuring maybe two second long squeeze. Honestly? There were so many echoes of his friendship with Denise when I see these two together. So many. But I digress.

Once Kelly was found and safe, Daryl’s attention reverted back to form and he didn’t linger at Hilltop. They had a weird little interlude where I still can’t figure out whether she was trying to butter him up to keep her own family’s secret or was genuinely welcoming him as a fellow found family member.

Anyhoo, their paths didn’t even cross again until they did a combined search for Alpha’s horde and Lydia and Daryl acknowledged her with a shoulder tap to get her attention—I mean, he was approaching her from behind and she couldn’t hear him so.

What little bit of interaction they had in the cave basically came about because of Carol and I gotta tell you. The man deadass forgot she existed when he was trying to help get Carol out of there.

We’ve already kinda covered what I thought about his reaction to the cave in, but I will say this. Leave y’all with a little food for thought: if Carol was underneath those rocks, can any of y’all logically see the man leaving there for any reason short of Judith and RJ being in immediate danger?

Can you? Because I can’t.

If they had managed to tear him away even briefly, his ass would be right back first chance he got. And suppose he’d run into Alpha in the meantime. I don’t think he would have attacked her until he found a way to get to Carol. Naw. That attack was all about Carol (and maybe Lydia) from the word go. Else Daryl would have been smart and patient and found his way in that damn cave to mount a rescue.

You know why?

Because logic. The story’s shown us the way this season. Logic and history. A whole ten fucking years of history.

Daryl Dixon can’t lose Carol Peletier anymore than she can lose him.

Only in the absence of all logic can anyone ever think differently.

Explains a lot, huh?

And some people are still up in arms over Daryl simply soldiering forward and not having the singular thought of C0nnie, C0nnie, C0nnie in his brain when his communities, his long established found family, and the one person he absolutely cannot lose still need safeguarding.

I mean, he cares but Daryl done told every*damn*body already. Take it from the man himself, the reason why.

“It’s not like that. Not at all.”

I know logic isn’t really this show’s strong suit, but in this case? The story has been leading us to one logical conclusion all season, and I don’t think it’s the one that some people out there are prepared to accept. I mean, yeah. I’d feel some kinda way, but.

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yodawgiherd · 4 years ago

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Insecurities

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Short main fic (anytime anyplace) reject I found while cleaning up my file. As it doesn't really fit where the story is at, and doesn’t tie into it, I could either delete it or post it here, and I decided for the latter. It's definitely "canon" in the AU tho o_o Hope you'll enjoy it :)

“So, what do you fear? “

From her perch on the dorm bed, Mikasa shot Eren a slight frown, and he shrugged innocently in response. Well, she supposed that he had the right to know, considering that she just woke him in the middle of the night by violently shoving him off the mattress they shared together, screaming. Mikasa sighed. She wasn’t used to this yet, the bed sharing, but she liked it. Most of the time, it helped to keep the nightmares at bay, but tonight was an exception, sadly, and the dream sneaked its way through Eren’s embrace and into her mind. In just those two weeks that they were together, her life felt so much brighter, and she hoped that this little accident won’t push her newfound boyfriend away. Then again, if he survived the failure of their second date, he could most likely handle a night of ruined sleep over her bad dreams.

“Why do you want to know?”, she asked, curious, “Planning on scaring me?”

A smile appeared on Eren’s face, just a small twitch of his lips.

“Of course not, I’d just like to understand you. Whatever is going on in those dreams of yours, it’s an important part of who you are.”

He fell silent, most likely waiting for her to start, but Mikasa wasn’t really feeling like talking. She just woke up from another terrible dream, in the middle of the night, and her brain was still dealing with that unpleasant reality. Instead of voicing her concerns, she bent forward, intertwining fingers with her toes, letting her hair cover her face.

“Look,”, Eren began, seeing her unresponsive, “it’s not hard to guess that your dreams have something to do with your parents, right?”

Honestly speaking, Mikasa didn’t even know why she told him about her past on their first date. Bringing up the tragedy of losing your family to someone you just met was unusual, weird, especially for someone as silent as her, but Eren just made her open up, talking to him was natural in a way she didn’t truly understand. Well, now she had to deal with the consequences. With a sigh, she nodded, just a tiny movement of her head, but he caught it.

“I don’t always have them.”, still not feeling brave enough to meet his inquisitive green gaze, she kept watching her toes, “It just happens from time to time, I can’t help it.”

“I don’t blame you, I have nightmares myself.”

She peeked up at him through the curtain of her hair, curious.

“You do?”

“It's about my dad.”, Eren leaned back in the chair where he retreated after being forcefully evicted form the bed, eyes studying her posture. He reminded her of the therapist she went to, years ago, when Levi tried helping her with those dreams this way. But therapy has no chance of working if the patient doesn’t want to, so after a few sessions of her stubbornly staring at the floor and not opening her mouth once, her brother gave up. Then again, she never had those warm feelings in her chest when she looked at the professional, but Eren made her spine tingle.

“It’s always the same. I’m standing on the ground, in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a plane flying over my head.”, he took a shuddering breath, as the topic was not exactly pleasant, “I know, I just know, that there’s my dad in there. Then suddenly, the plane starts falling, and there’s nothing I can do about it. So, I just stand there, and watch, as it goes down, spiraling until it crashes and explodes. Then I wake up.”

Mikasa didn’t even realize it, but she covered her mouth with one hand during his story, staring.

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t have it that often anymore,”, Eren shrugged appearing indifferent, “I got used to it. Kind of.”

But it was forced, this unnatural calm and Mikasa could see the pain behind his eyes. Dulled, maybe, but still present. If anything, she surely owed him her nightmares, now that he shared his own.

“I don’t really remember much,”, she began, “but I know that’s its always cold, and dark. There’s blood on the floor, and the bodies, but I can’t see their faces. Luckily.”, extending one hand, she closed it, fingers curling inwards, “I’m holding something, and it’s warm against my skin at first, but as I sit there, listening to the quiet, it always gets colder over time, until it’s like ice in my grasp.”, her breathing became agitated, “And I’m scared to trace the thing in my palm because I know what it will be, it’s always the same. It’s my mother’s hand.”, dropping her arm, she redirected her gaze back at her feet, a singular tear falling on the tips of her toes. “I usually wake up then.”

Eren didn’t say a word. Instead, she could hear the shuffling of his clothes as he stood up, and soon after the bed dipped under his weight as he sat down next to her. The arms that wrapped around her body were warm, and she leaned into the hug, closing her eyes as she rested her head on his shoulder. The remnants of the nightmare finally gave up, and their cold fingers disappeared underneath the warmth. It surprised her, but it felt good to share her demons.

“Mikasa?”, he asked, waking her up a bit. She hummed in acknowledgement, not feeling like talking right now. “You told me your secret, I told you mine. It’s good to get that off your chest, no?”

She just hummed again, burrowing deeper into his embrace.

After a few minutes, Eren cleared his throat, making her look up at him. The boyish smile that she liked so much was there again, as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I was thinking since we aren’t sleeping anymore, maybe we could…. practice?”

It wasn’t hard to guess what he was implying. And while it might look stupid and insensitive, to suggest something like this, it was exactly what Mikasa wanted. There was only so much that talking could achieve, and the feeling of his body against hers, to know that this is real, not the nightmares, that was something they both craved right now.

“Again?”

“Why not?”, I mean, we are still far from perfect and…”

Both to silence him and her laughter, Mikasa climbed into his lap, straddling his waist as she kissed him, aggressively. Maybe there were better ways to spend your night than sleeping. She just had to make sure to watch her teeth, that’s all.

Those downtimes between classes were always the worst. It was bearable when Armin could hang out, but most of the time his friend was unavailable, as his breaks were on different times than Eren’s. Just perfect. Like, what exactly could you achieve in an hour? Eren usually just ended up wandering around the campus, sitting down somewhere to review his notes, or meditating on the futility of life and whatnot.

Today was the first day he found himself in front of the gym, looking at the entrance. Contrary to the masses, he didn’t even come here to work out himself, but rather to meet someone who spends almost all her waking hours here, in her own words. Pushing the door open, he had to admit that the room was in a rather good state. The walls seemed freshly painted, the air inside was kept cool through the ventilation system, and the music was silent enough to offer the beat the gym-goers were most likely looking for. Eyes darting around, he searched for the object of his interest, only to find her in front of the punching bag, going wild at it. Her hands were a blur, the leather was creaking, and Eren couldn’t help but wonder what all those guys from elementary school would say, with the whole “girls can’t fight” shit. Mikasa seemed immersed too and didn’t even notice him, taking a step back to put a few well-placed kicks to the sides of the bag. Satisfied with her performance, she took a break, putting her hands on her hips and breathing deep.

“You could kill a man with your punches.”, Eren stepped in, making her turn on her heel with a surprised expression. He grinned “You do them so fast, it must feel like getting a shot when you hit someone.”

“Eren.”, she shook her head, but she was smiling too, those dumb jokes making her feel giddy, “What are you doing here?”

“You said that you will be here, and I had some time to kill so…”, he shrugged, “can’t I come to see how you work out?”

“I mean, sure, if that’s what you want. It’s just that I was expecting someone else, that’s all.”

“Oh, a secret lover in the gym.”, with a fake expression of anger on his face, Eren scanned the room, working his muscles, “Where is this rascal?”

“Stop that.”, Mikasa poked him in the chest, unable to hold her laughter in anymore, shoulders shaking, “It’s my brother. I usually go out of the campus to his gym today, not here, but he’s got some paperwork in the city, so he said that he’s going to drop by.”

As on cue, another man appeared behind Eren, short and grumpy, looking him up and down.

“Mikasa, who is this guy?”, he arched an eyebrow, disbelief in his voice, “Your new sparring partner?”

“No, no, of course not, this is Eren, he’s my….”, she was nervous, fidgeting a bit, “friend, just friend.”

“Just” friend? Wow, that one stung.

“I see.”, Levi seemed to lost interest in Eren, turning back towards his sister, “Get to the ring, let’s see how much you slacked in your training.”

But while Mikasa was climbing up, a hand bunched up in Eren’s shirt, and the man pulled him down to his height, with unnatural strength, staring right into Eren’s eyes.

“Listen, “just friend”, I want you to know that If I ever hear that you’ve done anything bad to my little sister, I swear to god that you and I will have private sparring, between my fist and your face. And if you ever make her cry,”, he moved even closer, growling the words in Eren’s ear,” I’ll cut your balls off.”

With that, he released him, and followed Mikasa into the ring, as if nothing had happened. Right, Eren thought as he was straightening his clothes, seems like Levi didn’t buy into the friend thing much. Checking his watch, he saw that he still some time, so he leaned against the wall, watching the two siblings fight.

Hours later, when he was done with his classes and picked up Mikasa from the gym, they were walking through the darkened campus hand in hand. The air was clear, the evening quiet, and her hand in his warm, but still, the little friend thing just kept circling inside his mind.

“Mikasa?”, he began, “Can I ask you something?”

She liked the way Eren pronounced her name, how it rolled off his tongue. Her name wasn’t even that hard to say, but in her life, she met a ton of people who tried impressing her by adding that weird -h at the end of the -ka-, or by using the Japanese honorific – Chan in the end. She didn’t like either of those things. Not to mention those smart assholes who called her Gothkasa, because combining your name with your fashion style is soooo smart, right? Not even mentioning the girl who kept asking if she is sad, since all Mikasa wears is black. That one dubbed her Raven. But Eren didn’t do anything like that, he said her name exactly as it was, and she did enjoy the sound of it.

“Sure.”

“Back in the gym, why did you tell your brother that we are just friends. I kind of thought that we are … more … by now.”

“We are! Of course, we are.”, she squeezed his palm a bit tighter, pulling at it to make him stop and turn to face her. “I just never had a boyfriend before, and Levi came out of nowhere,”, she sighed, “I was surprised, and I didn’t want to break it to him like that.”, she looked up, blushing slightly, “Are you mad at me?”

As if he could ever be mad at someone as cute as her, with his red scarf wrapped around her colored cheeks.

“Nah, not mad. Your brother is a scary guy, I understand.”

“True that.”, she sniffed, “he’s the toughest midget you’ll ever meet.”

With Eren still being silent, a bit of suspicion entered her tone.

“Wait, did he tell you something? Eren?”

“Nah, nothing.”, to stop her grey gaze from staring at his face so inquisitively, he brushed the ends of formerly his scarf from her mouth, pulled her closer by the silver cross around her neck and bent down to press a kiss to Mikasa’s lips. “You still owe me one, friend.”, he murmured when they paused, and she pinched his bicep in retaliation, before surrendering to the sensation. They both still had a lot to learn in that area, anyway.

“Tell me a secret.”

“Secret?”, Mikasa half turned in his arms, watching him over a shoulder, “What secret?”

“Something about you, a thing I don’t know.”, Eren grinned, hiding it by burying his face in her hairline, “Something you wouldn’t tell just anyone.”

“Oh?”, a tiny frown appeared between her fine raven eyebrows, “And why should I tell you my secrets, mister?”

He shrugged.

“Think of it as a payment for the friend stuff.”

“I thought you understood!”

“I do, but I still demand satisfaction.”, a hand poked her, under the ribs, “C’mon Miki.”

Mikasa used to hate pet names, despise the way couples called each other as if they were children. But that was before she had Eren, and now she was strongly considering how it would feel like if he called her a kitten. Maybe not so bad after all. Before him, Mikasa never had a pet name in her life, well, if she didn’t count that Levi was usually calling her brat, but she grew to enjoy this little one Eren gave her. It was certain intimacy to it. She was also hyperaware of his touch now, of the arms around her, feeling his fingers through the fabric of the shirt. Sure, he touched her before, and she liked the way his palms roamed up and down her body when they kissed, even the few times he got lost in her and traced her shape all the way down to her ass. Mikasa usually stopped him there, for now, but overall, she was very satisfied with how his touch felt.

“You want to hear a secret.”, she cooed, putting her hands on top of his, both to press him more firmly against her skin, but also to stop him from moving. Eren sometimes tended to be more adventurous than she was comfortable with.

“Pretty please.”

“All right, well I got one.”, it was awkward, but she couldn’t think of anything else right now. So, she took a deep breath. “I used to hate my breasts.”

That silenced him for a moment.

“Your…. breasts?”, he queried, unsure if he heard her right.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because they are useless! Useless weight! I mean…”, she turned around, watching his face for a change. Eren’s cheeks had a slight blush in them, but he met her eyes with a small smile, clearly interested in hearing her explanation. ”I was flat as a board when I was a kid. So, when the puberty started, and things began to…. expand, it bothered me. I know that I’m not big either way, my, uhm, chest, is small compared to other girls, but suddenly, there were two bags of fat on my chest, completely fucking up my balance. Out of nowhere, I was being forced to wear a tight bra just because otherwise my tits would bounce all over the ring when I train.”, she looked down, over the place where her shirt was raised, “I used to bind them you know.”

“For training?”

“No, for everyday life. I didn’t want them.”

“Oh.”, Eren could see that it was a sensitive topic for her, the way she saw her body, and he felt happy that she trusted him enough to share it with him. “Well for what it’s worth,”, Mikasa looked up, and he couldn’t miss that the way those few strands of hair got into her face was downright adorable, “I think that your chest is beautiful.”

She started laughing, on the cheesiness of it all, small simpers escaping her lips, so he kissed her to stop it from blowing into a full-blown explosion, and before either of them realized what was happening, she fell on her back, pulling him right along. With Eren on top of her, his hands roaming all over her sides, mouth sealed against hers, all their long weeks of training were paying off. Comparing the first time they kissed, and the second, third and a lot after that, which usually ended up with either of them laughing, losing breath, or doing something that the other didn’t like, this was much better. She knew now to open her mouth for him when he nipped at her lower lip, and to push her tongue against his, licking into his mouth, not caring how obscene sounds it was making. It felt good for them both, and that was the only thing that mattered. Considering that she was doing her best to remember the things he liked, Mikasa was rather surprised when Eren pulled back, sitting up. Did she bite his bottom lip too hard again?

“Miki…”, he began, before she could ask what was wrong, “Could I….”, suddenly she realized that his hands left her sides, and were now toying with the hem of her shirt. Eren swallowed, obviously not sure how to proceed, although it was rather easy to understand what he wanted to ask. Her face was already red, from all the kissing and stuff, but now the color must have been on par with a tomato.

But why should she deny him? They were taking it slow already, and there’s a difference between taking things slow and not moving forward at all. Just a few seconds back, she was thinking about how good Eren’s touch felt, so why would this be any different? With a mortified expression, that didn’t do justice to how she felt inside, she nodded.

Eren’s eyes went wide when he saw her agree to his proposition, but he wasn’t one to question his good fortune. Yet even with her agreement, he could feel the light uncertainty that covered Mikasa like a blanket, and he wanted that feeling gone. So instead of going right to his prize, he lifted her shirt by just a few inches, bringing her muscled stomach into view.

“I love those.”, he pointed out, tracing the shape of her abs with his fingers. They didn’t even look real, more like a sculpture, made by an ancient Greek master, the way they perfectly stood out beneath the skin. But unlike marble, Mikasa’s skin was warm to the touch.

“Why?”, she frowned down at him, “It’s just muscle.”

“Nah, it’s much more than that.”, willing to see just how much she would let him do, he dipped his head to press a kiss to her firm midriff, loving the way the skin shivered beneath his lips. “It’s proof of your dedication. Show of your strength. It’s admirable and gorgeous at the same time, just like you.”, he murmured in-between gentle nips, making Mikasa’s breath hitch in her throat. She never saw her stomach as beautiful, just useful, but the way Eren genuinely seemed to enjoy spending his time down there, it made her wonder if perhaps her torso is aesthetically pleasing after all.

But he couldn’t just spend the whole night admiring her abs, he was on a mission. With just slightly trembling fingers, he started pulling the hem of her shirt further up, eyes darting between the increasing amount of revealed pale skin and her face, to notice the moment she changes her mind and tells him to stop. But she didn’t. It was mesmerizing, watching her body come from underneath the fabric until the bottom of her chest finally came into view. They were home, relaxing after school, and Mikasa ditched her bra as always, so the shirt he was currently lifting was the only cover. With a last peek to her face, seeing her nod again, Eren held his breath and pulled upwards, with finality. The instinct to cross her hands over her chest hit Mikasa hard, now when it was bare to him, but she held herself back, fisting the bedding instead.

“Holy shit.”, Eren breathed out, running his hand over his face.

“That bad?”, Mikasa could feel the old insecurities knocking at the backdoor in her mind, the same that made her roll those bandages around her breasts, every morning before going out, that made her angry when she felt the extra weight on her chest anytime she breathed. This was a mistake, she shouldn’t have done this. Now he’s going to….

“Bad?”, the word was choked out, as Eren still had trouble controlling his breathing. “Bad?”, he repeated in disbelief, not sure why in the world would she think that, “No, it’s not bad. It’s fucking wonderful.”

“Huh?”, she asked, not sure if she heard him right.

“Whoever told you that you look bad Miki?”, he wanted to get to the bottom of this, even with his brain working on about ten percent of its capacity.

“Well…”, no one told her anything like that, now that she thought about it. Then again, the only people in her life to saw her topless were her mom, her doctor, and now Eren. The only thing the doctor said was that she’s a healthy female, as one can expect from a professional, and if mom ever said anything, Mikasa didn’t remember it. All those doubts were her own.

On top of her, Eren was having the night of his life. Sure, it was the twenty-first century, he saw boobs before, with internet, TV and everything, but it was the first time he got to see a pair live, and there was quite a significant difference. Mikasa’s chest was rather small, but with next to no excess fat on her body, what could a sane person expect? Honestly, Eren didn’t care about that one bit, she was perfect just the way she was. The perky, firm shape, the flawless skin, the darkened area around her nipples, that all combined to make her breasts one of the prettiest things he ever saw. He found himself wanting to touch it, to feel it beneath his fingers, but just as he raised his hand, Eren realized that starting to grope her might not be the nicest thing to do to Mikasa right now. That was until she spoke.

“You can t-touch me.”, she answered his unspoken question, words unsteady, eyes wide and watching his every move.

Carefully, he put one arm down, tracing the shape of her chest with his fingertips, paying special attention to the underside, where he just found out she was ticklish.

“H-Hey! Stop that!”, she squeezed out in-between the giggles, squirming beneath him, but her voice betrayed that she didn’t want him to stop. Continuing in his exploration, Eren worked his way all around the breast, cupping it with his hand and thumbing the nipple lightly. It was amazing, to find something so soft and squishy on Mikasa’s rather toned body, so he gave it a few testing squeezes. In conclusion, it felt pretty damn good. Overcome with a sudden urge, Eren leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the top, right in the middle of the peak, which in turn made Mikasa gasp and quickly pull her shirt back down. All right, playtime was over, but Eren was immensely satisfied, nevertheless. Her breathing was shaky, a very light frown on her face, as she sat up, pushing the hair from her face.

“Couldn’t help myself.”, Eren reached out, hoping that his sudden show of affection didn’t offend her too much, and was pleasantly surprised when she took his hand, intertwining their fingers. Not too mad then, all good. “But Miki, let me tell you, your chest is god damn perfect. I love it. And my opinion should count for something, after all, I’m a certified FBI.”

That gave her a pause.

“FBI?”

“Female Body Inspector.”

With a tug, he pulled her to himself, and together they tangled back on the bed, mouths once again combining amidst the laughter. And for the first time in her life, Mikasa was glad that puberty changed her the way it did.

#fanfic #eremika #snk #aot

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uraharasandals · 4 years ago

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How about a fluffy (or perhaps smutty) scenario where the reader comforts Akutagawa in regards to the shit Dazai put him through? I want my edge Lord to realize that he doesn't need Dazai's praise because he is amazing and beautiful on his own. Make our boy feel loved 💜

Uhhh, so this kinda got out of hand at the end, but I hope you like it! I have a terrible grasp of Akutagawa's personality AND how his fluff would manifest with a partner but somehow I appear to write fluff with him the best? Anyways enjoy!

Lazy July afternoons were the epitome of bliss. It was a brief window of time in which the world wandered by without a care, in which, as the sun sets and tendrils of sunlight trickled through the window, the summer heat gets into everyone's head and frankly, no one has the energy to do anything except take a nap.

And that was precisely what you ended up doing. Cocooned in a nest of blankets and nestled in a warm bed with the air conditioning on full blast, there was no other place you would like to be right now. Add to the fact that Akutagawa's body temperature was a default freezing, it was a nice past-time for a summer afternoon; it was as if you had no care in the world.

Shifting across the blankets to find a cooler spot, you were about to fall back into dreamland when you heard a wince from Akutagawa. Normally you would have ignored it and went back to sleep, but the moment there was a tight grip on your arm draped across his abdomen you knew something was wrong; Akutagawa may be hostile to touches from time to time, but he had never stopped you in the middle of something.

"Are you okay?" Alertness started coming to your brain, though it was still slow; there was still a hint of sleepiness coating your tone as you sat up, taking care not to brush against him, lest you trigger something else. You weren't sure what had happened, but you guessed it may have something to do with the scars blooming all over his body. He had willingly exposed himself to you once, when you dressed a flesh wound on his chest, and noticed the network of criss-cross scars, as well as what looked like small punctures on his skin (quick research made you realise that those were bullet marks, and you were shocked at that). Experience taught you that scars tend to leave ghost trails of pain even long after the wounds have closed, and judging from the extent of injuries Akutagawa suffered from, your accidental brushes might have forced a dizzying wave of pain back into his system.

"Fine." Despite his words, you could see the flash of pain that went across his face, and you sighed. "I'll go get some painkillers; wait here." As you prepared to - unwillingly - get out of bed, Akutagawa caught at your hand, managing to hold onto your little finger, giving a small tug; this was a clear sign he wanted you to stay, so you did, though kicking the blankets away to watch over him properly.

A quick glance at Akutagawa's face made you realise that it was no longer contorted in pain anymore, and he was just lying there, as if contemplating something. You raised your eyebrows at this, but said nothing, letting the silence be broken by occasional splutters of the air conditioner and the spilling of sunset into your bedroom; the sunlight fell short on his face, but illuminated his cheekbones and eyelashes, startling you with the seeming display of youth.

Had Akutagawa really been this young? His mannerisms and speech frequently persuaded you otherwise, but after you reasoned that there was no way you would've chosen someone notably more mature than you, you realised that he was. His time in the mafia had hardened him; his mentions of his superior, a man named 'Dazai', reflected to you a certain degree of hardship and torture he was subject to in the organization, which would likely have forced him to grow up as well.

For that moment, you found yourself bearing hate for a man you haven't even met, much less having a grasp of his personality.

"What's wrong?" You were the first to break the silence, as always; the words escaped from your mouth quietly, as if you didn't want to break the sudden tranquility in the mood. The singular moment that took your eyes to meet his was enough to catch you off guard, and another insistent tug made you fall back onto the bedsheets with a small groan. Before you knew it, his eyes were inches away, the tip of his nose - cold - brushing against yours, in a distance close enough to kiss. Heat crept up your cheeks, but you forced yourself to maintain eye contact with the man in front of you. Then, he opened his mouth and a single statement tumbled out, "You're too fragile."

"Says you?" Eyebrows raised, you ran the pad of your thumb lightly down the hidden scar on the column of his neck. Immediately, he gave a small wince. "Since when did strong and tough mafiaso get triggered by scars, I wonder." You shouldn't tease him like this, cruel words with a sarcastic edge, especially not about his scars, but you couldn't help it; the more you thought about who inflicted those on him, and how he still suffers from them, the more you feel anger rising within you -- and somehow you had decided to take it out on him.

The effect told hold -- too well, you thought bitterly -- and his eyes narrowed at you, the fire kindled within them again. Just as you were bracing yourself for the onslaught of Rashomon, he suddenly deflated, and guilt crossed his face. "You were right."

"I - I am?"

"Yes. If only I was as strong as Dazai-san - "

His words were immediately cut off. Akutagawa's lips were still freezing beneath yours, which sent a shiver down your spine, but it was worth the surprised - or what passed for surprised - look on his face as you pulled away. "What was that for, _________?"

"You're already strong enough, Ryunosuke." You probably shouldn't, after a narrow escape from the tiger's fangs, but you reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, where another criss-cross patch of scars sat. Luckily, he only stiffened under your hold. "Remember? Otherwise I would've died." Untangling an arm, you pulled down a corner of your shirt to reveal the thin strip of white skin tissue running across your shoulder, shivering slightly from the sudden exposure.

His face was hidden from view, but you could feel his icy fingers fluttering above the wound hesitantly. "The bullet...." One of Port Mafia's enemies had decided to take down Akutagawa - their so-called 'trump card' -- sometime ago by kidnapping you, his dearest person, holding you hostage, and intending to kill him as soon as he showed up. Little did they underestimate their power, and he had wiped them out in a matter of seconds, though one last brave attempt by the sole survivor had left you a souvenir dangerously near your neck; a true shot that missed thanks to Akutagawa. "Does it...still hurt?"

"A little." You admitted, and was about to pull away from him when you felt a pair of -- still freezing -- lips press onto the wound. An embarrassing gasp escaped from you as your hands tightened around his neck, which turned into a moan as he diligently worked his way up the column of your neck, ending with a sharp nip right behind your ear. "R-Ryunosuke!"

"And aren't you just like me, __________." You thought he was mad, but a look at his face revealed the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his mouth. "At least I wasn't the one attempting to be strong," You huffed, sitting up. "I, unlike a certain someone, know my boundaries."

"Do you?"

Akutagawa, magically, lost the staring contest.

"Anyways, I was serious about what I was saying earlier, Ryunosuke." You leaned back against the headboard, shifting a little to let him have some sitting room next to you. The fading sunset traced out a line of sunlight right across his shoulder, which ran across the scar on your still exposed shoulder. "You don't have to compare yourself against anyone else because you're already strong enough." Reaching over, you clasped his hand, feeling your warmth bleed into his. When he attempted to open his mouth -- no doubt the beginnings of an argument -- you immediately cut in. "Especially not against Dazai-san. I don't care how good he might be, he'll never be you, Ryunosuke."

"Me." There was a hint of bitterness underneath. "What about me?"

"You're amazing." You shifted closer to him, and began to pick your next words carefully. "You were able to survive his training. I don't think anyone else would've been able to do that so well. You also have proof to show for it, see?" Bringing his hand up, you started tracing his scars. "The fruits of your success." Turned over; the star-shaped paleness inside his wrist. "The proof of your hardship." One jagged line running up his arm and disappearing into his shirt. "The - "

"Was that the prelude to your testing my resolve?" Somehow, you found yourself pinned underneath him, his knees holding your legs firmly in place; his ankle dug sharply into yours, but the suddenness somehow made your brain register only the proximity of his face from yours, allowing for a tiny 'oh' escaping from your mouth.

"I didn't - " A small voice at the back of your mind was reminded vaguely that this scenario had played out only seconds ago, but they soon faded into nothing as his tongue worked roughly against yours, forcing its way into your mouth and effectively cutting off the stem of words you were about to say. "If that was a test of strength, I would say I passed it successfully, no?" Mind still spiralling into a whirlpool of confusion, you barely registered his words and the fact that his fingers tilted your head so that your eyes bore into his, which had turned dark.

"Or do you need more proof of my so-called power*?"

Brief note: Because the word for 'power' and 'strength' in Japanese can be used interchangeably, Aku could also have said 'strength', which may have another meaning ;)

#bungou stray dogs #akutagawa imagines #Akutagawa #bsd imagines #bsd #akutagawa ryunosuke #Fic #Anon #asks

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wickedsrest-rp-archive · 4 years ago

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Storm Front || Season 1 Finale Chatzy

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Dark Score Lake (opposite of Undertow) PARTIES: @exorciseyourspirit @bountybossier @cryxmercy @bemyfriendplease SUMMARY: Squidward meets his makers

“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”

― John Milton, Paradise Lost

Mercy wasn’t sure how long she’d been waiting in the agreed upon spot when the others finally showed up. It was dark, the thick trees filtering out most of the moonlight, and almost eerily quiet. As if the forest around Dark Score Lake - which lay further into the forest - was holding its breath. The air was muggy and thick, and smelled stale… like old, rotting things long-molded beneath the damp earth. It smelled like a crypt.

The irony was not lost on Mercy.

Sitting on the hood of the old Jeep she’d rolled out of storage - much quieter than her bike, and with more room for transporting the other things she’d do quickly pulled out of the unit - she methodically worried the delicate silver chain around her neck. The two rings that were usually there were absent, safely secured in a thick manila envelope in the glove compartment of the Jeep, along with a short letter written in Mercy’s hand. The name ‘Prof. Arthur Drake’ was written on the envelope. She’d tried to call him several times on her drive over, not wanting to do this without telling him, but had ended up having to leave a message.

So the envelope and it’s contents were just a few simple measures to make sure certain things wouldn’t be left unsaid. Just in case.

Because while the odds were in Mercy’s favor to walk out of this alive and mostly unscathed, she was very aware that she wasn’t completely infallible. Especially since it had been over a century since she’d been a part of taking on something quite as large and dangerous as what this… thing had turned out to be. Some tentacled, demon-fucking, pseudo-deity with a massive cult of brain-washed followers that had already killed in the name of their ‘god.’

But killing was easy. Mercy was more than ready to find out how many of them were willing to die for this ‘god’ of theirs.

She didn’t know all the details - it had all been put together so quickly - but she did know they only had one real shot at this. Even now, there were others working towards the same goal, so their window of opportunity wasn’t a big one. The Fury looked up as footsteps approached, her normally riotous hair braided back out of her face, and a band of black ash wiped across her eyes. She gave the unfamiliar face a crooked smirk and sat up, tucking the chain beneath the protective vest she wore across her chest. “Hey there stranger. You lookin’ for the same puny demon squid-god as me?”

Patience was often a virtue, but Rebecca moved through the world today with a heavy sort of impatience that weighed on her soul. There was little time. Theo had not made it, Theo did not know what she was about to go do. No one did. No one, except the ones who she’d asked to meet her there. Nicodemus had agreed, and had said there would be another waiting for them as well, to help, because this task could not be done by one man alone. And there others, in farther spots, helping as well. Whatever awaited them at this lake, it wasn’t going to be easy. And that’s, as she looked in the mirror, her eyes glowed a moment. No going back on our deal now.

When she reached the lake, the stench was that of death. She knew it was because of the rotted fish and dead foliage, but the foreboding omen still sat in the air like a warning sign. When she approached, she found a woman, tall, slender, pale skin and pale blue eyes, greeting her. Nicodemus was not here yet, but she supposed he’d arrive soon. This was one event no one wanted to be late to. “I only believe in one Higher Power, and a demon squid is surely not it,” she said with a whip to her tongue. This ritual was hers to perform, which meant she was in charge here, and she wanted her voice to convey that in one go. Even as she gave the other woman a smile in greeting.

Anxious energy ran through Nicodemus. He had made a time of avoiding the lake like nothing else but that time was gone. Drowned. The hunter supposed he would have to return to it one day and with the intent to kill burning in him, it was a better day than any. Maybe it was the pilates that had Rebecca consider him for help. Regardless, he answered quickly and scribbled a short note to Skylar. Given that it was a big fuck off squid they were going to be tangling with, they might need a harpoon. And he knew one person that was ready and willing with one.

The hunter rolled his neck as he walked away from his truck. A death smell hung over the lake and he waded through it as he approached the gathered two. Guns, knives, ammo. He brought it all. If any of them died, it wasn’t going to be because they didn’t burn through every possibility of killing the fucker. He grunted a greeting as his eyes looked to the dark water. A cold, slimy feeling crawled along his spine.

“Guess it’s a fine evenin’ for squid killin’,” he muttered as he rested his lever-action against his shoulder. He looked between the two before he nodded to Rebecca. “What’d you need us to do?”

“I can agree with that,” Mercy said. Because whatever the hell this thing really was, it wasn’t a god. Mercy believed in the old gods, and not in any singular creator. She had seen them with her own eyes. But that was irrelevant. This woman - this exorcist - believed. And it was her power that would get rid of the entity that inhabited the creature she and the hunter were there to kill. Speaking of… Mercy looked over at the man as he approached. She gave a tip of her chin in greeting, noting the weapon he held with practised familiarity. It settled a few of Mercy’s nerves to know that there were no amateurs here tonight. Her own arsenal of weapons - including a wicked-looking harpoon - was in the back of her Jeep. “Guess it is,” she nodded at Nic before turning her attention to the other woman. The hunter asked the pertinent question, so Mercy stayed quiet and waited for marching orders.

Rebecca didn’t bother with greetings. Once Nicodemus arrived, she turned and headed towards the lake. “At the moment? Keep your eyes peeled. Once the ritual starts, I’ll need energy from one of you.” Her skin prickled, hair standing on end. A sense that she was sure she could ever rely on, but knew not to ignore. Magic. A disturbance in the ether. Ever since she’d contact the astral plane, she’d been able to feel it more deeply. Moving past that, however, she turned to the other two. “I doubt whatever this thing is is going to go down easy. That’s where you two come in. You’re up for a fight, right?”

Nicodemus glanced toward the water. Whatever had happened before, when he had killed the stranger amongst other strangers, he hadn't fought. Couldn't have. It was different now. The fire in him burned hotter. He looked back to Mercy, then Rebecca. "Do what you have to. We got the rest," he muttered as he loaded a round into his rifle. "It ain't over until it's dead." Or they were. He didn't like how quiet it was, or how still the water seemed. As if something were waiting. He supposed something was.

Mercy snagged her things from the Jeep as they started walking towards the water. She gave the exorcist a glance as the woman mentioned the ritual needing energy. Of course it did. But Mercy didn’t bother with worrying. Magic couldn’t drain her completely. It might weaken her, but she would bounce back. She always did. Mercy checked the clip of the one firearm she’d brought before tucking it back in it’s holster at her hip. She preferred blades, and had brought plenty. Mercy shared a glance with Nic before turning back to Rebecca as well. She nodded in agreement with the hunter before pulling her straight sword from the sheath across her back. The sound rang quietly across the stillness of the lakeshore. Mercy squatted down, pressing her fingers to the earth and whispering words in her native tongue. After a moment she was quiet, and fell still. Waiting, just as whatever was out there waited.

Penelope had said that the ritual need be completed by the time the moon was high in the sky, and Rebecca wasn’t eager to rush anything. She hoped the others would complete their rituals on time, but she had to bring herself away from worrying about that-- there was nothing she could do for them, except be ready when they needed her to. She went about setting up her area, clearing a small patch of grass, and setting down the pentagram mat. Pressed a hand to it and watched it burn its imprint into the ground, before pulling it away and rolling it back up. Set a candle at each star point. Wrapped the red scarf (there to replace her missing dagger) around her opposite wrist, the Kabbalah string bracelet on her other, and looked back at the other two, poised for the fight. “Here goes nothing,” she said, before turning back to face the lake. Closing her eyes to concentrate on the energy vibrating through the air. It was now or never. “Remember the deal,” she muttered quietly. When her eyes opened next, one was red and one was blue, and when she spoke, she spoke with two tongues.

The hunter spat to the side and rounded towards the water. His senses were eerily still. Still as black water. The blonde woman had pulled out a sword. Nicodemus glanced at his rifle. Hell, one or both of them were certain to work. As Rebecca spoke, the atmosphere seemed to change. Damn near like a pressure shift. The surface of the water tensed and then broke as a clenched hand lifted out of the water. Then another. The fingers lifted one by one to reveal eyes that first rolled white and then dark, black pupils fixated on those that gathered at the shore. The hunter fired into one of the exposed hands. Blood flowed from the meat as it slipped back into the water. It wasn’t long before more bodies pulled themselves from the water and crawled along the shore. A crawl turned into a run and he grinned bitterly as he looked to Mercy. Fired off another round. “Keep your sword sharp, huh?”

Mercy could feel the heaviness in the air as well. It was an uneasy feeling that made her skin want to crawl away from her bones and hide itself somewhere safe. Somewhere that wasn’t here, by the still, black mirror of water stretched out beneath a sky that was almost as dark. But leaving wasn’t an option. Especially as the water rippled, and something rose from beneath the surface. Followed by another, and another. Black eyes peered out from where eyes shouldn’t exist, and as Nic’s shotgun blast drew first blood, Mercy stood, noting the position of the others in her peripheral vision, and tightened her grip on her blade. The bodies rose quickly after that, black water running down their forms like oil. Mercy gave Nic a grin of her own, though hers wasn’t bitter. It bordered the edge of what some might call madness. “It’s always sharp,” she told him before turning towards the bodies that were streaking in their direction. The first one lost the left side of it’s skull, and staggered a few more steps before falling in a heap. The second lost it’s innards in a steaming pile before it slumped over in the path of the others.

Shotgun rounds found their mark as well, and the smell of copper and rot and gunpowder soon filled the air… air that continued to grow heavier and heavier and heavier…

Nothing except the ritual mattered to Rebecca now. As she spoke, the lines below her glowed, engulfing her in an unearthly blue light, speckled with other vibrant colors. It swirled and shimmered and wavered under the pitch of her voice, and as her voice grew, so did it. A wind whipped up around her, as the light climbed higher into the sky. The surface of the lake rippled. Rebecca could not see through the light to know what was coming, not until a figure was appearing in front of her-- but as soon as it touched the light she was bathed in, it screamed. Erupted into blue flame, and crumbled to ash. “Oooh, neat trick!” Said her other half. But Rebecca kept her concentration on the ritual in front of her, waiting for the signal from the other two, waiting for their beams of light to show.

It was only when a loud, low rumbling, from the direction of the lake, did Rebecca give pause and squint through the light. Without really being able to see even, she knew whatever was coming next, was big. And it was angry.

At the speed they were coming, the hunter had a feeling that the rifle might not be the best option going forward. That worked just fine for him. Nicodemus unloaded shell after shell, took some pride in that strange smell of blood and oil. Keep Rebecca safe. See the ritual through. Take a few bastards out. That was all the reason he needed. When the rifle emptied, tossed it to the side and slid the machete out of his belt. Snapped the gun out of his left thigh holster. Ambidextrous death had its uses. He was careful not to look behind him. If he did, the blue flame might sear the night vision right out of him. Black blood coated his forearms, splattered against his face. Between bodies, he glanced over to Mercy. She seemed to be doing just fine, sword in hand and blood in her hair.

The rumble from the river resonated oppressively loud in his head. Nearly dislodged him from where he stood, but he shook his head and grit his teeth. A feeling of nausea spread through his gut. Cold like fingers seemed to reach into his head. Something was coming. He knew it and it knew him. He swallowed it down as his machete continued to cut through. “How’s it goin’ Rebecca?”

Mercy was astounded at the number of creatures… - or where they people? She wasn’t sure… - that continued to rise up from the water. The bodies were starting to pile up along the shoreline, enough that the ones still upright were having to maneuver around or over them. Which gave her and Nic an advantage. She could see him down the way, past the pulsing blue light that contained the exorcist who was the only one of them who could truly finish this. But she couldn’t look for too long, else the light became too bright.

Nic switched to a blade as the bodies outnumbered the capacity of his gun, and Mercy could hear the familiar sound of metal meeting bone. But underneath it all, something else started to vibrate. The vibration turned to a rumble that hummed in Mercy’s chest at a frequency that made her breath catch. She shook her head too as the hum seemed to crawl up her spine and resonate through her skull. A sound like war horns echoed behind her eyes, and for a moment the Fury felt like her head might split in two. But after a moment, whatever had been scraping around in her skull left when it realized Mercy’s mind wasn’t for the taking. Mercy shook her head again before righting herself and splitting open the neck of a creature that had suddenly gotten a bit too close. It fell, as did the ones that came after. But the rumbling continued... in the air and beneath her feet. Something was coming. Something old. Something angry.

She heard Nic call out to Rebecca, and moved a bit closer to the exorcist's light - willing her to hurry the fuck up please and thanks - as the water started to churn and writhe and bubble. “Stay on your feet!” she called out to him, knowing he might already be a step ahead of her. “Watch the water too!”

Focus, Rebecca told herself, stay focused. There was a lot going on, and she needed to focus. The air vibrated with energy, clashing with the low rumble from underground, from under the lake. Her voice faltered ever so as the surface rippled and split and she squinted through the light. In her mind, even he lost focus-- and shuddered. Whatever was coming, it was big, and it scared him, too. The only reason he had agreed to help, after all. This was bigger than both of them. Then all of them here. Individual distraught was set aside to accomplish this one goal, and Rebecca would make sure everyone’s sacrifice was worth it.

But through her light, as the surface split and out came a tentacle, she couldn’t help but falter. A beam of light shot up to her left. More tentacles protruded from the lake. Water rushed past them all, withdrawing for only a moment before rushing back to the shore, swallowing the dock, the boats, the sidewalk path. It rolled up to them all and soaked their shoes, their ankles, their shins, but no one noticed, because above them now loomed two glowering red eyes, piercing through the haze and darkness around the lake. Beacons. Rebecca’s circle did little to shed light onto the monstrosity, only illuminating a small portion of the massive body that now towered in front of them all. A shapeless form in the shadows, too big to take in all at once; shining with wetness as water fell from it in rivulets, a thick, black ooze joining it. Branch like arms protruded and placed themselves onto the shores, sinking in, shaking the ground. Thick as the trees around the lake. Rebecca stumbled but did not move. A low rumble, like scraping metal or jet engines starting, sounded from the creature as it leaned down to examine them all, as if they were nothing more than ants on its table. “Ya Hashem,” she mumbled in quiet prayer, “<<Protect us G-d>>.” Before swallowing her words, opening her mouth, and daring to continue.

There was a roar in protest, and then, the real fight began.

Nicodemus settled into a rhythm as he grunted an acknowledgement towards Mercy. Cutting through meat and bone became comfortable. A mechanical motion that he fell into easily. Even as bodies fell to the mud and black blood bled into the earth. After all, it was what he had come to the lake for. To cut down the creature that had forced his hand. He tried to focus on Rebecca’s voice, even the cut of Mercy’s blade, as the water rose. Through the darkness, light split through. The light split through him. It burned his eyes and when they were able to focus again, through the slightly pinpricks of discoloration, he saw it.

Red eyes looked into his own. He had felt it long before he saw it. It went beyond his senses, beyond his teachings. It simply went beyond. Those cold fingers in his head pilfered through grey matter, pushed aside what it didn’t need, crawled ever inward. As insistent as he had been to kill the creature, to set things right, he doubted. Even so, he moved. He had to strike first. If he didn’t, he feared what might happen. A tentacle crawled forward and he lashed out at it. It was tough, thick to cut through in one swing, but he muscled through. He had to, as Rebecca continued to speak and Mercy continued to fight.

He looked up at the creature again. A third eye had opened. A fourth too. And they turned slowly. Or had they? Whether or not they were in his mind, he had already lost. Fear did nothing but addle. That doubt spread through him like blood from an open wound. The roar deafened his sensitive ears to everything except for running water. Ocean breeze. The ooze of blood. The breaking of bones. Screams ancient and new. Blood gathered in his mouth from how hard he clenched his teeth. His hand lowered against the creature. His eyes shut. No matter. He could see. And he looked toward Mercy.

A sun that looked like an eyeball caused by perfectly explainable solar flares, a black ocean from an oil spill, and the eyeball prank with the town’s water pipes were just a few of the things on Bo’s mind. Needless to say, she had a lot to deal with. And with a call about strange activity by the lake, she sprung to action. There, she imagined she’d find the lunatic that filled the pipes with eyes, or maybe those pranksters who spent all their time chanting. White Crest was a lot of things, at least she could say it wasn’t ever boring. But what she didn’t expect was a mesmerizing display of artistry. A giant squid thing, actors emerging from the water as if they’d been down there the whole time---if anything, this town could be so unbelievably creative. But this was also probably...illegal, in some way. The lake surely was public domain, but did they have to be practicing for their drama routine at this time? And so loud! What was that roar? Was that what was making the ground shake earlier? That roar nearly knocked the officer off her feat, and clearly having had enough of it, she stormed into the scene. “Hey!” She called out, hand on her hip, “I got a call about---” she stared up at the animatronic squid. It was so...lifelike. So horrifying. So large. How did it fit in the lake? Its eyes glowed with impossible redness, deep like their own lake of blood and fire. She glanced around again, shining her flashlight haphazardly; did those people have weapons? Why were people still crawling out of the lake? This was the strangest re-telling of Moby Dick she’d ever seen. Or was this some new Lovecraftian thing she didn’t know about?

She stormed over to the woman closest to the squid, the lead actor, Bo assumed. Bo had no fear, no worries, nothing in her voice or on her face but awe covered by professionalism. “Excuse me, ma’am? I’m officer David! And you’re going to need to turn down the volume on your play or LARP or whatever here. It’s disturbing the nearby---Wow, there sure are a lot of people that came out of the water, huh? Are those knives? Hope they’re fake!” She laughed, glanced around, wondered why no one else was laughing and turned back. “Ma’am? Sir? Other ma’am? Several robed people of indistinguishable gender?”

There were things in this world that defied any rational explanation, other than they couldn’t be explained rationally. Magic, parallel worlds, creatures of fairy tales and myth… gods and monsters… all existed whether one believed in them or not. Disbelief would kill you all the same. And while belief could hold a power all it’s own - as the power of the exorcist within her circle of light demonstrated - it didn’t guarantee one’s safety either.

But is sure fucking helped.

Mercy watched as the leviathan rose from the black water - “Odin protect us…” - the twin flames of its eyes burning in the formless shape that towered over the trio on the shore. The earth rumbled beneath her feet, and alongside her a tentacle, blacker than the water it emerged from and as thick as any of the trees that flanked them, slammed itself into the sand. It had barely settled before Mercy swung at it with her sword, hacking once, twice… three times to sever the massive appendage before it could do further damage. She heard Nic still fighting in the darkness nearby, and Rebecca still spoke the words of the ritual from within her still-intact circle of light, so Mercy redoubled her efforts and cut a swath through any remaining bodies that were still a threat. She didn’t stop until she was between the exorcist and the beast.

Gore coated her skin and hair and dripped from her clothes. From the edge of her blade, the blood of the leviathan ran thick and dark and smelling of rot. It was this blood that she touched her fingertips to before pressing them to her forehead, just over her eyes. Drawing twin lines over her eyelids, cheeks, mouth, and chin… Mercy looked into the face of the monster, and spoke in a lost tongue: “1200 years I’ve walked this earth, yet still I’m left to wonder… how does an Olde One come to be inhabited by such a lesser creature?”

The air around the Fury crackled and hummed as she paced a line back and forth over the gore-covered sand. She was so focused on her words, on distracting the creature long enough for Rebecca to finish the ritual, that she didn’t notice the moment Nic’s blade grew silent. Nor did Mercy notice a fourth person amid the chaos. One who was very, very human, and running right into the fray. She continued to speak, hoping it would delay any further attacks on Rebecca.

“But I see you now… I’ve tasted your blood… and you are not Jǫrmungandr. You will not bring the end to this world. You’ve fallen too far, grown too weak… if that parasite inside you holds you captive.” Mercy shook her head. “You are no god.”

The black water lapped at her boots.

“You’re just a slave…”

There was too much happening at once. Rebecca’s concentration was slipping-- but Amnon could stay focused. He took the moment to seize control and eyes flashed red. They moved in unison as a hand reached out, grabbing the closest cultist and searing the flesh on his face as light followed after in a wispy trail, as if it, too, were made of dirt and fog. Someone appeared beside them-- a woman, with dark hair and dark lips and confused eyes. She was shouting something at them, but Amnon paid no mind. He narrowed their eyes, honed in on a hand ready to strike, a knife slashing in their hand. Amnon managed to snag it just before it reached the detective, and the robed figured cried out, dropping the knife, as the light consumed him. For a brief moment, Amnon turned their eyes to face Bo, one red, one blue, both glowing with a matching light to the circle. “Not fake,” was all they said, both voices coming out at once, before they turned back to the ritual.

The warrior spoke to it in an ancient tongue, one Amnon barely recognized. But her words would fall on deaf ears, this was no old one. This was a creature of its own design. Finally, the two pillars arched in the sky. Brace yourself. They clenched their teeth, spread their legs, and planted their feet as they raised their hands. And when the beams met, they crashed with a thunderous boom more powerful than the monster’s roar. And when they reached Rebecca and Amnon, they exploded with a brilliant light, pushing everything dark away, leaving her, the officer, the warrior, untouched. But not the hunter. He was filled with darkness now, too. They had no time for him, though, and with a hefty charge, Rebecca and Amnon held their hands out. “BE UNTO THIS MORTAL PLANE,” they shouted, “WHERE PAIN AND STRIFE WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL.” And hoped the two fighting-- and perhaps even the officer-- would remember the instructions. Now was the time to strike.

Grey matter turned to darkness as the light fell away. The crash of light had nearly blown out his eardrums. In the space between haggard breaths and silence, purpose steeled him. The parts of Nicodemus’s conscious state were steadily lulled to sleep underneath chaotic, yet somehow rhythmic waves. Some of him still fought. Just as it had happened before, it happened again. It wasn’t enough. He was forced behind an immovable wall as he started to move, compelled by something greater. The mark that had been gouged into his hand ached as his fist clenched. He could hear the voices of both the living and the soon dead. The hunter focused solely on the blonde woman who spoke in an olden language. It wasn’t His and therefore, it served no purpose. A useless tongue. Fit to be torn out.

Whatever she intended to do, He would not allow it. Rend her hands from her body, silence her tongue. Scatter her bones to the under dark. One of the robed figures cut across his path and he grabbed them by the neck. A mistake on their part. Black coated his hands, his blade, as he twisted and tore through water-logged flesh. Drenched in something wicked and silent as the grave, he advanced.

Wow! These were really dedicated actors! Bo wanted to applaud, the effects were just so realistic but they were all clearly so immersed in their roles that she didn’t want to interrupt them. She could let them go, couldn’t she? As an artist herself, she could understand their passion. Of course, her art was more baking-based than theirs, but she was an artist nonetheless. She glanced around again, the strange, wet robbed people shambled towards her and the lead actress. The other woman was hacking away at something and the big, buff man was...walking towards the other woman? Even with her flashlight waving around, it was hard to make any of the action out. “You should be doing this in better lighting,” she commented quietly, not wanting to disturb the play. “I mean, it seems like it must be a health-hazard or something!” As she spoke, one of the robed people moved towards her, brandishing a knife. “T-those are retractable, right?” The robed figure advanced, grazing her arm as she jolted out of their way. Hot blood coated her arm as a sharp pain shot through her. She clutched the wound, watching the way blood coated her fingers. Bo glanced around, the woman had been hacking at bodies, hadn’t she? These so-called robed actors? “This isn’t art!” She drew her gun, firing a round into the sky. “Stand down! Stand---” But they didn’t. She noticed finally that they charged unnaturally, as if being marionetted by some invisible force. There weren’t many of them left, but the few that were seemed so interested in the woman---the actress. Bo snapped around and fired a shot at the large animatronic squid as it roared, and then another, and another. “What is this! Am I endangering protected wildlife?” She swung her baton at a sluggishly approaching ‘actor’, only to find them groan and rise with determination. “You guys should have done Romeo and Juliet! I don’t like this play!” She fired into the sky again, clipping the squid creature with the bullet.

Mercy’s words had no effect on the beast. It paid her no heed, gave nothing in response to her taunts. But it had been worth a try. Behind her, there was a flurry of motion, and the smell of seared flesh, a raised voice, and then the sound of gunshots. Mercy glanced back long enough to see a body consumed by the light of Rebecca's circle. And then the signal they’d been waiting for pierced through the darkness.

Mercy thought her eardrums would burst when the beams came together. The sound resonated inside her head, trembled down through the pillars of her bones and vibrated in her blood as Rebecca’s light washed over her and the dark-haired woman. But Mercy didn’t see Nic, and briefly wondered if the worst had happened. But there was no time. Rebecca’s voice rang out, invoking the words that would send the creature back where it came from. Which meant it was time to strike.

From the sheath across her back, Mercy pulled a short, wooden staff, the length of which was carved with runes. She ran her hand over the wood and whispered a few words. The runes glowed a bright red - the same color as the eyes of the leviathan - before starting to move and curl towards the empty space at either end of the staff. One end extended down towards the sand, creating a thick, sturdy base. From the other end, a long, wickedly curved blade formed from the ether, glowing with the curling red light of the runes. Mercy turned the great harpoon towards one of the creature's crimson eyes… said a prayer that it’s path would be true… took aim…

And let it fly.

Rebecca and Amnon collapsed in their exhaustion, still struggling to hold together the circle of light. “You must wound it!” she shouted at the officer, her voice only. Something felt like it was vibrating inside of her, trying to burst out. She had to hold the energy, had to wait. If she released the ritual too soon and monster would stay and all of this would be for naught. Trembling, she tried to pull herself back up, even the monster inside of her exhausted of his powers. “The creature, we have to wound it enough...to send it back...I can’t step out of this light or the ritual will be ruined,” she explained, hoping that some part of this officer’s brain could register that this wasn’t fake and they needed her help. Her eyes searched for Nic, saw the spear soaring. It caught the creature in the eye and roared, rearing back, tentacles slamming into the ground, shaking the entire area. Water splashed and lapped up around them all, cultists fell in heaps. “That!” she shouted to Mercy, “keep doing that! Aim for its eyes! They’re the weak point!”

The hunter’s pace increased as the monster roared. Pain bloomed. Some unseen panic rose up in Nicodemus’s chest. Frustration grew as he tore through more of the robed figures. They had their purpose but now they were getting in the way. His was greater. Black blood flecked his face as he stepped into dim light. When he looked at Mercy, he didn’t think twice about it and instead moved. Crashed towards Mercy like an unmerciful wave, compelled by the moon and the pulsating cold in his head. He grabbed for her throat as water sloshed up against his ankles, then his knees as he advanced toward the water. His face was stone as he looked at her. Through her. It wasn’t the hunter with his eyes on her. It was him and if he bid it, let her choke on black water until her spirit caved.

Or was it a play? Bo glanced around frantically, and though she kept fending off robbed figures with baton swings, earning her bone-shattering crunches and snaps as she smacked the thing around, she wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t some new kind of immersive theatre. The lady kept saying strange things, and Bo was sure she just saw the other lady fling a whole spear-thing at the giant squid. Yes, she was bleeding...but did artists not bleed for their art? The tentacle slam seemed real, and loud, and she stumbled for it. But what else was she to think about the command ‘we must wound it’ like this was some episode of Supernatural? “Okay, but do I shoot at the eyes or does she? Like what’s my storyline in this play? Or does she just--” She gestured to the woman who was now---”Fuck! I think your actors are turning on each other! No! Please! That’s violence! That’s bad!” And the buff man looked so much stronger than the woman, or so much more dedicated. She moved to separate the two, finding her path blocked by more robbed actors as they grouped in on her and the lead actress. “Eeck!” She fired her gun up into one of the eyes, like she said, wondering if it worked or not---she really just wanted to scare these robed people away, but gunshots would not deter them, being repeatedly hit with a baton did not deter them. She didn’t want to shoot, but it seemed to be the only thing she could do to keep them from stabbing the lead actress. “Can I shoot these things!? Are these people? They don’t seem like people! AH!” Another one charged at her, cutting the other arm. She shoved that one down, firing a bullet into its head--convinced it couldn’t be a person. “I-I think y-your animatronics are evil!” But the blonde woman and the buff man were people, she knew that much. She shone her flashlight at them, firing at the rest of the robed robots. “You two stop that! Stop!” She fired a few more bullets up, into what she hoped were the eyes and not just blindly into nowhere, before she turned to the lead actress--confused and desperate for a prompt.

When the spear hit home, Mercy let out a cry of triumph. It was drowned out as the beast roared in pain and anger - a terrible, deafening sound - and its long, inky-black limbs writhed and crashed around the small group. The ground trembled in the wake of the impact to the sand, and Mercy nearly lost her footing against the suddenly shifting earth.

But still she heard Rebecca call out, heard the confirmation of the beast’s weakness, heard another voice - the dark-haired woman- asking what her role was. “Yes! Shoot it!” the Fury answered as she took up her next weapon, a longbow, and nocked an arrow tipped with a long, serrated head. She fired it into the leviathan’s eye, followed by a second, causing the monster to roar even louder as both struck true. The beach was chaos - light and dark, blood and water, sand and ash, life and death… all struggling against the inevitable - but Rebecca’s light held true, and the sound of gunshots filled the air alongside the whistle of Mercy’s arrows and the chant of the exorcist’s words.

Mercy had just nocked her third arrow when something huge and hulking bore down on her without warning. She barely had time to react as Nic’s hands latched onto her neck with an iron grip that would’ve crushed a human's throat like a soda can. But Mercy wasn’t human. Nic wouldn’t be able to strangle her no matter how hard he tried. Regardless, Mercy made a slightly pained sound as the hunter’s hands started to squeeze, and her own hands snapped up to latch tightly around his wrists. This close, the bright light of the ritual circle illuminated his face… and the blank expression of a man who was no longer in control.

Fuck.

“Nic! I know you’re in there!” Mercy yelled, using her grip against his skin to push as much of her Valkyrie influence into him as she could. “Fight it!” But the water was cold and getting deeper by the second as Nic bullied her backwards. There was no time. Using Nic’s own forward momentum and size against him, Mercy planted her feet against the sandy bottom and pulled forwards on his arms as hard as she could. She then threw her entire body weight backwards and down, dousing herself in cold, black water, before putting both feet into the hunter's stomach, hard. She pulled and kicked out with everything she had in an attempt to flip him over and onto his back in the water. As Nic fell, Mercy tried to twist out of his grip, swinging her fist at his temple once he was on his back in an attempt to stun him enough to make him let go.

“Fight back, Nic!” The water was freezing against her skin as it churned around them, stirred by the furious, wounded monster overhead. “Don’t make me hurt you!”

Her power wavered. Rebecca’s eyes flickered, the matching glow from her circle fading for just a moment. No, she couldn’t let go now. She couldn’t. Power, they needed power. She felt him pushing against her, inside. He wanted to consume, he was using her weakness against her. “We made a deal,” she hissed, buckling to her knees, thick, chilling water splashing up her thighs, her abdomen, making her shiver. Hands fell into the water as well, one clutched to her head. She needed more power, she didn’t have enough. She never had enough. Fists dug up mud and grass. Eyes searched the battlefield. The human cop would not do, the hunter would not do. Zeroed in on the woman fighting. Her power was calling to them. Infinite and endless. Yes, her.

Amnon reached out, hand bursting through the light, and called her to him. A telekinetic pull, with the last of his energies, the two fighting bodies tumbling towards them. Fingers caught at the blonde woman’s chest, and pressed. “Give me power,” they said, and in the next moment, magic swelled into their arm, their chest, lit up their eyes, burning with a fury a hundred times more powerful than before. “Let’s finish this,” they said together, eyes boring holes through the battery of a woman before turning away. Raised their hands. It was time to finish this.

The hit to Nicodemus’s gut slightly winded him but what compelled him wasn’t human. It didn’t need to breathe the way that something brokenly human did. Even if his lungs seized slightly and his throat burned. His grip on Mercy maintained even as his head smarted from the shot to his temple. She was talking to him in a language he knew and chose to ignore. All that was needed was the language of blood and water. It spoke clearly enough to him. She fought against him as he dug his heels into the dirt and twisted his upper body, leverage on his side as water lapped at his wrists. The other woman said something and then, he could feel Mercy start to slacken underneath him. Noise and light, both human and otherwise, became a cacophony around them but he remained fixated on the blonde woman. He couldn’t quite get his fingers to completely circle around her neck as he forced her underwater, the tension of the attempt clear in his neck and arms. After her, one by one, they all might become the drowned. He would not permit them escape.

Mercy knew Rebecca had warned them that energy would be needed if this was going to work.

Magic always had a price, after all.

But Mercy was still unprepared.

Thunder without sound… light and heat and burning, fathomless eyes bright as all the suns of all the realms… taking what was needed… pulling it from the very essence of what she was… it felt like her flesh was being peeled from her bones…

So as Mercy fought back against Nic’s crushing hold with everything she had - every skill, every defensive measure, any and everything that had saved her life against enemies far bigger and far more dangerous than one mortal hunter, possessed or otherwise ... - she felt herself falter.

And while Nic - or the entity that was in control - couldn’t strangle her or break her bones, Mercy was no match for him when it came down to sheer brute strength. Especially as her own strength started to fade, pulled towards Rebecca’s circle, towards the light that began to brighten even as Mercy’s light started to dim.

The beast roared again as Rebecca raised her hands to the sky, and everything seemed to slow. It was in that moment that Mercy realized there would be no escaping this time. She’d seen enough of life and death to know that her life, such as it was, was forfeit. For now. But she would not go quietly.

Mercy dug her nails into the skin of Nic’s arms, cutting half-moons into his flesh. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried… for a thousand years-”

But then there was only darkness and rushing cold and the sound of her own muted screams as Nic forced her beneath the surface of the lake…

And when the black water finally rushed into her lungs and Mercy’s struggling ended, her last thought was simply:

Forgive me…

It was time.

Power surged through them and Rebecca drew in a breath. She drew herself up to stand again, caked in mud and water, and grass and blood. Inhaled slowly as she took up position inside her circle again, held up her hands. The beams energies were perfectly aligned now, and the monster in front of her turned as if to meet her gaze. It roared again. Soldiers fell. The energy in the air shifted. Nic was pressed on top of the blonde woman, and Rebecca was acutely aware of her movements stopping. But she could mourn the life lost later. For now, they needed to focus.

Raising her hands, she began the chant again. This time in her own language, using her own power. The monster screamed. It reached out, swiping a tentacle across the ground, sweeping cultists and others alike out of its way as it swung for her. But when its flesh met their light, it could go no further. It screamed in pain, shaking the world again, sloshing the water around. It tried to fight back, but their power, the power of the rituals-- it was too strong. She turned her palms to face the demon, and with one word, redirected the light.

As it collided with the monster, it sent out a shockwave. Everyone knocked from their feet. Even them. Light consumed the monster, soaking into it. For a moment, the world was still. Then fissures, like cracks in its facade, exploded with light. From wherever it was wounded. The spear in its eye, the bullet holes rained into it. The hole in its flesh where it’d collided with the circle’s light. As the light from the rituals consumed it, it spread. Out, over the lake, over the water. It consumed the cultists and the docks and worked its way up the shore to the circle. Washed right by her, right by Mercy’s unconscious body, right by the cop. And just when it seemed like it would climb all the way up to the road and perhaps down into the town-- it stopped. And receded, sucked back into the circle, back into the lake, and when it faded, nothing but the four of them were left.

Rebecca collapsed. It was over.

Nicodemus was keenly aware of how her pulse slowed then halted. That panic swelled further in his chest and pressed against every organ, like bear-trap primed to reverse. He needed to keep going. He needed to tear them all down to build a foundation that would outlast their fragile existence. As the beams lit up his eyes and near-blinded him, he stumbled back. Pain ripped through his head and a guttural roar tore through him. About shredded his vocal chords. It was him screaming, the hunter. Not whatever the hell had taken over him. The light faded and he went quiet. Aware. He looked at Mercy, the purpling around her neck and the stillness that overcame her. He had done that. Fuck. He spat out black water. He looked back at Rebecca. Collapsed and exhausted. He couldn’t find any words for what she had done. As he swallowed, his throat burned. Then he looked at the other woman. A cop. Shit. He had to go. He needed to leave. Get away from them. Get away from everyone. Fear swelled alongside panic and he moved to gather the assortment of weapons he had brought. Make sure he grabbed his rifle. His thoughts scattered, damn near impossible to the piece together. A migraine threatened to split him. The look he sent Rebecca could hardly convey the agony that chilled him, but it was all he could muster before he ran towards the thick of the White Crest woods. He wouldn’t stop until his boots wore and even then, not until his feet bled.

There was too much, too soon and too quick. Bo whipped her flashlight around frantically, the man was drowning the blonde woman, whose struggling seemed to die. The robed people stood between her and them, and she stumbled backwards, confused and horrified as the lead actress started her chant. A tentacle sweeped out for them, knocking the robed ones away, halting just in front of her face, between the light and the darkness. The creature roared, and Bo flew back against the wet ground. The world was bright, suddenly, the way she imagined it would be when she died. She might have let it be, if her mind hadn’t thought of the woman, still in the lake, and all that she had to set right. It wouldn’t be her end, not today. As the light was pulled away, leaving their world back in shuddering darkness, she clawed her way to the lead actress first. She pulled up grass and dug dirt under her nails. Bo checked her pulse---alive---then spared a glance up to the strewn bodies of the robed people---or what should have been their bodies. In their place she found their robes, stained wet and dark with something she couldn’t see. But it didn’t matter, not now. She clawed across the ground again, picking herself up only to slip in the mud and come crashing back down. Ink coated her hands and she tried again, clawing and running, stumbling and shouting. The man was gone. She committed his silhouette to memory before she turned to the lake. There, with equal vigor, she splashed and waded through the water, grunting and heaving as she pulled the blonde woman’s body out.

Once at the threshold between land and water, her feet began slipping on the mud, her arms looped around the woman’s losing their grip. And everytime Bo faltered, she dragged her up with renewed strength, determined to see her live even if the cold stillness of her body told another story. “I need--I need---” she panted into her receiver, calling for backup, ambulance, anything. “Come on,” she begged the woman’s unmoving body. She checked her pulse--dead. She began the process of resuscitation. But each pump, each breath she tried to bring back to the woman’s lungs, was met with stillness. “Please,” Bo croaked. She continued to plead long after the woman was pronounced dead. And all that remained of the oddities she’d witnessed were the giant squid, a handful of ink stained robes and a mismatched recounting that made no sense to even her. But she begged until her voice went raw. She begged for some justice in the world, some answers that could be clung to. She wept, for the unnamed woman who drowned, for the man who left his crime to be unanswered, for the woman who cast the squid away, now alone on the floor. She wept for all the horror that this town produced, and all the pieces she was missing.

This town needed saving, but how could anyone help when these were the troubles they faced? What hope was left for White Crest?

#wickedsevent #chatzy #wickedswriting

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thelioncourts · 4 years ago

Text

title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 5366 for chapter six (6/?); 35387 all together

Damen was almost certain that his dream had been a pleasant one. There wasn’t anything all that concrete he could hold on to in memory of it, but he recalled lots of sunlight and the smell of freshly baked bread. He would have liked to have continued in that dreamworld for a few more hours, but it had been interrupted by a sudden –

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The person at the door, Damen first thought upon hazily waking up to the sound, must have a death wish.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Still too asleep and too caught up in trying to remember if the warmth from his dream had been from the sun on his skin or the warmth of an oven, Damen couldn’t even process a second coherent thought yet. Instead, he groaned. It was that overly loud kind of groan someone might do after not having used their voice for a few hours. Then he turned his face into the pillow, willing the person on the other side to magically disappear.

Knock knock knock.

“Damen.” Nik groaned too, his groan somehow sounding more frustrated in its tone than Damen’s own. “If you don’t answer that right now, I will not be responsible for the murder I commit.”

Damen ignored Nik for a moment, flipping over onto his stomach and bringing the pillow up and over his head so it muffled the sounds from outside.

Knock knock knock.

With yet one last groan, Damen threw his legs over the bed and stared blearily at the red lights of the alarm clock on the joint nightstand between the two beds. 5:47. When there was again another knock knock knock, he finally stood up and shuffled his way across the room.

Damen really was normally hard to frustrate or anger, but exceptions could be made for ridiculousness such as incessant knocking before six in the morning. It’s why, as he crossed the floor and flung open the door whilst rubbing sleepily at his eyes, he didn’t even have anything particular he planned on saying to the person on the other side, he was just going to say whatever came to mind. And, if he had actually stopped to think about that before he did it, he would have probably tried to stop himself because he was (rightfully) pissed off and nothing good ever came from greeting anyone while (rightfully) pissed off and –

After he pulled the door open, it took his sight a moment to adjust and come to the realization that it was Laurent DeVere standing outside his hotel room.

Laurent, very much unlike Damen, appeared to have been up for some time already. He looked impeccably put together, a black peacoat falling just below his waist and leading down to black pants and black shoes similar to what he had been wearing the other evening, and his eyes – blue and bright – looked perfectly awake.

“Hi,” Damen said dumbly, a total one-eighty in his voice from what he had intended.

“Were you planning on sleeping the day away?”

It took Damen a moment to react, but when he did, he squinted as though trying to make sense of conversation. “It’s not even six in the morning.”

He realized they were talking too loudly, and he began to whisper in courtesy for the old woman staying in the room next to their own. Damen and Nik had run into her once or twice as she gallivanted from party to party, and she was quite a firecracker.

“I thought I was giving you two a grand tour of my city today. So unless you plan on wasting my time, I suggest you put on whatever you consider clothing and come get a coffee so we can begin,” Laurent said, already turning and walking back down the hotel hallway.

“But what about –” Damen began to call out after him, but Laurent didn’t turn around and Damen didn’t want to yell anymore. With a heaving sigh, he closed the door and went back into the room where Nik was sitting up on his own bed, his hair a mess of darkness and his mouth pulled in a sleepy frown. Then he flopped back onto his pillow and gritted out, “Please tell me I didn’t hear who I think I heard.”

[Continue on AO3]

“Laurent asks that we go downstairs and meet him for coffee immediately,” Damen said, already rummaging through his bag and pulling out some clothes.

“Well Laurent,” Nik started, “can begin to learn that not everything has to be done on his pompous self-regulated schedule. I’m going to need at least half an hour.”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you say that to his face,” Damen said with a laugh. “How about I go right now so he doesn’t go on some kind of diva-freakout, you order a cappuccino from room service, and he and I meet you back here?” Damen offered. He flicked on the bathroom light and Nik groaned again.

“A cappuccino sounds really nice right now.”

Damen’s morning routine was simple enough. He jumped in the shower for no more than five minutes, and then he was out and brushing his teeth, combing through his hair, and drying off best he could before pulling his clothes on. It didn’t matter to him if his hair was still wet before walking out the door because he never did much to it anyway; his curls had a mind of their own.

Laurent was waiting for him. Well, actually, Laurent was waiting for them. Watching the door for a moment, Laurent turned to Damen with a delicately quirked eyebrow.

“Your friend not coming?”

It hit Damen, suddenly in that moment, just how odd this situation was.

Not even a month ago, Damen had been entirely in the dark about Nik’s attempt to begin something professional with his photography and now Damen was grabbing coffee, alone, with a model he had met sporadically over the course of three days so said-model could show them around Paris.

But if Laurent found it odd, he didn’t show it. Instead, he waited for a response.

“He’s just waking up,” Damen said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He’s going to order a cappuccino from room service and then we can all meet up.”

Not missing a beat, Laurent didn’t say anything else, but began to walk, his demeanor full of an arrogance that Damen would simply follow. Damen did.

The streets were relatively empty of people and it allowed Damen to pay attention to the things one missed while dodging foot traffic, like the intricate designs on buildings, on the flowers just beginning to bloom, on the way the wind snuck through the gaps between buildings and rustled his hair. But with such a leisurely walk at hand, Damen found his attention wavering to the stranger at his side.

It was a confirmation to Damen that Laurent was a thousand times more beautiful without anything on his face. His outfit wasn’t attention-getting, his hair was simplistically done, and yet he was impossible to look away from. In fact, without anything deterring one from looking at only him, Damen found that there had never been anyone he’d ever seen with such effortless allure. (Nik would tell him right now he was biased and always weak when blond hair was involved. Actually, Nik would probably tell him just that at some point today.)

Realizing he was staring (a horrid habit he seemed to have mastered since arriving in France), Damen asked, “Do you go get coffee this early every day?”

“Nearly,” Laurent answered, not looking in Damen’s direction. “Mornings are often quiet. I try to enjoy them unhurried.”

Before Damen could comment back, something about how his and Nik’s mornings were often hurried in trying to visit entire cities in a week or less, or how the only time they got coffee this early was when they were already at the airport for a before-sunrise flight, Laurent was turning and walking through the doors of a cafe.

It was a small place, unsuspecting with its glass doors with gold handles and a handful of tables both outside and inside. The tables were black, as were the chairs, with only the smallest of gold decorations on them. The counter to order was also black, and very tall, and it was all so very much like how Laurent dressed himself, so very much opposite of how Etoile did anything Damen had seen yet. Damen couldn’t help but smile.

The baristas here seemed to know Laurent too, reacting warmly to Laurent’s ‘Bonjour.’ Without even needing to order, Laurent paid for whatever they were already preparing. After his own ‘Bonjour’ and weathering the curious gazes of the two baristas as they looked between him and Laurent, Damen ordered un petit café. Laurent grimaced visibly.

“What?” Damen asked after paying.

“It tastes like what I would guess gasoline tastes like going down your throat,” Laurent said. He motioned to where the barista was pulling the singular shot of espresso into an espresso glass, the crema on top sleek and shiny.

“It’s not that bad,” Damen said. Just then, the second barista handed Laurent his drink. It looked to be un café crème, a latte-like drink of espresso and steamed milk. Damen couldn’t help but notice the pile of sugar cubes next to the glass.

They took a seat outside, per Laurent’s lead, and Damen watched as Laurent took one of the sugar cubes and dipped it into his café crème just long enough for the sugar cube to take on a light brown color before popping it in his mouth.

“You like sweet coffees, I take it?” Damen asked. His espresso was warm in his hands.

Laurent hummed and took a drink. Damen wondered, briefly, if he was using the coffee to wash down the graininess of the sugar cube or if he was using the sugar cube to continue to sweeten the coffee he was drinking. “I was in New York for fashion week a few years back and tried this horrid sugary concoction they tried to pass off as coffee. It was a double-shot of espresso in a pool of chocolate and caramel, shaken with milk and ice, and topped with whipped cream. It was delightful. We don’t have anything quite like that here.”

“I’m pretty sure something like that would be considered blasphemy.”

“Very un-Parisian in every way,” Laurent agreed. He popped another sugar cube into his coffee, then his mouth.

It got quiet for a moment. Damen sipped his espresso and his mouth puckered at the taste. He had heard that Parisian coffee wasn’t up to par with expectations, but having spent as much time in Italy as Damen had in his life, he had a coffee-tuned palette that was displeased greatly with the drink in his hand. Across from him, Laurent was looking out at nothing in particular. This close, and with the newly shining sun facing them, Damen could make out the length of his eyelashes.

“So,” Damen began after it started to feel awkward, after he couldn’t help but shift around just to do something that wasn’t sip on espresso and stare at Laurent, “why are you doing this?”

“This?”

“Showing me and Nik around.” Damen paused as though thinking about what he was going to say. In reality he was waiting for Laurent to respond. When Laurent didn’t, Damen continued. “I’m not trying to sound rude, but you don’t exactly seem the type.”

That got a smile, however small, out of Laurent. “You don’t say.”

This time Damen did wait while Laurent, unhurriedly, took a drink of his coffee.

“I hadn’t been lying when I said that this would keep my uncle off of my back. Every year I spend weeks enduring his demands that I participate with his Paris’ Got Talent search photographers and every year that I don’t, his patience wears thinner. Over time I’ve chosen at least one photographer to,” he did air-quotations with the hand not holding his cup, “‘get to know’ for a day so that I can’t be lectured when I abandon the Friday luncheon early.”

“You’ve done this a few years?”

“Of course. It didn’t take me that long to figure out what to do to appease him.”

“And what made you choose Nik? Why not choose Guillame or someone else?”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Laurent began, leaning back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. “Guillame is a mumbling and weak little thing. Had I approached him about anything he would have pissed himself before he could find words. Hendric had other matters to attend to. Those matters, of course, being one of our makeup artists, Genevot. Talik and I would have had more conversation with a brick wall than each other, and Jeurre is a friend of my uncle’s and I am tired of old French men who are friends with my uncle. That, you barbarian, is how I found myself stuck with your friend and, in turn, you.” He paused to take another drink. “You two may be social media celebrities, but nothing could be easier for me than giving you a tour of the city I’ve spent my entire life living in.”

Damen ignored the jab about being a social media celebrity. “Alright, that’s fair enough.”

After running their dishes back indoors, Damen waited for Laurent to get off of his phone so they could go back to meet Nik. While walking, Damen found himself saying, “I don’t understand why you want your uncle off of your back so badly though,” before he could stop himself. He might as well have not said anything at all though. Laurent didn’t react.

Nik was ready and outside by the time they arrived. He had his camera in hand and was taking advantage of the emptier streets like Damen had, only he was using the opportunity to snap photos of Paris in the soft morning light. There was no acknowledgement from him that Damen and Laurent had gotten there but instead, like it was instinct, he turned the camera to Damen and Damen simply talked.

They fell into their normal routine.

“Routine” was probably an extravagant word for what they did. The reality of it was this: Nik occasionally had Damen move around and they chatted while Nik took photograph after photograph after photograph. Damen had learned a long time ago he couldn’t just stand there, it was too awkward, too forced. This “routine” allowed for Damen to not feel like he was doing something fake while also allowing Nik experience with a moving subject. It’s what had built Damen’s Instagram, these candid photos taken while Damen sometimes talked about the most mundane of things, like what he wanted for dinner or that tomorrow was leg day.

They chatted about nothing in particular at this moment. Damen asked how the cappuccino was, Nik said it was shit. Nik asked how the espresso was, Damen said it was shit. They discussed how shit French coffee was and how the next time they were in Italy they were going to drink espresso by the gallon. It wasn’t until the sun had completely risen over the horizon that they both remembered Laurent.

Laurent had been completely silent as they had gone on about like the day was any other day in a new city. When they both turned to him, he was leaning against one of the many columns of the hotel awning, his expression almost amused. Then, with a bored tone, he asked, “Are we done here? Or are you planning on standing outside of your own hotel the entirety of the day?”

On foot, they were able to witness how the streets gradually became busier with bustling herds of people off to work and tourists wandering in every direction. Despite the growing population around them, they could have easily gotten to wherever Laurent was leading them in a short amount of time, but Nik was stopping every five steps to take a photograph of something new. After about twenty minutes of this, Laurent finally let out a huff of annoyance. Damen was pretty surprised he held himself back that long.

“If you would stop taking pictures of every godforsaken lamppost in the city, you would find we are but a street away from something actually worthy of attention.”

In front of them was a building that looked to be made from the mind of Lewis Carroll. It was the polar opposite of everything else along the walk of the now very familiar Rue de Rivoli street, namely for the faces from a Steampunk world that stared out at every passing Parisian and tourist, beckoning them to come inside its bright yellow front door.

Laurent didn’t say anything. He waited while both Damen and Nik walked the outside of this odd building to take in the colors and the signs and the flowers made of metal hanging off of its railings and when he decided they had had enough time, he wandered inside. Upon entrance was a spiral staircase littered with hundreds of writings in mostly French, but there was also English, Arabic, Spanish, German, Mandarin, and Korean that Damen could spy along the way down.

Nik found a painting on the wall to their left, a painting of realistic gemstones glittering between the bones of a stark white skeleton. Next to it was a painting from the election in 2010. Next to that was a drawing of a school desk covered in various graffiti.

“What is this place?” Damen asked, his head tilted up to take in the paper airplanes hanging from the ceiling.

“59 Rue de Rivoli. Otherwise known as the Aftersquat,” Laurent said. He began descending the spiral staircase. “In the late nineties, three artists broke into this building. It had lain abandoned for nearly fifteen years and they had decided it could be put to much better use. Thus, it began to become what it is today, a set of artists’ studios.”

Damen and Nik followed, their eyes trained on the walls. There was every kind of art style imaginable along the way. Damen wasn’t an expert, but he recognized pop art and realistic art and abstract art. There was art that looked like it could have belonged in an old church, its style Renaissance-esque and Biblical. There was traditional and modern Japanese art as well as minimalistic art. It was overwhelming to the senses and yet entirely captivating.

“This place is insane,” Nik breathed, his eyes caught on a painting of a woman staring into a lake at her own reflection.

“It is French counter-culture at its finest,” Laurent said.

They were walking by a room that they realized quite quickly wasn’t a room at all, but an open artist studio. Laurent continued on, but Damen and Nik both stopped to peer inside when a man who had been staring at the doorway stood up from a desk and came out to the hallway far too excitedly.

“Laurent!”

Laurent turned to face the man, his face unreadable. “Torveld. I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I took a two-year sabbatical from the studio to return home for some time, but I couldn’t stay away. Paris has too much beauty to leave behind,” the man, Torveld, said. His face, unlike Laurent’s, was entirely readable, full of adoration and awe at Laurent’s presence in this place. “It is wonderful to see you again.”

“You as well,” Laurent said. “I assume since you’re back you’ll be meeting with Charls soon. He still adores your work.”

“I very much hope so. He’s great to work with and he does work with the most beautiful of models in all of Paris.”

Damen and Nik were standing somewhat to the side, quietly taking in Torveld’s blatant flirting. Nik gave Damen a look that said he was making a silent prayer in Torveld’s honor.

“Charls is wonderful, I’m sure you two will create something just as stunning as the last time,” Laurent smiled. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I did promise these two a tour and we’re already horribly limited on time.”

“I apologize,” Torveld said with surprise in his voice and even a little bit of laughter. “I’m being rude. I am Torveld Patran, one of the artists here in the Aftersquat. This is my third year of residency.”

“Damianos Vallis.”

“Nikandros Kyroi.”

Torveld motioned to the camera in Nik’s hands. “Are you one of the photographers for Etoile’s show this year?”

“Yes. Rehearsals start next week.”

“What an exciting time. Etoile truly houses the best Paris has to offer.”

“So you’ve said,” Damen chimed in.

Laurent was already down four steps toward the next level, and he threw a dismissive wave in Torveld’s direction as an end to the conversation and Damen and Nik did the same, their curious eyes focused on Laurent’s retreating form.

“This is the level that, I believe, will interest you the most,” Laurent said. Around them were photographs layered upon one another like they were pages in a book instead of art on the walls. There were black and white photos to the left and colored photos to the right, all of a variety of subjects. Nik, nearly in a trance, immediately wandered to the photos of a desert near the top of the right wall.

“You seem familiar with this place,” Damen said in reference to the building and its inhabitants as he watched Nik with a smile.

Laurent hummed. “Charls, Etoile’s designer, loves this place. A few years back he was here looking for inspiration for Paris Fashion Week and met Torveld. Torveld’s art is painted on fabric. Charls adored him and had me come meet Torveld as well and to compare Torveld’s art with my skin and my hair and so on. That year, it was no surprise the designs were based upon Torveld’s own. But I came to enjoy this place more than most.”

“Why?” Damen asked. Laurent turned to look at him, his expression unreadable once more.

“My uncle despises this place.”

Damen was going to respond, but just then Nik called him over to point out a photograph of Pulpit Pit. They both brought their phones out to pull up their own photos from that trip which had, of course, involved some very fun rock climbing at a different and less touris-filled area of the Rogaland region. While they talked, Nik began to take pictures of the room, of Damen, of the view down the rest of the open spiral staircase. Like at the hotel, they fell into what was natural for them and only when they remembered they weren’t alone did they stop to face Laurent who was leaning against one of the photograph-covered walls.

“I’m not used to not being in front of the camera,” Laurent said.

“Sorry,” Nik began, fumbling with the camera as if trying to figure out if he should put it down or turn its lens toward Laurent.

“It’s quite more relaxing on this end. Perhaps you can fill in for me during Fashion Week,” Laurent said, angling his head in Damen’s direction.

‘I could fill in a lot if you’d like,’ Damen found himself thinking before he could help it, but, luckily, he bit his tongue. Nik threw him a glare as if he knew what was running through Damen’s mind.

They wandered through every floor of 59 Rue de Ravoli with wide eyes and a camera ready for anything. Damen’s favorite art was a section of one of the walls on the fifth floor that was made like an ancient Greek creation, all inlaid with gold and people with straight noses. Nik kept wandering back to the floor with all the photography and even had a good chat with an artist that showed up around nine in the morning. Eventually, after they had seen a lot and not even a quarter of what was there, they exited out of the multicolored side of the door to leave.

The streets were busier at this time, but in the earliest days of March it wasn’t near as busy as it could have been such as in the summer. Laurent didn’t miss a beat in walking out of the door and onto the streets, and he began walking toward wherever he had set his mind to go. Like before, they would have gotten there earlier if it hadn’t been for Nik only, this time, it wasn’t really Nik’s fault. A group of (assumed) friends across the street were struggling in getting a group photo and when they saw Nik’s camera in hand they yelled across the way, causing quite a scene, to ask for a few pictures of them together.

“We’ve never been to Paris,” one girl stammered out, looking stressed.

“And we don’t know if we’ll ever get to come back!” another girl said.

“And selfie sticks can really only do so much,” one of the boys said too.

After a shove on the shoulder from Damen, Nik obliged and thus began an actual friendly photoshoot in the middle of a Parisian street just after breakfast. Eventually, after everyone seemed content with at least one photo each, Nik was freed and turned a slightly worried look to Laurent who must have been horribly irritated. But Laurent was on the phone, listening, not talking, and after it became evident he wasn’t going to get off of the phone with whoever he was on the phone with, Damen and Nik wandered up and down the street, taking pictures with beautiful and colorful doors, with script written signs and tiny alleyways, with clothing store fronts and bakery food items.

“What are you doing?” came Laurent’s voice out of the blue. Now he looked impatient. His right foot was angled out in front of him, the heel firmly planted on the ground almost as though he would begin tapping his toe against it at any moment.

“Waiting for you,” Damen said. Nik burned a hole into the side of Damen’s head with his stare. If Damen noticed it though, or cared, there was no sign. He looked at Laurent, meeting Laurent’s gaze without any kind of challenge. Laurent didn’t react. After a moment he said, “Let’s go,” and began walking as though all of this had been his plan the entire time.

Damen and Nik followed, or tried to anyway. It seemed as though Laurent was determined to have them tour the entire city on foot in a handful of hours with the pace he was walking. It was exhausting, Damen thought, as he tried to look up and around at the blur of buildings.

Damen spent a lot of time looking up. Whenever they travelled, which was always, he walked with his head and eyes up, taking in the way the sky set against unique skylines, taking in the way locals casually went around to their familiar spots, taking in the way that atmosphere felt around them. Right now, all of that was impossible with the worry he had of listing Laurent in the crowd or tripping over unknown grounds.

It was Nik, unsurprisingly, who finally forced them to come to a halt. There was something on a wall that caught his attention, and it was as though his camera gravitated to it without his own action.

It was impossible to miss, truly. It was exceedingly large, especially for its placement not but three-quarters of the way up on a wall, and it protruded from the wall at least a meter, casting large shadows all around. Its gold and black coloring shined on the plain beige of the wall it was on, but most striking were the gold figures. A man with a sword, a dragon, a crab, and a rooster, all made of hammered gold, stood under the watch of a round and golden clock. The hands of the clock were still, stuck, and people rushed by it without a glance.

“What is this?” Nik asked, already taking pictures.

“The Defender of Time,” Laurent said. He was staring up at it with something almost sad in his eyes. “It’s a clock. It hasn’t worked in years.”

Nik was moving so he was facing away from the sun, allowing his camera to pick up on the glint of the gold, on the shadows on the ground. “Why hasn’t it worked in years?” Damen asked.

“The funding for it ran dry. It’s expensive to keep a mechanical clock of this magnitude working.” He paused, his eyes scanning over the craggy landscape, over the gaunt face of the man with the sword. “It hasn’t worked since 2003. I never got to see it running, but my brother had apparently loved it.”

“What did it do exactly?”

“On the hour, the man would fight one of the three animals. Each animal is representative of something, those somethings being the ground, the sky, and the sea. It would depend on which animal the man was fighting, but each fight was accompanied by sounds, like the earth moving, the wind howling, or the waves crashing. But then three times a day the man would have to fight all three creatures at the same time.”

“You said it was a funding issue that turned it into this?” Nik asked. He was scrolling through the photos on his camera already. Laurent nodded. “Why not just fund it yourself then? You seem to enjoy it.”

“I’ve never seen it, how on earth could I enjoy it enough to spend money on it?” Laurent asked back. Then he was walking again, not sparing a glance for the Defender of Time.

Nik kept lagging behind, eyes catching on statues, on buildings, on people, and on light, and Laurent looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but here. Damen, picking up on that, did what he did best: talked.

He watched Nik change his angle around an extravagant statue of a man on a horse before asking Laurent, “How exactly did you get into modeling?”

“I was thrown into it,” Laurent said.

“Thrown into it? I thought you wanted to do it,” Damen said, recalling a conversation with Laurent’s uncle from days earlier.

“I did ask to do it, yes. But I never intended on it being my life.”

“But –”

“The wants of a thirteen-year-old are far different than the needs of one. I was too young to know what I needed.”

Damen knew there was a furrow between his brows, knew that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was going to probably piss Laurent off, and yet he asked, “Then why do you do it?”

Laurent finally looked at him, eyes scanning the expression on Damen’s face as though looking for something. “It’s what I know.”

He said it so simply, as though it made perfect sense, as though there was no other option at all and Damen was stupid for even asking such a question.

Damen was struggling with what to say, or ask, next. There were so many things running through his head, namely things that seemed to contradict one another, and he didn’t know where to start. Luckily, or unluckily, for him, Laurent had the next question already sorted out.

“You don’t know about my family, do you?”

For once there was no maliciousness or superiority in the tone of his voice. He sounded curious, his eyes trained on Damen’s face as though still looking for something, though Damen had no idea what.

Damen didn’t want Laurent knowing about his midnight-Googling, of the way his brain couldn’t put together that Laurent was the son of the slumped over bodies of Aleron and Hennike Devere.

“No.”

The word sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Laurent huffed, the sound almost a laugh. “Well you’re not from France so I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Content to keep adventuring, Nik joined them and broke the heavy tension. They began walking again, this time at a more leisurely pace, but eventually the need for food after a coffee-only breakfast made Damen’s stomach rumble in the middle of an alleyway where the sound almost reverberated off of the walls.

“We’ll want to get him food,” Nik said, still shuffling through photos. “He’s insufferable when he’s hungry.”

Damen didn’t argue. “Any recommendations?” he asked Laurent instead.

“Café de Flore is just around the corner.”

To say Café de Flore was busy would be an understatement. Damen was about to suggest something more casual so they wouldn’t have to spend most of their time awaiting their seats, but Laurent was known by the hosts who saw him and said something in French too quiet for Damen to hear. Before he knew it, they were being shown their table.

Nik asked for Damen to get him water before following signs to the restroom in the back. He took his camera and Damen rolled his eyes; it might be a few minutes before Nik was finished photographing every window and light fixture in the cafe.

“Do you come to this café often?” Damen asked Laurent who hadn’t even picked up his menu yet.

“I haven’t in a few months, but, yes, usually I’m here at least once a month or so.” His eyes were trained on the tablecloth, almost as if he was remembering something, before he said, “This was my mother’s favorite cafe in Paris. She said she used to come here almost every day when she first moved to the city.”

“Where was she from?

Laurent actually smiled, though Damen couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he was smiling at. “She was from Sweden.”

“My entire family is from Greece. Mostly from the same city and everything. It must have been nice having two different cultures to grow up within.”

Laurent hummed. “I suppose. Being in Paris, having a French father, and having him immersed in French politics made it oftentimes feel like a singular, all-consuming culture. But my mother did her best to take away some of the seriousness at times.”

“I wish I would have had something like that growing up,” Damen said, but he didn’t sound bitter.

“Was your mother as serious as my father?” Laurent asked. The corner of Damen’s mouth quirked.

“My mother died giving birth to me, so I never met her,” Damen said. There wasn’t any sadness there, feeling and being as removed from it as he was, but it changed the atmosphere in the room. “And my dad was quite serious. But,” he started, trying to change the atmosphere back to what it had been, “my brother’s mother was always kind to me and I feel lucky enough to have had her.”

“How old were you when your father remarried?” Laurent asked.

“Very young. Maybe two? But my brother, Kastor, was already around, had been since before I was born. And his mother had always been in the picture as well. So nothing really changed when my father remarried.”

This time, it was Laurent who had a furrow between his brows. He was just about to say something, ask something for clarification, when Nik came back to the table, just catching the tail-end of the conversation.

“Are you talking about Kastor?” Nik asked with blatant dislike in his voice.

“Yes, Nik,” Damen said with a sigh.

“Damen’s family has more drama than any show you’ll watch on television,” Nik said as he slid into the seat next to Damen. “His dad got Kastor’s mother pregnant back in 1984. Mind you, he got her pregnant while married to Damen’s mother, Egeria. Egeria stayed. Theomedes, Damen’s dad, was part of Kastor’s life and, in turn, Kastor’s mother’s life during all of that. A decade later, Egeria became pregnant and died. Then Theomedes deemed it okay to marry Kastor’s mother.” Nik stopped to take a sip of the water the waiter had left on their table silently. “You would think with Kastor being a whole ten years older he would be more mature than he is, but –”

“Nik, I don’t think Laurent needs or wants to hear about my family drama,” Damen said, doing his very best to change the topic. But Laurent was resting with his chin on his hand, face void of any judgement or emotion.

“Oh no, do tell. I feel as though there’s a story there and it’s only fair. I have been showing you around my city, it’s the least you could do.”

Damen wanted to argue, wanted to say that Laurent wasn’t showing them around out of the goodness of his heart, but instead he found himself saying, “Nik has always hated my brother so you’ll have to take that into consideration.”

“Damen,” Nik started with a sigh. “You –”

“Here, how about I tell it instead,” Damen interrupted. “My brother slept with my girlfriend while knowing of my plans to propose to her. She initiated it, but that doesn’t make it…” He trailed off at the end.

Both of Laurent’s eyebrows were raised, not in disbelief but moreso in fascination, when Nik said, “And sleeping with Damen’s girlfriend was just the final straw of things Kastor has said and done over the years.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Damen started off just a degree louder so as to speak over Nik, “because I forgave them both, I moved on, and now they’re getting married. Clearly it was the right move on their part.”

“We are not doing this again, Damen,” Nik said.

“I may have to flag the waiter over for a drink,” Laurent said. “Do continue.”

Nik, predominantly, did continue until their food came. He rambled about Kastor’s jealousy, about Theomedes’ unwillingness to come across as having favorites, about Damen’s horrid inability to not immediately trust those he was expected to trust. Damen waved it all off with a dismissive hand, having a reason for everything, and Laurent listened silently but with rapt attention. Damen swore he saw something new in Laurent’s eyes, a kind of understanding of something Damen didn’t know.

Eventually they were off and walking, but not before a very heartfelt goodbye from the host to Laurent. There was something different in the way Laurent was acting now though. He was talking more, pointing out more landmarks and telling their histories with a less guarded facade up and surrounding him. He still wasn’t talking a lot, by no means a chatterbox, but it was as though the things that were necessary, like explaining the meaning behind a building’s title or the reason a gargoyle on top of one of the buildings was missing a bat-like wing came out of his mouth without thought.

He once even laughed – not a long and loud laugh mind you, but a small and quiet yet genuine laugh – as they walked by Jules Lavirotte’s 29 Avenue Rapp and Damen said, “That reminds me of Etoile.”

“I’m not sure if that’s intended to be a compliment or not,” Laurent had said, more amused by that than Damen knew to make sense of.

Eventually, Nik’s instincts had him minding traffic as he crossed the street to ask a woman if he could take her picture. It made perfect sense; she was an older woman, probably in her sixties, maybe even seventies, and she was dressed like the model she most definitely was at one point. The black jumpsuit she was wearing was accentuated by the leopard print scarf that was tossed carelessly over one shoulder. Her red lipstick left a perfect ring on the cup she was drinking out of. She, unsurprisingly, relished in a photography session. It was obvious how stunning the photos would look, her backdropped against the cafe with its swirls in its name and its red curtains in the window.

Laurent seemed to be looking at nothing in particular whilst Nik when about doing his thing. Still standing in front of Damen from the position he had been leading them on their tour, Damen could take in the way the wind played with the end of the braid down his back.

“Can you explain this photographer thing to me?”

The question had left Damen’s mouth suddenly, but he knew why he had asked it immediately. It had been something that had been nagging him since this whole thing started, a thing Vannes had mentioned condescendingly almost (“...one of our photographer experimentees,” she had said with a laugh), a thing that, the longer Damen dwelled on it, seemed odd.

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, not turning all the way around to face Damen, but turning enough so he could see Nik in his line of sight.

“The whole,” Damen paused to find the words, “competition of it. It’s not normal, is it? This isn’t a thing commonly done, having photographers send in applications and having them participate in a week of photoshoots and events in order to decide who should be at the show?” Damen waited for an answer, but when it never came, he kept talking, asked, “Is it a thing your uncle came up with to give unknown photographers a chance? He was a photographer when he first started, right?”

Laurent still didn’t answer right away, but now Damen had nothing else to say or ask. He continued to wait, trying to figure out why it was taking Laurent so long to answer, and when he couldn’t read Laurent’s face, he turned to watch Nik again. The woman was directing Nik around now and Nik did what she said without complaint.

“Etoile used to have its own photographers. Many of them were older, friends of my uncle’s from his photography days. Some of them are still around. But four years ago one of the photographers made an accusation toward my uncle. As you might expect, my uncle was quite displeased. From then on out he decided that finding new people who wouldn’t get the chance to become familiar with Etoile’s ins and outs.”

The explanation came as the last thing Damen expected to hear. He had perhaps expected a heartwarming tale of using one’s position to provide opportunity. He had expected a story of desire to find the best the world had to offer before anyone else. He had even expected a story of corporate desire to save money by hiring more unknowns. And all Damen could think as his brain tried to comprehend what Laurent had just said was what he had heard that first day of the photoshoots:

“Jeurre over there has worked with him before. Jeurre says that at a photoshoot two years ago, Laurent made one of the newer designers cry so hard that he quit on the spot. I’ve heard one of the current designers talking about how Laurent refused to let one of the newest models, one of the newest signees, be part of this show at all and put down his foot until his uncle gave him his way. I also heard another one of the models say that Laurent gets to lead all the shoots because of his name.”

“He’s a spoiled and entitled brat,” Vannes said matter of fact. “Over the years, he’s gotten mouthier, refused to listen to his uncle or the Etoile board on what he needs to do to represent us. He won’t re-sign because he doesn’t want to be told what to do.”

“Oh, yes, appearance-wise he is. But, as I said, the world of fashion is cruel and it made him cruel. I’m sure you witnessed some of his callous behavior.” Neither Damen or Nik confirmed, but they didn’t deny it either. Laurent’s uncle flashed them a sad smile. “It pains me that I couldn’t protect his innocence. I had thought I was doing the right thing in allowing him to choose his path in life but…” he trailed.

“What were the accusations?” Damen asked.

Now, Laurent turned to look directly at Damen and Damen felt horribly assessed as though he had done something wrong.

“Is there anywhere else you two would like to go before I leave you two to your own devices? I’m afraid I have dinner plans I’d like to not be late for.”

Damen looked at his phone. It was just after two in the afternoon.

Nik was joining them again, ruining the chance for Damen to figure out how to push for Laurent’s answer, and somehow took over the conversation. They ended up walking alongside the Seine once more, Nik stopping every now and then to take photos of peoples’ reflections on the water, all while Laurent led them to wherever Nik had negotiated as a final sight.

Eventually they came across a park with closely cropped grass and artfully trimmed bushes. It was the Parc André Citroën. It was fairly busy with people lying out on the grass, with people and their children admiring the water features. But what was most eye-catching was the enormous and unmissable balloon that read Balloon Generali in beautiful red writing.

Laurent was walking toward it, allowing his words to trail behind him with the wind. “This is the Balloon Generali, a hot air balloon that will get you to the second highest point in Paris.”

Damen could tell Nik was excited. Things like this were familiar territory for them, views and cityscapes. Sometimes they got there by climbing mountains and sometimes they got there by ski slope, but it was what they did, what they always wanted to do. Even Damen was dragged into the excitement, momentarily forgetting the uncomfortableness he had felt in that last conversation with Laurent.

They didn’t have to wait long to get on the balloon. Each ride was only ten minutes long and the ride before them had been up for at least half of that when they arrived.

The place to stand in the balloon was essentially like a donut. There was a hole in the center where people couldn’t go as the cable controlled by the hydroelectric winch was there to raise and lower the balloon. Damen and Nik filed in behind Laurent. There wasn’t a lot of room to move forward or back, but there were only a few other people on with them so there was plenty of space to go around.

They weren’t given much warning before the cable began to turn and Damen felt the ground fall out beneath them.

Nik was shoving Damen with friendly and familiar hands to stand where he could get pictures of him. Damen laughed, relishing in the feeling of the wind picking up around them, and ignored Nik in favor of staring out at the sights coming into view. They could see everything and could see more the higher they got. Right near them was the Seine which got longer and longer the higher up they got. Turning, Damen could see the maze of rooftops come into view around them, could see the Eiffel Tower across the way, a beacon for Paris, could see people walking streets and sitting on benches.

The camera was clicking in Damen’s ears as he turned and looked at Laurent. There was a strand of blond hair out of his braid and he was looking out at the city with a kind of contemplation. Damen wondered what it was like to live here, to have been here as long as one could remember, and Damen wondered what Laurent was thinking.

Nik found something else to garner his own attention which was a group of people on a rooftop across the river. He quickly changed a few settings before finding them. Damen knew the photos would be clear they’d be able to see the color of the men’s ties.

Too soon they were landing, the ground finding its stability under their feet once more, and they exited with windswept hair and Nik’s camera still clicking.

“I found something just over there,” Nik said, pointing in a vague direction. “I’ll be right back.”

He was off without waiting for Damen, or even Laurent’s, reply. And as he walked away Laurent shook his head physically. Damen didn’t like it.

“What?”

Laurent turned his cool gaze on Damen.

“Is this truly all you do? Take a million photos in a city and leave just to do the same thing in another?”

The huff left Damen’s mouth, but he heard Nik in his head saying, “He’s a spoiled, entitled, and, again, raging bitch. If he doesn’t like someone, he can and will make their life a living hell. And in this case, that means that if he doesn’t like me, it’s me whose life will be made a living hell.”

“We do actually work,” Damen said. “There’s a lot of planning, a lot of days we stay up until dawn making sure things are the way they need to be.”

“But you simply travel. Anyone with a camera phone and some money could do what you do,” Laurent pushed.

“Then why don’t they?” When Laurent’s gaze didn’t budge, Damen continued. “It wasn’t always like this either. We worked hard for our first year of travelling. And our hard work was enough to get us tickets to places, but not enough to get us in nice hotels or houses. We stayed in hostels, we ate cheap street food to save money, but we were happy getting to do this. Then it gained traction and we realized we would be stupid to not take an opportunity when it was presented to us.” There was a boiling feeling underneath Damen’s skin, one that had been there since the day he had taken in the extravagance of Etoile, since the day he had realized his joke about Nik having to deal with stuck-up high-fashion snobs was a reality and not just a joke.

“Besides,” Damen said, “I don’t have to explain my life to you, and I definitely don’t have to justify it. How is what we do any different than what you do? You stand there and look beautiful. Other people choose your clothes, other people do your hair, your makeup. Hell, you didn’t even have to work for where you are because your uncle owns the place and gifted you with an opportunity some people work years for and never get to have.”

Nik was calling out Damen’s name from somewhere behind, but Damen couldn’t not watch the way Laurent’s face transformed. It was the small things that changed; the subtle raising of plucked brows, the clenching of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders.

“There’s a restaurant called La Grenouille Bleue around the corner,” he said, voice hard, just as Nik joined.

Without so much as a goodbye or even a snide comment, Laurent turned and left, his head high and his hair moving with each step.

“What was that?” Nik asked.

It took Damen a second to tear his look away from where Laurent had been, where he had just disappeared around a corner with a flash of gold. When he did, he found Nik’s look a mixture of genuine curiosity and What the fuck did you do now, Damen?

“High maintenance models,” Damen said, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.

“What did he say?”

That night, Nik fell asleep fairly early. As he had yawned for the seventh time in but a few minutes, he blamed it on Laurent’s early wakeup call and the fact that they probably walked twenty miles. Damen envied him now, watching for a moment as Nik shifted onto his left side. Tomorrow was the luncheon event and it was going to be a long day, but Damen couldn’t get his brain to stop thinking of Laurent. Infuriating and cold and everything his uncle had said.

Unbiddenly, his fingers were typing Laurent DeVere into the search bar on his computer again, almost as if trying to justify his current feelings. The images were all modeling photos, most of them runway shows, and Damen couldn’t help but curse that someone with Laurent’s disposition was so unbelievably beautiful.

The images went on and on, all professionally taken with but a few paparazzi photos outside of the now-known apartment building, and soon Damen found himself adding something to the search bar. He didn’t really know why. Laurent DeVere young.

The photos here were entirely different than the ones he had just seen. In the first picture was a beautiful blonde woman with perfectly styled hair and a small smile on her face. She was holding a bundle in her arms, a bundle wrapped in blue, and when Damen clicked on the image the caption said Hennike DeVere with her newborn son (2000). There was another picture, the one right next to the one of Hennike, of a child that was unmistakably Laurent at the age of seven or so with an older boy ruffling his hair. The older boy was nearly a man actually, probably nearing the age of twenty in the photo and he was looking at Laurent with unbridled affection. Auguste and Laurent DeVere at the UN Council Meeting (2008). There were more photos like those, ones of Laurent hiding from the cameras behind his brother’s broadening shoulders, ones of Laurent holding hands with his mother, and just a handful of ones of Laurent watching his father.

Not long down the list, however, there was a change. Damen saw Laurent’s uncle sitting in a velvet-lined chair, a tiny body in his lap leaving his dress shirt tearstained. Funeral of Auguste DeVere (2013) is what the caption said. There were a series of funeral photos next to that, ones with captions reading for Auguste DeVere (2013) and Aleron and Hennike DeVere (2013).

There was yet another shift, the only photos of it on the first page of results just at the bottom. Damen was sure they continued and were probably the entire content of page two. They must have been some of Laurent’s earliest modeling photos for he looked exceedingly young. His blue eyes were startling and large, trained on the person behind the camera as he clutched the sheer red fabric over his bare chest. Behind him were roses dripping with water and the water must have been on Laurent as well for the ends of his hair were curled and a shade darker than the rest of him. It was clinging to his eyelashes the same way it clung to the petals of the roses.

Laurent DeVere’s first magazine cover, February 2014.

#the mannequin gallery #mannequin gallery 'verse #captive prince #laurent of vere #damen of akielos #nikandros #my writing

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stillwinterair · 5 years ago

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Pretty sure this thing is rife with typos and inconsistencies because I spent way too long writing this and Refuse to proofread, but, some notes from the writers’ room (my brain) on my Personal Mental Sequel Trilogy Rewrite:

On paper, I think the Kylo/Snoke situation as it occurs is really compelling. Killing Snoke midway through the trilogy was a stupid move in the context of the trilogy we got, but could have very easily been made to work well with a few changes... many of which in The Force Awakens.

(This is gonna mostly be focused on Kylo Ren, but in this version of the story he’s far from the focus, it’s just kinda what I would want to see from a villain)

The ultimate goal in my own personal version of the trilogy would have been to make the late-second-act twist (this trilogy’s “I am your father” moment) be Kylo Ren becoming Supreme Leader, and cementing himself as the big bad. But to do that effectively... we have to make Kylo Ren more sympathetic. We have to trick the audience into thinking he’ll come around. As it stands... the movies don’t actually do this. A certain subset of fans certainly think they did, but there’s really no buildup to “Bendemption” aside from a single scene where he’s hesitant to kill his mom, I guess. Other than that, he’s all evil, all the time.

He should still do all the same things: slaughter a village of innocents, torture multiple people, stand idly by as his fascist regime destroys the seat of galactic government. But give him moments of pause before they happen, and feed into the “pull to the Light” with whispered voices calling through the Force, begging him to stop. Every time, he almost listens... but he pushes them away. And every time he pushes them away, something in him changes. He stands taller, grips his blade tighter, and his power with the Force grows a little stronger.

Now, another crucial building block to the twist: move Kylo’s “doesn’t wanna shoot Leia” scene up a movie... and give it to Han.

The scene plays out as we see it in TFA: Han Solo pleads with his son to come home (I would have had them find Luke by this point for the sake of a trio reunion but that’s an entirely different thread to follow). Kylo Ren -- or, perhaps, Ben Solo? -- grips the silent hilt of his lightsaber, visibly unsure. Is he going to submit to his father? Does he plan to kill him?

We don’t find out. Not in this movie, anyway.

A blast rings out. A bolt hits Han in the chest, his eyes glaze over, his fingers drift from his son’s cheek, first slowly, then altogether. He tumbles aside, falling to his death. The camera pans: someone, perhaps Phasma or Hux, is looking down the smoking barrel of their rifle. They salute, then quickly take cover as the distraught and agonized trio of Rey, Finn, and Chewbacca begin firing on them.

Rage fills Kylo Ren’s eyes. He tenses. His lips twist into a twitching grimace. It seems entirely focused on Phasma/Hux. Bands of white-hot electricity trace the lengths of his fingers.

And then it all subsides.

He turns on his heel and pursues our trio, and the film proceeds as we’ve seen it, except again, Luke is also there. I’ll figure out that puzzle piece later.

EPISODE VIII:

Snoke should be heavily involved here, very clearly the puppet master pulling Kylo’s strings. Kylo is clearly haunted, though: those whispers we heard throughout the last movie are growing louder. Who are they? Jedi of the past? The souls of the dead? Anakin Skywalker himself, his spirit shattering itself into a million little pieces trying to push past the jagged barrier of Dark-side energy Kylo Ren surrounds himself with?

But Kylo needs to be less composed in this movie than he is in TLJ. No standing around calmly or stoically, he’s constantly on edge, looking over his shoulder, feeling judged by everyone and dreading it. Kylo Ren is tortured and haunted and it feels like at any moment, the facade will break. Clearly, the source of all his problems are because he isn’t being who he’s supposed to be, right? Clearly he could turn around at any moment and become someone better, right? Right?

Rey ends up before Snoke and Kylo Ren again, because she thinks Ben Solo can be saved, because the narrative is at least putting some work into making us think he can (“he’s haunted by the choices he’s been making, why wouldn’t he turn back to the Light?”). Snoke plays them against each other, yadda yadda yadda, but it perhaps becomes apparent that Snoke has an ulterior motive:

He doesn’t want Kylo Ren anymore. He wants Rey.

He toys with them, makes them duel to the death, but there’s a lot at play here: Snoke wants the strongest to survive, to shape them into a more worthwhile apprentice. Rey fights defensively, refusing to give up on Ben. Kylo is as aggressive as we’ve ever seen him, more conflicted than ever, raging against the voices in his head. Turn away from her, and strike him down, they say. Join the girl, rebuild the Jedi. Come back to Luke. Come back to your mother. The voices are familiar: Jedi from the past, friends who have died along the way. And then a final voice rings out, more ghostly than the rest: Come home, son, says Han Solo, an echo of his soul which has left a stain on the Force surrounding his son.

He knows what he has to do.

The electric currents we saw in our previous episode return, stronger now. The ground around him is charred, ash-black. Years of so-called “Gray Jedi” in Legends jump back to mind: are we actually going to see a Light-sider using Force lightning? you might wonder. All of his energy goes into a singular blast, aimed at Rey...

But it arcs past her, decimates Snoke’s guards. The Supreme Leader stands, shocked and enraged. He challenges Kylo: “You dare slaughter your own allies? You, boy, are nothing but a worm! But it matters not. I never needed you, anyway. The girl will take your place, and you’ll die as they did.”

Snoke attacks, but his mastery of the Force is nothing compared to what comes next: a torrent of lightning from the fingers of Kylo Ren.

The blast knocks Rey back, flings Anakin’s lightsaber from her hands. But when she stands, there’s a smile on her face. She did it. She won. The evil in Ben Solo has been vanquished, the Light has prevailed, and the First Order is finally defeated.

She asks him to come back with her, back to Luke, to Leia, to the Jedi. He can start again, help rebuild, save the galaxy.

He turns back to face her, and his eyes are bloodshot and yellow. He’s seething. He extends a hand, and an offer: join him, let the past die, create something new. Feel the power of the Dark side. There’s nothing like it. There never has been, and never will be.

This is the true Kylo Ren. The first steps of his manipulation were led by Snoke, but it was the taste of power that led him the rest of the way. It seduced him. Consumed him.

We cut back to the lightsaber of Anakin Skywalker, lying on the ground far away. We see Ren and Rey far in the background, standing opposed, but they’re out of focus. The lightsaber is all we can truly see. It begins to shiver, as if being called by someone. Presumably Rey. We cut back.

Rey refuses his offer, refuses the power, tempting as it may be.

“No? Then you’ll die as he did. As all your weak friends will.”

Another torrent of lightning bursts forth from Kylo Ren. But Rey makes no moves to defend or attack: she’s utterly in shock, confounded by this turn of events.

When the lightsaber ignites, it isn’t Rey who’s holding it. It’s Finn. Lightning crashes into it, holding it back, long enough for Rey to regain control, Force-push Kylo, and for the two of them to run.

Rey and Kylo’s Force bond from TLJ is maintained, as is the ending shot of Rey closing the door of the Falcon in Kylo’s face... but with it comes a darkness. The bond is severed. The door has been closed forever.

The twist of the Original Trilogy’s second act was that the villain was of our hero’s blood; in the end, it saved him.

The twist of our Sequel Trilogy’s second act is that the tortured soul we thought might have been a hero, never was one and never could be. You ~subvert expectations~ but in a way that builds the mythos and actually pays off a plot thread. Looking back at all of Kylo’s moments of tortured almost-goodness, the realization hits that he always had a chance and never took it, that the whispering voices which followed him, his pull to the Light, were an annoyance that pushed him the other way.

Anakin, Luke, and Ben were easily corrupted by the Dark. The difference is, Anakin was manipulated, Luke had the force of will to be a hero anyway, and Ben reveled in the Darkness. These are the Palpatine genes resurfacing.

And then in our Episode IX, we wouldn’t [re]introduce a new (well, old, but new to this trilogy) villain in the LAST ACT, but would instead build the story and mythos of one villain throughout the trilogy, off the puppet master when his role is done, and let him flourish as the evil bastard he always should have been. And then the Force-ghost of Anakin Skywalker can show up and basically confirm that he hasn’t been around because he’s been trying for decades to reach his grandson, that it consumed all of his power, etc.

Anyway. This is a lot but we could have had a really compelling villain here but they didn’t do fucking ANYTHING with him

#star wars #idk how the hell to tag this #anti reylo #for good measure #anti bendemption

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jpat82 · 5 years ago

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Sanity

So my sister @devilbat request 21, 26, and 28 form the prompts. I decided to make this part of My Uncle Tony series.

21.) And so, I start another day being kidnapped.

26.)all that blood looks good on you, brings out yours eyes.

28.) why is there a raccoon in the kitchen? And why is it wearing an apron?

You blew a strand of hair from your forehead as you looked around the small room. The walls a slate grey, a cement floor, an annoyingly bright uncovered over head light bulb that wasn't doing anything to help the throbbing in your head. A singular metal door that had multiple dents. The ropes that wrapped around your upper torso holding you tight to the chair was an ever present reminder that you knowing the Asgardian brothers would no doubt lead you to moments like this. Adding to the fact that your uncle was not only a very prominent man but an Avenger as well, that probably didn't help. But on the bright side at least you had had your back surgery.

"And so," You sighed heavily with aggravation. "I start another day being kidnapped."

It had been months, almost a year since your last kidnapping. You had went out to replace the stuff Thor had took while Loki was the distraction from last night. It was the return trip, broad daylight, well some what overcast but still very much during the day. Carrying two bags back toward your upscale apartment, at first you thought you had felt a bee sting you. And naturally you brought your hand up to your neck, only to the brush dart out instead.

And that lead you to this moment, well actually only a couple moment before this one right here. The blinding headache, the steady small pain throbbing in your neck, and the demeanor of a disgruntled penguin. You wanted to slap whoever thought this was a great idea, this never went the way they planned. However that never stopped them.

The door creak and all you did in response was raise your eyebrow. A very well dressed man with a neatly groom goatee walked in, his heels clicked against the cement floor. He held his hands behind his back, and you weren't sure if he was the big boss man or just a really well dressed henchman.

"Asgardains or Stark?" You demanded.

"Come again, little girl?" He asked with a thick accented voice.

"Or Romanoff?" You tilted your head slight, narrowing your eyes. "Russian?"

"What would give you that idea? And why would you think Romanoff?” He questioned, stopping just before you. Maybe if you had the ability to stretch your legs the tips of your toes would touch his black Italian leather shoes.

"Well, your accent. I know a lot of people, been around a lot of different accents. Comes with the territory. So what do you want with Natasha?”

“It’s not Romanov that we want.” He stated, his lip curling in a sinister sneer. “We want our asset back.”

“Your asset?” You question feeling your brows bunch together.

“Yes, and you, little girl are going to get him for me.”

“Me?” You rolled your eyes taking a deep breath. “I don’t have your asset and this, this right here kidnapping me and holding me hostage is only going to end badly for you.”

“Nobody knows where you are, trust me, we are safe here.” The guy smirked, cocking his head to the side. You laughed in response looking straight at him.

“You really think you’re safe here? You seriously think so? Do you know how many times I’ve been kidnapped?” You asked him, taking a deep breath. “Look buddy, attempting to go through me to get your asset is like going through Comcast to get ahold of Disney, it just doesn’t work that way.”

“One of two things are going to happen.” You stated flatly before continuing. “You either get Thor and Loki, cause they are very protective me, especially the raven haired God of Mischief. He’ll likely rip you to pieces while Thor fries your ass. Or you get my uncle, and he is not someone you want to be on the bad side of. Cause either route you go, it’s going to be severely painful.”

“I’m hoping it’s your uncle. We are heavily fortified, and he will need his entire team to get you out. And when he does that he will bring me my asset.”

“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” You stated just as a red light in the hall turned on and began flash before the power flickered. “Guessing that was the back up generator being kicked on?”

The man looked over his shoulder before pressing on the ear piece that was hidden in his ear. He shouted something in Russian briskly. He turned his gaze back to you, you shifted, straightening yourself a bit more.

“Guessing the perimeter was breeched?” You smiled.

It didn’t take long before you heard gunfire and the man in front of you sprang into action. He spun on his heel, pulling a gun from his hip. He never got a shot off before you watched his body jerk and blood spray out behind him onto you. You reeled back slightly in the chair caught off guard, normally things like this didn’t happen yet here you were covered in someone else’s blood. You blinked hard a couple time before it dawned on you a flash of green and gold had entered the room.

“My pet,” Loki cooed as he knelt down in front of you, a dagger materializing in your hands. He cut you free as you slowly looked up and met his eyes. “All that blood looks good on you, brings out your eyes.”

“Loki?” You said softly before the room went black.

—————-

You woke with a start, your soft blanket surrounding you and Loki’s side of the bed empty. If it weren’t for the fact you could still feel where the ropes had rubbed against your arms making them raw you would of just thought it was a dream. The window outside was dark and you weren’t sure if it night or early morning.

Slowly pulling yourself from the confines of your warm soft bed, the second thing you notice was you were in your pajamas. So whatever had happened after being doused in the guys blood Loki had at least had the decency to change you into something clean. Hushed voices came from your open doorway making you wonder what the hell was going on.

Slipping out into the hall you excepted to hear Tony sternly talking to the brothers, yet the voices you heard beside the idiots were ones you didn’t recognize. You walked out into the landing looking down into the living room where a woman who was green was standing. Not wearing but her skin was green and you felt a wave of confusion. She was talking to another woman with overly large eyes and antennas sticking out of her head.

Whatever they hit you with must of had some psychedelics into as a tiny tree looking man was kicking a huge guy that was silver and red at the base of your stairs. The tree thing repeatedly say ‘I am Groot.’ in a very angry tone. Almost everyone stopping talking as you hit the bottom of the stairs, except the tree. You started walking toward the kitchen where you could hear Thor and Loki talking to someone else when a man in a red leather jacket stepped out of the dining room, his out fit almost reminding you of Micheal Jackson era clothing.

“Well, hello gorgeous.” He smirked, his blue eyes traveling over you.

“Wow, nice one Thriller, the 80’s called and want their wardrobe back.” You stated walking past him as you rolled your eyes.

Stepping into the kitchen reveled even more confusion.

“Why is there a raccoon in my kitchen? And why is it wearing an apron?” You asked looking from Thor to Loki.

“Who you calling a raccoon? Is she calling me a raccoon?” It spoke, you blinked even harder looking slowly up from it back to the brothers.

“Lady y/n, this is Rabbit.” Thor stated proudly, smiling.

“Thor, that’s not a rabbit.” You replied looking at Loki.

“Darling, I know this might all seem confusing, but these people are who helped us get you out of Hydras base. This is Rocket, the only sane one of the group.” Loki explained.

“If you think he’s sane then obviously it’s someone else in this group. I think I’m going to see if my therapist has any openings. You boys have fun and don’t use my good knives.” You replied, slowly turning and taking a deep breath. “And also to ask my uncle if I’m going to need a bigger apartment.”

Permanent tag-

@kitkatkl

@octobermermaid @ajosieface @instantnoodlese @crystlblu @coffeebooksandfandom @thisismysecrethappyplace @the-wayward-robot @lokilvrr @shynara51 @fourtyninekirbygamzeegirl l @loislp @savedbyimagination @bubblycypres87 @ifyousayyouloveme @courtmr @blue-cat-1989 @saharzek @lokiodinsoninwriting @silverhart93 @rynabarnesrogers

Some Loki tags.

@theoneanna @jewels2876 @devilbat @sarahivi

If I missed you just let me know or if wanted to be added as a tag

#loki #loki of asgard #loki fic #loki x you #loki x reader #loki laufeyson

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randaccidents · 5 years ago

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Stand for Nothing

And now for our normal scheduled shadow people fic! Except its not!

This fic sorta follows up on the scenario I laid down in Dealbreaker cause I just couldn’t leave it like that ok I am weak. Of course read Dealbreaker first but be careful cause uh the discord did not leave unscarred.

In other words, this won’t hurt as much.

TW: panic attack (but not as detailed as how I normally go)

Shadow People AU by @mine-sara-sp who I now owe many fluff fics

Credit to skybiome’s Knock me off my high horse for some of the stuff I referenced.

Cavalier visits Wels.

Standing on top of a hill, watching as the purple tower before him crumbled, Cavalier didn’t know what to do next. He sat down, staring up at the pitch black sky. It seems today even the sky didn’t know what to be, no sun nor moon rising to indicate the time of day to him, only deep unknowable darkness radiating out from the Empire’s central tower. It didn’t matter anyway; they had lost. Completely and utterly lost.

Shivering, Cavalier brought his knees to his chest in a hug. He didn’t know what had happened to Puzzler, or Tripwire or Red or Joyful or Russy or-

He tugged at the purple feathered favour wrapped around his chest. He could feel the feathers fraying and breaking, as though they knew their master was no more, only the centerpiece feather remaining pristine. Oh, he shouldn’t have run from the fight. He should have stayed. Even if he couldn’t do much, at least he would know what happened to the Empire. Now? Where could he go? Everyone knew he was part of the Empire. No one would give him safe haven for a while, not after everything they had done.

Who was he supposed to serve now?

A knight’s job is to serve the people, not the Empire. You fight because you don’t know what else to do.

The words that flicked through his mind were cutting, acid still as potent as the day they were said, but it gave Cavalier an idea.

Wels. He was the one who first gave Cavalier a purpose outside of Puzzler. He had a purpose outside any empire, a purpose that was still honourable and respectable despite how easily it could twist back to selfishness. And he was kind. If anyone knew what to do with him, it would be Wels. Climbing to his feet, Cavalier looked out over the horizon, steadfastly ignoring the now smoking ruins of the Empire behind him.

It had been a long while since he had seen the overworld. One day Puzzler, face indescribable, had told him that he was getting a new job before basically locking him within the walls of the Empire. Cavalier found himself wishing that he had found out what prompted such a sudden change from Puzzler. Surely Puzzler knew that he was better at running and scouting than smithing? Unless…

Shaking his head clear of those intrusive thoughts with practised ease, Cavalier located the landmark he had used the last time he had been to Wels’ base and took off, running away from everything again.

—————————————–

By the time he found Wels’ base, the black overtaking the sky had receded, sucked to a location behind him. The sun had almost entirely crossed the sky, casting shades of orange through the sky. It was almost exactly like the last time he was here, ready to collect Wels for Puzzler.

He shook his head. Focus. Paladin and those dangerous blue shadows live here too. He’d seen them enter and leave enough times while out scouting to know. Sinking into a nearby shadow, Cavalier slid up the walls to the decorative window on the top floor, skipping past the easier to reach spaces in favour of remaining undetected.

Reforming inside the house, Cavalier spared a singular second to wonder why Wels had so many shadow-friendly entrances spread throughout the house before he refocused on his goal. He had to find Wels before anyone else did. Sneaking through the halls, Cavalier made their way down a floor to Wels’ room.

Past the way too large central room, through the more normal sized corridor on the right, careful around the intersection turning downstairs, into the open common ro-

A burning line cut across his cheek, making him jump back in surprise, one hand on his cheek as the other reached for his sword. His eyes quickly swept through the room, taking in the situation to make a decision.

The room before him held two moving armour stands, both armoured and brandishing swords at him. The fire roared, casting large shadows across the room from the chairs set before it, disguising the aggressor before him. Not that it did anything, Cavalier could recognise that golden plume from a mile away. Although the lack of their blue additions threw him for a loop.

Another sword swung at him, forcing him to dodge. Oh he was so dead, Paladin found him first, they are not going to let him go that easily. Turning to run, Cavalier found the door blocked by solid iron blocks. He was trapped.

Thinking quickly, Cavalier slid up the wall. Reforming his head, he peered down at the room below. Paladin was looking up at him angrily, one hand gesturing at the armour stands. As Cavalier watched, the armour stands moved to stand next to each other, then merged into a slightly larger armour stand with a bow. Quickly ducking back into the wall to avoid being shot, Cavalier considered his options. By the looks of things, those armour stands were part of Paladin’s power, which meant it could hurt them. Paladin isn’t known to fight other shadows or go two dimensional either, so the upper walls were safest. He wasn’t strong enough to fight any shadow, much less one with a power. So he decided to do what he did best; run.

Scaling the upper walls, Cavalier cast about for an exit. He might not know the house well, but surely there was a pocket of space somewhere, right? Forming an arm, he felt around for something he could push aside.

He was so caught up in finding an escape that it was a surprise when an arm yanked him out of the wall. With a yell, he fell to the floor, dazed. The feeling of cold metal against their throat made them freeze. He let the sword lift his chin, forcing him to look Paladin in the eye. Paladin’s whole form was tense, ready to strike at any moment. Well, at least he tried. Cavalier closed his eyes.

Only the strike he was waiting for never came. He heard a sigh, and the metal left his neck. Cavalier cautiously opened his eyes to look up at Paladin, whose form had untensed into something more tired.

“Why are you here, Cavalier?” Paladin asked, voice just as tired as their posture.

Cavalier blinked. Was he being given a chance? Seeing Paladin’s gaze harden, he quickly answered, “I-I’m looking for Wels. He’s here right?”

That seemed to have been the wrong answer, judging by how Paladin’s gaze hardened rapidly into something angry. He cringed backwards, but was unable to escape Paladin’s grasp as they leaned down. He felt more than saw Paladin grab the center of their favour, fingers sliding beneath the feather that lay beneath and separating it from his body as they lifted him up. “You came now? After all this time? Do you not care for him at all, to wait so long to visit?” they spat at his face.

Cavalier barely heard any of that over the sudden haze over their mind. Words refused to form in his head or on his tongue. He needed the feather back. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against Paladins. He felt Paladin shake him. “Do you have no words for yourself?”

He couldn’t answer like this, he needed the feather back. He tried to force words out of his now useless mouth. “F-f-fe-f-” It was useless, he couldn’t do anything. Letting out a whine, he tapped Paladin’s hand instead.

To his surprise, Paladin seemed to get the message, dropping Cavalier to the floor. He quickly curled onto his side, hand cradling the disturbed center of his favour. The fog in his mind was immediately snapped clear, thoughts and words returning to him. “ABC, one two three four, my name is Cavalier I am a shadow I can speak I can think” he mumbled to himself, checking for any missing pieces of himself.

A hand on his shoulder sent him flinching away, clutching the favour closer to his chest. The hand didn’t leave his shoulder though, and he slowly untensed when he realised that he wasn’t being hurt. Uncurling to sit up, Cavalier looked up at Paladin.

“Are you feeling better now?” Paladin asked him, genuine concern in his eyes. Cavalier took stock of themselves. His mind was clear, his tongue light again, and he had his feather back. “Y-yeah…” he answered.

He watched as Paladin sighed, shifting to sit next to him. “So, want to explain why grabbing that favour made you panic?”

Flinching at the memory, Cavalier considered his options. On one hand, Paladin was the enemy. On the other, was there really an enemy anymore now that the Empire was gone? He guessed that he had nothing to lose by telling Paladin. “You grabbed my feather. I can’t think clearly or speak without it.”

“Why not? Surely you’ve died enough times.”

That elicited a flinch from him. The room was silent.

“… How many times have you died, Cavalier?”

Of all questions, they had to ask this one. He hugged his knees to his chest again, finding comfort in being smaller. “… 3 times in total.” he answered, embarrassed.

The response was as explosively shocked as he expected. “Only 3 times! You shouldn’t be able to- oh.”

Cavalier could feel the new understanding in Paladin’s gaze. He turned from it, uncomfortable at the feeling of being seen right through.

“… sorry I grabbed your feather.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t know.”

They sat in silence for a while, awkwardly unable to say anything else. Something about the whole situation felt a little off to Cavalier though, and he had to voice it. “Paladin, why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

He could hear Paladin shift slightly. “I’m assuming Puzzler didn’t tell you, but it’s safer if we don’t have to be resummoned ever again.”

Cavalier turned back to look at Paladin, who had mimicked his position, knees to their chest. “What didn’t Puzzler tell me then?”

He could see Paladin take a deep breath they didn’t need, eyes no longer meeting his. Their words came out whispered, as if they still didn’t accept it as truth. “Wels is… gone.”

The world came screeching to a halt. “No.” That’s not possible, players always came back, right?

Paladin’s staunch refusal to look him in the eye was telling a different story however. “He’s not fully gone, but he certainly isn’t here anymore. And no one wants to see what happens if we are resummoned.”

Something wasn’t adding up. It was such a small thing, but it lit a stubborn flame of hope in his chest. “Not fully gone? And we can still be resummoned? That doesn’t make any sense. What really happened Paladin?”

Paladin flinched slightly, hugging their knees tighter to their chest. It made Cavalier feel a little bad, but he had to know. He dropped the intensity in his voice, asking the question again on a softer register. “Paladin, what really happened to Wels? As his other shadow I deserve to know the full truth too.”

Paladin uncurled slightly, hands moving to fiddle with the bracers they wore instead. “Did Puzzler tell you about the Vex?”

It was Cavalier’s turn to flinch now. Oh yes he did know about the Vex. Puzzler made it very, very clear what messing with the Vex would result in. Paladin seemed to have caught that, because they kept talking, words coming in a practised rush. “Basically, me and Wels had an encounter with the Vex last season that left us haunted by them every day since. A while ago, Wels made a plan to fix that. On my end, I had to make a contract with Abyss to remove the Vex. On Wels’ end, he decided to fight the Vex in their own game. He-” Paladin’s voice hitched, before the words shifted from practised monologue to emotional rapid, spiralling faster and faster. “He lost, and now he’s a Vessel for them, his soul or something is lost forever and he only remembers some things but its not really him and I should have stopped him I really should hav-”

Cavalier recognised spiraling thoughts when he saw it. He had them himself. Reaching forward, he wrapped his arms around Paladin, pulling them to his chest, all fears of being stabbed forgotten in the moment. Paladin for their part just clung to Cavalier’s chest, mumbling, shoulders heaving. “Shhhh, their just thoughts, they might be true or they might not, but you have to calm down.” Softly, Cavalier began to hum, rocking slightly.

Eventually, Paladin’s shoulders stopped moving, settled back into the standard straight line. They pushed themselves out of Cavalier’s chest, and he let them go. He watched as they discreetly wiped their eyes. “You know, that’s just like how Wels would stop me from panicking. You act so much like him, and you don’t even know him.”

That comment made Cavalier shift uneasily. It was true that they didn’t know Wels well. And now they might never have that chance. Paladin shifted. “You said you wanted to see Wels?”

Cavalier considered this, then nodded. Yes, he still wanted to see Wels, even if he couldn’t recognise him. Paladin stood, extending a hand down to him. He looked at it nervously. Paladin sighed. “Let’s go see Wels then. He might remember you.”

Hesitantly, Cavalier grasped the offered hand, being pulled to his feet. Paladin took the lead, moving to the door on the other side of the common room. Idly, Cavalier noted that the armour stands and iron blocks were no longer around, and that Paladin now sported two large swords and a metallic ring from their belt. He hesitated. There was nothing stopping him from running now.

But he also wanted, for once, to know. So he followed Paladin down the hallways.

Eventually, they came to a stop before a dark oak door. Cavalier could hear bells from behind the door. Paladin turned to face them again. “Fair warning, Wels… might attack you.”

“What?”

Paladin put a hand on his shoulder. “Like I said earlier, he’s mostly just Vex now. He might not remember you. So far, if he looks away or attacks you it means he doesn’t remember you, if he hums a song at you something in him remembers you, and if he just stares then you just have to wait and see what he does next. Oh and uh, if he starts hissing? Run.”

Cavalier’s mind spun from the sudden information dump, but they got the picture. Shakily, they gave Paladin a thumbs up. Paladin nodded, then stepped aside. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Cavalier balked slightly. “Wait, you’re not coming with me?”

Paladin shook their head. “He will focus on me if I come. This is the only way to know if it’s safe for you to visit him.”

… There was no real escape from this was there? If he wanted to see Wels, he would have to do it alone. Steeling himself, Cavalier opened the door.

He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe a monster, maybe a Vex creature. Whatever it was, he most certainly wasn’t expecting to just see Wels, back facing him, happily playing with something in his hands. Sure, the wings were new, but nothing else really seemed out of place. Softly, they called out to him. “Wels?”

Wels’ head shot up, turning to face Cavalier.

Cavalier found himself pinned by an electric blue gaze. Ah, that’s what Paladin meant by ‘gone’. He had seen corruption from other entities first hand, he was Puzzler’s personal knight and scout after all. He had heard when Puzzler spoke to ‘the masters’. The light blue cracks, the wings, the bright blue smile, the striking blue gaze, all of it reminded him of Puzzler’s own additions.

And now that gaze was pinned on him. He swallowed the rising panic, shifting from foot to foot. He could feel the gaze follow his every move. Wels had yet to utter a sound, only the wings on his back fluttering lightly.

He felt a tap on his back, and moved to step clear of the door. The blue gaze followed him, even when Paladin stepped into the room.

“Has he done anything yet?” they asked.

Cavalier shook his head. The gaze followed the motion, like a cat ready to pounce. “No, just staring.”

“Then we just wait a little longer.”

Standing there, the full force of that blue gaze upon him, sounded like a terrible decision for his easily spiralling thoughts. He turned towards the door, ignoring Paladin reaching out to him. “I can’t stand here like that, it’s not good for me I’ll just g-”

“Badum-bum badum-bum badum-bum badum-bum”

He froze. And turned. He could see Paladin do the same.

Wels was smiling softly now, rocking lightly while humming, bells echoing through the space.

“Badum-bum badum-bum badum-bum badum-bum”

Cavalier could feel tears forming in his eyes. A hand on his shoulder caught his attention, and he turned to look at Paladin. “Do you recognise the song?”

Cavalier laughed, tears finally falling free from his eyes. “Recognise? That’s the song he sang that got me to talk to him in the first place!”

His heart felt light. Just enough of Wels was there, enough to recognise him. He felt Paladin nudge him lightly. “Well? I think it’s safe for you to sit next to him. Come on!”

With that, Paladin tugged him into the room, settling them down next to Wels. Wels seemed to perk up at that, humming growing louder, bells more melodic. Paladin was quick to join Wels in humming, adding another layer of sound to the song. Listening carefully, Cavalier found the starting point in the song for the lyrics. Hesitantly, softly, they began to sing.

“Hello, my old heart

How have you been?

Are you still there inside my chest?

I’ve been so worried, you’ve been so still

Barely beating at all”

Eyes closed, Cavalier let themselves lean into the song. They might stand for nothing now, but he found that it didn’t matter. This felt like family, this felt like home, this felt like somewhere he finally belonged. If only he had found it sooner.

#shadow people au #wels #cavalier #paladin #bad end wels #this is just picking up the pieces honestly #I wanna write the canon version of this too now haha #either way this is #very soft hurt much comfort #the wels collective is together now #yay #aight trigger tags time #panic attack #my writing #hey guys this is less hurty I swear

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fleetingfigures · 5 years ago

Note

Superhero/villain :3

(This is mostly a spin off of a near future Yakuza AU I was imagining with a few friends, and as such I’ll use the picrew I used for that for this as well!)

“PENTAKILL!”

“Ace!”

The incessant sound of a mechanical keyboard fills the small studio apartment, as the flashing displays from a multi-monitor setup illuminate a singular hunched figure in front of it all. A Miqo’te, no older than his mid twenties sits, or rather perches upon an elaborate office chair, typing away at inhuman speeds as his eyes dart to and fro, focused on the game at hand. He reaches over, grabbing hold of a now room temperature crêpe and takes furtive bite out of it, his eyes still glued on the monitors before him. And this is how most nights proceeded for this Miqo’te - wherein he sits for hours, stuffing his face with all manner of snacks, plays a few games, then heads to bed. Though, tonight is not his usual night as, before the match he’s in can reach its natural end, his whole desk vibrates as his phone lights up. The man is tempted to just shut off the phone, and go back to his game, but, seeing the caller ID, he supposes he has to pick up. Typing a “brb” in chat, the Miqo’te grabs the phone, and flips it around in his hand before pressing the accept call button.

“Yello?” The Miqo’te answers lazily, going to wedge the phone between his shoulder and ear to free up his hands.

Loud breathing is the only thing that greets his question, accompanied soon after by the keen sound of gunshots and the dull thud of distant, yet hurried footsteps. Things seem to die down for just a bit as a gruff voice breaks the silence. “Sae. You have some Fucking explaining to do. You told me no one was going to be at the Garlean Warehouse by Pier 5, and yet what do I found except an armed squadron of their best guards!”

The Keeper rolls his eyes, moving the phone away from his mouth as he abandons his game mid-match. After closing its tab, he pulls up a non-descript program, displaying its two main windows upon the monitors before him. There he can see the man on call with him currently, a Midlander who, besides the wild mop of hair upon his head, which is probably due to the mad sprint he had to perform to not get shot, seems rather pedestrian. On the other window, he can spy the Garlean guards he had mentioned, armed to the teeth in their finest magitek assault rifles as they fanned out to scan the area. He takes another bite of his crêpe before he finally addresses his caller. “Well, seems someone didn’t ask for enough details.”

“Gods… Is now really the time to reprimand me on such a thing, Sae?!”

“Well, yes, considering we’re only bound by the cash you paid me, and the limited info I gave you was well worth the pitiful sum you provided.”

“Just, ok look… I’ll double your payment, alright? Just divert their attention somehow, you’re the fanciful hacker here.”

“Finneeeee, just give me a minute, alright? I’ve gotta get around a few of their security systems, kay?”

“Make it quick.”

Sae begins to type quickly again, as he pulls up a third tab, and types into the minimalist chat box that greets him.

Sae: “> Hey, saw a strange thing on watch. Seems someone’s lurking around your warehouse. Told ya that hiring a squad tonight was gonna be a good idea.”

Soon after hitting send, the Miqo’te gets a response back.

R.V.H “> Seems you aren’t insane after all, Sae. I assume the squad is handling the intruder as we speak, yes?”

Sae: “> Not quite. Seems the dude’s pretty good at evading them, and he’s got your canister in his hands. I could try my hand at stopping him directly, but that’d require me to gain full access into your systems, and maybe a little extra cash too.”

R.V.H “> Damnit. Are you sure they can’t restrain him without your aid?”

Sae: “> Yup. Pretty certain. The dude’s holed up in a room and is gonna slink away into the night if I don’t lock that grate above his head.”

R.V.H: “Fine. I’ll send the system’s master code, as well as an extra sum of cash.”

Sae: “> Thnx. And how much is that extra sum?”

R.V.H “500k gil, in addition to the 2 mil I’ve already given to you.”

Saerno begins to type even faster as he brings the phone back to his ear.

“Hey bud, still there? You didn’t get shot yet, right? I’ve just gotten through the secruity’s, well, security. Seems you’re at a dead end, but that grate right above you might prove useful.”

The Hyur on the other end breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh thank fuck. Seems you’re not as useless as I thought you were, Sae.”

“Hey, I’m the reason why you even knew about this whole place anyways. No need to be so aggro, jeez…”

The Keeper reclines back in his chair, placing his phone down upon his desk as he finishes the last of his crêpe. Of course tonight of all night’s he had to deal with the stuff he’s been preparing for weeks. Couldn’t they have at least waited till after his match was done? God... He’s gonna have to grind again to get back into his ranked promos. But, he supposes, in some way, that this is a tad better than that cesspool of a ‘fun time’. It’s always so fun setting up two sides and letting things pan out from there; that is, of course, with a little of his tinkering sprinkled here and there. It’s one of the last things that brings him true enjoyment in this shitshow of a world anyways. With everything so orderly under the thumb of Garlean reign, and the Resistance trying to swoop in like knights in shining armor, it’s as if Saerno’s living in one of those stupid fantasy novels he used to like as a kid. It’s all so trite, so predictable, and he’s not going to let the world continue to lose what little flavor it has left. However, Saerno is soon broken out of his reverie as two notifications ping to life upon his phone, both banners indicating payments he’s just received. Smiling to himself, he stretches, and reaches for his phone once again and begins to lazily imitate static noises.

“Hey -kshh- I think I’m -stssss- Breaking up on you.”

“W-wait what?! What do you mean, Augh goddamnit, it must be th-”

“Call Ended.”

With that, Sae tosses his phone on his bed, and leans forward to inspect his screens once again. Inputting the master code he had just received, the Keeper begins to toy with whatever catches his fancy at the moment.

“Hmmm, Water boiler? Why not? Gas pipes? Let’s loosen em’ up just a tad, and- Oh! There it is, the canister’s main control panel. How about we just disable all safety protocols and…”

Saerno stands up for a brief moment, wheeling his chair over to the large window of his apartment and sits squarely on it. Reaching downwards, he grabs a bag of chips, honey barbecue of course, and begins to slightly part the curtains. Just then, a brilliant cerulean flame erupts on the horizon, as the shockwave produced by it shakes the very foundation of Saerno’s building. In the darkness of his abode, Saerno claps silently to himself, stopping to much on a few chips every once in awhile.

In this world, there’ll be heroes in capes, and villains in suits, but none of that really strikes too well, you feel? No matter what side they’re on, the life these super-whatevers lead is oh so boring and drab. And that’s why I’m here, to spread a little chaos, and to remind everyone that life isn’t like a picture book, or some trashy romance novel. This life we lead is called reality because it can never be predicted, never be truly under control. Though, I guess you could say that these words I’m spouting are absolute horseshit and I just want to see the world bounce between extremes for my own sick pleasure which, well, isn’t wrong, but can’t a guy enjoy some of the finer things in life? After all, sitting here and eating these chips would be way less interesting if there wasn’t a fireworks display going on in the background.

#Supervillain Sae?#More like shitposter who took things way too far #This is so OOC for him even in the other AU I mentioned #but hey #I love giving characters questionable morals and motivations #Reading over this #I basically just made Sae into a less insane version of Junko Enoshima #Just shoot me now #entry-1258

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agent-yolk-writes · 6 years ago

Text

Friends Like You and Us - Venom!Reader- Ch. 3

Instead of going to sleep and doing this in the morning, I’m uploading the next chapter to Tumblr right now!

In today’s episode, we take a blast to the past (AKA a week prior to the main story) to share a snapshot on how Venom and the Reader met along with a very special guest cameo. I hope you guys enjoy!

Content warning: It starts with depictions of nausea and vomiting which is a no-no to some people, so be cautious when diving down. I know I’ll properly tag it, but still.

Previous Chapter

AO3 version here!

You didn’t even process your own scream, but you’re sure as hell awake now.

"Hello, (First Name)." The thing in the mirror had the audacity to greet you almost casually in your reflection. You dunked your head into the cold water thinking it’s just a figment of a dream you had. You felt your body pull yourself back up when you were certain your muscles were lax.

“Who...Who are you? What the hell are you?” You sputtered.

"I...We are Venom." He leaned closer in the mirror, and so did you. “We are not from here.”

“No shit.” At this point your breath is just uneven, struggling to voice proper words. “So...so what, you’re like from space or something? Mars? Alpha Centauri?” If your voice was this bad, you could only imagine looking like absolute crap.

Before he could answer, it happened. You don’t remember falling. There’s that feeling in your mouth when you bite your tongue too hard. An inhuman sound can be heard, and it took a minute to realize it was coming from you...or was it that Venom thing? Just as you became aware of everything that’s happening, it stopped. Your eyes couldn’t open properly as the singular light in the small bathroom became all too bright.

You raised your arm to block it out. You didn’t realize you couldn’t feel it until you saw it. Different colors flashing in random intervals as your hand twitches in a way you know isn’t human. There were moments just before you blinked where your hand split into two, one that you know it’s yours and while the other resembled yours, the black hue and the unnatural way the fingers are positioned and shaped said otherwise. When you opened your eyes again, whatever you saw was gone. What came next was a wave of nausea seeping in from everywhere at once. Your head felt like lead, vision swimming as you sat up.

There was a soft knock on the door and a call of your name. “I heard yelling. Is everything okay?” Your aunt asked, peaking through the doorway. You could barely process the concerned look on her face.

“I...I think I’m…ah...” You didn’t finish your sentence. Instead, you clobbered over to the toilet and spilled your guts out.

Needless to say, you didn’t go to school that day.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s soup in the cabinet. Make sure you drink plenty of fluids, okay?”

“I know.”

Aunt Mary’s worried expression hasn’t changed. You really did look like shit, didn’t you?

Gently, she cupped her cool hands over your heated cheeks. “Just make sure you only get up when you need to. I’ll pick up some medicine after work. We’ll go to the hospital if you don’t feel better, sound good?”

No! No hospitals!

“...Sounds good. Love you.” Ignoring the new voice in your head, you bent your head down so your guardian could plant a kiss on the top of your head, hoping she didn't see you flinch when that thing spoke in your head.

“Love you too. Take it easy, dear.” With that, Mary gathered her things and left the apartment.

You stood in your living room for another minute before your nails started clawing at your clothes and skin. “Come out, you weird alien. You haven’t answered my question.” On cue, your fingers got caught into your shirt, if you can even call it your shirt anymore. It began to blacken and ooze under your hand, shifting around like it was alive. In your sick daze, it took you longer than usual for you to realize it really was alive. This thing, whatever it called itself, assimilated into your clothes! Peeking at the nearest reflection, it started to look like a body suit that got slapped by movie magic. You almost jumped out of your skin when you brought your eyes back and see a tiny version of what you say in the bathroom, still attached to your body, looking at you.

“We already told you that we are Venom.” He said.

“There’s no ‘we’ in this.” You rebutted. “What makes you think I’m the perfect candidate for an alien abduction? How...How did this even happen, anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” Venom squinted his milky eyes at you. “We are a symbiotic life form, I depend on a host to live. You just happened to be standing at the right place at the right time.” It took a moment for all the pieces to fit into place as you vaguely remember the events last night.

You recalled being in Times Square for something you’ve always planned on seeing. It was a school night and Mary wanted you home before a set curfew. Time, however, runs on its own schedule. Before you knew it, it got dark and you needed to get home pronto. The subway that takes you straight home was experiencing delays due to an earthquake that happened earlier that day. So you decided against your own judgment to cut corners by weaving in between buildings and construction sites to save you some time. You...don’t remember how exactly you got home in time.

“You thought a bird took a shit on you.” Your already flushed face turned redder in embarrassment. You would’ve remembered that for sure. With a sigh, you gave up on prodding more info out of him. You plopped yourself on the couch, reaching for the remote so you won’t be alone with your thoughts and your uninvited guest as you turned on the TV.

You couldn’t keep your eyes on whatever daytime game show on the screen. You want to find something to eat, but the energy to do so probably went down the toilet with your vomit. A good nap wouldn’t hurt…

...Until a feeling of alert woke you right up after who knows how long.

It’s him!

“Wha-“ Without warning, your body shot up and scrambled to the widescreen TV, hands clambering over the newsreel playing footage of Spider-Man you sure was playing yesterday when it was more relevant. The afternoon news starts after the game show, so that nap didn’t last as long as you hoped.

“Do...do you know him?”

“We were bonded together.” Uh oh, that tone didn’t sound good.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” There wasn’t an immediate response, but the feeling of heartbreak-no, betrayal-flutters in your chest. “Venom?”

“...He didn’t want us anymore. Said we corrupted him. He slammed into a bell to get rid of us.” You’re not crazy into the superhero scene, but it doesn’t a fanatic to know that that isn’t what Spider-Man does. You oughta give him a good talking about abandoning those in need.

“...You know what? We should talk to him!” You stood up too quickly, grabbing the top of the television as balance. “Let’s give him what for!” Too caught up in your own plan, you didn’t feel your companion shifting your clothes around until the feeling dissipated when your hands automatically moved on their own, covering your mouth just before someone knocked at the front door. Surely you weren’t talking that loud...right? Did Mary forget something? It couldn’t be, she would just enter without warning and get whatever she needs.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Relief rushed over you when you realize it wasn’t the police but your neighbor across the hall. You might as well open the door before the actual police, or the landlord, arrive.

Who’s there?

“A good guy, don’t worry.” You assured him as you made your way to the door. Without looking through the peephole, you opened the door just enough to poke your head out and see none other than Aaron Davis, your neighbor.

“Goooood...afternoon, Mr. Davis,” You paused your greeting to remember the time, opening the door a little bit more. Mary knows him a little better than you do, and the only thing you do know from the idle chatter over the years is that he tends to work at night doing who knows what. You amuse yourself sometimes imagining him making drinks for the drunk college kids with fat wallets. He’s too gentle to be a bouncer, but you don’t want to piss him off to find out if he does have some hidden strength in him.

“Hey there, kiddo.” He greets back. “Shouldn’t you be in school by now?”

“I would, but I caught something fierce last night.” You exaggerated a dry cough that triggered your reflexes, resulting in making you actually cough. You didn’t catch the raised eyebrow Aaron had on his face.

You could see him stifling a yawn before letting out a tired chuckle. “Guess I’ll leave you so you can rest then. Don’t want your aunt on my case if I catch it too.”

“Don’t worry, she will.” You returned a chuckle of your own. “You know you’ll have to eventually accept her invitation to dinner one of these days. Maybe she’ll get off your back if you could bring your nephew over when he visits again to liven up the dinner party.”

“I’ll...look into it.” Aaron turned away to unlock his door. His reply was curt and short. It’s most likely going to be a no for him then. “For now, I’ll need to sleep on it.”

“Well, then I won’t keep you any longer then. Good night, or afternoon...Whatever’s better, I suppose.” Before you slid back into the safety of your home, you heard your name being called again. Poking your head out one last time, you listened to what Aaron wanted to say.

“I like your costume by the way. Could use some color if you want to fit the part.” With that, he closed the door without a moment for you to question him. Costume? What costume? You’re wearing an alien pajamas...right?

Catching your reflection in the closest mirror, you did a double take at what you were actually wearing. Your once short length nightwear was nowhere to be seen. Your body from the neck all the way down to your feet was devoid of color with the except of some silver lines going this way and that. You tore your gaze to chase one of those lines until you led you to a somewhat familiar insignia plastered on your chest.

The same one Spider-Man has.

Wha...what is this?

It’s ours.

#tw: vomit #tw: nausea #my writing #spiderverse #spidersona #x reader #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderverse x reader #spiderman into the spiderverse x reader #venom x reader #venom & reader #venom symbiote & reader #venom symbiote x reader #venom/reader #venom symbiote/reader #friends like you and us #reader insert

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