#this is vaguely based on a dream I had + the figure at the foot of my own bed so uhm | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theveryworstthing · 4 years

Photo

So over on patreon Trevor asked for my take on the Addams Family and I grew up LOVING the Addams family movies so here we are. Instead of doing a straight up style interpretation, I decided to do a full on design challenge, using the characters as bases to make a black southern gothic Addams au. I actually drew the kids first, using the character bases of Wednesday and Pugsley to create some delightful kiddos I'm calling Sunday and Blanche. I of course then redesigned Gomez and Morticia into Carlisle and Mortesha.

The Addams have a very specific high aristocratic goth aesthetic (they've got a butler and nobody really works among other things) so in this re-imagining I wanted to go with vibes that run a little more middle class/upper middle class. I thought it would be interesting to think about what would be considered weird and off-putting in an entirely different culture, and how being a big ol' goth is way less controversial than it used to be.

I tried to keep this short (HAHAHAHAHAHA) so I didn't spin off into an essay about villain coded families, black people in the horror genre, and normalcy as it pertains to social survival, but just...bits of that are in these designs and lore. Keep that in mind.

Also I made the kids twins because they've flip flopped in age so much in different media and also twins run in my family (i'm the daughter of one). And let's face it, I'm pulling a lot of their southern gothic traits from living as a southern goth so *shrug*.

10 thousand pounds of lore incoming loooooooooool.

The Parents

From the moment he saw her he knew that there was a 50/50 chance of him either never making it out of that swamp alive or marrying the figure that was creeping out from under the distant willow tree in a black cocktail dress. The third time she found him trussed up in one of her traps, he complimented her rope work and asked if she'd like to go out sometime after his head wound stopped bleeding.

Or while it was still bleeding.

If she was into that.

Some kids and a mysteriously burnt down Piggly Wiggly later, their love is still as strong and inescapable as a bear trap in a sink hole.

Carlisle Guillermo (now Addams through marriage but I wanted to give him two first names for a name since Gomez has two last names) makes a vaguely described living practicing ‘law’ around town. A loophole king, people come to him from miles around with contracts signed in blood, fights over chunks of hair buried in their rivals’ yard, dehydrated primate hands, memories that seemed like dreams until the evidence of their happenings became too real, and other regular Legal Items asking for counsel which he is all too happy to give. For a price. Sometimes that price is a homemade pie and sometimes it’s a million dollars, depends on who you are. Whatever you’re asked to pay it’s worth that price, and if you try to scam him out of work or he just plain doesn’t like you? Well. He knows how to twist a contract better than anything at the crossroads.

And he always gets his due.

He doesn’t just serve the local (living)humans though, there are many things that need proper legal representation in this day and age. You wouldn’t believe how many city councils try to build on sacred burial grounds even after he lets them know that his ghostly clients are totally gonna haunt the FUCK out of the ensuing shitty condos and curse their families for all eternity. At least 50% of his energy goes towards dealing with real estate bullshit.

Carl is an excitable and good natured(?) man who loves his family, cigars, dancing, and his many knife-based hobbies. People find him very charming once they get past the feeling that they’re talking to a sultry gator badly disguising itself as a human. I didn’t put a ton of deep thought into designing him, mostly I wanted to make a middle aged dude who looked like he would have been voted ‘most likely to smooch the literal devil’ in high school. Tbh he probably has, but no demonic ex’s can compare to his lovely wife~

Mortesha Addams(her name was already perfect so I just tweaked it)is a woman of many talents. A self proclaimed homemaker, she prides herself on a greenhouse full of Concerning Foliage, a beautiful wasp apiary, and a coop full of what are probably chickens that she keeps for what are probably eggs. She’s also an avid creator of the outsider art that can be seen around the estate. She has taken on the family business of selling her homemade goods in a little stall by the road just outside the swamp with her mom, and makes pretty good money doing so. A surprising amount of poison gets bought in quaint southern towns.

Speaking of poison, people who come out to the edge of the swamp to buy it are usually carrying a lot of secrets around, and Mortesha knows most of them. It’s not like she pries the truth out of people, it just so happens that many nervous hellos eventually turn into the tragic backstory power hour if she’s alone with a client for long enough. She supposes that’s just how people are. Despite the fact that the Addams are very active in the community (whether the community likes it or not) she especially, as a direct descendant of the first Addams matriarch, is seen as…Well not an outsider because the community feels A Certain Way about outsiders and despite it all the Addams are their people, but maybe something like an exception. They feel like whatever weirdness they’re hiding can’t be weirder than any given Addams, so they get a little loose with their words.

This is amusing to her, since Addams’ don’t naturally keep the kind dramatic secrets that their surface level prim and proper neighbors do. It’s much more fun to openly talk about those things.

Do they have a sadly decrepit yet terrifying grandma up in the attic? Yeah, like three. They got a tv, all the creepy porcelain dolls they could want, and they’re close to family. Where do you keep your gram-grams?

Any bodies buried on the property? Yeah some, but most are thrown to the gators.

Any creeping through the balmy summer night with ill intentions? Yeah dude, everyone loves a nice family stroll.

What about dangerous forbidden love? If an adult Addams isn’t incorporeal then they’re either queer or in a torrid romance with some person/thing mysteriously drawn to that awful swamp. Sometimes both at the same time. Most times actually.

Mortesha would know.

The current head of the Addams family is just as outgoing as her husband but a lot quieter and harder to read. She never really seems to get mad about much and always has a genteel smile for everyone whether they deserve it or not. A seven foot tall human shaped “Oh, bless your heart”. A perfectly composed Lady even when she’s, oh I dunno, burning down a Piggly Wiggly. You know. A regular southern mom. Chat her up at the hair salon for 50% off a jar of wasp honey with your next purchase of a mysterious but foreboding packet of herbs.

Designing her was pretty easy because I just drew a lankier Grace Jones and called it a day. I had some problems with her outfit simply because if we were going HARD southern gothic then she’d probably be wearing a white/cream dress with a fuller skirt but I thought keeping the silhouette and the black was more important. She’s supposed to be an anti southern gothic southern gothic character anyway. A woman who looks like she has a million secrets who is actually the most open person you could meet. For better or worse. The red hair came from a coloring error that I really ended up liking (my mom had red hair her whole childhood that only darkened up in high school so I can buy that an Addams can be naturally fire engine red) and the veil was to get more of that classic Morticia silhouette in there.

The Children

Sunday and Blanche are the twin children of Carlisle and Mortesha Addams. Some say the Addams clan got their cursed homestead when a wealthy local businessman made a deal with the devil and lost, leaving his grand mansion to his least favorite maid and cutting his losses once he realized that the swamp would do everything it could to drag the house into the water and take what was owed with its horrible curse. Others say that the family has just always squatted there and no one really cares because man, fuck that particular swamp. Have you been in there? Absolute horror show.

Anyway.

Blanche is the more outgoing sibling and quite the engineer/mad scientist in the making. He started going grey at 2 weeks old but considering he was also rocking some extra fingers, toes, and a tiny tail (he takes after his dad), his parents just put it on the 'not life threatening' pile and decided not to worry about it. He's the kind of smart that teachers find utterly infuriating, less a dog eagerly learning and obeying commands and more a hyena who keeps teaching itself how to pick locks. He has a few friends in his school's robotics club (which they honestly allowed him to make so the school could contain his... creations) but mostly hangs out with his sister exploring the swamp. They find all sorts of neat things in there! wedding rings, suspiciously lumpy garbage bags, cloaked cultists who can't read private property signs, it's an adventure every day!

Blanche is all about experimentation with his creations, his look, and his tether to this mortal coil. Is lipstick a cool thing to try? Let's find out. Can he get out of a strait jacket fast enough after being pushed into the depths of the swamp by his sister? let's find out. He's not dead yet and confused local doctors can attest to the fact that he's rarely attained more than a bad bruise so he's pretty set on continuing to kiss rattlesnakes on their cute little heads and have his sister practice her knife throwing at him until that fact changes.

Blanche is very much a country goth. Cowboy boots (customized by his mom), knife, and lighter are daily accessories. He likes to wear the crusty swamp jewelry they find (the rust adds a splash of color!) and despite appearances he does try to keep himself neat. He's just got natural Grunge Colors and a tendency to wear clothes he likes until they fall apart. Pugsley always seemed the most modernly styled to me (which might just be because little boys clothes have been the same for a long time) so I wanted Blanche to be the most purposely fashionable Addams. Everyone else is goth by nature, but he's the only one truly familiar with goth as an alternative fashion.

I got really into designing Blanche because honestly, I find Pugsley to be the most boring member of the family. And he was hard to design! I had to mess with his vibe a lot to get him looking how I wanted. I know he's supposed to evoke an " 'evil' little boy next door who's parents never reign him in", but that's just goth Dennis The Menace. I's 2020. We can at least go queer goth Calvin.

Sunday was much easier to design. Wednesday was my favorite as a child (of course) and I really wanted to keep the spirit of her look while adding things like billowy sleeves (it gets HOT down here), big poofy twists instead of braids, and a nice tie. She's a professional after all, been running the local pet cemetery since she was 6 and the previous groundskeeper met with an unfortunate accident after telling her that tarantulas don't have souls. Her specialty is creating beautiful naturalistic animal funerals similar to those that Maquenda (https://linktr.ee/artofmaquenda) makes, and she takes pride in creating miniature dioramas of her subjects after each burial which she uses as a kind of 3D catalog for future clients.

She really wants to try out her skills on humans one day. Well. Publicly try out her skills. Lotta random bodies float into the swamp. None of them have turned down her requests for diorama models so far. Most seem downright flattered. Plus, she usually figures out which graveyard/crime scene they floated over from and gets her parents to give them a lift back. She'll even help enact terrifying revenge from beyond the grave on whoever put them there if she's not, y'know, busy.

Besides arts, crafts, and pet based funerary arrangements, Sunday is an avid lover of archery (any ranged weapon really), books where little fantasy adventure animals die dramatic deaths, and history. She is That Kid who eagerly raises her hand when asked who Christopher Columbus was and ends up being sent out of class after 15 minutes for making 'a scene'. Her favorite party trick is just picking an item in the room and talking about how it relates to either some obscure historical figure with a buck wild life or a horrible disaster. At least one charity pancake breakfast ended with children in tears after her vivid description of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

Social-wise, while Wednesday is the girl that people ask to smile because they think she'd, "look so pretty", Sunday is rarely asked anything at all. People just kind of assume from her quiet nature (in between horrible history facts) that she's angry all the time and that she hates everyone. This is untrue. She hates some people but she's ambivalent to most everyone else and even downright friendly if you bother to talk to her like a person instead of a terrifying cryptid. Like, she IS a terrifying cryptid but she's also a little girl.

That’s about it for now. One day I might do the other family members but for now I’m happy with the four I’ve redesigned. Making an au! Lurch in a family that doesn’t do butlers could be interesting. Over on patreon I put forth that he could just be Motesha’s mute little brother (similar bone structure) but Amy Crook had the nice idea of quote: “ a mysterious "cousin" that "helps around the house" whose origins are both long in the past and faintly unsettling. He's good for lifting heavy things, like that tank of propane you're about to throw into the burning Piggly Wiggly... “ which i now consider canon. Who's kid is he? How old is he? Not important. Anyone willing to commit arson with you is family.

Annnnyway. This challenge was a lot of fun! I love indulging in AU’s.

#long post #the addams family #Character Design #au #design challenge #i am incapable of doing a design challenge like a normal person #oh god i forgot the cut lol

15K notes · View notes

dreamerstreamer · 3 years

Text

Somewhere Only We Know

Pairing: god!Dream / DreamXD x gn!reader

Summary: [Reincarnation!AU & Dream SMP!AU] Being a god can be especially lonely—Dream knows that better than anyone. Yet somehow, you always manage to find your way back to him in every life you live. If only it didn’t hurt so much to love you.

Warnings: tw// mention of death

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: requested by the lovely 🤡 anon, who asked for a piece based on keane’s somewhere only we know! i got rather carried away when writing this, and it’s certainly quite sad, but i hope you all enjoy it! <3

Dream blinks lazily up at the fluffy clouds drifting across the cerulean sky, his emerald eyes tracing over their soft edges. He hums to himself as one of them drifts in front of the sun, the warm light suddenly leaving his face. Frowning, he sits up a little straighter, raising his arm above his head. He snaps his fingers once, and in an instant, the clouds vanish. Warmth floods his cheeks as the sun’s brilliant rays crash over him once more. He smiles, but it’s melancholic, a forlorn look passing over his face.

Just how long has he been alone like this?

Sighing, he rises to his feet, kicking at the soft dirt beneath the soles of his boots. His viridian cloak is light atop his shoulders, his wings neatly folded underneath the soft fabric. Above his head, his halos glow with a dazzling golden hue, sending beams of amber light flashing across the nearby tree trunks. Rolling his neck, he snaps his fingers again, and his wings and halos vanish in a flash. Just like that, the weight on his back dissipates, and his lips twitch. There—that’s much lighter.

His gaze flickers over to the waterfall lying just a yard away, rushing ripples of water streaming down the short cliff face and into the pool lying at its base. He crouches down next to the small pond, brushing his hand over the soft soil beneath his feet. Sparks shoot up his arm and into his fingertips, the earth suddenly bursting to life underneath his touch.

All of a sudden, a blossom sprouts from the ground, soft and pink as it unfurls its petals and soaks up the warm sunshine. Dream grins as row after row of flowers shoot up from the ground, circling around the pond and lining the trees around the clearing until suddenly, the whole space is surrounded by breathtaking blossoms. He stands back with a satisfied hum, glancing around himself with an almost nostalgic gleam in his gaze.

It’s been ages since he last returned to this little alcove in his favourite forest. He could tell no one else had stepped foot here except for him, too. After all, there was only one other person who knew about this place—the only other person in the world he knew would be able to find it in the first place.

Had it been decades or centuries since he last visited? He’s not sure anymore, but really, he’s not sure if he cares, either. There’s a reason why he doesn’t come back here very often—one that he hesitates to even think about.

It’s far too painful of a memory to relive.

“Hello?”

Dream freezes, his eyes going wide at the sound of a new voice—a familiar voice. Slowly, he turns, his lips parting in awe as he sees a figure stepping into the clearing, a mix of caution and curiosity flitting across your cheeks.

He knows that face—knows you.

His heart aches at the thought.

“Hi,” he manages after a long moment, swallowing ever so slightly.

You flash him a sheepish smile, lowering your gaze to the ground almost bashfully as you brush a stray leaf off your shoulder. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, or anything. I was just passing by when I saw the flowers, and thought they looked really pretty, and...”

You trail off, your voice growing smaller and smaller until it fades off into silence. Dream stares at you, unmoving as his heart races a mile a minute in his chest, battering against his rib cage as your timid gaze flickers to his.

“I, um,” you squeak out, feeling the intensity of his eyes on yours. “I can go if you wa—”

“No,” Dream suddenly blurts, the word flying out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He can already feel the heat flooding his chest at the way you startle in front of him, and he sucks in a breath.

“Wait,” he says, calmer this time. “Please, I—you’re not intruding at all. You can stay.” He takes a shaky step forward, offering you a crooked yet earnest smile. “I’d love it if you stayed.”

In an instant, your face lights up, and his breath hitches in his throat at the sight. “O-Oh, thank you! It’s nice to meet you. My name’s [Y/N].”

In that moment, he could have sworn his heart stopped and would never beat, again. “What’s yours?” you ask, your eyes shining like freshly cut gemstones.

His eyes scan your face for a moment, taking in the soft panes of your cheeks and the delicate curve of your lips as your smile leaves tiny cuts in his lungs.

“Dream,” he breathes at last. “Call me Dream.”

Suddenly, your eyes curve into tiny crescent moons as you grin at him, and he feels the loneliness flowing through his veins subside the tiniest bit.

Even after all this time, he still can’t bring himself to forget your smile.

Dream hums to himself as he tosses a pebble into the pond from his spot on the fallen tree log. The stream laps at the stone once before swallowing it whole, letting it sink to the murky bottom without so much as a splash. A rustle comes from behind him, and he immediately whirls, his lips curling up into an eager smile.

“[Y/N],” he chirps, bright and keen, “welcome back.”

Your glowing face greets him in return, and he nearly combusts on the spot. He still remembers the way you had promised him you would return to see him again a week ago, when you had first stumbled upon his clearing. His head still spins at the thought, and it almost makes him forget the longing ache that sinks into his bones when his gaze lingers on you for a fraction too long.

Almost.

You wave at him as you jump over a protruding tree root, crinkles forming at the corners of your eyes. “Good morning, Dream! What are you doing here so early? The market only just opened.”

He shuffles over on the log to give you room, raising an eyebrow at you. “I could ask the same of you.”

Crouching over, you settle down onto the space next to him, not at all noticing the way he stiffens when your thigh brushes against his. “I woke up early to watch the sunrise,” you say with a half-drowsy smile.

There is a beat of silence, then Dream tilts his head at you. “The sunrise?”

You bob your head, turning to look at him. “Yeah,” you murmur wistfully, raising your arm to wave your hand up at the sky above. “I love watching all the pretty colours fill the horizon. It only lasts a few minutes, but it’s so magnificent, and I always try to watch them if I can.”

His eyes flash as he takes in your gentle expression. Then, he opens his mouth, thoughtful and slow. “Sunrises, hm? What other things do you like?”

You pause for a moment. “Other things I like?” When he nods, you hum, averting your gaze from his until you find yourself staring over at the bubbling waterfall.

“I like... I like flowers,” you begin, “but you already knew that.” He chuckles at the hint of a smile that dusts your face before you continue. “I like exploring the market every Saturday, too. They always have something new to find.”

Suddenly, your eyes flicker to life, glittering with excitement. “Oh, I also like stargazing! It’s like watching the universe paint a picture with little crystals every night, and something about looking up at the sky makes me feel so small, and I... I...” You gesture vaguely, a frustrated noise escaping your throat. “I don’t know. I just like it.”

Dream cannot help the way his heart melts in his chest at the sound you make, a certain fondness seeping into his soul. You were always so endearing—always, always, always.

“What about you, Dream?” you say suddenly, looking at him curiously. “What things do you like?”

Dream blinks at you—once, twice. Suddenly, his mind is flooded with image after image, memory after memory.

He thinks of the millennia he has lived through, the cities he has watched rise and fall. He thinks of the countless distances he has wandered, travelling far and wide with a heavy loneliness hanging in his barren heart. He thinks of soft kisses pressed to calloused fingertips and fluttering eyelids.

Then, he looks at you, with your enraptured eyes and your glorious grin.

“You,” he says, sincerity gracing his every word. “I like spending time with you.”

He watches as you stammer in reply, your eyes going wide as you gape at him in a mixture of embarrassment and flattery. He laughs at you, and his heart swells in his chest.

He’s missed you—more than you would ever know.

“Say, Dream, have you ever seen the ocean?”

The sun glares harshly into your eyes from where you lie on the earth, staring up at the cobalt sky, but Dream hardly notices—his eyes are too focused on you. “I have,” he murmurs as his gaze traces over the bridge of your nose in wonder. He’s seen more of the world than he would like to admit. After all, he was the one who created it in the first place. But to you, he’s just a simple traveler with a penchant for waterfalls.

Before he can even register it, you’ve bolted upright, bending over him with an excited shout. “Really?! What’s it like?”

He jolts at the sudden movement, all too keenly aware of how close your face is to his before his shuffles into a sitting position, resting his chin on his hand. “Well,” he begins, “it’s really big. So big that you can’t see the shore on the other side no matter how hard you try. It’s blue as far as the eye can see, and the breeze kind of tastes salty if you open your mouth.”

He catches a flash of your awed expression as he waves his arm in front of him to illustrate the vast size of the ocean. “The water,” he continues, envisioning the waves as they crash onto the sand, “is nice and cold, and if you swim deep enough, you might find fish and coral. It’s relaxing to watch the tide come up into the beach. Sometimes, shells wash up onto the shore, too. You can keep those as little souvenirs.”

For a moment, you are silent as you simply stare at him, something swirling deep within your gaze. “Wow,” you say at last, sounding completely breathless. “That sounds beautiful.” You stretch your legs out in front of you, your fingers curling into the grass spread beneath your palms. “My best friend says there’s mermaids in the ocean.” You scrunch your nose. “I don’t know if I believe him, though.”

Something dark ripples through Dream, and the tiniest of frowns passes over his face. “Your best friend?” he parrots.

You nod. “Yeah—his name’s Karl. He’s really nice and likes to goof off a lot. He’s also a really good storyteller!” You look at him then, fondly and with such a kind look it almost knocks Dream right over. “I think you might like his stories.”

His lips quirk up into a coy smile, and he leans ever so slightly forward. “Would I, now?” he croons, a teasing lilt tinting his tone. “What kind of stories does he like to tell?”

You clasp your hands together, excitement brimming in your face. “Oh, wonderful ones! There’s the one about the sleepy fox, the one about the pig who could not be killed, and the one about how we all face reincarnation after death, but my favourite,” you murmur, “is about the creation of the world.”

Dream goes still at that, his smile faltering for a split second. “How does that one go?” he asks softly.

You scoot the tiniest bit closer to his side, your gaze lowering ever so slightly. “Once upon a time,” you start, your voice as smooth as velvet, “a god descended from the heavens and carved the world into the shape it is today.” You traced your finger along the soft dirt. “He made valleys and hills, oceans and rivers, decorating the land with flowers and trees. The world he made was beautiful, but it was lonely, so he filled it with people to keep him company. He was so full of joy to have friends, until one day, he fell in love.”

Your demeanour, which had been cheerful up until this point, suddenly shifted, darkening as you let out a sigh. “He fell in love so quickly and so deeply that he was blind to the nature of his own creations, as they had a mortal lifespan, unlike him. When his lover died, a part of his soul died with them. He vanished after that, never to be seen again.” You curl your knees to your chest, resting your head upon them. “Some people say he wanders the world, mourning for all of eternity. Others say he died of heartbreak. Even fewer believe that his lover lives on and he loves them still, although they’re not entirely sure. Either way, he has yet to appear, and humanity quietly awaits for his return.”

Dream is silent beside you, his lips pressed into a thin line as his chest rises and falls with the timing of his breaths. “Why is that story your favourite?” he finally asks.

You lift your head, surprise shooting across your face. “I’m not sure,” you say softly, pondering for a moment. “I just think he sounds so... sad. It’s a tragedy, what happened to him. He only wanted to not be alone anymore.” Your voice drops even lower. “He only ever wanted to love someone.”

An ache suddenly expands within his gut, digging into his sides of his skull with such ferocity he fears he may never escape it. That same, fleeting sense of solitude slinks around his lungs, squeezing and squeezing until your eyes lock into his, and they halt.

“Do you think that he lives on?” you whisper, your gaze searching his. “That he might have found someone else to keep him company, despite his sadness?”

You pause, something like hope sparking within your eyes. “Do you think... he ever loved again?”

Dream stares at you, and stares at you, and stares at you. Your lips are right there, are so dreadfully close to him as he looks at you, feeling the blood pound through his ears as the pain in his heart begins to lift. It rises higher and higher within him before sliding off his shoulders entirely, leaving nothing behind but tender affection and warmth—a warmth he had been yearning for for so, so long.

He smiles at you then, and for once, this one is real.

“Something tells me he did.”

Dream stretches his wings out behind him with a quiet groan, feeling the cool air ruffle his ivory white feathers. His cloak sits on the ground next to him while his golden halos spin rapidly atop his head from where they float, glowing faintly in the fading evening light. After a moment, he lets his wings fold back up against his back, lowering his arms with a sharp exhale. In the distance, he catches a glimpse of the setting sun just before it dips below the horizon, shrouding the world in darkness. With a bored look, he picks at his nail, curling his toes in his shoes.

He’s already waved you off and watched as you wove your way out of the clearing and between the forest’s tangled trees back to your village. Now, he has nothing left to do but wait for your return the next day, his throat aching for your arrival with every passing second.

How far I have fallen, he thinks distantly to himself, to be reduced to nothing more than a helpless admirer for a human.

A moment passes, and his heart sighs.

A lovely human, at that.

All of a sudden, he hears a stick snap behind him, and Dream immediately snaps his fingers, his wings and halos disappearing in a flash, almost as if they had never existed to begin with. Whipping around on his heel, he narrows his eyes at the clearing entrance, jaw clenched in preparation. His shoulders are raised at his side, tense with anticipation when just then...

...you stumble out of the forest, tears streaking down your face.

Dream’s shoulders fall in an instant.

“Dream,” you choke out, your voice cracking sharply.

You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth again before he’s standing in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as gently as he can manage. His eyes scan your face as his stomach churns with agony at the despair painted onto your features. “[Y/N],” he murmurs softly, “what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You sniffle, lifting your head to look at him through watery eyes as you open your mouth. “Karl—he’s sick. Really sick,” you babble like a winding stream. “The doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, and he’s been coughing so badly that you can just tell he’s in pain. At this rate, I—I’m scared he’s not going to get any better. He... I’ve known him since forever, and I—”

The words die in your mouth as you cut yourself off with a broken sob, and Dream almost feels as though he’s been stabbed in the gut. He never wants to see you in pain, to see you as sad as this, and the fact that you are sobbing at all makes him want to wail himself.

Softly, he wraps his arms around you, pressing you close to your chest as he rocks you gently back and forth with your head resting on his shoulder. Your tears soak his shirt, but he doesn’t mind one bit. “Shh, [Y/N],” he coos quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”

You pull back with a wary gaze, fear etched into your features. “How do you know that?” you whisper. “What if he doesn’t get better? What then?”

Dropping one arm from behind you, Dream slips a hand into his pocket, quickly rubbing his fingers together. Just like that, cool glass that wasn’t there a moment earlier presses against the warmth of his palm, and he pulls out a vial filled with a pale, rosy liquid.

“Here,” he says, pressing the vial into your hand. “This is an antidote I’ve been...” He pauses for a split second, then fibs. “...holding onto for a while. For emergencies.” Slowly, he clasps your fingers until they’re closed around the glass top, sending you a reassuring smile. “Give this to Karl, and I promise you he’ll recover.”

You blink at him, your eyes glimmering underneath the light of the swirling stars overhead. “You swear?” you ask meekly, hope dancing along the edge of your lashes.

Dream swallows thickly and nods. “On my life.”

You inhale a deep, shuddering breath, then raise your hand to wipe at your eyes before smiling at him, warm and full of affection. “Okay,” you murmur as you step back from him. “I trust you, Dream.”

The next morning, you come tumbling into Dream’s arms with a gleeful cry, tears flowing freely down your face as you knock him to the ground. This time, they’re there for an entirely different reason as you ramble about Karl’s cleared airways when the doctor came to check on him after you fed him the antidote.

Beneath you, Dream relishes in the warmth of your body against his, praying you cannot feel the way his heart hammers against his chest.

There were not enough words in the world that he could use to describe how deep his devotion to you ran.

He fears there may never be enough.

Months pass in a blur, and Dream watches with knowing eyes as summer turns to autumn. Soon enough, snow coats the clearing although the waterfall continues to flow. No matter how harsh the weather, you stumble your way back to the forest to him, and each day, Dream feels himself sink deeper and deeper into the very essence that is you.

To think that there was once a time he never wanted to return here at all.

“Dream,” you say abruptly one day, “you know, I think you might be my favourite person in the world.”

He cocks a brow at you, his lips twitching up into a small smirk. “In the world?” he repeats. “I think Karl would be offended.”

You roll your eyes at him, but you can’t stop the smile from stretching across your face. “Maybe, but it’s the truth!” You lift a hand and begin counting off on your fingers. “You’re—you’re so nice, and passionate, and bold, and bright, and...” You pause, then chuckle almost shyly. “I could go on and on, but that’s embarrassing.”

He chuckles at your words, only growing more and more enamoured with each word that falls from your lips. “It’s not embarrassing,” he says gently. “It’s cute.”

Your shoulders suddenly stiffen, and you slowly turn your head to glance up at him. “Cute? You think I’m cute?”

He doesn’t have to think twice about his response. “Very much so. I would dare say that you are even more beautiful than you are cute.”

You whine with a pout, heat crawling up the side of your neck as you dig your thumbs into your palms. “You can’t just say things like that.”

He stares at you for a second, then he flashes you a grin that is both parts wicked and affectionate. “Maybe, but it’s the truth.”

Your mouth drops open at the way he fires your own words back at you, and you gape at him a moment before you groan, reaching over to playfully bat at his arm. “Why, you!”

He laughs at you and loves the way he can tell your heart races in your chest. He loves the way you smile despite your small shouts of frustration. He loves the way you are just so endearing to him in every which way.

He laughs at you and he loves you, hopelessly and wholly.

Dream gazes up at the orange sky with a slight frown and furrowed brows, watching as the clouds coast by overhead on a distant, northern gale. The waterfall babbles restlessly at his side, and he taps his foot against the smooth stones lining the pond with abandonment. The flowers he had once grown rake this petals over the soles of his shoes as he lets out a long sigh, anxiety slowly beginning to paw at his backside.

Are you going to show up at all today? he wonders. There are some days you don’t appear at all, typically because you had to run some errands or something of the sort, but those days are few and far between. He won’t chastise you for not seeing him, of course, but he cannot simply ignore the pang of his heart when he misses you so.

His fingers drum against the cool material clutched in his hands, and a melancholic look flits over his features. It would be a shame if you didn’t appear though, especially given what he had in mind for the day.

Right then, he hears your lovely voice call out for him. “Dream!”

His frown is immediately replaced by a smile as he whirls around to see you, his hands carefully tucked behind his back. “[Y/N],” he greets, striding up to you. “It’s good to see you.”

You’ve only just made it in front of him when he opens his mouth again, excitement filling his words to the absolute brim. “I brought you a gift.”

You blink wildly at him, pointing to yourself in surprise. “For me?”

His grin only grows wider, his heart leaping into his throat. “Of course it’s for you, silly. Who else?”

You squint for a second, then smile. “Karl?”

Dream deadpans at you, and you laugh in return, not noticing the way his eyes melt fondly at your expression. “I’m kidding,” you chide, shuffling a step closer to him. “So, what is it?”

He’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he finally brings his hands out from behind him, pushing them towards you. “Ta-da! Here.”

Your breath catches at the sight of his palms, and with trembling hands, you reach up to pull the curved item from his hand. “Is this... a shell?” you whisper, your eyes as wide as saucers.

He nods, his emerald eyes gleaming with pride. “A conch shell,” he says. “From the ocean.”

You sputter as you gently turn the shell over in your hands, your fingers tracing over the solid edges with nothing short of pure shock. “H-How did you even get this? The nearest ocean is at least a week’s travel on horse away!”

Dream thinks of the wings he typically had tucked on his back and how they carried him to the ocean and back in less than a few minutes, but to you, he only smiles and shrugs. “I have my ways.”

You don’t respond for a moment, then two. All of a sudden, you sniffle, and Dream is bending before you in a heartbeat, his hands reaching for yours before just stopping short. “[Y/N]?” he asks in a soothing tone. “Is something wrong?”

Your gaze is watery, but only slightly as you raise your chin to look at him, your lower lip set with determination. “Dream,” you say with a shaky breath, “I have to tell you something.” You gulp. “It’s serious.”

Immediately, Dream’s mind runs through a million and five possibilities of what you could possibly say to him, each one increasingly worse than the last. Your family is in need of funds, or you’re about to leave on a life-threatening journey. Or maybe Karl is just sick, again.

But before he can run himself into the ground with his own worries, Dream lets out a breath and tilts his head at you. “What is it?”

Your gaze falls down to your feet, and you stare at the earth for an excruciatingly long minute. Dream simply stands in front of you, patiently and earnestly waiting for your response when you suddenly open your mouth.

“I—I love you.”

Dream’s lungs feel as though they are about to collapse in his chest. “You do?”

You bite your lip, but raise your head, your shoulders trembling at your sides. “Yes,” you whisper, the syllable steeped with emotion. With one hand clasped around the conch shell, the other reaches up to rest over your chest, palm pressed flats against your left side. “My heart is yours, all of it.”

The world is a blur of colours and sounds around him, and he can feel his head spin faster and faster as a wave of memories come crashing down over him, drowning him whole. He wants to tear his hair out and scream to the heavens above until his throat is raw and he can scream no more.

You love him. You love him back, and as much as he wants to burn your words into the back of his eyelids, something else sinks its claws into his heart and tears a hole right into the flesh.

This is not the first time you have spoken these words to him. No, not at all.

He had done his best to forget them over all those years, had tried his best to outrun the anguish with every century he lived through. After all, when you live as long as he has, it is only natural for him to forget some things. Through wandering across every land he had lovingly sculpted by hand, he had hoped to erase his suffering by engulfing himself in other worldly affairs, isolating himself entirely from others.

But no amount of time could ever truly erase the memories he had of you—the first incarnation of you, from all those years ago.

He remembers how the two of you had shared your first kiss under the light of the full moon, giggling to one another as he wrapped you up in his soft feathers. He remembers the way you would hold his hand and tell him about all the things you could not wait to do with him in the very same clearing he stood in now. He remembers the way your body went limp in his own arms, coughing until your lungs could cough no more. He remembers the agony and the torment as he wasted away, too caught up in the imprint of your skin against his before you turned to dust before his very eyes.

He remembers it all, and he cannot not let himself be shattered like that, again.

“I have to go,” he whispers, jerking his arm back from yours.

You whip your head up, pain shooting across your face. “Y-You’re leaving? What?”

He takes another step back and swallows down the lump in his throat, but it tastes like acid burning his stomach. “I—I can’t stay here.”

Before he can move back again, your hand shoots out to grab at the hem of his shirt, desperation soaking into your face: “P-Please,” you plead, “you can just say you don’t love me back. My feelings for you won’t change.”

He wants to cry. No, he thinks, it’s not that. It could never be that. Not with you.

You clutch at the cloth, hoping your feelings somehow reach him through your anguished touch. “I love you, Dream,” you begin, “I really do. I love how attentive you are, how much you always seem to care. You’re always so patient with me, so kind, so generous, and it makes me melt inside. I love the way your eyes shine so brightly, and I love your little freckles. I want to count them all, and I don’t mind if that takes the rest of eternity.”

You’re almost entirely out of breath by now, and Dream’s jaw has gone slack. He can only stare at you with a look of pure conflicting despair as your eyes search his for answers he knows he cannot possibly give. “An eternity with you would be nothing,” you breathe, your voice cracking. Your grip on his shirt suddenly goes limp, and your arm falls back to your side. “Please. Stay.”

The knife in his gut only seems to twist deeper as he takes yet another step back, his cloak feeling like a boulder upon his back. “I can’t,” he chokes out. “I really can’t.”

Tears line your eyes like tiny jewels, and he wishes he could wipe them away. “Why?” you beg. “Why do you have to go?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

In front of him, a look of absolute defeat sinks into your expression, and your voice grows smaller than ever. “At least—at least tell me if I’ll ever see you again.”

Dream’s feels the back of his eyes sting, and he clenched his hands beside him. “Not in this lifetime,” he wants to say. “And hopefully not in the next, either.”

“I’m sorry, [Y/N],” he says instead.

Just like that, he watches as the light fades from your eyes, vanishing from sight as the setting sun watches on with a sad gaze. Your lower lip trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crumpling to the ground in a heap and watering the earth with your tears. You clutch the conch shell to your chest and let it dig into your chest from how tightly you press it against yourself, your vision completely blurred. In front of you, Dream holds back tears of his own, forcing himself to look away from your broken figure as he walks toward the forest away from you.

Your wails follow after him even after he unfurls his wings deep in the forest and soars up into the sky, flying high above the world below as he dries his tears with the harsh wind that bites at his face.

He will not return here for a long, long time.

He doesn’t think he would even be able to bring himself to if he tried.

Dream brushes a stray leaf off his shoulder as he steps over a root, his eyes focused on the bushes before him. A bird chirps as he strolls past a tree, nestling further into its nest as he ducks under the branch. He smiles at the sight, a deep fondness seeping into his heart as he lets his hand run over the tree’s hard bark.

He recognizes this forest—these trees. He knows this sky, has leapt over these rocks. He’s walked this path before.

It’s a shame he can’t remember how long it’s been since he last came here.

He hums a quiet melody to himself as he weaves a path between the trees, drawing nearer and nearer to the place he had been searching for with every passing second. He’s only a few steps away when a sound calls out to him—a sound that isn’t a part of the forest.

“Hello?”

Dream goes stock still, his heart coming to a screeching halt in his chest.

He knows that voice, too.

Sucking in a deep breath, he slowly steps forward, out into the entrance of the clearing. In front of the waterfall stands a silhouette he is absolutely positive he’s seen before—countless times before. Something tells him that he should leave, that he should run far, far away and disappear from view. But as he watches the silhouette take a tentative step toward him, his inhibitions fall away.

Warmth blossoms in the space between his lungs, all encompassing and full of grief as he opens his mouth.

“Hi.”

816 notes · View notes

missbumbleb33 · 2 years

Text

Unforeseen and Unconditional Sacrifices: Chapter 1, Defying Expectations

"Good evening, 47."

Diana's usual voice chimed in the agent's ear.

“I must say, I’m relieved that our target is living in such a congested city like Brooklyn. Makes it much easier for me to find viable network connections for our devices.”

He noted his environment. The outdoors exposed nothing especially noteworthy—a typical scene in a non-romanticized urban life. The dark sky barely illuminated anything around, the moon hazy and the stars nonexistent. Dirty posters of community events fluttered with the cool autumn air like tumbleweed. The sight contrasted coldly with what seemed to go on inside the target's home. The warm scene, viewed through the was illuminated by lamplights and veiled thinly by dark figures, not yet able to be identified completely. Perhaps what could've been a figment of the little match girl's imagination. Though knowing his usual marks, he understood that his target wouldn't be one to make such a dream come true, even with all the power they may have in the world. An old poster caught onto his shoe, struggling against the weak breeze.

“Angel does it again by writing and directing The Peach Kingdom ! Available in theaters-”

The agent released his foot on the poster, letting it take its course. Coincidental enough, his target indeed was the acclaimed playwright Angel.

Well, the upper crust understood her as ‘Daisy Bennett’, anyway. He wasn’t sure if that name was entirely hers anymore. Lawrence Bennett, former business tycoon and her late husband, had died just a few days ago. More importantly he was also a member of Providence, which made Daisy a high suspect for his successor.

It was the whole point of the mission in the first place.

47 noted the security guards posted at the front door, though this turned out not to be an issue. After scoping the perimeter, he found an open window that led to an open bathroom. He realized the vague stench in the air once he climbed through, though he wouldn’t be an assassin at all if he were bothered by such things. The strings of uncontrolled events have allowed this opportunity, and he was thankful for it, in his own way. Almost similar to how the leopard would find gratitude when approaching a calf strayed from its herd. The townhouse was much smaller than the past missions he's been dispatched to, which meant it would be harder to remain unnoticed.

The walls were lined with frames of all different shapes and sizes. Most were occupied with various works of art. Some, however, were left empty.

"I must say, it's quite rare for anonymous public figures to have such a meticulously maintained incognito status. Of course, that didn't stop me from finding out bits of her history--hardly textbook, though I suppose that's the case with all anonymous targets. It’s a bit suspicious that any trace of her visuals has been wiped clean. Especially with an... innocent alias."

He stepped into the lounge. The agent fit in well with the mild crowd—though it was a bit odd that a presumably young woman would throw a formal party for middle-aged individuals. The area itself was stylishly cluttered so that one may feel rather claustrophobic even without the people. He took note of the chandelier made of barbed wires and mason jars.

Barely heavy enough for pacification. Not worth it. He sauntered over towards the bookshelves, aiming to blend in as a guest. He leafed through the texts, its flaxen pages scratching against his gloved hand.

"She's a flower in a greenhouse at best, based upon what’s written on her records. It's likely she's only a puppet of Providence—From what I note she barely has any business experience other than nonprofit collaborations. Nevertheless, I expect this to be an easy mission-" 47's eyebrows knitted faintly as Diana's voice cut to static. ICA equipment typically wasn't subject to trivial network issues, especially in such an urban area.

"Mic check, one, two, three..." The foreign voice was soft against his ear. His suspicions were confirmed.

"Well. You're here for me, right? I suppose I can't fight with that. You might have to get a bit more creative to reach me, though." The voice said. "After all, angels don't take kindly to sinners."

He offered silence as an answer. He wasn’t a man of small talk. She didn’t seem to mind, though, as she talked right on.

“A bit of a low move to try and kill a widow at her husband’s funeral, don’t you think?” He detected the slightest echo in the earpiece’s noise relay. He slid the book back in its spot and slunked around the ground floor of the apartment. Unless this apartment had a basement he didn't see from the blueprints, his target had to be located in some sort of bathroom.

“Speaking of Lawrence, I believe he’s talked about you once.”

‘How so?’ She paused as if he’d actually asked the question.

“Yeah, I believe he mentioned some creep who preys on trophy wives. Trying to fulfill some sort of messed up fantasy, y'know?"

47 could feel the shit-eating grin through the earpiece.

The only other bathroom was occupied by an elderly woman fixing her makeup who had jeered at 47 when he barged in.

“Goodness sake, don’t you know how to knock?!”

‘Voices don’t match. Turn back at once, agent.’ Angel’s giggle drummed against his ear as he returned back out the hallway.

“Gotta choose one, dude. Can't be an old lady perv AND a professional hitman, can we?" She tut her tongue.

He approached the staircase, guarded by security. The man blocked his entrance, extending his palm out towards him.

"Sorry sir. Friends and family of the widowed only. Do you have anything to prove your relation to the madam?"

A prerequisite was expected, though unfortunately 47 didn't prepare for the question. He held one hand to his ear to muffle the earpiece's mic.

"I must have left my cell phone in the parlor. I'll return soon." His tone was stoic as ever. Still, the average person failed to be keen enough to garner enough suspicion from it to actually do something against him. He walked out of sight from the bouncer, instead opting to head towards a less occupied direction.

Though it took the risk of sauntering through a catering-occupied kitchen (taking off his suit jacket provided a rough disguise through the busy area), he found the room he was looking for. The utility closet was cooped with laundry devices, pipes, and general items you wouldn’t want to boast to your guests. 47 only cared for the fusebox, however, as he shot the locked case open with his silverballer. A small, cardboard box fell over and spilt its contents upon the bullet’s contact on metal.

A copy of Lawrence Bennett’s death certificate, a velvet capsule containing both a golden band and a diamond ring, various receipts dating back to 2001, and other puzzle pieces 47 could not put together. One of these was a wedding photo of a man at the cusp of his elderly stage and a much younger woman. Though he had never caught sight of her before, he could recognize her instantly.

Daisy Bennett.

She appeared much different from what he had expected. The East Asian woman did not carry the air of riches and assumed power most of his targets had. In fact, the figure could be better labelled as a girl rather than a full-fledged woman, despite her form-fitting dress and mature makeup. Her expression read stoic and indifferent, yet her white-knuckle grip on the bouquet told otherwise. The agent’s arctic eyes softened ever so slightly. The entirety of her reminded the agent of-

Victoria. She reminds me of Victoria.

The backside of the photo revealed pencil scratchings in flighty penmanship.

June 18th, 2004

There is no turning back

on a social contract. .

“Don’t tell me you’ve given up already.” the voice teased.

47 gingerly placed his findings inside his sleeves for safe keeping.

“Trust me. I’ll find you.” He replied, before throwing his earpiece into the washing machine. He flicked off the knobs on the fuse panel that powered the second floor, and prompted the washer to run before leaving the room.

As expected, the guard had taken off to figure out the source of the growing complaints. Knowing he wouldn’t be gone from his post forever, 47 slipped through the unsuspecting folk and climbed up the stairs.

The area he had stumbled into held a different atmosphere compared to what went on downstairs. A much more youthful set of guests were in attendance. In fact, hardly anyone 47 saw were around his own age. He never thought much about it anyway. As his health assessment in Hokkaido indicated, his age was simply chronological. It was sure enough, however, that the witnessed demographic hadn’t experienced any wrinkles upon their skin as of yet. This fact became even more clear as the lights returned to illuminate the floor.

“Hey, man!” 47 turned to face the stranger. The fellow pushed his frames up his nose, to which the agent realized had no lens inside of them.

“Guess there was a bit of a power outage, huh?” He chuckled casually. The agent offered a curt nod.

“So, I haven’t seen you around before. Are you a friend of Angel’s?”

“I’ve worked with her.”

“Associate, huh? Gotcha. Yeah, I’ve been on the writing team for one of her musicals. Have you watched Eau de Toilette before?”

“No.”

“Cool, cool…” the man scratched his arm and looked down at his loafers, before talking again. “Pretty sad what happened to Angel’s husband. I’m not even married yet, but I really wouldn’t know what I’d do if my partner just stopped existing…”

“Do you know where the bathroom is?”

“Oh! Yeah!” He gestured towards the door secluded at the end of the hallway. “I think Angel is using it right now, though-”

47 didn’t wait around to make more small talk, as he ambled straight towards his goal.

Sure enough, a figure of long hair worked at a laptop balanced on a sink. The agent seemed to be too eager to finish the mission, however, as when the body hit the bath tiles after pacification he realized the figure had a mustache. He dragged the body into the tub and dragged the curtains shut, before checking out his screen. Sure enough, there was evidence that the man had hacked into the ICA device and overridden the control panel for the earpiece. 47 disabled the program used, allowing Diana to connect back onto the devices. The earpiece had to be disposed of, but at the very least the handler would be able to watch his surroundings through the hidden camera.

The man’s phone lit up with a notification.

VINMO: SH has sent you $850.00 with a memo!

💻 🦾

As he pocketed the device, 47 noticed a cool breeze coming from the open window. A small figure in the distance seemed to stare up at him, before disappearing down a corner.

The agent shimmied down the adjacent pipe and took off towards them.

He found himself in the midst of a quiet shopping district. Most of the establishments were closed until sunrise, and places that were open remained few.

The dimly lit bars and lounges did not host any clients that matched his target. He stepped out of the nearly empty tattoo parlor, racking his head on where she might have gone. Brooklyn was a large city. She could be hopping from one place to another, or have gotten out of town altogether. Hell, with the sort of money she would have inherited from her late husband she could be on an airplane right now, going to who knows where.

As 47 thought of his next course of action, the hacker's phone lit up with another notification.

One text from: SH

"Hey, you alright?"

The agent skimmed their past conversations, before responding.

"yuppers. wbu?"

"A lil stressed. All good tho lol"

"dw. anything else u need me to do"

"If you could tell Molly how much I appreciate her that would be amazing🥺 also I think I may have lost her keys😭"

"lmfao gotcha"

47 scrolled through the stranger's contact list, filtering through the "M" section. He soon found the "Molly" he was looking for and filtered through their conversations.

"Thanks so much for the website update! Looks amazing."

"had to. circlespace doesnt have the best UI imo. changed your url too"

He pressed the embedded link, bringing him to a website for a stationery shop. Keeping the provided address in mind, he sauntered briskly towards the building he was looking for. As soon as he saw the darkened store he cut into its alley. He didn't have to shoot the lock this time. The target's missing key was still stuck into the knob.

The warmer air greeted him softly as he stepped inside the seemingly empty store. The streetlights outside barely irradiated the floor. The darkness proved to be helpful, however, as 47 easily noticed the light under the door beyond the shelves of writing utensils.

He didn't make it halfway until he felt something cold against the back of his head.

"Hey, you creep."

He recognized the voice.

"Daisy Bennett."

"You'd know that's not my name."

"What else should I be calling you?"

She pressed the gun against his skull.

"I don't think it matters anymore."

Despite her calm demeanor, 47 could feel her rapid pulse through the vibrations of metal tapping against his skin. His mind ran through different routes he could go about this situation.

"You'll hear my name in court, anyway." She spoke with an effort for confidence.

Turns out he didn't have to worry about a headshot, after all.

"You're the one threatening me with a firearm."

"This is self-defense. You've left me no choice." She took a deep breath. The agent felt her heartbeat slow ever so slightly. "Who hired you? One of Lawrence's children? Lafayette Productions? Providence ?"

"It's unlikely such an organization would kill off their newest associate."

"IS THAT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT?!" She roared. Her pulse spiked, and he could practically see her hand tensing up around the grip.

It was his turn to strike. He flipped around with the intention of knocking her to the ground.

"I'm not part of that STUPID allia-" she choked on her words as she felt herself off balance, dropping the pistol to the ground.

47 had made a mistake.

He haphazardly extended his hand towards her waist and spun her around. His body crashed into the shelf behind him, pouring the hundreds of pens and pencils onto the ground with a giant crash. The woman's forehead smacked against his chin, though he couldn't focus on any sort of pain at the moment.

It was silent for a while.

The former target remained frozen in his arms, until he tapped her arm to get up. She rose quickly and straightened out her shirt, before offering a hand to help him up. The agent ignored it as he stood up himself. Aside from the mess their collapse had made, both seemed to be largely uninjured.

The woman rubbed her forehead.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"I'm fine."

Another moment of silence.

"You better help me clean up."

The evening turned to night as the store’s digital clock struck 12. The agent reassembled the broken shelf, and his former target cleaned up the broken products and picked up the usable remnants. They worked without talking, with the occasional laughter and passing conversation interrupting their otherwise consistent quietness.

"It's Sarang, by the way." Sarang broke the still air. 47 looked up from the ground to face her, his hands working diligently without his attention. He recognized its meaning.

"Is Daisy from The Great Gatsby ?"

She shrugged.

"It was his favorite novel growing up, apparently." Her voice softened.

47 left his portion of the compensation by the cash register, along with Molly’s key.

Next Chapter

#hitman #uus fanfic #sarang #hitman agent 47 #hitman fanfiction #hitman fanfic #diana burnwood #long reads #sleep deprived writing

11 notes · View notes

tractorbeamofwoe · 2 years

Note

lastly maybe something based of sparks by coldplay for bobby?

A/N: here’s a little bit of I guess a hurt/comfort drabble but the hurt is not shown, just mentioned lmao ik it’s not really based on the song per se but it is worked into it so I hope you still like it 🥺

You hadn’t spoken for 3 days at this point, and the guilt and anxiety was gnawing away at your nerves. What if you’d truly scared him off for good this time? What if you’d really fucked up and upset him, past the point of being fixed by an apology. You couldn’t believe you’d fallen out over something so stupid but that’s what unrequited love does to you, you supposed. You were still coming to terms with your feelings for Rob and figuring out the best way to tell him, which unfortunately left you snapping at him when he asked if you were okay and he said some hurtful things in retaliation, which clearly he felt bad about afterwards.

A knock on the door startled you out of your thoughts and you almost sloshed your coffee all over your lap as you rushed to answer it. You took a moment to compose yourself, seeing the obscured figure through the frosted glass and trying to figure out who it could be at 7 in the morning. Tall, looked they were holding a guitar, shifting nervously from foot to foot- wait, a guitar?

You yanked open the door then, and sure enough there was Bobby breathing a sigh of relief and letting his smoke go. “Thank god,” he said, a hint of a smile on his face “for a second there I was scared you weren’t gonna answer.”

“Why? You know me, I’m ranked number one in the world for fastest door opener.” You joked, thinking back to a conversation you’d had where he called you that. But the joke fell flat and didn’t do much to ease either of your nerves.

“Well I kinda thought I was the last person you wanted to see today.”

“And I thought you hated my guts.”

And that seemed to hit a nerve. He frowned in confusion before taking another drag of his cigarette.

“What? I- no, no, I don’t, why would I- look can we just talk? Well actually I wanted to play you a song I learnt yesterday. If you’ll let me. Or you can slam the door in my face and tell me to go away forever, I’ll understand.” Rob was stumbling over his words, blue eyes constantly flicking between yours and the floor. You smiled then.

“Go on then, I’d love to hear it.”

He promptly discarded his cigarette then and sat himself on the front step of your porch, patting the concrete for you to join him as he began to strum the opening chords. You thought you could vaguely make out the song, something by Coldplay, but you couldn’t say which one.

“You can sing along you know.” He smirked, not looking up from where his fingers met the frets.

“I don’t know the words Bobby!” You giggled, giving him a little nudge with your elbow but not enough so it would muck up his playing. He just shook his head and took a deep breath.

“Did I drive you away? I know what you’ll say. You say oh, sing one we know.”

And it was then you realised that this was his apology. This was his love confession.

“But I promise you this, I’ll always look out for you. Yeah that’s what I’ll do.”

The lyrics matched you both so well that you imagined him tediously skipping through spotify the night before, trying to find the perfect song to make it up to you. Not to mention how he must’ve spent hours just learning it non stop and it was all for you. Because he cares about you. You turned bright red as you reflected on how stupid you were to think for so long that he couldn’t love you the way you wanted him to, but here was the man of your dreams on your doorstep serenading you. Well, if that’s not how you want to be loved then you have to be crazy.

“I said ohhhhhh, I cry ohhhhhh...

yeah I saw sparks”

#WOOOOO MY FIRST FINISHED PIECE OF WRITING IN A LONG TIME EVERYBODY CHEER #inhaler #Robert keating

13 notes · View notes

papers4me · 3 years

Text

Fruits Basket Reboot: Analytical Overview of the Anime

Fruits Basket’s reboot is one of most successful anime reboots since it has:

Amazing story that celebrates human weakness, digs into the depths of human identity & doesn’t shy away from depicting child trauma & abuse. Teaches the values of letting go & walking forward.

The author’s blessing, nostalgia factor from loyal fanbase.

Fixed scheduled 3 season comeback with 63 eps in total planned from the very beginning.

Finished source material with its ending approved by manga fans.

Anime follows the official manga ending.

The “slice of life/shojo” genre doesn’t need budget for fight scenes or big scale realistic animation for its lore.

All these factors contributed to its success, however, this doesn't mean the anime was a masterpiece. It is very good but had issues aren’t in the writing, but rather in the format, overall vision & its effect on characters’ depths.

1. Format:

a. ( Is Fruits Basket an episodic anime or a plot-driving story?)

-The anime couldn’t decide how to adapt the manga content, should it follow it literally & combine two chapters together each time, or take the core plot & drive it by character, or focus on its vision or what? they KNOW that can’t adapt everything. They have 63 eps in total so they have good number of eps to do any choice. However, since the anime is advertised as “ a faithful adaptation” they wanted to cement this announcement in se01 & chose “character of the day” format. Once, the manga fans are assured & hooked, they can drive the rest wherever.

-Se02 was slightly less episodic (minus the beach arc which had perfect pacing). Afterwards, the yuki content was approached similarly to se1 but centered around “ episodic themes”. Lots of characters arcs are pushed to se3 to keep the “mother” theme of se2. that’s why all eps ended happily minus few eps such as tohru’s nightmare ending in isuzu’s ep.

-Se03 is where the anime really had the biggest issues & couldn’t decided between keeping themes or rolling like a true well-written drama-infused story. Thus we see them trying to keep the episodic themes as long as possible in 5 eps & once ep 6 starts & they can no longer label a flowing plot into themes, they rolled into the climax. The entirety of tohru’s neglected issues outside of her role as a mother was condensed in one ep via audio narration, since ep 7 should drive akito into the climax spot, ep 8 is kyo’s & ep 9 is female antagonist vs female protagonist clash. The rest of the eps focus around wrapping the growth arcs of kyo, akito, yuki & tohru.

I wish they kept the episodic forma for se01 only. Se01 is episodic by design since you can’t maneuver around character introduction, but they should’ve let season 2 & 3 flow smoothly without imposing episodic themes that a junior high schooler could detect, simply because the theme will choose which character fits this ep & which must be cut. Hardly a smart decision for a drama-focused story. Example: Se02 post-beach arc, being “mother tohru” themed meant the cut content of any “teenage girl tohru content”, focusing only on her role as a mother & shoving the rest of “tohru” into the unbelievably packed se03.

b. ( How the seasons are divided & which one is best?)

Lots of fans believed that: se1 (kyo focus), se2 (yuki focus), se3 (tohru focus), I don’t think this is the correct official anime format at all, but rather the fans wishful thinking, here’s why:

se01 isn’t kyo’s focus at all. Kyo has ONE focused ep each season: se01:ep24, se3: ep9, & se03: ep8. He gets more screen time in se03 to deal with the aftermath of ep8 & to mark his growth & close his arc. But, yuki had more focused eps in se01 than kyo. Example, se01, ep 12, yuki tells the audience abt his dream of new friends, home & new self, sth he achieved gradually ever since that ep ended, thus, Kisa’s ep is a yuki centered ep as well as it marked the beginning of (a) “mother tohru” issues, (b) him deciding to join student council & get out of his comfort zone which is the beginning of “ new yuki”.

se2 is indeed a yuki centered season.

se03 is not a tohru’s focus at all, we still had (akito, shigure, kyo, kureno, momiji, isuzi, haru, machi, motoko, & more yuki) to start or finish their arcs & it is 13 eps only. tho, Tohru had a self-focused role at last which is good.

-I believe the following format better describes the anime’s seasons’ division since it is driven by themes:

se01: Life teachings for the youngsters, due to the direct format of advise given by mother kyoko thro her daughter to the characters/ audience.

se02: Life teachings thro a coming of age story. The trio are struggling to choose a future, afraid & burdened by their trauma’s. Yuki with the help of “mother tohru” , leaves the nest “youngster stage” & sets his foot into the future & struggles to: have fiends, express himself, face his parents, be honest with himself, form an identity & understand himself.

se03: Life teachings of mature issues to those who have already chosen wrong once or twice. bigger issues are presented such as: guilt, death, trauma, extreme self-loath, self-destructive tendencies (kyo), grief, lack of self-esteem, refusing to let go of the past, abandonment issues, constructed polite girl identity with false happy mask (tohru), superiority complex, false forced identity, sins & misdeeds (akito), other themes such as adultery, manipulation, passiveness & enabling can fit the other characters.

So, naturally, season 3 is the richest in content, extremely entertaining story-focused, plot-driven, multi characters depth, plethora of themes, issues & variety of fascinating character writing to distinguish between various arcs & wrap ups. Honestly, se03 carries the whole success since it IS the story of Fruits Basket ( a basket of different fruits & we get to hear/see them all, including the rice-cake!). Still, se03 suffered from the issues of pacing & format I mentioned above, plus condensed content due to short number of eps dedicated to 12 characters.

2. Overall Vision:

Tohru being the main protagonist carries the story’s vision, however, I think Taklaya-san wanted the vision to expand to all her characters. I duno abt the author’s true vision since I haven’t read the manga, but if I were to guess based on the overall story: it is “the acceptance of human weakness”. Yuki isn't the perfect prince, tohru isn't the angelic mom, kyo isn't the horrible monster. These assumptions are the OTHER characters’ perspective of them. Not their true identity or reality. We later even learn that the abusive akito herself, chose a healthier identity, the atoned family head. However, in the anime, characters’ weakness isn’t the center of the anime’s vision, rather its vision is abt the “nurturing effects of the mother figure”, which is supported by the writing as well, but shouldn't be the core driving plot. The anime is more centered around mothers & more narrowly guided. The characters’ weaknesses takes a second seat until the focus on the mother role is over. This does not affect tohru only, but all characters including yuki himself.

-Tohru being the female protagonist shouldn’t be angelic as this contradicts the core theme, thus tohru is given her own set of (human aspects): trauma, frustrating character traits, faulty coping mechanism: the fake happy mask. Her role as yuki’s mother is only ONE part of her, as big as it is his life & as huge as it is from his perspective. It should NOT be what the audience can only see & feel from tohru. If it is, then Tohru is forever the 16 year-old mother of her peers, sth a normal teenager shouldn't, contradicting the basic existence of the human aspects mentioned above.

a. How does the overall vision being focused on “tohru’s motherly role” affect characters’ depths?

-For Tohru: In the anime, tohru being yuki’s mother lasted for 2 seasons, during that time, we are ONLY allowed to see HER from HIS perspective. Everything abt her human weakness is either vaguely hinted “ few scenes here & there” or pushed to se03. In se01 & 2, tohru is only allowed to act as a “teenage girl” in front of two male characters: (kyo & momiji):

How is tohru depicted in front of kyo & momiji? If you re-watch the anime, once tohru is around these two, her character is very different & she stops giving advice & instead “listen” to them. She is shown more lively & drawn younger & girly, asking more than talking, receiving advice, they both look at her as a normal girl with burdens on her shoulder rather than “savior/care taker”. Kyo complains to her few times abt that & calls her out on her self-denying antics, momoji takes a different approach & subtly provides chances for her to be a “teenage girl”: going to a hot spring & vacation. She opens up to kyo slowly in all her scenes with him, but while she doesn't open up to momiji, she allows herself to show vulnerability & throw her mask a bit in front of him (se01, ep12: she listened to his talk abt his mom, related to him, cried & hugged him with NO advice even tho she didnt tell him abt her mom), se02, she listened to his talk abt his sister, related to him, cried & gave NO advice even tho she didnt tell him she thought abt her mom).

The anime’s heavy focus on her “motherly”side, contradicts showing her as vulnerable & traumatized, hence her backstory lasted for 4 minutes in her own ep, se03, ep6. Later when she faces akito, tohru’s growth kicks in & she starts relating to her issues of abandonment but all this growth came from those 4 minutes of backstory in ep6. In ep9, in front of akito, tohru was depicted just like how she is depicted in all yuki centered eps, ( giving an advice, smiling, a hallow of light around her, the sun rises, the rain stops & she shines her kindness to heal the wounds).

-For Yuki: In the anime, Yuki is shown seeking a mother & all the right monologues & issues are perfectly presented. However, his weakness isn’t only wanting a mother!! yuki is depicted as a prince by others, so a huge part of his growth is to leave the princely persona behind, which is sth that was not focused on in the anime. Outside of his issues on viewing tohru as a mother & wanting friends, yuki continued to be depicted as prince & wasn't much allowed the freedom of being “a normal teenage boy”. Machi narrated that part of his growth, motoko too, but it wasnt depicted much on screen & yuki continued to have dashing bubbles, sparkles, hair flowing on wind & extreme focus on beautiful face. Him becoming a dynamic character outside of his “finishing my tohru-mother confession to my friend” is very short lived. This would’ve easily been fixed if less attention was given to his “mom tohru” phase. He is more than “I used to look at tohru as my mom”.

-For kyo: In the anime, kyo never looked at tohru as a mom, hence from the beginning kyo didn’t fit the overall vision. Hence, all his issues are pushed into se03 when tohru’s “mom role” is finished. There is a reason we have ONE kyo centered ep in se1 & 2. it IS contradicting the current tohru-image of being a mom. Also, kyo’s thoughts are blocked completely for dramatic purposes but he didnt need to be absent from tons of eps which he was, even his growth ever since se01 finale is very subtle in order to not derive from tohru’s image as a mom. We have some scenes of kyo & tohru interacting, but they should be sparse se01, ep 23 (soup ep) or se02, ep2, or short scenes such kyoto scene or tohru’s worried abt her grandpa scene in se2, ep14. Most of kyo’s & tohru’s scenes aren’t solely romantic in their nature but they provide in depth peek into their true personality & identity as humans. With her kyo isn’t angry or annoyed & with him tohru isn’t bubbly with the “I’m okay” mask.

Side Notes:

There is no doubt that the anime was made with respect & love to the source material & the author. I can see this clearly & I don’t deny it at all. This isn’t meant to ridicule them at all. I respect them all plenty.

There is no doubt that the anime team were trying their best & if you like everything, then good for you, if you like some parts & don’t agree with others, then that’s fine. Criticizing is a form of loving, too. Just be respectful.

Preferences, tastes, visions, & outlooks, all differ from one human to another. This is normal & healthy.

The director or decision maker in the anime having different vision from the author is fine, too. After all, he’s a different person. His perspective & understanding of her characters is different. Disagreeing with him is fine. All medium of art are exposed to the audience perspective. I disagree with him on lots of creative decisions such as reliance on monologues, wide shots on intense moments, lack of zoom on facial expressions, most parallel scenes are very in the nose, need for exaggerated drama & over dramatic drawing of tohru & akito at times.

You can even differ with the writer herself on some parts of her writing, that’s fine, too.

I enjoyed this anime lots, it helped me make new friends, discuss lots of fascinating content, & practiced writing short critical reviews, which is sth I’ve missed from my college days!

I love the writing for the main male characters: Yuki & Kyo. I love their arcs so much! Yuki got the best focus on his core issues. Kyo, in particular surprised me as I used to think, due to the minimum content on him, that he’s only the secondary rival of the main male protagonist. But kyo’s story turned out fascinating & very psychological informed.

Still, the anime is lacking to me for its depiction & presentation of women. The main female characters (Tohru & akito) are lacking realistic depiction of their core issues & time dedicated to that. The focus on tohru’s mom role steals from realistic existence as a character on her own right. Akito is a villain for so long & her atonement is quick & her love story is quicker. Both females didn’t get to tell us their traumatic backstory in detail like the boys & they didn’t have enough focus on their human side.

Altho kyo had (1) way less screen time than yuki or even tohru, (2) his true backstory was only revealed in the climax, (3) his inner thoughts were blocked for suspense, he was written wearing his emotions on his sleeve from ep1, so, we grew to feel for him & dreaded what could’ve broken such endearing boy, hence, once it was shown we understood the psychological trauma that destroyed him. One third of the puzzle of his story was revealed each season gradually. (1) se01 (true form), (2) se02 (his bet with akito, knowing kyoko & loving tohru), (3) se03 (His whole backstory including the abusive father).

I wouldn’t say, I wish tohru was given the (yuki treatment) cuz then we’ll need more than 13 eps for se03, I just wished her story & emotions to at least be given the (kyo treatment): Divided into clear thirds (parts).

The anime is a lovely treat that I can recommend to lots of ppl with ease. You dont have to be into shojo to get into it, but it’ll undoubtedly trick you into its subtle main love story that subvert most shojo tropes. The other love stories are good as well, there’s a type of love for every fan!

There’s a number of platonic friendships which is very refreshing!

My Final Verdict of the anime: Very Endearing as it tugs at my heart!

#Fruits Basket #Anime Only #overall impression #analytical overview #tried paper #Recommended anime for sure!#Will read the manga!#se03 sells the manga good!

94 notes · View notes

potrix-the-queerschlaeger · 4 years

Text

boys boys boys

Inspired by this awesome post. I couldn’t resist. Also, I recommend listening to Mötley Crüe’s “Girls Girls Girls” while reading the story. Also available over on AO3.

[Now with a Sam/Bucky sequel!]

Sam wakes to a loud crash, followed by a string of breathlessly hissed curses. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and why—on mission, somewhere in the alps, near the border between Switzerland and Italy—but once he does, he rolls over with a tired groan, blindly fumbling for the bedside lamp.

In the dim light it casts, he can make out Bucky crouched by the other bed across the room, picking shards of glass out of a damp spot on the carpet. His shoulders are tense, and he’s carefully avoiding Sam’s gaze, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. It’s too dark for Sam to see, right now, but he’d bet a hefty sum of money on the bags under Bucky’s eyes to be even more pronounced than yesterday.

A quick glance at his phone tells him it’s shortly after four in the morning, meaning they’ll have to be up and ready in less than two hours. Also meaning there’s no point in going back to sleep again.

Yawning, Sam throws back the covers, and slides out of bed. Bucky’s still not looking at him as he heads for the tiny kitchenette in the corner to flick on the kettle. He keeps his back to Bucky while he grabs mugs and tea bags, busying himself with preparing their tea in order to give Bucky at least a semblance of privacy.

(Watch out for the break!)

Sam’s no stranger to night terrors himself, although it’s hard to imagine what kind of horrors plague Bucky’s dreams, on top of the ones everyone in their line of work is unfortunately, intimately familiar with. And Bucky would almost definitely rather bite off and swallow his own tongue than admit it, but Sam’s fairly sure their current location isn’t exactly helping Bucky’s general state of mind, either.

It doesn’t take long for the water to start boiling, but once Sam turns back around, two steaming mugs in hand, the only evidence of what happened are the pieces of the broken water glass in the trash can by the desk. Bucky’s sitting on the bed, back leaned against the wall, knees pulled up, and face buried in his hands.

He lifts his head when Sam plops down next to him, though, taking the proffered mug with a raspy, “Thanks.”

They don’t talk, but after a couple of minutes, once Bucky’s looking a little less wild around the eyes, Sam bumps their shoulders together. Bucky leans into the contact, and they continue to drink their tea in silence.

By the time Sam catches up with him, Bucky’s got the last remaining HYDRA agent pinned against the wall by his throat, frantically scrabbling at Bucky’s metal arm as his face turns redder and redder. Sam lands a few feet away, and approaches the remaining distance on foot, hands held up placatingly.

Their objective is to bring this particular guy in alive for questioning. Sam knows this. Bucky knows this. Sam knows that Bucky knows this.

What Sam doesn’t know is if Bucky cares.

The instant they’d stepped foot in this particular base, Bucky’s whole demeanour had changed. He’d blinked at the lab equipment, first in confusion, then in recognition, and Sam had realised they were in for one hell of a bumpy ride.

“Bucky,” he says, quiet, when he comes to a stop at Bucky’s side.

Bucky’s breathing hard, chest heaving, and he bares his teeth in a silent growl before dropping the guy to the floor. “I know.”

Whoever this guy is, he definitely does not know when to quit. He coughs violently, but even though he can barely catch his breath, he spits out, “Желание, Ржавый, Семнадцать—”

Sam winces, but Bucky only rolls his eyes, grunts out, “Will you shut up?” and smashes the guy’s head into the wall, knocking him out cold.

Then he turns to Sam, grins, and announces, “You carry 'im upstairs,” before walking away.

Sam glares at his retreating back. “Man, you've got super strength!”

“You got wings, flyboy!”

“We’re in a bunker!”

“Can’t hear you, gotta speak up!”

“Oh, fu—”

Bucky’s sitting at the end of the dock, legs dangling over the edge, bare feet dipped into the water.

Sam loosens his tie as he walks over to him, the bottles of beer Pepper had handed him upon arrival hanging between the fingers of his free hand, clinking together softly. He kicks off his dress shoes once he reaches Bucky, and nudges him with the bottles until he takes them so Sam can pull off his socks.

The water of the lake is pleasantly cool, even in the otherwise sweltering summer heat, making Sam groan out loud when he pushes his feet in. Bucky chuckles quietly as he hands one of the beers back over.

“How bad was it?” Bucky asks, after a couple of minutes. He’s worrying his bottom lip, absently peeling the edge of the label on his bottle.

“A lot of speeches from a lot of people thinking themselves incredibly important.”

That makes Bucky snort out a laugh. “So, Steve woulda hated it, is what you’re sayin'?”

“Oh,” Sam says, equally amused, “definitely, yeah.”

He takes a pull of his beer, eyes wandering over to the willow tree on the shore, and the stone bench sitting in its shadow. They’re too far away for Sam to be able to read the memorial plaques, though if he squints, he can just about see them between the gently swaying branches.

Stark.

Tasha.

Steve.

Bucky comes readily when Sam slings an arm around his shoulders, smiling sadly at Sam’s, “Happy birthday, old man.”

“Happy birthday, Stevie.”

Stakeouts are boring.

And this one especially, since absolutely nothing has happened on any of the three days they’ve been watching the place. Their intel had been frustratingly vague, only alluding to someone with certain information maybe coming to stay at this particular Airbnb sometime this week.

With nothing else to do, Sam checks their perfectly working surveillance devices again, and scowls at the side of Bucky’s head.

Bucky never looks up from his rifle, but mutters an annoyed, “Cut it out,” in Sam’s general direction.

Sam pulls a face at him, but before he can snark something back, Bucky’s phone chimes from his pocket. Bucky startles, and fumbles it out with a clearly embarrassed, “Shit, sorry 'bout that.”

“Look at the professional,” Sam teases, and has to bite back a laugh when Bucky flicks a pebble at him. “Overwhelmed by modern technology, grandpa?”

“Funny,” Bucky says, deadpan, with a roll of his eyes. “Remind me, who was it who forgot to—”

“One time!” Sam cuts in, and throws a pebble back, nailing Bucky in the chest. “And I wasn’t the one who—”

Bucky glowers at him. “That doesn't count!”

“Yes, it most certainly does count,” Sam counters, ready to argue his point, when suddenly— “Wait, wait, hold on!”

“What?” Bucky is frowning, looking from Sam to their target house, then back again. “Somethin’ happening?”

Sam shakes his head, and tries to think of a delicate way to ask the question burning on the tip of his tongue, only to blurt out, “Are you on Grindr right now, man?”

The way Bucky’s entire face goes hot is very telling.

“Look, I was gonna tell ya—”

“No, hey,” Sam is quick to interrupt, reaching over to give Bucky’s arm a reassuring squeeze, “you don’t owe me an explanation, okay? I was just, uh. Let’s go with surprised.”

Bucky ducks his head, but he’s smiling faintly. “‘S not somethin’ I’m used to talkin’ about, is all.”

“Well, if you ever need to talk about it,” Sam spreads his arms in invitation, grinning when Bucky rolls his eyes again, “I’m right here.”

It’s enough to dispel the last of the awkwardness between them. Bucky quirks a brow at Sam, chin propped up on one hand, and flutters his lashes as he asks, “Wanna talk about boys, Wilson?”

“We’ve got the time,” Sam points out, then holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

The look that earns him is extremely dubious. “Why?”

“Look,” Sam wiggles his fingers impatiently, “do you want my help, or not?”

“Never asked for it,” Bucky grumbles, but does unlock and hand over his phone. “Just don’t—”

“Open the DMs, yes, got it,” Sam says, grimacing, and frantically presses the back button while Bucky cackles next to him, eyes shining with mirth. “That’s very forward.”

“Oh, he ain’t even the worst one,” Bucky says, looking at the screen over Sam’s shoulder. “What’re you doin’, anyway?”

Scrolling down the list of recent conversations, Sam clicks on the picture of a guy who’s actually showing his face, instead of his thighs or abs. “Figuring out your type.”

He stops swiping when he gets to a picture of the guy in a suit, and tilts the phone so Bucky can see better. “You know, he reminds me of—”

“Nope,” Bucky snatches the phone back, slapping at Sam’s hands when he tries to steal it again, “don’t ruin ‘im for me—”

“You don’t know who—”

“I don’t wanna know!”

“I think you already know he looks like—”

“I will throw you off this roof, Wilson!”

“Bring it on, Barnes!”

#the falcon and the winter soldier #sam wilson #bucky barnes #friendship #coming out #short and funny #no tfatws spoilers #myfics

91 notes · View notes

egcdeath · 4 years

Text

wrong place, wrong time

summary: a drunken mishap leads you to reconcile with someone from your past. (based off this prompt)

pairing: andy barber x reader

word count: 2.1k

author’s note: this fic has been sitting in my drafts, half finished, for like months. i hope you enjoy!

warnings: extremely brief mention of cheating

“I just think things would be better if we… you know, saw other people,” Oliver explained through the phone.

You sighed dejectedly into the microphone, before deciding to hang up, and aggressively tossing your phone onto the leather seat next to you. You’d already had a shit day at work, and you really didn’t think that you could handle all of this today. Especially considering that you were almost certain that there was the hint of a feminine giggle in the background of that call.

You’d been expecting this for a while, your relationship with Oliver had been falling apart- slowly but surely- for a few months now, and he was ‘working late’ way too many nights for you not to be the slightest bit suspicious. But it still hurt, you were now single, and you’d essentially wasted a precious year of your life with a douchebag who ended up leaving you anyway.

You pressed your foot on the gas, and began your drive back home, before telling yourself fuck it, and deciding to turn onto a side road so you could head to your local pub.

-----

Several drinks later, you were extremely drunk. From that point on, everything was a bit of a blur.

You stumbled out of the bar (against your own will? You vaguely remember someone telling you that you needed to leave), sat in the back of an Uber (how much did you tell them? Probably too much), arrived at your home (but why weren’t your keys working?).

Things were a bit less blurry here. You can remember yourself repeatedly stabbing your keys into the door, and when that didn’t seem to work, deciding to hoist yourself over your fence, and get in through the back.

During this whole ordeal, you tripped over a seat on the patio, losing a shoe in doing so, and nearly fell into a pool, since when did my house have a pool? You ignored that thought, then opened the back door, getting in with no resistance.

You hobbled inside, closed the door behind you, then stumbled up the stairs, before finally finding your (?) bedroom. You flopped down in bed before realizing that you really needed to pee, and as you went to go find your bathroom, everything seemed to go black.

----

You woke up extremely disoriented in a vaguely familiar bathtub. It faintly smelled of pine, and possibly a hint of vanilla. The tub had a modern and sleek look, yet appeared to be as sterile as a hospital room. This was absolutely not your home. But it possibly belonged to someone you knew. The tiles lining the wall did seem to ring a bell somewhere deep in the foggy abyss of your hungover brain.

As you sat up, you groaned due to the consistent pulsing in your head. This had to be one of the worst hangovers you’d had in a while, and you were lucky that you didn’t lean over and empty the contents of your stomach right that instant.

“Stupid fucking Y/N,” you whispered to yourself. “You’re lucky all of your organs are still intact.” After stating this, you glanced down at your torso just to make sure. But a larger question still remained, where were you? Did you hook up with someone? Did you just randomly break into someone’s home? That’s a little ridiculous. Who would do something like that?

Apparently, drunk you would. In the process of exiting the tub, you concluded that you absolutely were in someone elses' gargantuan of a home, and that that person was undoubtedly down the hall, taking a phone call. Also, you were definitely missing a shoe.

You glared at yourself in the mirror, smeared makeup on your face, hair that looked so frizzy that you may as well have been struck by lightning, and of course the overwhelming scent of dry liquor that seemed to be seeping out of your skin. You turned on the sink and splashed your face, trying to completely wake up, and to partially figure out if this was real life, or just a horrible dream.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed out loud to yourself. How would you even get out of this situation alive? Perhaps you could find a window to jump out of. No, too dangerous. Hide in the bathroom until the man leaves? Well, everyone has to go to the bathroom at some point. Leave without being spotted? Mhm, very likely. Go talk to the homeowner? It doesn’t seem like you have any other option right now. You internally screamed at yourself for being so reckless, especially having gone through all of this drama for a guy who didn’t deserve one ounce of your attention.

You slipped off your remaining shoe, then slowly made your way out of the bathroom, peeking behind the doorway to see if the coast was clear, and trying to plan your explanation in the process. As you peered around, searching for the quickest and easiest exit, you realized just how familiar the home was. But what really did it for you was a painting on the wall.

This was Andy Barber’s home. The same man you hooked up with a few times before ghosting. You sighed exasperatedly at your own poor decision making for what felt like the millionth time that morning.

You had to get the hell out of here. Fast. Lost shoe be damned.

You somewhat remembered the floor plan, so managing to get out unnoticed began to seem just a tad bit more possible. You began to jog it down the hall, trying not to be too heavy footed as you went, in the event that Andy was standing in the eyeline of one of the open doors. Unfortunately for you, in the midst of your beeline down the hall, you were spotted.

“What the..? You know what Lynn, I’ll call you back in a bit.”

“I can explain! Don’t like… kill me or something. I promise you that this is just a big misunderstanding,” you were speaking without really processing anything that you were saying. You turned to face the man, and couldn’t help but to smirk a bit at the sight of him. You forgot just how attractive he was, with a full beard, fluffy hair, and soft blue eyes that seemed to be boring straight into your soul from across the room. Not to mention his sculpted body, which you swore you could make out beneath his sweatpants, and worn white shirt. Really, Y/N? First you ghost a man, break into his home a year later, and now you’re objectifying him?

You moved towards the door and began to speak again, your words flowing out at a million miles per minute, “Uhm, so long story short, I basically got really drunk last night, and I thought your house was mine, so I kinda broke in. But I’ll be seeing myself out now,” You gave a curt smile, and looked towards the stairs. “Before I go, any chance that you’ve seen my left shoe somewhere around here?”

It was clear that Andy was very confused, but as you read his face, you could see that he was far more intrigued than angry. “Hey, not so fast.” He approached you quickly, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, and his mouth gaping open slightly. “No fuckin’ way. Y/N?”

You scratched the back of your head awkwardly and nodded, “yeah.”

“You’re not getting off the hook that easily. Lucky for you, I was about to make breakfast, aaaand I’m not totally opposed to being joined,” he gave you a genuine smile, and a playful little shrug.

“That’s fine with me but- this sounds kinda strange- can I use your shower first?”

“Go right ahead. Mi casa su casa, right? I mean, kinda sounds like that’s what you were thinking last night,” Andy peered at you inquisitively at this, “I’m just kidding. Feel free to use anything you need.”

You couldn’t even blame Andy for his passive aggression, but that didn’t stop you from sulking the whole way back into the bathroom.

----

“I forgot how good your water pressure is,” you announced while coming down the stairs, clad in a college hoodie that you’d found in the depths of Andy’s closet, and shorts that were just a tad too large for you.

“Thanks, I guess?” Andy flipped a pancake, then turned to get a good look at you.

“You’re welcome. It smells so good down here,” you slipped into a barstool at his granite island, and observed him while he cooked, “so... you still live here alone?” You asked while you were passed a mug of coffee.

“Well, yeah. I mean that’s kind of what happens after your wife and son die.”

“Uhm.. sorry. For bringing that up again,” you glanced down awkwardly at your dark drink.

“It’s okay, they’ve been gone for a while,” he sat down at his seat, setting down a plate of food for you and himself. “What’ve you been up to? Apart from breaking and entering, of course.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” you began, cutting into a syrup-soaked pancake. “You’re no saint either. I can’t think of anyone in their right mind who would gladly break bread with someone who drunkenly broke into their home.”

“That’s fair,” Andy stated, almost dismissively. “But it's not like we’re total strangers. We have history.”

You scoffed at this, “like hell we do,” you muttered. “Anyway, things with me have been pretty boring. Same job. I had a boyfriend, but he just dumped me like, 12 hour ago. I’m pretty sure that he’s been cheating on me for like, the past four months.”

“That sucks,” Andy commented, shoveling a piece of pancake into his mouth.

“Yeah, it does. How about you?”

“You know, same old. Still an ADA, still getting messages from random people about that trial, and of course, still perpetually lonely.”

“By no means do I mean to impede, but maybe you’d be a little less lonely if you let people in,” you suggested, looking up from your food to Andy, whose face gave away the offense he was feeling, “I said maybe.”

“What do you mean?” He questioned, brows furrowing.

“Come on, Andrew. You know exactly what I mean. Like with us, I thought everything was going perfectly well, until I was half asleep and you were telling me that you weren’t ready to commit. Literally moments after you were balls-deep in me.”

“Don’t call me that, Y/N,” Andy squinted at you in agitation. “Is that why you stopped picking up my calls?”

“What do you think?”

He sighed softly, “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been trying to do better. I talk to a… counselor… every now and then. Everything’s just been different ever since they passed, you know? It’s hard to form connections after your most intimate ones disappear in the blink of an eye.”

You frowned a bit at the man, and set down your fork. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Do you, though? Get it?”

“Not really. I was just trying to be supportive,” you turned a bit in your seat to get a better view of Andy. “I just wonder if we had this conversation a year ago if you and I would be in a better position now. I really liked you a lot.”

Andy was silent for a moment, and observed you pensively. “Let’s try again, then. It seems like you and I both are ready for something new.”

“Oh Andy,” you rubbed the back of your neck anxiously. “I just got out of a relationship less than a day ago.”

“Then we can take this, whatever it might end up being, slow. It would be nice to have a friend around who doesn’t just want to talk about work, and tell me that they’re sorry for my loss.”

You nodded, “I’ll probably need a shoulder to cry on at some point sooner than later.”

“So... friends?”

“Friends,” you agreed with a smile and a lift of your shoulders.

Part of you hoped that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something great.

#andy barber x reader #defending jacob #chris evans x reader #andy barber x you #hey i wrote that lol

123 notes · View notes

ximacrow · 3 years

Text

Title: Misty Meetings

Prompt: Made of mist.

Characters: Etho, BDoubleO100

Relationships: Implied (I think?) Ethubs

Word count: 1,064 words

Trigger Warnings: Death

Summary: BDubs had brought Etho back to the old Last Life server for some exploring, maybe even to hunker down for a while while the moon crashed.

Now Etho was dead, and BDubs couldn't blame himself more.

——————————————

It was fairly misty on the old last life server today. By some weird twist of fate, he had gotten himself and Etho stuck there. It was silly, really, the way they got trapped. He had convinced Etho to go back with him, see how the place had changed. Etho reluctantly and foolishly had agreed at the time. It seemed neither had known that the server’s functions were still in effect. Neither had known that they were doomed the moment they stepped foot past the border, but they soon found out when they realized they couldn’t leave.

Bdubs looked towards the grave he’d dug, a black mask and headband hung carefully on the stone.

It wasn’t his fault, was it?

It was pretty quiet ,a bit melancholy if he was honest, the forest surrounding his base smelt strongly of petrichor and sorrow, which was odd considering it hadn’t rained at all in weeks. He still felt a little floaty, even after having woken up from the odd dream he’d been having mere minutes prior, which was certainly abnormal, but not unexpected. From nowhere, Bdubs heard a whisper. A call, if you will. It willed him to step further into the forest, reaching out to touch the leaves and missing only by a few inches. The fog was thick, and it was hard to see much through it. It felt like he was walking on the stuff.

The voice called him further into the misty forest, and he followed. It promised that freedom was not far, not far at all, just a few more steps, and whispered that it had a secret, a secret just for him. It sounded almost familiar, like a memory from long ago just reaching out to greet him once again. The voice made Bdubs’ heart twist in guilt, he couldn’t pinpoint who it belonged to though. He was drawn further into the forest by the haunting voice. He knew he was probably just hearing things, but getting out a little couldn’t hurt, right?

Bdubs kept walking until his feet hurt and he was starting to get hungry. It had probably been long enough for the mist to have cleared out by now, but it still remained in a heavy blanket over the soil and stone. Everything seemed so much duller than it used to, yet it held a sort of wonder to it. It felt magical, really, the way the fog pooled around the base of the trees, making the dark green leaves seem so much brighter and greener in comparison. The way that if he looked hard enough, he could see through the thick haze and see a fallen sword stuck in the ground, or a ruined building from years past.

The voice waited for BDubs to rest before calling again, this time accompanied by a vague figure moving through the trees. It almost seemed as if they were made of the mist, but surely that wasn’t possible. The figure looked painfully familiar, and this time he knew exactly why. It looked like Etho, if he squinted he could see him standing in the hazy, vapor filled clearing just ahead. He stood, picking up his backpack and following the voice, eventually showing up at the clearing he’d seen. He looked around frantically.

He sighed when he saw nothing, of course he was just seeing things. Bdubs must have been not taking their loss well. It was his fault Etho had died after all, he was the one who convinced him to come to the server. He was the one who had doomed them both for his own curiosity. Etho didn’t seem to hate him for it when he was still alive, but now Bdubs wasn’t sure what the man would think if he was alive. He sat down on a rock next to the lake, feeling something wet and warm drop down onto his hand.

BDubs swore. Great. He was crying. Now it was even harder to see, which meant that he was toast if a skeleton or creeper decided to rear its ugly head. He lifted his sleeve to wipe his eyes, opening them once again to see the same figure in the smog. The mist had cleared a little bit, and the figure stepped forward cautiously, raising a hand in a wave. The voice spoke again, just as caring as BDubs remembered it.

“Hey man, Don’t cry, you’re alright!”

Bdubs sighed again, looking in the direction of the voice to detest it’s claim, but he found his breath had caught in his throat when he saw more clearly the figure. It was tall, with fair skin and white hair, the same headband as he always wore, black fabric with a small metal cuff with the letter E scratched onto it, holding it out of his eyes. His mask covered his mouth, but it was clear he was smiling from the way his eyes- one a dark gray and the other red with a scar running vertically across it- crinkled at the corners.

“It’s good to see you again, Bdubs”

He could start crying again then and there. BDubs stood up and walked closer to the ghost of the man he once knew, once loved so dearly, once held so close to his heart that if he had left it would probably shatter into itty bitty pieces. He could hear his heart shattering all over again, like glass with a brick thrown through it. He held a hand out towards the apparition, unsurprised when it simply passed through the mist, though still greatly disappointed. BDubs could feel the mist wrap around his hand in return. While it wasn’t exactly tangible, it was the best he could get, it seemed.

Etho frowned from in front of BDubs, leaning down a bit to press a faint kiss to his forehead and reassure him it was all okay, but was cut off when Bdubs had started rattling off apologies. Etho almost immediately shut him down, reminding Bdubs that he couldn’t have known, that it wasn’t his fault, and that he forgave him, because Etho had expected the server to be all weird, even after so many years, what with its glitched life system and curses.

Etho knew someone was going to die, but he also knew that it would turn out fine in the end.

It was going to be okay.

#january prompts #writing #Ethoslab #Bdubs #bdoubleo100 #Last life #technically #Ethubs #crow did a thing

17 notes · View notes

sinistershepherd · 4 years

Text

Ding Dong Bell

The much anticipated part 2 of the ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down’ short that I wrote a while ago! In case you haven’t seen it, you can find it here!

The world comes into focus slowly, head throbbing and mind horribly sluggish. Janus blinks slowly, each breath a struggle, his insides seeming to burn, lungs leading the internal wildfire. The light worsens the throbbing that radiates through his skull, and he turns his head in a movement that triggers an outburst of agony to pulse through his neck and collarbone, instead opting to close his eyes tightly. His memory is foggy, guided by the deep chill of icy water and hazy figures, urging him to keep breathing. He cracks open his eyes once more, a blurry figure moving into his sightline. Janus vaguely hears his name being called, but doesn’t have time to dwell on it as unconsciousness claims him once more.

“-make it, he has to!”

The words are fuzzy, distant and confusing, beyond fear, borderline terror. Janus feels his own anxiety spike, along with a fierce pain that slices through his chest.

“-how bad they are, I’d be surprised if he makes it through the night.”

Janus feels a twinge of unease push past the fogginess in his mind, doubled by the fact that he can’t remember who these other sides are based upon their voices. He’s usually rather keen on deciphering who is who by tone and conduct. They sounded scared, whoever they were. What were they talking about? Why did it frighten them?

“Then I’ll stay with him! I dragged him out of that lake, I’m damn well going to see that I didn’t do it for nothing.”

Janus would’ve laughed if he could’ve. The sensation of water creeping into his lungs fills his concience, the freezing torrent dragging him deeper and deeper until there was nothing but the distant light and numbing glacial fatigue that settled into his body. That lake must’ve been karma. His brain stops dead at that thought. Lake. They.....They were talking about a lake. About dragging someone out of it. Were......were they talking about Janus?

He tries to tune back into the conversation, but exhaustion washes over him in a soothing sort of wave that he struggles to fight against. He tries to grasp onto the few strands of consciousness that remain, but soon the voices fade into distant murmurs, and Janus’ sight fades to black.

When he awakens again, the room is nearly dark, lit dimly by a flickering fireplace that seems to be dying off. The gentle light licks the walls of the room, illuminating the features that Janus can barely make out, his eyes still adjusting to being awake. Some sort of deep ache has settled into his entire body, each breath more of an exertion than it should be. He feebly turns his head to the fire, his collarbone once again flaring up with pain.

He stares into the fire for an unknown amount of time. His eyes focus onto the hypnotic flames, waving in some sort of enchanting dance that Janus can’t seem to tear his gaze away from. His trance is broken by a shuffle from the edge of his vision.

“Janus?” The serpentine side barely registers his name, shifting his stare towards the voice.

A pair of stern, yet worried eyes bore into him. Janus’ sight spins, lifting his head off of the pillow with so much effort and sheer agony that he finds himself unable to breathe. The other side steps forwards, kneeling by Janus’ side and using one hand to support his head, the other coming to rest on his forehead. Janus sucks in a sharp breath, gasping for air as he feels this numbing sort of tingle spread through his lungs.

“V.....Virgil......” Janus chokes out, and before he can muster up the strength to say anything more, darkness promptly swallows him back up.

Inhale.

Deep breath.

Goddamn, that burns.

Janus fights to stay awake this time, unsure what time it is, where he might be, who is lingering by his side.

Exhale.

Sharp pang.

He can’t do it, he can’t, it hurts too much-

But he does it anyways.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Just like that, over and over again, until his chest loosens enough to do the action on it’s own. He blearily opens his eyes, gazing up at the side hovering over him.

Virgil.

Virgil was still there.

“Hey, sleepyhead. How was naptime?” He asks, trying to sound lighthearted, joking, but Janus can hear the nervous undertone to his voice.

“Pretty bland.” Janus replies, wincing at how hoarse his own voice sounds. Virgil chuckles softly, the tension easing from his shoulders. Had he been here the entire time? Janus wants to ask, but another part of him fears that the anxious side would leave if Janus pried too much.

“You’ve been in and out all day.” Virgil says, straightening up and fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie.

“No shit.” Janus sneers, and Virgil looks away with a shameful look on his face. That confuses Janus. This whole situation confuses Janus, honestly.

“Yeah, you....uh....wern’t with us for a while.....” Virgil drags his foot over the carpet, glancing down at it, avoiding Janus’ gaze.

“This is some dream.....”

Virgil looks up at Janus’ remark.

“Dream? N-No....no, Janus, this is....this is real.” Virgil says, taking a step towards Janus, lowering himself down to kneel beside the couch. “This is very real.”

Janus swallows harshly, looking up to the ceiling. He doesn’t quite register the tears that well up in his eyes.

“It can’t be.” He murmurs.

“Why not?” Virgil’s voice softens.

“Because.....” Janus shuts his eyes tightly, tears dripping down his face. His throat tightens, breathing becoming raspy, but even so, he lets out a bitter laugh. “Because you left!”

Tagging:

@miiyankhr @mixtape-velocity @cerberusisspot @thistrashisreadytobash @queer-chair @tiredstressedemotionalmess @im-an-anxious-wreck @imma-potatoo

Thank you all so much for the support!! If you would like a part three as well, please let me know! In the meantime, enjoy Janus in emotional and physical pain 💃🏼✨

123 notes · View notes

hoseas-angry-ghost · 3 years

Note

YES YES YES I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR UR THEORIES

Hello anon! I am very surprised anyone wants to hear my chutney but here's my Strange Man Hot Take with some hopefully interesting info for curious parties:

To be honest, R* included so much misdirection around the Strange Man's identity (especially in RDR1) that I'm not *totally* convinced they're married to any one idea. RDR2 also complicated things by introducing new religions into Red Dead's world (Voodoo, Old Norse, etc.): he's no longer limited to just Christian / Western interpretations, as in RDR1, and it's possible R* might try to syncretise him with figures from other faiths (they did place Bayall Edge in Bayou Nwa, where most of the Voodoo stuff is).

At the same time, though, I think RDR2 actually narrowed things down somewhat in terms of the direction R* chose to take his character, and what we were shown of that. There's still a level of misdirection in RDR2, but IMO, it almost comes off as half-hearted in comparison to what was basically trolling in RDR1 -- it seems like they were a lot more focused on playing the "bad news" angle the second time round.

Based on what we know, and on the balance of things, I'm not convinced that the Strange Man is necessarily meant to be any one thing or figure, but I do think he's meant to fulfil some type of Satanic role within Red Dead's world, either in main or in part.

I won't compare and dissect other theories or anything, I just thought I'd list off some things that people might find interesting:

Armadillo. The deal between the Strange Man and Herbert Moon seems to be a pretty textbook Faustian bargain: Moon is offered earthly rewards ("happiness or two generations"), and although the price was (tellingly?) never specified, it seems like the recent Blood Money update for RDO all but confirmed that the cost was probably his soul. Although it's left ambiguous what Moon actually chose, the Armadillo curse was possibly an unforeseen (for Moon) consequence of the deal's terms, which would fit with similar tales of the devil or demon in question taking liberties with their end of the bargain.

In the files, there's some great audio of Moon off the shits and straight-up saying "I've made a deal with the devil, and I will never truly die!" It's possible this was cut for its own reasons (too overt?), but as a lot of stuff was apparently cut from Armadillo, I'm guessing it was either cut when Arthur in New Austin got cut, or it was part of something that R* didn't have time to implement in the epilogue. Either way, if it's not actually in the game then it's not technically canon, but it is an indication of what R* was thinking during development.

There's a lot of audio from the Armadillo townsfolk in general about devils and "devil curses," but the only thing I know of that definitely made it into the game is a line from the town crier ("Devil has the town in his hand").

There's audio of the Armadillo bartender saying "I heard the Tillworths made a deal with the devil to keep from gettin' sick! I don't wanna die any more than the next man, but ain't no safety worth a man's soul." Possibly idle gossip, but given Moon, possibly not.

RDO seemed to flirt with the idea of soul-selling a little bit with Old Man Jones' line "Well, this is America, so anything can be bought -- even souls," but then RDO pretty much just came right out and said it with Bluewater John in the Blood Money update. Bluewater John also apparently made a deal, almost definitely with the Strange Man (given the Moon deal and how close Bayall Edge is to all the drama); he was based on blues musician Robert Johnson and the myth that he sold his soul to the devil for mastery of the guitar. It's basically a rehash of the Moon deal, except it's... not subtle in its dialogue about deals, devils and souls.

"I GAVE EVERYTHING FOR ART, AND I LEARNED TOO MUCH AND NOTHING AT ALL" written on the wall at Bayall Edge also sounds like a reference to another one of these deals to me ("everything" being their soul, and "I learned too much and nothing at all" the foolishness of accepting eternal damnation for temporary knowledge). I think Bayall Edge might have originally belonged to a painter who struck a deal with the Strange Man for artistic skill, but then the Strange Man slowly possessed him or something -- which could be why some of the landscapes depict RDR1's I Know You locations, and why the writings on the wall kind of look like they deteriorate in quality. The puddle of blood at the foot of the portrait might also be linked to this somehow (whose is it?).

It's the deal-making for souls that really pushed the "devil" theory over the edge for me, because I can't think of whose wheelhouse that would be in except a devil's, or someone similarly malevolent.

Alternative name. The Strange Man's character model is called cs_mysteriousstranger in RDR2, and he's referred to as "the mysterious stranger" at least once in RDR1's in-game text. This could be a reference to The Mysterious Stranger, written by Mark Twain between 1897-1908, in which the stranger is a supernatural being called Satan. (At the end of the last version written, he tells the protagonist that nothing really exists and their lives are just a dream.)

Bayall Edge. Bayall Edge was possibly based on a Louisiana urban myth called the Devil's Toy Box, which is "described as a shack. From the outside, it is unappealing and average. ...The inside of the shack consists of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, including the walls. No one can last more than five minutes in this room. ...According to the legend, if you stood inside this mirror-room alone for too long, supposedly the devil would show up and steal your soul." The Strange Man does show up in the mirror eventually, and it's kind of curious that the paintings that change depending on your Honour act as metaphorical mirrors. This was also cut, but in the files, Arthur's drawing of the interior of Bayall Edge is unusually sloppy, like his faculties were impaired or something.

"Awful, fascinating and seductive". John writes this about Bayall Edge after the portrait is finished, and I think that's as good a description of something like the / a devil as any, but "seductive" is a big red flag for me, because it's such an odd choice of word and, from a Christian perspective, it's so loaded with connotations of evil and sin and temptation.

I Know You. Some have pointed out that I Know You in RDR1 resembles the Temptation of Christ, as it also takes place in three separate locations in the desert, and John is given moral tests in which he must choose between higher virtue or worldly vice. John is also, in a weird way, a kind of Christ-like figure in that he ultimately sacrifices his life for others. I do think the "temptation" in these encounters is very surreptitious but very much there ("Or rob her yourself" -- excuse me??), but they may also be operating on a Biblical definition of the word, i.e. a test or trial with the free choice of committing sin.

RDR1 dialogue. I don't want to get *too* much into this because I feel like we're all just getting punked in RDR1, but I think the Strange Man's dialogue broadly fits with something like a "devil" interpretation, or at least doesn't contradict it.

I'm thinking particularly of lines like "Damn you!" / "Yes, many have" (which would work metaphorically but also literally, given that the devil was thrown from heaven by God and his angels), and "I hope my boy turns out just like you" (of all the leading theories, I think Satan is the only figure who's popularly conceptualised as having a son, or prophesied to have a son -- God obviously had a son, but that ship kinda sailed).

I think the "accountant" line refers to Honour (which even uses an invisible numerical system), and how John's fate depends on the number of both good and bad acts he's committed throughout his life, and how these weigh against each other. If the Strange Man likes to collect souls, then he would have a vested interest in auditing you and seeing if your accounts are in the black or the red, as it were (and providing you with opportunities to push yourself further into the latter...), because if you're bankrupt, you're his.

Blind Man Cassidy. Interestingly, Cassidy seems to distinguish between "Death" and the Strange Man, implying that he's something else beyond his understanding: in one of Arthur's fortunes, after his TB diagnosis, he says "the man with no nose [Death] is coming for you," but in one of John's fortunes, he says "Two strangers seek thee: one from this world, perhaps one from another. One brings hatred; I'm not so sure what the other brings."

Arthur's cut dialogue. In the files, there's audio of Arthur having the exact same conversation with Herbert Moon as John in the epilogue, asking about the Strange Man picture because he "just seemed familiar". I think it's interesting that, like John, Arthur also would have apparently recognised the Strange Man despite (presumably) never seeing him before. Given how strong a theme morality is in Red Dead -- and how much both John and Arthur struggle with it -- my theory is that they find the Strange Man vaguely familiar because they're both familiar with the evil within themselves, or the potential for evil; and likewise, the Strange Man "knows" John because he embodies evil in some sense, so is aware of John's worst sins (like his involvement at Blackwater), or possibly even all of his sins (which would be, like, a lot).

Honourable mention: There's such a greater emphasis on conspiracies, myths, etc. in RDR2 that I half-wonder if the Strange Man's RDR2 incarnation was partly inspired by Hat Man (~excuse the link~ but often it's hard to find good sources for the kind of weird shit R* includes in their games).

ANYWAY, this got a little long but I hope someone found all this at least passably interesting. Thanks again for letting me ramble about the video game man, anon!

#The Strange Man #inbox #Me @ me: God jsut shut the fcuk-

15 notes · View notes

dreamerstreamer · 3 years

Text

Breathless

Pairing: Dream / Clay x asthmatic!gn!reader

Summary: Life with a chronic illness isn’t always easy, and some days are more difficult than others, but you always manage to find yourself breathing a little easier with Clay by your side.

Warnings: tw// depiction of asthma & asthma attack

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: my second commissioned story! this work has been altered from its original form so that everyone can read it, but the plot and writing remain largely the same. this was more specific and required more research than the stories i typically write, but i hope you all enjoy nonetheless! <3

The smell of sanitizer and antiseptics tickled your nose as you pushed past the hospital office door, folding the piece of paper tucked in your hands into quarters. Slipping it into your pocket, you raised your chin, the paper resting comfortably next to the familiar weight of your inhaler. You stretched your arms above your head with a small groan, rolling your shoulders back as you made your way down the hall with a small bounce in your step.

Respiratory therapy may be good for you, but your favourite part was still when you got to go home.

You rubbed your hand over the patch stuck to the inside of your forearm, the tiniest hint of red colouring the ivory white cloth as you pressed your fingers gently against it. Letting out a sigh, you faced forward once more, your eyes lighting up as the waiting room came into view. Walking a little faster, you was just about to head into the waiting room when you froze, your eyes falling on the figure sitting in a chair pressed up against the wall adjacent to you.

Clay was drumming one hand against his thigh as the other scrolled leisurely through his phone, Tweet after Tweet flying by on his screen. In his ears hung a pair of earbuds, and you could see him gently bobbing his head along to the beat of whatever song he was listening to, his foot quietly tapping against the tiled hospital floor. You traced your eyes over the bridge of his nose and the crest of hair that tickled the top of his forehead, a fond warmth rushing through your chest.

He always waited for you no matter what, even if you told him not to. It didn’t matter if he had a stream planned just a few minutes after your session would wrap up or if he was in the middle of editing a video—he would drop everything to wait for you, patient and caring as always. He was just stubborn like that, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to get him to swallow his pride, as much as you may try.

Blinking as you gazed at him, a thought suddenly popped into your head, a devilish ember tickling at the base of your spine. Your lips split into a sly grin, your eyes narrowing as the cogs in your head churned. Ever so slowly, you crept over to his side, just barely keeping yourself out of view until you were standing just diagonally behind him, a single step away. As quiet as a mouse, you reached your hand forward and dipped your head down beside his ear, gently tapping his shoulder. With a start, Clay jumped in his seat, his eyes shooting wide open as he whipped his head up to look at you. In a flash, he was tearing out his earbuds, his phone going slack in his hands and a bright smile tugging at his lips.

“Boo,” you whispered, waving your hand at him as your lips stretched widely across your face.

“Hey,” he said, gentle and warm as he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers between his. “You done with therapy for today?”

You beamed proudly, bobbing your head. “Yep. We’re all good to go.”

The gleam in his eyes was as sweet as honey as he got to his feet, slipping his phone into the back pocket of his jeans. He tilted his head at you, and before you could ask if anything was wrong, he had raised his free hand to brush a stray strand of hair away from your face. A second later, he was dipping his head to yours, and you shivered at the warmth of his lips pressing against your forehead while he murmured into your skin, “Perfect.”

When he pulled back, he squeezed your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles lovingly. With one last grin, the two of them began to stroll out of the waiting room and into the front hall.

“So,” he said after a moment as they turned a corner, “how did everything go, today? Did anything different happen?”

You shrugged, gesturing vaguely. “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Got my blood oxygen level checked, did some breathing tests and exercises—” You eyed the small patch on your arm with a wistful glance. “Just the usual.”

A comfortable silence washed over them as they swung their arms together in a charmingly off-beat rhythm, occasionally brushing their sides up against one another with a small smile. Beside you, a nurse bustled past with his stethoscope bouncing around his neck and a clipboard clutched to his chest. You glanced over at him, then opened your mouth again. “What about you?” You shrunk back the tiniest bit, your fingers sheepishly twitching against his. “I hope you weren’t too bored or anything waiting up for me.”

Clay laughed, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “For you? Never.” You felt your heart stumble in your chest as he continued. “I just scrolled through Twitter for a while, then I made a tweet about the donation I’m making for my next video—you know, the one to spread chronic illness awareness.”

Leaning against his side slightly, you sighed, your head stuffed full with adoration for your boyfriend as you pressed your head into his warmth. “That’s incredible, Clay,” you murmured, squeezing his hand. “You’re incredible.”

His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, and he squeezed your hand back. “I try my best.”

You felt your heart swell, and you resisted the urge to kiss him in front of the hospital staff right then and there. Just how lucky could you be to have someone as lovely and compassionate as Clay in your life?

Stepping into the front lobby, he gently nudged his shoulder into yours, stepping to the side to make way for another patient. The ringing of the secretary’s phone made you jolt beside him, but not once did his eyes leave your face. “I’m guessing we’re coming back the same time next week?”

You flashed a grin at him, winking sheepishly. “You know it.”

The chuckle he let out made your stomach flip, affection nipping incessantly at the back of your head. “Awesome,” he hummed, sticking his hand into his pocket. Fishing around, his mouth quirked up a moment later as he pulled out a ring of car keys, clasping his fingers around it. “Alright—let’s go.”

You blinked, your lips curling into a frown as the automatic doors parted in front of them. “Wait, I can drive us.”

He shot you a fond look, shaking his head. The sun’s warm rays cast a golden sheen to his dirty blond locks, his eyes practically glowing in the midday heat. “Nope, no can do.” He jutted his head toward the car, which sat a few yards away in the parking lot beside the hospital. “You drove us here, and now it’s my turn to drive us back.”

Something flashed in your gaze, and your tongue darted out to swipe at your lips as your fingers twitched at your side. “You say that,” you began, your hand shooting forward toward the keys in his, “but not if I get the keys fir—hey!”

A gasp flew from your lips as your hand met nothing but open air, Clay having leapt back with his arm stretched up high above his head. Stumbling back a few steps, shimmering mirth danced in his gaze as he waved the keys at you, just barely out of reach. “Too slow, baby.”

Scowling, you leapt forward yet again, your fingers desperately reaching for the keys as he simply stepped off to the side, backpedaling until a few feet stood between the two of them. The glare you shot him only seemed to egg him on as he began to twirl the silver key ring around his pointer finger playfully. He was teasing you now, you knew it, and you were not going to take any part in it.

“Clay,” you said slowly between gritted teeth.

“[Y/N],” he drawled back, a wide grin still plastered to his face.

Just then, you were bolting over to him, a small breeze biting at your face as you lunged for his hand. You could feel your lungs tighten as the warm, humid air came rushing into your chest, but you were far too focused on the glint of metal against his skin to care. Clay’s eyes went wide as his hand suddenly snapped shut around the car keys, his arm pinning itself to his back as his other hand reached out to steady you against him.

“Okay, okay,” he cried, his fingers gently pressing into the fabric of your shirt, “no running! Please.” His voice suddenly went soft, and your feet came to a grinding halt before him, your lungs heaving. “I don’t want you to stress your asthma.”

Feeling your heart batter against your rib cage, you sucked in a breath, rocking against him ever so slightly as you lifted your chin at him. “Then will you please let me drive?”

He blinked at you for a moment, a thoughtful look passing over his expression. “Hmm... should I?”

You gasped, bobbing your head eagerly, a hint of a smile gracing your lips. His tongue poked out at the corner of his mouth, and you felt a glimmer of hope spark in the pit of your stomach. Yes!

Then, he smiled, apologetic and teasing. “Still no.”

Your face fell in an instant, twisting into a pout as you sagged against his side with a whine. His grin only widened at the sight, patting your on the shoulder with a gentle nudge. “Sorry, [Y/N],” he hummed, turning on his heel to walk over to the driver’s side of the car, “but I’m not budging on this one.”

You groaned, begrudgingly dragging yourself over to the other side of the car and tugging the door open. “Ugh. You,” you said, flopping into the passenger seat with a frown and your arms crossed on top of your frontside, “are the worst.”

He let out a chuckle at your face, pushing the keys into the ignition and turning his hand with a knowing look. “Sure, sure,” he murmured, soft and low. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Despite yourself, you felt your heart flutter in your chest at the pet name, melting back into the car seat as your arms went limp over your chest. Sneaking a glance over at him, you felt warmth skitter across your face at the way his eye caught yours, loving and true. Huffing, you feigned annoyance and stuck your tongue out at him, but you couldn’t quite stop the smile from tugging at your lips, something pink and fuzzy bubbling up in the core of your chest as they pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

You were so driving next time.

You picked at the patch on your arm, your gaze focused intently as your nails carefully peeled back one of the corners. Gently grasping at the lifted flap, you tugged backward, the patch slowly peeling off until it was popping off your arm with a satisfying flick. Smiling triumphantly to yourself, you walked over to the garbage can and tossed the used patch in, relishing in the feeling of the cool air brushing over your now exposed skin. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you tugged your phone out of your pocket, swiping open your phone with a soft hum.

It had been a few days since your last respiratory therapy session, and you were feeling good. The new breathing exercises you had been suggested were working amazingly, and it almost made your feel like you didn’t need to keep your inhaler on hand every waking second.

Sucking in a deep breath, you held it in for a long moment, then exhaled, feeling the air rush out of your lungs in a single gust. It was right then that a small itch rose into the back of your throat, and you coughed just a little bit, swallowing sharply as you straightened. All of a sudden, a head popped into the kitchen doorway, golden brows knit together with worry.

“[Y/N]?”

You whirled at the sound of your name, your gaze immediately landing on Clay’s pursed lips on the opposite side of the room. “Mhm?”

He cocked his head at you, his eyes scanning you up and down for a split second before locking onto yours once more. “I heard coughing.” His eyes flashed. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, shooting him a reassuring grin. “Yeah—just choked on some spit or something. It was nothing serious.” When he only blinked at you, you firmly added, “I promise.”

Just like that, his shoulders relaxed once more, and a soft smile crept onto his face. “Alright. I just wanted to let you know that I’m gonna be editing for a couple of hours.” He jutted his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the next room over if you need anything, alright?”

You grinned, sending him a playful salute. “Roger that.” Pushing back against the counter, you slipped your phone back into your pocket and strode across the kitchen over to him, stopping just a tile in front of him. “How much is it this time?”

One side of Clay’s mouth curled up into a thoughtful expression. “Well,” he began slowly, leaning against the doorframe, “I’ve got about five hours of footage and audio to cut down into about fifty minutes, so...”

He gestured vaguely with a pained expression, and you offered him a sympathetic look. “It’s a lot?” you prompted.

He let out a long sigh, weary yet sure as he bit back a wince. “It’s a lot.”

Shuffling a step closer, you reached your hand up to brush your fingers over his cheekbone, gentle and sweet. “You’ll do great,” you said quietly, your eyes curving into crescent moons alight with ardent and honest affection. “You always do.”

Clay leaned in to your warm touch, his eyelids fluttering for a moment as he let out another sigh—an enamoured one, this time. “I love you,” he whispered, sincerity seeping into every letter he breathed.

The fondness of his voice made your heart melt into a sugary sweet puddle in your chest, and you let your hand bury itself into his soft locks. “I love you, too,” you whispered back.

With a warm gaze that made your insides tingle, Clay was dipping his head, and you let your eyelids fall shut as you let your mouth part ever so slightly. A second later, his lips were pressed against yours, plush and loving as you felt yourself smiling into the kiss, his hot breath tickling the side of your cheek. Just a moment later, they broke apart, warm air rushing into your lungs as you flashed him a bright grin.

“Go ahead, now,” you murmured, nudging his shin with your foot. “You’ve got lots of footage to sift through.”

Standing up straight again, he rolled his eyes as he turned on his heel with a dramatic groan. “Why did you have to remind me?” he cried over his shoulder.

You could only laugh in return, waving at him with a jesting bow and grinning at the way he pretended to be offended. You watched as he slunk into the next room over down the hall, pushing the door shut behind him with his arm. With a hint of a smile lining your lips, you hummed to yourself before strolling out of the kitchen and into the living room. Flopping onto the couch with a huff, you settled back against the cushions with a comforted exhale and pulled out your phone once more. You relished in quiet moments like these, even if you would much rather be spending them with Clay. Maybe you would make him a snack or something, just to help him ease up on all his editing.

You had only been sitting for a few minutes when you felt a familiar itch gnaw at the base of your neck once more, and you ducked your head into your elbow to let out a harsh cough. Your chest felt tighter than it usually did, and you furrowed your brows. You had been breathing just fine less than an hour ago. What in the world could be possibly changing that?

As another cough welled up in your mouth, you turned your head, sweeping your gaze across the room. Just as you began sucking in yet another burning breath, a flash of cerulean blue caught your eye, and you froze, your jaw going completely slack.

The window was open.

Everyone had their own asthma triggers, whether it was a cat allergy or some nasty pollution. But for you, having so much as an open window could be more than enough to send your body spiralling into overdrive and straight into an asthma attack.

And by the looks of it, your body was doing just that.

Your lungs felt tight—too tight, almost as if a boa constrictor had snaked up your spine and wrapped around them, constricting them until they were nothing more than two, tiny, trembling slivers in your chest. You let out a choked gasp, then desperately tried to breathe in, only to feel your lungs screaming in protest within the cavity of your chest, fuzzy pain swimming throughout the entirety of your body. your windpipe felt like it had been squeezed into the size of a straw, and you knew it was only a matter of time before you began wheezing. With a hammering heart, you stumbled to your feet, your hand reaching for your pocket with a shuddering cough. Patting against your thigh, you suddenly seized up when you felt nothing pressing up against your palm. That was when it hit you.

You had left your inhaler upstairs in the bedroom, back when you were feeling better than ever just a couple of hours prior.

You half wanted to cry out of both amazement and agony—how ironic was it that you would have an asthma attack the one time you didn’t have your inhaler on you?

You could practically hear the blood rushing through your ears as you took a shaky step forward, holding yourself upright as much as possible as you tried to remain calm. Or, as calm as you could when you couldn’t breathe. It would take too long for you to go all the way upstairs and grab your inhaler—there was simply no way you would even be able to make it that far.

Luckily for you, you knew just where to find another one.

Striding as quickly and steadily as you could on your shaking legs, you pressed your way out of the living room and down the hall, breathing as deeply as possible despite just how narrow your airway felt. You coughed again, the inferno ripping through your lungs like a raging beast as you grasped at the wall for support. It was like someone had sat on your chest, pressing down like an iron anvil slamming into the earth from a cliff.

It hurt.

You could feel the back of your eyes sting more and more with each desperate gasp for air you took, and your entire body felt like it was about to collapse beneath your . You nearly sank with relief when you finally reached Clay’s door, your knees buckling like a newborn fawn’s. With a muffled choke, you wrapped your hand around the door handle and twisted it, pulling it back as hard as you could. The door slammed into the opposite wall with a reverberating thud, shaking the floor with a low creak.

In front of his desk, Clay jolted at the sudden sound, ripping off his headphones as he spun around in his chair to face you. “[Y/N]?” he said, confusion clouding his face. “What’s wro—”

You cut him off with another cough, the flames licking at your throat with a burning vengeance as you frantically gestured toward your neck. An instant later, you were sinking to the ground, wheezing for dear life. That was all it took for Clay to come barrelling out of his desk chair and across the room to your side, one hand already digging itself into his pocket.

“Oh, crap, okay,” he rambled in a panicked rush, pulling an inhaler out of his pocket. “[Y/N], please look at me. I’ve got a rescue inhaler here.”

Forcing your head up to meet his frenetic gaze, you could feel tears brim along your lashes, opening your mouth for him. Not even a split second later, he was gently pushing the inhaler past your lips, one hand carefully gripping the plastic while the other reached for your hand.

With a quivering voice, he slipped your hand into his. “Ready, set, breathe, baby.”

He pressed down on the top of the inhaler, and immediately, you were sucking in a harsh, aching breath. Almost instantaneously, you felt a cool mist of medication spray against the back of your mouth, your throat relaxing the tiniest bit as you exhaled. A few seconds later, he was pressing down again, and you were inhaling as much as you could. For a few minutes, they stayed like that, your hand squeezing his as tightly as possible as you took breath after agonizing breath, your lungs working beyond belief. You weren't keeping track of how much time had passed, focusing only on the simple act of breathing and the feeling of your lungs slowly expanding in your chest. Every so often, you let out a tiny whimper, and he would reassuringly squeeze your hand in his, his emerald eyes filled with an intensity you rarely got to see.

At long last, you tapped thrice at Clay’s hand wrapped around yours, and in a flash, he was pulling the inhaler from your lips and letting it rest in his lap, his eyes desperately scanning your face. Your chest felt like it had just been unraveled from a wound-up ball, and you leaned forward the tiniest bit, your palm pressing against the ground to stabilize yourself.

“Clay,” you whispered, your throat feeling raw and your voice coming out with a slight rasp.

His name was only about halfway out of your mouth when he was wrapping his arms around your shoulders, the warmth of his hands soaking into your skin. “[Y/N], are—are you okay? Does your chest hurt? Does it still hurt when you breathe?”

You took in a staggering breath. Then two, then three. After a few long seconds, you lifted your head, flashing him a brighter, calmer smile. “I—I’m okay. Y-Yeah, I’m—” You cleared your sore throat, not missing the way his eyes flashed with concern. “I’m alright.”

His palms were still tense next to your arm. “Are you absolutely sure?”

You reached a hand up to grab one of his, gently prying his fingers into yours with a soft promise. “One hundred percent.”

His eyes focused on yours for a moment longer, then he was sagging with relief, his shoulders finally slumping. “Good. Really good. That’s great, honestly.”

You laughed at his reaction, your heart only just slightly trembling between your aching lungs. “Thank god it’s over. Just, woah, um,” you rambled, your words coming out in a hazy rush. “That was—holy crap, that was so… so...”

He raised his hand, and you suddenly fell silent as he warmly patted your side. “Slow down a bit, baby,” he said gently, his brows sloping downward. “I don’t want your lungs acting up on us, again.”

You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before whispering, “That was so scary.”

Just like that, his face was flooded with compassion, and he brushed his thumb over your cheek with a soft croon. “It was. It’s been a while since you last had an attack.” You melted against him, soaking in his every word. “Do you know what triggered it, this time?”

You paused, furrowing your brows before cocking your head. “I, um, there was an open window. In the living room.”

Clay blinked at your . Then, his expression slowly shifted to one of realization, the horror creeping onto his face like a stalking beast. “Oh, god,” he breathed. “I—I opened it when we got home from grocery shopping today. I just thought... it might be nice to have some fresh air, and—” He ran a hand through his hair, anxiety flicking at his head. “I wasn’t thinking. [Y/N], I’m sorry. That was terrible of me, I—”

His voice cracked brokenly as he dropped his head, and you were immediately throwing your arms around him, climbing forward and into his lap with a soothing tone. “No, no, no, Clay, no. Don’t say that.” You pressed your hands to his face and lifted his chin until he was looking at you again with wide, ashamed eyes. “You’re so good to me,” you whispered, “so wonderful in every way. If you didn’t have an inhaler on you, we would have had to call 911, and—”

You shook your head, your lips curving up into a gentle smile as you leaned forward to press your forehead to his. “Clay, you’re the best. Really, I mean it. Don’t think so poorly of yourself.”

For a minute, all was silent. Clay’s lips were parted with what looked like a mixture of awe and admiration, and you watched with surprise as he suddenly tugged you closer to his chest, your chin resting upon his shoulder as he squeezed you tightly. You could feel his breath tickle your ear as he whispered the softest of words into the quietness of the room. “God, I’m just glad you’re safe.” He brushed his lips against the shell of your ear. “You’re too important for me to lose.”

You gulped, your heart somersaulting through your chest and barrelling right through your lungs. You could feel your eyes water the tiniest bit as he rubbed a small circle into the curve of your waist, and you smiled as he nestled your head into the side of his neck.

He always managed to take your breath away in the best way possible.

512 notes · View notes

lavendersb · 4 years

Note

Can I request for the Mandalorian in which the reader is dating Mando and helps him take care of baby Yoda? The reader suffers from high anxiety but doesn’t inform Mando about it. One day, he sees her having an episode of a panic attack for the first time and because he didn’t know about it, he was unsure of how to help her. As she was going through it, he begins to hold her as the experience scared him. She eventually settles down and he continues to comfort her.

You absolutely can :)

Cold Rock

The Mandalorian x reader

Requests are open!

You’d spent a few months now with Mando and the child. Hired under the conditions you’d care for the little green terror and mind him whilst his adopted father collected bounties, you took pride in your job. It really wasn’t hard to, seeing the child tuckered out after a long day made you feel accomplished and gave you a sense of belonging. You could see yourself in this situation for a long time coming.

As bubbly and responsive as the child was, his beskar-clad guardian was stoic and serious. He had never been cruel to you, but when he was so hard to read it often made you nervous. Did he think you were doing your job right? Did he think you were too lenient with the child? Frequently you found yourself putting words into Mando’s bucket, which you fought to shake off. You had to remind yourself that if he had a problem with you, he would surely raise it, right?

“Do you want to come with me today?” Mando’s modulated voice rings out as he climbs down into the hold.

“Is it safe?” you ask instinctively

Mando had picked a quiet unsuspecting planet to stock up on supplies, one with a decent population spread thin across its many villages but with a reputation for being an otherwise tranquil spot. Nobody would be tracking you here.

“I’m sure it is, but we’ll stay together” Mando approaches you and the child, and the little womp-rat in your arms wriggles impatiently. He gargles and throws his little arms about in protest and you can hardly blame him, it’s been a while since Mando has felt comfortable enough to let him out of the ship.

“He needs it” Mando comments, letting the child hold on to his gloved finger and watching as the wriggling stops.

“We all do” you comment gently.

Maker knows you need fresh air. You’ve been wound far too tight these last few weeks. The crest is spacious compared to many ships you’ve seen but its not meant for comfort. Mando is careful never to let any aspect of his job get close to you. His bounties are in carbonite before you can climb down from the cockpit, but you still can’t help the overwhelming nerves that come from being so close to danger.

You and Mando descend the ramp, both with empty satchels in hand and the child floating in his pod behind you. The planet is beautiful, in a cold and wet way. The ground beneath your feet is a dark grey rock, smooth and covered in a sheen of water. Rock pools filled with tiny little crabs and fish weave everywhere, and in the distance far behind the little village you’ve arrived at, dark mountains loom imposingly. The air is fresh and crisp. Salty too, and it’s the cleanest air you’ve breathed in a long while.

“We’ll make this quick” Mando says to your dismay “we’ll come back to the ship and rest there for a few nights. Just in case”

Just in case we’re spotted you finish in your head. You know Mando is paranoid, you both know how important it is to leave at a moments notice. Even in a place this remote, you’re never far from those that wish your little group harm.

The market in this little village is surprisingly busy for its unassuming appearance. The little orange fish from the nearby rockpools, Mando tells you, are a famed delicacy. Merchants buy them here cheap and sell them for much more to high class restaurants on wealthy city planets.

“They don’t taste good” He tells you “Its an acquired taste”

“You’ve tried them?” you question, looking at the abundance of storage containers filled with fluttering orange fish.

“When I was younger” he says simply. He rarely speaks about the time before the child, but from what you’ve heard he led an interesting life. One day you hope he’ll tell you more.

The three of you weave through the market for a while and you find yourself relaxing. You stock up on food supplies, and Mando even lets you buy one of the special fish for the child to try, after the little green menace wails and makes grabby hands at them.

“He has expensive tastes” you joke when the child swallows it whole.

You swear you hear Mando laugh at that.

The trip was thankfully uneventful. The most exciting thing to happen so far was you loosing your footing on the wet rock beneath you. Mando had reacted fast and caught you, of course and he let you hold onto the crook oh his arm for the rest of the trip.

“I think that’s enough for the day” He says, looking to the sky.

Thick clouds, dark as night had started to emerge over the mountains and drift towards the village. You couldn’t imagine this planet could get any wetter, but you didn’t really want to stick around and find out.

You let Mando lead you through the market again, somehow it seemed busier. People pushed and jostled each other as they prepared to escape the incoming rain. Instinctively you reached out to rest your hand on the child’s open pod, and Mando pulled you against him ever so slightly.

You were thankful for it. The market seemed so much less idyllic now, people pushing and calling loudly. You felt nervous again, that winding coil in your belly getting tighter with each body that brushed past you. You were nervous about the child, about yourself. What if Mando let go of you, and you lost him in the crowd? What if you couldn’t find your way back to the ship alone?

The thoughts in your head got loud enough to rival the sounds of the market, and you could feel your lungs constrict. You knew this feeling all too well, an incoming panic attack was the last thing you needed, especially in front of Mando. The more you tried to suppress the fear, the harder it was to hold in your tears.

You tripped again, in your shock letting out a wet hiccup which you disguised as a gasp. Mando kept his grip on you, preventing your fall but still he looked at you.

You prayed that your impending tears were not as obvious as you felt they were, but after meeting where you assumed his eyes were Mando pulls you to stand in front of him. Both his hands grip each of your upper arms, guiding you through the rest of the village and back towards the razor crest.

Maker you felt embarrassed. What must he think of you? Crying because of a busy village square. Mando had hired you only after you accepted the dangers of the job, that you would need to be strong. All you wanted to do now was curl up in your cot and avoid Mando, wait for this panic attack to finish and hope he doesn’t figure out what’s made you so upset.

Mando doesn’t speak a word, not even as the ramp of the ship descends and he lets you free from his grasp. You try not to make it obvious that you’re hurrying into the hold. Your chest aches with the strength it’s taking to hold in the gasping, desperate sobs that threaten to spill out. To maintain a vaguely normal breathing pattern even though your lungs spasm behind your ribs.

Tucking yourself into a quiet space near the back of the hold, you press yourself against the wall and let out the desperate gasps you’ve been holding in. You still try vainly to stay quiet, conscious that Mando might still hear you from the cockpit. Once we take off, you think, then he won’t hear me over the engines.

But the crest doesn’t move, and the engines don’t roar to life. Instead a large, warm hand presses against your shoulder.

“What’s happened?” Mando turns you around to face him. His voice and posture unreadable as ever.

“N-nothing” You manage to sputter between gasps “It’s f-fine Mando. Really”

Mando doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t leave either. His hand trails from your shoulder to flatten oddly against your breast bone. He presses against your jittery torso, as if he can push your frantic gasps back into your lungs like this. Its strange, but the pressure grounds you as his free hand comes up to rest at the base of your skull, his thumb rubbing into the muscle running up the back of your neck.

“This isn’t nothing. I know that”

Your confusion must show on your face, because he squeezes his hands on your flesh and says

“I used to get like this too, back when I was younger. I never paced myself, got worked up and then-“ he pauses, like he’s searching for a word “and then this”

Dumbstruck at his confession, you stare blankly at him. Your tears slowing, and your breath interrupted by only a few sharp gasps.

“I didn’t have anyone to help me back then.”

His unspoken words ring loud “But I want to help you now”

It comforts you, knowing you don’t always have to pretend to be calm anymore. That he understands. That even the strongest, most capable people like Mando have their moments.

Awkwardly, Mando pulls you to him. His beskar is cold, and a little damp from outside but its far from uncomfortable. You wouldn’t dream of pushing him away. He holds you there in his grounding embrace, silent except for the rain that beats down outside.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian imagines #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #Pedro pascal #my writing

164 notes · View notes

cozy-the-overlord · 3 years

Text

Dances and Daggers

Summary: The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 16: The Unveiling

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Word Count: 3,253

Chapter Summary: Loki’s back!

Thanks for reading!

TW: Mentions of violence, child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @moumouton4 @berriemalfoy @whatafuckingdumbass @sophlubbwriting

if you want to be tagged, feel free to just send me an ask/message! :)

Read it on Ao3!

Teki groped blindly in the moonlit shadows. It had to be a dream. Frigga had told her he was gone, that he wouldn’t be coming back for years, but when her fingers found his he squeezed her hand too tightly to be anything but real.

Her eyes flooded with relief.

“Loki—” she rasped.

He hushed her softly. “Don’t hurt your voice.” He cupped her cheek with his free hand, his quivering fingers ghosting down the side of her face, leaving chills in their wake. He stopped abruptly at the metal brace around her neck, voice trembling when he spoke.

“Norns,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Teki.”

She squirmed, trying to get a better look at him without hurting her neck. “You—how—” Teki cursed inwardly at her broken voice. She had so many questions. How are you back? How are you here?

Luckily, Loki seemed to understand. “There’s—pathways, between the realms. Tunnels. I had read about them before, but I had never attempted to follow them. When I heard what happened—I had to come back, so I gave it a try.” Tunnels between the realms. That sounded vaguely familiar. Where had she heard about those before?

I put them on my map!

Of course.

Loki hesitated. When he continued, it sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. “Teki, they said—they said you were attacked—” he gulped, “It was him, wasn’t it?”

Teki took a shaky breath, giving the smallest of nods. Even that tiny confirmation seemed to break him. Loki exhaled, leaning forward to support his head against his arm on the cot.

“You have to tell someone, Teki,” he begged. “My parents will believe you, I swear it. They’ll stop—no, don’t shake your head!” He looked at her pleadingly. “He’s hurting you!”

She kept shaking her head. He doesn’t know the half of it. “Loki,” she gasped, even as her voice seared. “Loki, they killed him.”

He frowned. “What?”

“My father. They killed him. Both of them.” For a second, her father’s body crashed through her vision once more, and the strangled sob that ripped from her throat didn’t sound human.

She didn’t know how long they sat in the dark together, Loki rubbing her shoulder in gentle comfort as she fought to choke out the details he had missed: the letter in the journal, Asta’s vials, Heimdall’s vision, horrible images that Teki wished to purge from her mind for the rest of her life, but that she knew would follow her to her grave. The prince’s eyes grew wider and wider even as her voice grew weaker. By the end, she was hacking uncontrollably, that faint metallic taste poisoning the back of her tongue.

Loki helped to pull her into a sitting position, rushing off for a glass of water and helping her shivering hands hold it steady as she drank. Teki collapsed against his chest once she finished. Perhaps it was unrefined, but she was well past caring about refinement at this point. His leather vest smelled of the woods and the wild; wide, open fields where you could run for miles and never see even a glimpse of another person. It was soothing in a way that nothing else was, made even more so when Loki wrapped an arm around her torso and held her closer.

For a moment, they just stayed like that, listening to the sound of the other’s breathing.

It was Loki who spoke first. “We need to expose them.”

Teki looked up at his face, firm and decisive in the moonlight. Not for the first time, she envied his steadfast determination.

“How?” she whispered hoarsely. “It would be my word against theirs. No one would believe me.” Why should they? What was she to the court but a little girl who thought she could play queen, so sickly that she rarely showed up for dinner and so horribly dull that her own fiancé had no interest in interacting with her? What reason had they to trust her?

“It wouldn’t be just your word, though,” he said. “Didn’t you say Asta knew about it too?”

“She just sold it to her,” Teki hiccupped. “The—the poison. My mother didn’t tell her what—what she was planning.” Besides, would she even want to come forward with testimony? The old apothecary woman didn’t strike her as one to get involved with the law, especially if she was in the practice of selling poison.

Still, Loki mused. “But it could be something.”

Across the room, something creaked. It was nothing, and Teki knew it, but still she whipped around with her heart in her throat, expecting to see her stepfather leering in the corner with his glittering blue eyes.

Loki rubbed her arm reassuringly. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “We’re the only ones in here.”

Teki gulped. The darkness seemed to press around her cot, whispering cruel promises only she could hear.

She griped Loki tighter. “Can—can you stay? With me?” Her face burned—such a childish plea. She felt like Brant, sneaking into her room when he couldn’t sleep. Still, she had a horrible feeling that if she let him leave, he’d be gone again. “I don��t—I don’t like being alone.”

Loki only nodded. “Of course. Let me just—” He moved away for a split second, leaving her in the darkness while he dragged a chair across the room to her bedside. She lay back down against the sheets as he situated himself, resting his head besides her pillow so that he faced hers.

She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised. “Just sleep now.”

…

“How are you feeling, my lady?” the healer asked as she unlatched the brace from around Teki’s neck.

She rubbed the base of her throat. The healers had returned to finish her treatment just as the pinpricks of dawn were beginning to sneak their way into the room, Loki having slipped out only moments prior.

He had woken her up before he went, a gentle tap on her shoulder pulling her from the darkness of her dreams.

“It’s almost sunrise,” he had whispered. “They’ll be back soon. I should go.”

In the early morning haze, Teki had misunderstood. “You mean—you’re not going back to Vanaheim, are you?” she croaked. Panicked tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t lose him. Not again. Not when so much was going wrong.

But Loki shook his head quickly. “No, no. I’m staying on Asgard. But there’s something I have to check.” He rose with a deliberate stretch before dragging his chair back to wherever he found it. “I’ll come back later today,” he promised before he slipped into the shadows.

Teki had barely been alone fifteen minutes before the women in blue were back with their magic at the ready. The healing process was quick, albeit exhausting, and once they were through Teki was half inclined to crawl back into the bed and sleep through the next week. Still, at least it didn’t hurt to talk anymore.

The Queen popped in just at Teki was finishing buttoning the front of her dress. She had been expecting her mother to saunter in with her hollow words and painted smiles, and so she jumped at Frigga’s warm greeting.

“Tekla!” she beamed. “I’m so relieved to see you up and about.” She sat down on the foot of the bed, and Teki was a bit shocked to notice the worry barely hidden under her kind smile. “How are you feeling today, darling?” she asked, studying her with the same maternal concern Teki had seen in her eyes when she was watching Loki in the Games.

Teki’s response was so instinctual it almost felt rehearsed. “Much better, Your Majesty,” she said, returning the smile.

Frigga shook her head somberly. “Such a horrifying experience. I can’t imagine how scared you must have been.” She reached out to hold Teki’s hand, in reassurance. “We have some of our best warriors looking for the man who attacked you and your brother. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

Teki couldn’t meet her gaze. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t allow her mother’s lies to continue any longer, but she didn’t know how to explain to the Queen that everything she thought she knew wasn’t true. Teki only could manage a nod.

Frigga, unaware of her inner turmoil, patted her hand delicately. “If you ever need anything,” she promised, “Please don’t hesitate to ask me.”

Again, Teki found that she could only nod.

If the Queen had noticed her discomfort, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she shifted the conversation. “Oh, I wanted to ask you, darling,” she said. “Have you spoken to Loki at all?”

Teki stiffened. “Loki, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” Frigga was still smiling, but there was a wilder sort of apprehension beneath her tone. “His teachers said he vanished at some point during the night. I thought he might have contacted you—he considers you a close friend, I know—”

Guilt smoldered in her chest, but something told Teki to keep Loki’s midnight visit to herself.

“I haven’t heard from him, Your Majesty,” she lied.

Frigga nodded distractedly. “Well, I’m sure it isn’t anything to worry about. Just—if he does get into contact with you, would you please let me know?”

She hummed in agreement, eyes on the on the floor.

“Teki!” Both of their heads snapped to the doorway just in time to see Brant barreling through the room, past the healers and lines of cots. He crashed against Teki’s stomach in a snug embrace, ignoring her surprised “oof!”

Frigga laughed. She excused herself, leaving Teki’s bedside to chat with another healer. Meanwhile, Brant’s grip hadn’t loosened around her.

“Hey,” she whispered, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Are you all right?” He nodded, rubbing his cheek against her dress like a cat.

“Was scared,” he muttered. His voice was so low, Teki barely heard it. The pained cry that had spilled from his lips when Osvald turned his fists on him echoed through her mind, and she held him tighter. He pressed something into her stomach, shielding it with his torso.

Teki frowned. “What—”

“Mama said to burn it,” he whispered.

It was her father’s journal, familiar and worn and newly singed along the edge, as if it had just barely been scooped out from the flames. There was a lump in Teki’s throat as she tucked it under her sash. Brant had witness first-hand how Osvald felt about this journal, seen what he was willing to do to her for refusing to give it up, and still risked everything to rescue it from the flames for her. She squeezed him tighter.

“Are you ready to go?”

She glanced up to find her mother standing over her expectantly, arms crossed elegantly over her perfectly pressed gown. Something about her face, looking at those same lips that had curled so sadistically as her father sat hunched over the dinner table gasping for his life, sent bile rising to her throat. Her mother raised her eyebrows. She was waiting, Teki realized, waiting for her daughter to straighten up and follow her out of the room with her head down like the obedient little mouse she had raised her to be, never to speak of this incident again.

Teki didn’t move.

Her mother sighed. “Tekla, we don’t have all da—”

“I’m not going with you.” The words cut through the air like the dagger under her mattress. Teki glared into her mother’s eyes, challenging her to look away first.

“Tekla,” she spoke through gritted teeth. “I swear, I don’t have time for you to be difficult—”

“I know what you did,” Teki said, relishing the way her mother blanched, then rushed to cover it. “I’m not going with you.”

“We’re not doing this here,” she snapped, grabbing at her arm. Teki avoided her grasp, still clinging to Brant.

“You killed my father.” Her brother looked up at her in shock, but Teki kept her gaze trained on her mother.

Deny it. Go ahead, lie right to my face again. I dare you.

“What are you talking about?” she retorted. Her eyes shifted across the room, to where the Queen was still locked deep in conversation with one of the healers. Teki followed her gaze, followed her line of thinking to a T.

Don’t make a scene.

We wouldn’t want to embarrass ourselves.

Teki only raised her voice.

“You poisoned his cup,” she said, more adamant with every word. “You made him write that letter.”

“Enough of this!” Her mother grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. “We’re going home. Now.”

Teki wriggled free. “I’m not going with you—”

Their struggle had caught the attention of the Queen. She walked over, frowning. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” her mother said quickly. “I was just taking my daughter home.” She grabbed at Teki’s hand again, as if to emphasize her point, but Teki squirmed away before she even had a hold on her.

Frigga’s frown deepened. “Tekla, is something wrong?”

Teki swallowed. That familiar fear had returned, the horrible feeling that should she ever stand up and speak her truth her audience would only stare back at her with vacant eyes. That they’d defer judgment to her mother, to her stepfather, to the extorted letter written in a dying man’s shaking hand.

But she thought also of her father, pleading for her wellbeing as he choked on his own breath. She thought of Brant’s body limp on the floor, her stepfather glowering over him, her family’s judge, jury, and executioner. She pressed her hand against the journal hidden in her sash.

My parents will believe you, I swear it.

“There wasn’t an intruder,” she said, heart pounding. “It was Osvald.” She gulped. “It’s always Osvald.”

The Queen’s eyes widened.

Her mother gasped theatrically. “Tekla! How could you say such a thing?”

“That’s not all!” Teki’s breath was coming faster now, along with the frenzied need to keep Frigga’s attention for as long as possible. “She and him killed my father. My real father. They made it look like he left so they could sign off on my marriage proposal. She poisoned him.” The tears burned hot and harsh in her eyes; she tried to blink them away.

Áslaug was shaking her head wildly. “Your Majesty, I am so sorry,” she rushed. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. Perhaps her injuries—”

“No!” Brant had come out of hiding against her abdomen, trembling like a leaf. Everyone’s gaze snapped to him, and she fully expected him to wither at the attention, but instead he pulled at Frigga’s skirt, eyes wide. “Daddy hurts Teki. He gets mad and he hits her.”

“Brant!” Her mother’s carefully constructed control was unraveling at the scenes. She whipped back to the Queen. “He’s just copying Tekla. He always follows her lead. And I don’t know what could possibly have gotten into her—”

“Oh, don’t you?” It was as if someone had lit a fire in Teki’s chest. For years, her feelings had been muzzled, held back the tyrannical fear that ruled every other aspect of her life. She had bent to the will of her guardians because she had no other choice. But the emotions had always been there. Always. And now, one of those emotions seared brightly enough to burn through everything else: fury.

“I’ll tell you what’s gotten into me!” she snapped. “You took my father away from me and expected me to accept it. You let your husband hurt me and told me it was my fault that he did. You used my existence as a tool so you could climb to the top, without ever sparing a thought to what it did to me.” She heaved a sob, fully aware that all eyes were on her and not giving a damn. “I’m not lying for you anymore!”

“And neither am I.”

All four of them whipped to the entrance. For a moment, Teki thought she was hallucinating.

Old Asta the Apothecary limped down the hallway, her ragged clothing a stark contrast to the crisp sheets of the cots she walked by. Somehow she looked even more shriveled here without her cart trailing behind her.

Teki’s mother went so pale it looked as though she might pass out.

“How did she get in here?” she demanded in a tone that sounded akin to a screeching bird. “Who let her in?”

“The young prince. He came to speak with me today, about what happened here.” Teki perked up at Loki’s name. I have something I have to check, he had whispered in the morning darkness. He had gone to Asta?

She stopped just before the Queen, sinking into a respectful bow. “Your Majesty. For centuries, I’ve prided myself on the loyalty of my confidence, but I’ve realized as of late that I’ve held some things to my chest that never should have been kept secret.” She glanced at Teki, almost as if in regret. Teki frowned. When they had spoken, Asta certainly hadn’t shown any signs of guilt for what she had done.

What did Loki say to change her mind?

“Don’t listen to her!” her mother was shrieking wildly. “She’s not to be trusted—”

“Enough!” snapped Frigga. The Queen had seemed to occupy a shellshocked silence for most of the conversation, but now she turned to the apothecary with a firm conviction. “Asta. What have you to tell us?”

The old woman sighed deeply. “Several years ago, the Lady Áslaug sought me out. She was looking for a poison, fast-acting and tasteless, something to eliminate her husband quickly and quietly.”

“No!” screamed her mother.

“She wasn’t certain what it was she wanted,” Asta continued. “I sold her two vials—one of embers of frost, and one of hellion, so she could choose which to use—”

“No, no, you’re lying!” Áslaug shrieked, motioning at Frigga desperately as she pointed at the apothecary. “She’s lying! I never bought the hellion. I never touched it!”

“No,” agreed the apothecary with a wicked smirk. “No, you didn’t.”

It was a moment before it dawned on Teki’s mother what she had just admitted to.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, I meant—I didn’t—I—” she glanced around in a frenzy, searching for a receptive face. She found nothing. With a pained sob, she collapsed into tears.

Teki looked away.

Frigga whistled, short and piercing. In less than a heartbeat, two of her Queensguard rushed to her side, from where they had been standing at attention just outside the door.

“Guards,” she said, her voice even and emotionless. “Please, escort Lady Áslaug into custody. Have Lord Osvald taken in as well.” As the guards pulled her mother to her feet, the Queen turned to her. “Tekla, if you and your brother would come with me.”

Teki nodded in a haze, watching as her mother was removed from the room. Brant was gripping her hand so tightly she could barely feel it anymore. She turned back to Asta, hoping to thank her for her support, but the old woman was disintegrating, fading out of existence in a shimmering mass. Her bewilderment was quickly replaced by smile so wide it hurt her cheeks.

In the apothecary’s place, her dark-haired prince grinned right back at her.

#dances and daggers #loki fanfic #loki marvel #loki x ofc #dances and daggers chapter 16 #the unveiling #cozy writes

35 notes · View notes

quazartranslates · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH8

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

-----

Chapter 8: Resurrection Overture (VIII)

When Qi Leren arrived at Chen Baiqi's store, it was 20 minutes earlier than the appointed time. Chen Baiqi was chatting with a woman with her back to him. They both looked at Qi Leren in the doorway, and Qi Leren also looked at the woman.　

That person was a very gorgeous and charming beauty, wearing a gorgeous and complicated low-cut witch's dress and a European top hat. Although her whole person was dressed in dark colours, it made her skin more white, and her bright red lipstick and smokey eye makeup were particularly attractive. When he noticed this, Qi Leren first reviewed why he noticed his sister's makeup at first sight... Was it really a matter of sexual orientation?

"Since you have a guest, I'll take a walk first. I'm tired from the task I just finished. Let's talk about it another day." The beautiful woman smiled at Qi Leren, picked up the women's walking stick at the table, and walked out of Chen Baiqi's shop gracefully.

"Who was that?" Qi Leren asked.

"The Illusionist," Chen Baiqi said.

Qi Leren suddenly remembered that the Court’s Miao Li had mentioned during his dream lessons that the Illusionist had helped cover up his tombstones on the Undead Island in order to hide them from the Slaughter Secret Society. Was it that beautiful woman just now?

"Have you had breakfast?" Chen Baiqi asked him.

Qi Leren nodded: "I’m full."

Chen Baiqi smiled meaningfully: "Don't eat too much next time, lest you throw up."

"..." Qi Leren felt that his future was grim.

"Although we’ve known each other for some time, I’ve never introduced myself properly. Since you will train with me from today, I will introduce myself again. Come with me. " Chen Baiqi led Qi Leren inside. Qi Leren had never been to the back part of the store. When he found that there was a basement with several floors, he couldn't help crying deeply for his future self.

"I used to be the executive officer of the Trial’s Heresy Court. I was mainly responsible for executing the Devil worshippers. Later, because of an injury, I could no longer continue such a high-intensity and dangerous job, so I retired early. Now I’m half an insider who does intelligence." The elevator stopped on the third basement floor and Chen Baiqi led Qi Leren out. The third basement floor was as big as a basketball court. The ground was made of concrete, without any obstacles, and it was scary.

Qi Leren wasn’t very surprised. He had always felt that Chen Baiqi was familiar with the Trials Court. It was to be expected that all of the information she had was somehow related to them.

"In the Nightmare World, so many players have explored 'playing methods' about this 'game' for more than 20 years. Today, I will briefly talk about the 'professions'," Chen Baiqi said.

Qi Leren pricked up his ears and listened attentively.

"Players will receive a skill card when they are in the Novice Village. This skill card is not given randomly, and most players will eventually build their own fighting style around this skill card. That is to say, the original skill card has actually selected the appropriate profession for the player. Take your Novice Village as an example: Dr. Lu, who is with you, is obviously a healer, while Xue Yingying is obviously a berserker. As for you, because your basic skill card is very delicate, it's the first time I’ve heard of such a skill card, so it's hard to judge your basic profession. But it doesn't matter. Most of the skill cards that players get in tasks will follow a certain rule. For example, a healer rarely draws a berserker-type skill card when drawing their card. That is to say, the skill cards obtained in the future are actually based on what you receive as your first skill card. They build around this 'profession'."

Qi Leren suddenly realized: so the skill cards he got later, such as "Rain-Day Laundry", "Primary Fighting Skills", and "Devil Etiquette", including the latest one, "Secretly Observing", all emphasized his profession.

—Assassin.

"I only know some of your skill cards, but I can make a rough judgment about you. You’re an assassin." Chen Baiqi folded her arms and looked at him laughingly. "So congratulations, I’m in the same profession. However, even amongst assassins, they will be subdivided into different categories because of their different personality traits and abilities. After all, everyone's skill cards are different. If you trust me, you can tell me your existing skill cards, and I will not disclose it to others."

Qi Leren vaguely felt that Chen Baiqi would sincerely teach him, and that his answer was the key. Of course, he couldn’t say it. Chen Baiqi would still train him, but she would not give everything to him. Chen Baiqi was... Qi Leren's brain flashed. She was looking for a successor!

Yes, Chen Baiqi entered the game very early and she said it had been eight years, which meant that she was an old player with high strength and rich experience, but it also meant that her time wouldn't be much longer.

Chen Baiqi was optimistic about him and willing to teach him, which was only too important for a newcomer who was still groping for his footing shortly after entering the game, and Qi Leren was very grateful. He didn't think Chen Baiqi had any malice towards him. After all, the gap in strength between the two people was right in front of him. If Chen Baiqi wanted to, she could kill him.

After figuring this out, Qi Leren relayed his skill cards and even told her of his items.

Chen Baiqi said, "You are an assassin. You already have basic premonition skills, detection and latent skills, and even half a camouflage skill. Right now, you still lack a skill to escape and strengthen combat effectiveness—Primary Fighting Skills is too low, it takes too long to upgrade past the basic stage. You can sell it after you’ve been trained."

Qi Leren nodded, "I’ve felt an obvious lack in combat effectiveness. I have no effective means of attack, and often I can only take the same route."

This also led to his excessive dependence on S/L Data as his solution.

"Although skill cards are very good and greatly improve newcomers’ survival rate in this world, I don’t advocate relying too much on them. The Nightmare World is a surreal world. There are many things that we can't do in the real world that can be done here. It also has its own power system. If you want to integrate into this power system, relying too much on skill cards will only hinder you. To put it simply, if you want to become a field-level master, you must quit your skill cards," Chen Baiqi said seriously.

"When you say the power system, you mean the Devils and the Holy See?" Qi Leren asked.

"Yes. With our status as players, if you want to reach the field level, you’re bound to become close to one of them. Because you’ve been parasitized by Slaughter before, I originally thought that your attributes were more inclined to the Devils, but now it seems that maybe you’re more inclined to the side of divine power," Chen Baiqi said.

"How do you see it?" Qi Leren was puzzled.

Chen Baiqi's mouth crooked and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were already a pair of red eyes: "The holiness of your body has exceeded the standard. Maria gave you an important gift before she sent you back."

Qi Leren recalled the warm and comfortable feeling when the dotted light of endless faith had poured into his body, and nodded silently.

"In fact, in addition to these two power systems, there are many magical powers in the Nightmare World. For example, I seldom use investigation skill cards because I once learned the language of birds from an elder. Although I’m not very proficient, I have no problem with basic dialogue. You can imagine how desperate it is to meet me in a wild jungle. This is better than the ability of any reconnaissance skill card. After all, there is no cooldown."

Qi Leren imagined that if he had met such an opponent in the forest during the Witchcraft Sacrifice mission... The birds in the whole forest were her eyes. She could observe every enemy 24/7 without cooldown, avoid any danger she wanted to bypass, and set traps to deal with anyone she wanted to deal with. This was simply terrible.

"Well, with this said, I’ll now begin to test your abilities, including your physical quality, judgment, intuition, and so on. I’ll test your intuition first. If you want to be a good assassin, you can't do without phenomenal intuition. You stand there blindfolded, this won’t take more than a minute," Chen Baiqi commanded.

Qi Leren obediently went to the place she indicated and took the red cloth she handed him, tying it over his eyes. Suddenly, there was only a suppressed scarlet: "How do we test it?"

Chen Baiqi's voice floated from in front of him: "It's very simple. I'll throw some knives at you. You can dodge them with your intuition. I won't tell you when I throw them."

???

! ! !

This wasn’t a test, it was a threat on his life!

"Put away Rain-Day Laundry and only use S/L Data, or else you’ll really die," Chen Baiqi said with ease and pleasure.

"The Prophet told me to use it less," Qi Leren protested weakly.

"Oh, then you don't have to. I’ll try not to aim at anything vital," Chen Baiqi said.

"...Forget it, I'll use it." Qi Leren surrendered and thought he would use it just this once.

S/L Data was activated and the current position was set as the save point. Qi Leren looked at the red before his eyes and his heart beat fast with nervousness. He counted the seconds for S/L Data in his mind.

30, 29, 28...

Chen Baiqi didn't throw, she was walking—Qi Leren couldn't see her or hear her footsteps, but he had a strong feeling that Chen Baiqi was walking around him... She was on his left... Behind him...

Danger, danger, danger!

Clearly there was no warning, no noise, but Qi Leren's mind had already sounded the alarm. He quickly squatted without thinking and a slight wind flew over his head, cutting off two floating hairs.

"Eh? The response was good." Chen Baiqi's voice came from behind him. It was behind him!

Qi Leren stood up and continued to count the seconds: seventeen, sixteen, fifteen...

Under your feet!

Qi Leren suddenly jumped up, and the throwing knife shot obliquely downward and struck the ground with a tang.

Even though he wasn’t hit, Qi Leren still felt a dull pain in his feet, probably from jumping too fast and cramping.

"You’re really good." This time the voice came from above his head!

Qi Leren flung himself forward and rolled on the ground for three or four meters. There was a continuous sound of breathing behind him. Obviously, several throwing knives stabbed one after another—into the concrete ground, and he stopped breathing from nerves. In such a dark place, he directly evaded the ubiquitous fatal danger that made him feel on the verge of a breakdown.

When he stood up again, Qi Leren had forgotten to count the seconds and Chen Baiqi's voice came from ahead of himt: "Well, let's stop here for now."

Qi Leren breathed a sigh of relief and his whole person relaxed from his panicked state, stretching out his hand to untie the cloth over his eyes. When the cloth strip was torn off, there was no figure of Chen Baiqi in front of him—only a parrot standing on the ground and talking with Chen Baiqi's voice, which laughed at him: "Fool."

Qi Leren stood stiffly and a cold wind struck into his torso from behind, the knife piercing his heart. After 30 seconds, S/L Data successfully read the file.

The real Chen Baiqi came from behind Qi Leren with a cheerful demeanor: "This is the first lesson for you: never let off your guard down too early in the face of danger."

-----

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

#Welcome to the Nightmare Game #欢迎来到噩梦游戏 #danmei

28 notes · View notes

alecmagnuslwb · 3 years

Text

Time Doesn’t Love You Anymore

Read on AO3

Day One

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!” his phone rings out from the makeshift nightstand that’s actually just a stack of old yellow pages.

Zatanna groans reaching out in an attempt to silence the damn thing, not even lifting her head from under the covers. She pushes out a little too hard dislodging one of the yellow pages from its Tetris style stack nearly knocking them all to the floor. Sometimes she really hates staying in one of John’s so-called safehouses.

Above her she hears a deep sleep addled chuckle and feels the warm press of skin against her back as John stretches for the phone. The motion moves the covers down past her shoulders and she grumbles as the sunlight rudely hits her eyes.

“What?” John says answering the phone, she grumbles again moving her pillow from under her head to over her ears. The conversation goes muffled after that until she hears the distinct snap of John closing his ridiculous drug dealer flip phone.

“Zee?” he says rubbing a warm hand up slowly up the back of her oversized Star City tourist t-shirt. With his other hand he slowly pulls the pillow from her grasp she only yields when his fingers start trailing up and down her spine slowly, a touch she always just melts right into.

She flips over and John’s hand stays put on her skin resting on her stomach. “What?” she says finally opening her eyes to look up at him.

“That was Chas, a friend of a friend gave him a tip on that cup Midnite’s been after,” he says slowly moving his thumb back and forth against the delicate skin of her abs. Zatanna hums in response. “It seems it’s right here in New Orleans and in a mausoleum not far from here.”

“Good for it,” she says and pulls the blankets up over her head again. John chuckles again tugging at the covers a bit just enough to uncover her eyes again.

“We should go check it out, last thing anyone needs is for Midnite to get his hands on yet another magical artifact to hold over everyone else,” he says. Zatanna sighs cracking open her eyes once again and lifting herself up to lean on her elbow mirroring John’s position.

She concedes his point, any chance to have something over Midnite and actually be able to bargain with is a good thing. Especially for her boyfriend, he’s always getting himself into tangled deals with the man.

That being said she has no intentions of leaving this bed just yet, they were out far too late last night dealing with some League business that had been floated her way by Diana. She was happy to do it, she’s has to keep that Justice League membership card up somehow, but that doesn’t mean she’s not going to catch up on her sleep in the aftermath of it.

She trails her fingers along his collarbone and starts traveling down, down, down until her fingers trail through the dusting of hair on his chest.

“Okay, but five more minutes here,” she says trailing her finger and eyes lower and lower.

John’s breath catches when her fingers move the cover even further down and she reaches his belly button.

“Your hand gets much lower and it’s gonna be a hell of a lot more than five minutes,” he says not trying to stop her in any way.

Zatanna shrugs lifting her eyes up to his and showing him an innocent little smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”

John lets out another stuttering breath as her fingers stop their path downwards bypassing the spot he wants them most. She trails to the side lingering back and forth at the top of one of his thighs.

“And everyone thinks I’m the devil in this relationship,” he says with a smile shifting so that her back is pressed into the mattress. He situates himself so that he’s comfortable between her legs and she smiles lifting a hand to run through his hair.

“Not my fault you’re such a sucker for me,” she says cupping his cheek with her hand and running her thumb along his lower lip. John moves just a bit taking the digit into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it slowly once, twice. Zatanna’s breath hitches this time.

Slowly he releases her finger and her hand drops as John leans down placing slow open-mouthed kisses on her neck trailing a line down, down, down.

He doesn’t mention going to a mausoleum for a long, long while.

It’s the latter half of sunset by the time they reach the mausoleum, the bright summer sun low in the sky minutes away from welcoming night. The outside of the crypt is warded, but not too heavily at all; John places one sigil on the weather worn stone and it all drops.

Inside there’s not a single protection, Zatanna steps in first and waves a hand across the air forming a trail of glowing lights along the ceiling to illuminate the space. The place is largely barren, no caskets empty or filled, nothing but some broken down old gates and a few hundred cobwebs.

And there in the center sits the cup nothing special or seemingly magical about it. It looks like a normal silver chalice, worn and aged by however many years it’s been sitting in the same exact spot for. There’s not a whiff of magic in the air, unusual for any corner of the entire city.

“That’s it?” Zatanna says scrutinizing the thing, her arms crossed.

John shrugs stepping closer to the stand where it rests, “Chas says it is.”

Zatanna hums, Chas is usually right and despite its outward appearance and its lack of any sort of energy signature this wouldn’t mark the first time Zatanna has seen great power come from something so mundane.

“What’s it supposed to do?” she asks.

“Supposedly drinking from it will grant one powers unknown,” he says continuing towards it. “Sounds like a bunch of shite to me, but Midnite doesn’t think it is and I’m always happy to have one up on Mr. chose no sides himself.”

He tilts his head and smirks over his shoulder at her before he takes the final step right up to the stand.

John doesn’t even touch the cup, just hovers in its space his foot still a full inch from the base of the stand but before he so much as lifts a hand fully over it, before Zatanna can even say a single backward word John goes up in flames. The sick crackling of skin and the unnatural falling into ash happens in an instant, he doesn’t even have the chance to scream.

Zatanna rushes to his side but it’s far too late not even a full second has passed and as soon as her fingers reach him she brushes through ash drifting in the air, his bones shattering to the ground with a loud crack in the quiet echo of the empty mausoleum.

Zatanna falls on her knees to the floor alongside what’s left of him eyes wide, breath heavy, she’s fairly certain she feels the track of wet tears from her eyes, but mostly she just feels nothing. She feels vacant, like she’s not even here like this isn’t even real, like this is some horrible nightmare she’ll wake up from at any moment. She digs her hands hard into the cobbled stone beneath her the ash of the man she loves, loved, seeping underneath her fingernails.

She’s not sure how long she stays there, she’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually she’s not alone. Doctor Fate settles by her side taking off his helmet and then it’s just her friend Khalid settling a heavy sorrowful hand on her shoulder. She’s so out of body she’s not certain if he asks her what happened or just figures it out for himself, she vaguely hears him say something about feeling a surge of magical energy and tracing it to her, but none of it truly registers.

A dark gloved hand that belongs to some bat settles on her shoulder in passing and she replays the morning when everything had been okay. A red cape flits past the corner of her eyes and she thinks about how she should have not let him step inside this place without checking it more thoroughly. A ghostly energy with a flash of red hovers around her tentative and frantic at the same time and she finds herself replaying the last milliseconds of John’s life and hollowing out a little more when she realizes just how similar it is to when her father burnt to a crisp in her arms as well.

Another pair of fishnets kneel down beside her before leaning in and placing strong arms around her shoulders, blonde hair brushes against her cheek and that’s what breaks her from her semi-catatonic state, the proverbial dam breaks and she just sobs and wails and she’s certain it’s a horrible sounding affair.

Eventually between the trauma, crying and dehydration she tires herself out passing out between one last hiccupping sob and the next.

Day Two

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!” his phone rings out and Zatanna twists and bolts upright. She looks at her hands first, clean and not marred with the ashes of the man she loves. To her left the covers rustle and John curves an arm around her gripping the phone with is fingertips and flipping it open.

“What?” he says his voice muffled by his face still buried half in her pillow. Zatanna just looks at him as he talks to whoever’s on the other end of the line waves of shock and relief washing over her. He slowly sits up as he talks noticing the way she’s staring at him; he raises an eyebrow moving the conversation along before shutting the phone and dropping it somewhere in the tangled sheets around them.

“Love?” he starts and she doesn’t even give him a chance to breathe before she’s on him, the kiss is a little desperate and John hesitates to return it at first, no doubt a little worried about her sudden reaction but between one press and the next he gets with the program responding to every movement.

She pulls back after a few more beats and touches her forehead to his.

“Whew,” he says and she feels the puff of his breath against her lips still so close, warm and real and alive. “What was that for?”

Zatanna just shakes her head. “Bad dream,” she says raising one had to rest over his heart, happy to feel the steady beat underneath her fingertips. “Very bad dream.”

Because that’s what it was, no matter how real it felt, she’s had some doozy dreams like it before so she’s not unfamiliar with the feeling. She lingers close for a few moments coming down from the shock of the nightmare before pulling back.

“You gonna be okay?” John asks quietly reaching out to brush the hair that’s fallen into her face away. She nods feeling the tension that the nightmare left behind exit her body, her shoulders loosen. “Want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head and gives him a small reassuring smile. Maybe later, right now she just needs the distraction of seeing him right in front of her.

John smiles one of those rare bright smiles he lets out and kisses her on the cheek.

“So, what was that phone call about it?” she asks.

“Chas has a lead on that artifact Midnite has been after, right here in the city,” he says and starts going on about it. Zatanna listens carefully and a little worried, it’s exactly the same thing that led to that horrible nightmare.

It’s a coincidence though, definitely. He’s been talking about this cup a lot lately so of course it was on her mind, of course her dream latched on to a thing that’s been near the top of their to do list for weeks now. It’s purely coincidental.

But just to ease her mind Zatanna plays things out differently, she doesn’t talk him into lingering in bed. John makes them a late breakfast; she puts on a completely different outfit than the one that ended up covered in ash and convinces him to walk through the city to the mausoleum instead of portaling over.

There’s a weird air of deja-vu around it all, a weird lingering of the nightmare at the edges of her mind. Everything is playing out differently than the dream, but only because she made it that way and when the mausoleum comes into view her uneasiness grows. It looks exactly like it did in her nightmare and she’s certain she’s never seen it before.

They get in just as easily, there’s still barely any sort of magical signature around it. John puts one sigil on the stone and it falls away like there was never a thing in the way in the first place. It’s the same as it was in her dream she just doesn’t brush it off this time.

“Wait,” she says tugging John’s coat before he can step inside of the crypt. John raises an eyebrow in question. “I’ve got a bad feeling, my bad dream it was just like this and it didn’t end pretty.”

“How not pretty?”

“Like you dead not pretty,” she says eyes lingering over his shoulder looking into the mausoleum, it’s just as dark but she’d bet money that cup is sitting in the exact same spot on the exact same pedestal.

“You think it was a prophetic kind of dream?” he asks turning fully towards her his hands on her shoulders.

“I mean that’s not usually my thing, but it’s way too similar,” she says reaching up and holding his forearms a sense of urgency in her voice. She does not want him going inside of there.

“Okay, then I won’t go in,” he says easily. Occasionally stubborn as he can be sometimes he just listens to her and she’s never been more grateful for those moments until now.

She breathes out a sigh of relief tugging him further back from the entrance.

“Let’s run a few more spells over it, make sure nothing’s off,” she says hand already outstretched to start a few more scans.

John nods his head. “Alright, I’ll take the back you take the front,” he says with a wink as he turns back to shut the mausoleum gate he’d easily broken into. He shuts the gate fully and winces.

“John?” she says turning back to him and he pulls his hand away and looks down.

Flames crackles at his skin and not the bright orange ones she’s familiar with him carrying.

“Shit,” he says and just like in her nightmare they take him over completely.

This time she screams his name when his body succumbs to the flames to the ashes, she screams because this time there’s no way it’s not real; this time she won’t wake up and it’s a nightmare, maybe it never was in the first place.

When Khalid shows up this time she’s sitting with her back to the mausoleum her fingers gripping into the grass tightly. She’s crying still when he leans down and reaches an arm out to comfort her, crying because she could have stopped this, she saw this coming. Something out there gave her the foresight and she brushed it off as a dream. She knows better than to ignore something like that, goddammit she knows better.

She knows better and now John’s dead because she didn’t listen to it.

When Khalid takes off his helmet Zatanna can’t bear the look of sorrow, of pity on his face so she shuts her eyes tightly and curls her fingers even tighter into the grass.

Day Three

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna sits upright in an instant watching as John stretches out behind her for his phone clumsily.

“What?” he answers it and Zatanna snatches it from his hand.

“Chas?” she says confirming it for herself.

“Hey, Zee,” he starts and she cuts him off hanging up the phone immediately. She moves to throw it to the end of the bed, but changes her mind flipping the phone over and taking the battery out for good measure. Her phone is somewhere around here and she vaults from the bed to give it the same treatment for when Chas inevitably tries her next.

She can’t blame him if he does after that display of panic she just provided, but she has good reason to be in a panic.

She finds her phone in a pile of last night’s clothes and dismantles it as well. She lets out a breath as she tosses the battery to the other side of the room.

“Um, Zee?” John says voice filled with concern and confusion. She turns standing to a full height to look at him, him alive and well at least for now.

“I think I’m stuck in a time loop, and that cup you’ve been trying to find, well Chas found it and it started this whole thing,” she says running a frustrated hand through her hair.

John runs a hand across the stubble on his jaw and nods as he works to get out of bed himself.

She’s not sure if it’s the worry in her voice, the no doubt look of fear on her face or just his unstoppable faith in her, but he doesn’t question it, doesn’t second guess it or think she’s crazy for a beat. He just simply says, “Tell me about it.”

So she does, she settles down at the kitchen island a cup of coffee in her hand grounding her to the now and not to the what could be and tells him everything about her past two Wednesdays.

“So we don’t go to the mausoleum,” he says easily when she’s done. He curls a hand around her wrist stroking the skin lightly.

“John I don’t think that’ll work, it’s all connected to there, so there is where answers might be,” she says moving her hand to link their fingers together.

“It is, but the only way to know if breaking it is just not going is to not go,” he says. “I don’t die maybe it’s over.”

Zatanna shakes her head. “You know it’s not that easy, it’s never that easy.”

John shrugs, “Maybe just this once it will be.” It sounds borderline optimistic which means it must be really bad, she’s the optimist not him.

“But the day doesn’t reset when you die, trust me I have to live with it for a while,” her voice cracks a little when she says the last part. John shakes his head and rounds the counter pulling her into his arms.

“I know this is gonna be hard, but it’s the only way to know for sure that it’s not this easy,” John says. He presses a kiss into her hair. “If the day starts over again whether I make it through today or not then you tell me all about it again and we figure it out together.”

She pulls her arms around his middle tightly and takes a deep breath.

“We need to look up more about that cup, I need to know everything I can about it no matter what,” she says pulling back and looking up into those deep blue eyes she’s seen burn up right before her twice now. She can’t stomach seeing it again.

They spend the day buried in a few hundred books she conjures up from every library she has access to and a few she doesn’t but can’t be bothered to ask permission for right now. This is a time sensitive situation she can deal with the fallout if the day doesn’t restart.

The cup has barely made a peep in its years of existence, most of what they find correlates with the vague knowledge that John had given her on the first day.

It’s surrounded by myth more than fact. No one’s ever had it in their presence for longer than a few minutes. It’s powers, if any are largely unknown. Most of the accounts even the ones from some of the greatest magical minds in history have chalked it up to nothing more than a totem of luck at best. She disagrees, she’s had the opposite of luck since they came into contact with it.

She hovers over him a bit more than she should brushing her fingers across his skin or through his hair every time he passes by. They make it all the way to 11:50 without incident and for a bright hopeful moment she thinks that maybe he was right, maybe this will be easy to get through.

So of course, just as she thinks that it all goes to shit. They’re sitting on the couch surrounded by books and Chinese takeout boxes John has a cigarette hanging from his lips his focus on an old weathered book when the window rattles. Zatanna notices it not eager to brush it off as something as simple as the wind. She stretches out her hands magic already brewing at her fingertips.

The weather picks up lightning strikes and thunder rolls, the window shatters and Zatanna ducks. The last thing she hears is John shout.

Day Four

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna groans into her pillow and reaches out an arm shoving over the entire makeshift nightstand. She doesn’t know what the fuck happened last night, or this night last night, whatever the hell it is, but she’s pretty sure John wasn’t going to survive or if he had midnight was going to trigger a restart one way or another.

“Damn luv,” John groans leaning over to look at the tossed about stack of yellow pages and his phone. She lifts herself up and flips over rubbing a frustrated hand over face as she looks at the ceiling staring angrily at the crack that’s streaking along the discolored white paint.

She turns her head looking him in the eyes with a sigh. “We need to talk,” she says praying to someone that this will be the last go around.

This time they decide they have to go to the mausoleum, staying at home didn’t achieve much. They scan and spell and do a million little ward checks and safety sigils on John before they even get within a hundred yards of the place.

This time he makes it all the way in, even picks up the cup, only to end in ashes and flames.

***

Ten days pass much in the same way. She wakes up, screams bloody murder at John’s phone, tells him everything and then they get to work. For ten days they call friends for leads, friends of friends, even a few friends of friends of friends much to no avail. Very little new information comes their way about the cup itself and as for time loop well every time loop spell is different every time loop spell has its own eccentricities and lessons to be learned.

Every day she watches him die, sometimes it’s just like the first time, sometimes like the second, every now and then they don’t even get inside and he still bursts into flames. Once they spend the whole day going through the entire graveyard, checking for anything that might have a connection to their mausoleum and somehow a zombie pack rises from a corner of graves tearing into John’s flesh and hers before midnight even hits.

Every day that passes she feels a little more broken, a little less hopeful.

Day Fifteen

She doesn’t even stand a chance this time, John’s dead before breakfast. She ignores the phone ringing; she just stays in bed and lets John kiss her and slip out the door by himself this time. She doesn’t feel like explaining the time loop, she doesn’t have it in her to watch him burn today.

Just one day, she needs just one day to try the one thing she hasn’t, to reach out to the one person she hasn’t yet.

Tracking down Doctor Fate is never an easy thing to do and he never appreciates when people just summon him up without warning, but she’s beyond caring about that now. She gets dressed quickly and pulls her hair into a ponytail and moves the couch and coffee table out of the way to draw the sigil to summon him on the living room floor all while trying not to think about John dying alone.

She says the words and the sigil lights up gold and blue with an angry Doctor Fate floating in the center, or she assumes he’s angry it’s not like he has facial expressions.

“You know I don’t like to be summoned this way Miss Zatara,” the voice inside the golden helmet booms. “I have no-“

Zatanna raises a hand, her eyes cold and hard cutting him off.

“Listen, you can give me the whole respecting the laws of my magic and interference speech later,” she says knowing there won’t be a later. “I don’t need the all-knowing Doctor Fate to tell me he can’t tell me things right now; I need my friend Khalid. So, if you could drop the helmet and let me talk to him that’d be great.”

Fate tilts his head in consideration. “That’s quite demanding of you,” he says his feet finally settling to the ground.

“Yeah well I tend to feel pretty demanding when Constantine keeps dying,” she says frustrated, she doesn’t have time to argue or listen to his philosophy.

The glow around him settles and finally the helmet comes off at that. Khalid looks at her concern overtaking his young features. She’s seen that look on a lot of faces lately and suddenly she’s missing the unfeeling glow of a golden helmet instead.

“Keeps dying?” he asks stepping outside of the sigil and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Time loop,” she says and tells him everything, well not everything, there’s a lot of useless information she’s learned over the last few days. He listens to it all and she’s pretty sure the helmet does too.

“You’ve learned a lot,” he says when she’s done. “And you’re certain no one has specifically placed this curse on you, it’s the cup?”

She nods. She’s already gone through the list of usual suspects; Midnite stays neutral so it can’t be him even if he wants to get his hands on the cup, Nick is locked away tight, Faust isn’t clever enough for something like this and anyone she’s fought with the League is preoccupied with trying to destroy other League members or the world at large not just fucking with her.

Khalid is thoughtful for a moment his arms crossed, the helmet glows from where he’s sat it on the coffee table.

“I don’t have any answers that you haven’t already found, but he might,” he says gesturing to the helmet. Zatanna sighs, Fate tends to be more ominous than helpful, but she relents.

Khalid puts his hand on her shoulder one more time giving a comforting squeeze before he puts the helmet back on. A burst of light and Fate is once again floating before her.

“You know as well as anyone, that sometimes you cannot fight magic. Sometimes you must let it take its course,” he says and with another burst of light he’s gone. She shields her eyes as he goes, dropping her arm when the bright white light fades.

She huffs angrily at the space where he’d been.

“That’s all he’s got, let it take its course,” she says flopping down onto the couch. “Fuck that.”

Letting it takes its course will get John killed and she’s not about to let that stick anytime soon.

***

The days start bleeding into one another from there. She can’t remember what number day things happen on, but she remembers every excruciating detail. She tries to act like she doesn’t know just how many days it’s been on the ones where she decides to tell John what’s been happening, but she can tell he sees right through her.

She knows exactly how many days it’s been; she knows exactly how many times she’s watched John die. She remembers when the hellhound showed up and tore him to shreds, she remembers every flame that’s burned him away, she remembers the day he slipped in the shower and cracked his head open bleeding out and she didn’t even know it and for as long as she lives she won’t ever be able to forget the sight of him taking a magical lance to the heart to save her from another Faust scheme.

Every day she’s given some new horrific memory that if she ever does manage to get out of this will haunt her for years to come.

Day Twenty-Five

She feels stuck, he always dies and it’s not always the cup anymore. Today she lets it happen doesn’t even fight him to stay in bed a moment longer he picks up the cup and he’s gone just like that. She doesn’t scream or cry this time; she just freezes and clenches her fists so hard that she feels the skin break and blood drip down through her fingertips.

She turns her phone off and covers herself in enough glamours that no one will be able to find her unless she wants to be found.

She wanders through the city, aimless and uncertain for hours, blood drying on her hands. She just walks and walks until her legs are as tired as the rest of her. She falls heavily onto a bench and watches the people pass by. Couples hand in hand pass her and she wishes so desperately that could be her and John. Today, the first today, should have been an easy day off in a city with good food and instead it’s become all this.

A girl in all black and a boy in a trench coat pass by her and it’s too much, she opens up a portal, not even caring if anyone sees and rushes through. She doesn’t realize where she’s sending herself until her feet land on cobbled sidewalk and she literally walks right into a familiar yellow cab.

Chas must hear the thump of her running into it from the driver’s seat because he’s out of his seat in an instant, already standing before her.

“Zatanna!” he says happily, that big smile of his she’s always glad to see. He wraps her up in his arms in a big bear hug that she easily returns lifting her off the ground a little. She smiles a little sadly wishing she could be just as happy to see him. He’s always been, and always will be, her favorite of John’s seedy friends. He’s a good man, maybe the best man she knows choosing to help and stay good even if he’s not really superpowered in any way.

Any other day she’d smile right back, she’d ask him about Renee and Geraldine and they’d laugh about whatever new stupid thing John’s gotten himself into. But today something about his warmth about his joy makes her break immediately.

It’s been quite a few days since she let herself have a good cry she guesses it was inevitable the dam would break again. She sobs into his chest as he settles her back down on the ground, his arms go around her a little tighter.

“Woah, Zatanna, you’re okay,” he says reaching his hand up to brush against her hair soothingly. “You’re okay.”

She’s not sure how long she stands there crying into Chas’ flannel shirt making it a mess of tears, fading makeup and snot. She calms down eventually pulling back a little but he keeps her close his hands rubbing up and down her arms comfortingly.

His face isn’t pitying, she’s gotten a lot of that over the days, it’s just kindness and care.

“I’m fine,” she says hastily wiping the tears from her face.

“You’re not,” he says lifting her head up with a gentle knock under her chin and a smile. “And that’s okay.”

“I should tell you,” she starts sounding the most tired she thinks she’s ever sounded.

Chas shakes his head. “Only if you want to, you sound tired darlin’ and you sound like you don’t want to have to say it all right now and that’s fine.”

Zatanna smiles gratefully brushing a hand uselessly across the damp spots on his shirt.

“Sorry I ruined your nice shirt.”

Chas snorts looking down at it for a moment, “I think being with John all these years has made you forget what a nice shirt on a man looks like.”

Zatanna starts to laugh, but it comes out with a small sob. Just the mention of John gets to her now, especially from someone who loves him as much as she does. She’s glad he’s okay with her not talking, she doesn’t have it in her to break his heart too.

He notices the slip and reaches out again taking one of her hands between his own.

“Hey, so what do you need? Need to cry some more or would punching me in the face relieve some of that heaviness you’re carrying even, I’ll let you have three good hits for free,” he says and Zatanna smiles a little. “Or maybe we can take a drive and just be, I’ll only charge you for half on the meter even.”

Zatanna laughs at that a real genuine one.

“A drive sounds good,” she says and he squeezes her hand once before walking her over to the passenger seat. He opens the door for her and she soaks in the familiar comfort of his cab while he gets in. He turns on the radio, some oldies station that he’s obsessed with and they just drive.

He doesn’t push her for answers about her behavior he just hums along with every song that’s on and drives.

“I’m totally not paying the meter,” she says long into their drive, the sun has gone down and she’s starting to nod off. Being comfortable like this she’s staring to wonder how much sleep she’s actually gotten through all this, if she’s gotten any.

Chas chuckles warmly and that’s the last thing she hears before drifting off with her head against window. When midnight comes she doesn’t know not until she wakes to the loud ringing of John’s damn phone the next morning.

Day Thirty-One

She beats him to the phone; it’s been a month, a full month and she’s so tired. She’s tired of losing him, tired of fighting to stop it for it to only happen no matter what she does. She’s tired of going to everyone she knows for help and coming up empty on answers. She feels powerless, like her magic is a waste of time and space right now, like she’s just a waste of time and space. What good is magic and being a supposedly all-powerful witch if she can’t even save the person she loves most in the world.

She talks to Chas longing for the day she had with him where she didn’t have to go through explaining all this to someone; she nods and agrees with what he says at the right spots leaning far enough away that John can’t hear a single thing he says on the other line. She parts with a cheery goodbye and lies straight to John’s face making up some story about his cab that won’t get John moving to go anywhere.

She wants to make the most of this day, it’s a depressing time loop anniversary for her and she wants to forget for a little while, forget with him.

They waste away the morning in bed, if the sex feels a little more desperate than usual, a little more intense John doesn’t say a thing. They have breakfast in bed, feeding each other in the sappiest ways. She glamours a book that has some stories about the cup into the latest novel in a mystery series she’s been into and sits on the couch all afternoon. John lingers reading something of his own and giving up eventually choosing instead to rest his head in her lap with a cigarette in his mouth. She runs a free hand through his hair tickles of sparkling blue magic playing across her fingertips. They walk down the street to a little bar that makes a damn good veggie burger for dinner and she pulls him back into the bedroom as soon as they’re in the door.

Soon enough he falls asleep. She watches him sleep for a while, his sandy hair tousled, the eyeliner he fell asleep in from the night before still smudged under his eyes and only half his nails painted black. She wants to sear this into her memories, not the horrific visual of him burning to a crisp in her arms.

He shuffles in his sleep a bit, instinctually rolling just a little bit closer to her. She reaches out running her fingers through his hair slowly before she glances at the phone that has become her greatest enemy seeing that the time still gives her an hour till midnight. She slips from bed quietly and waves her hand over John letting some sparkles of peaceful sleep fall all over him to make certain he doesn’t wake.

She gives him one last lingering look as she slips out of the room, he may not remember each day but if there’s any lingering pain when all is said and done at least this time she hopes he won’t even wake up to feel whatever takes him from her this time.

She goes to the mausoleum alone, she shouts backwards words and walks in without a single check, she steps up to the cup and just stares at it.

Nothing happens. No fire, no brimstone. At least not to her, maybe she unknowingly just lit her boyfriend on fire in bed which feels and sounds terrible even if she’ll get another day to stop it.

“What do you want from me?” she shouts at it the sound echoing into the empty mausoleum. Nothing, it just sits there like a boring old cup.

She picks it up from its stand curling the stem hard in her hand.

“Tlem yawa dna ekat lla ruoy cigam htiw uoy,” she snarls at it and nothing happens her magic just fizzles out around the cup. It’s not the first time she’s tried something of this nature, but it’s the first time she’s been here alone.

She lets out a frustrated shout and tosses the cup into the nearest wall hard, it doesn’t even crumple. That’s not new to her either, she’s tossed it into walls, sidewalks and everything in between. It doesn’t even seem to care if she takes it out of this mausoleum the same thing always happens and it never even bends. She picks it up tossing it again and again until her arms are tired, until she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket the five-minute warning till midnight she’s started setting each morning letting her know her time is up.

She uses it wisely taking her frustrations out on the cup again and again and again.

***

She tries to save him every day and fails.

So one day she just leaves. The phone rings and she’s up out of the bed in an instant, tossing on the first pair of pants she can find. John chases after her ignoring the phone that keeps on playing that same damn song.

“Love, where are you going?” John asks hastily following her. She’s barely dressed and she’s already halfway out the door, she just has to get out of here.

She sighs pressing her forehead to the half-opened door before turning back to him.

“I just need to get out of here,” she says and it comes out a little more desperate than she intended.

“Alright, well just give me a minute and we’ll leave town if you want,” he says already turning to get ready and get the hell out of dodge with her. She appreciates his unwavering loyalty to follow along with her no matter what more than he’ll ever know, but she just can’t be with him today.

“No, John, I just need to go alone,” she says grabbing his hands that are reaching for his own discarded pants from the night before. He looks at her his face a mask of worry.

She steps closer and cups his face in both of her hands.

“I swear I’ll explain everything when I get back,” she says knowing that she won’t be coming back and even if she did he won’t be here when she does. She leans in kissing him soft and slow, she savors them all a little more these days, fearful that one will become the last.

“Just trust me, okay?” she says when she pulls back from his lips. He lifts his arms up holding her wrists and rubbing his thumbs into her skin.

“Alright,” he says letting her go. She slowly runs her hand down from his cheek and along his chest before she turns away.

“I love you,” John says. He doesn’t say it a lot, but when he does he pours everything into it and it breaks her heart and pieces it back together at the same time.

She turns quickly to meet his eyes, making sure he knows she means it just as much. “I love you too. I evol uoy oot.”

She catches sight of a small raised smile at the corner of his lips before she shuts the door behind her. She portals to San Francisco, smashes her phone into a hundred tiny little pieces, puts up a glamour spell to protect her from being found and spends the whole day in her old bed. She doesn’t know if it’s the cup or something else that kills him that day, she doesn’t want to know.

She stares at the bright red numbers on the clock beside the bed until it turns to midnight and the day starts all over again.

Day Fifty

“What if it’s me?” she asks studying the ash underneath her fingertips. It was the cup again this time, just far earlier in the day than usual. She ran before any Justice Leaguer could show up not needing to once again see and feel their sadness and pity alongside her own.

She still had four hours till midnight so she’d wandered and wandered until she ended up here in the House of Mystery leaning back against the bed that’s sometimes theirs, a bed she hasn’t gotten to wake up in in fifty days.

Boston found her there about two hours ago and settled down beside her the best he can. He hasn’t said a word, he’s just listened as she’s spilled out the condensed version of the past fifty days to him.

“What if what’s you?” he asks.

She sighs dropping her hands between her knees. “What if it’s me, what if I’m the one who’s supposed to die?” she wonders, it’s not the first time it’s crossed her mind. Aside from the zombie incident she’s never even been physically scathed on any of the days so maybe it’s her. “Maybe if I die, he doesn’t. Maybe this finally fucking stops.”

She’s so tired, so fucking tired.

“Tanna,” Boston says with so much pain in his voice. John’s his friend and he’s dead and here she is talking about her own death so casually. Just because everyone else gets to start over every single day with no memory of this doesn’t mean they don’t still hurt in the moment.

“He’d never want that, he’d never want you to die for him,” he says. He reaches out hovering his hand over one of hers, the closest to a touch he can muster in this form.

“He’d die for me,” she says and she feels the tears coming, she keeps thinking she’ll run out, but she never does.

“Yeah, well the bastard is a hypocrite that way,” he says with a chuckle and for a moment Zatanna smiles. “Plus on a selfish note, I’d miss you.” She turns her head to look at him, his white eyes look serious and caring.

It’s a good reminder that she has friends in all this, even if she feels completely alone.

“No dying okay,” he says holding her eyes. “You’ll sort this, or the universe will or something, you’ve never been beat and you never will be.”

Zatanna smiles a sad smile his way and lifts up her hand her palm hovering under his, very nearly holding hands.

“No dying,” she says as she leans her head back onto the bed keeping her hand steady beneath her friends. She stays put like that till midnight feeling a little bit lighter just for having him there.

Day Fifty-Six

She’s decided that this is hell. Knowing the fate that awaits someone you love and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. Despite the pickup of Boston’s optimism days ago, she still feels too defeated. She’s done a few thousand spells, played the day out fifty-six different ways and she’s still got all that’s left of John under her fingernails.

She’s sitting in a bar on the far side of New Orleans well on her way to finishing a bottle of whiskey the bartender has kindly left for her.

She doesn’t even flinch anymore at the bit of ash at her fingertips she catches sight of as she tosses back her latest glass, she’s becoming more and more numb to it all which is more than concerning. Problem is there’s no one to be concerned about her anymore, anyone who is will just forget to be when the clock strikes midnight.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a voice beside her says sliding into the stool next to her like he belongs there. Zatanna eyes him, he looks like his name is Chad and she’s instantly annoyed by his presence.

“You look lonely, maybe I can help,” he goes on and yeah she may have infinite time these days, but she doesn’t have time for this. Her patience is thin at best fifty-six days into the same day.

She gives the man a fake joyful smile and for a moment she can see he thinks he has a chance.

“The love of my life has died in front of me fifty-four times and this bottle here,” she pauses pouring herself another glass. “Isn’t for sharing.”

He looks like a deer in the headlights and opens his mouth surely about to say something that will just make her more annoyed.

“Og yawa,” she says flicking her fingers in his direction. A blasting magical wind takes hold of him flinging him across the bar and out the door. Everyone in the bar freezes and stares, she ignores them turning back to her bottle and sliding an extra twenty towards the bartender for his troubles. He just shrugs pocketing the money and moving along.

Slowly the other people in the bar decide she’s not a threat to them and go back to their own business. She slowly sips on her refill until someone else slips into the stool she just flung Chad from.

“Well that was quite the show,” Papa Midnite says tapping the bar once signaling the bartender. He slides a drink in front of him without hesitation.

She hums in agreement, she’s not surprised to see him, this is his bar after all.

It's the second time she’s seen Midnite since all this started, the first time had been confrontational Zatanna still holding on to some little bit of hope around day twenty. She’d confronted him fast and violent with John’s blood still drying on her hands from where he’d been mugged of all things. She’d held magic flames close to his face, a thing she usually wouldn’t do, and forced answers out of him about why he wanted this cup so bad.

“Because I like the illusion of power, even if it’s just an illusion,” he’d said. He knew less about it than she did at that point. Whatever that damn thing is it’s not an illusion of power at all she knows that all too well now.

This time though she’s not here to fight him she’s just here to drink.

“Don’t worry I won’t throw you out a door too,” she says taking another sip and looking at him from the corner of her eye. He raises his glass to her in appreciation.

They sit side by side quietly for a few beats before he puts down his drink and turns to her.

“So, where is your lesser half?” he asks.

Zatanna swallows the last of her drink hard. “Dead,” she says feeling her heart lurch at the word.

Midnite’s head drops a little and he hums. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says running his hand over his goatee. His tone is surprisingly genuine, so much so that she has to turn and look him in the eyes. He looks genuinely sorry, maybe even a little sad with the glow of the bar lights in his eyes.

“He was a right bastard,” he continues on raising his glass and tipping it to her empty one still tight in her grip on the bar. “But he always kept things interesting for me.”

He takes a sip of his drink before turning back to face forward.

“You don’t want to know what happened?” she says refilling her glass.

Midnite shakes his head and waves a hand dismissingly in her direction. “Why bother, you’ll find a way to fix it.”

Zatanna snorts. She wishes she had the same belief in herself that Midnite seems to have.

“Not this time I don’t think,” she sighs running her fingers along her glass, a bit of the ash slips into her drink and she feels bile rise in her throat pushing the glass away from her fast.

Midnite laughs a deep, smooth thing that sounds like how French press coffee would if it could chuckle.

“Bullshit,” he says. He twists a ring on his finger and hovers his hand over Zatanna’s glass. It disappears in a cloudy whisp replaced with another fresh clean one already filled for her.

“Stubbornness is the thing you two have always shared in common,” he says tilting his head thoughtfully. “You show it in different ways, different reactions, but when it comes to each other it’s the same. He’s slipped through hell for you and you’ve put a beat back in his heart against the better wishes of the universes magic, he’ll be back annoying me soon enough.”

Zatanna shakes her head gulping down the new drink in one go. He will be back, that’s true, but it won’t matter because it’ll just end the same way it always does again and again. She doesn’t have to tell him all that though, she doesn’t have the energy too, so she just deflects.

“Is the neutral party encouraging necromancy?” she says trying to make it sound teasing, but it falls flat. This time loop has beat all the humor from her.

Midnite lets out another low chuckle. “Not encouraging, just being smart enough to know to stay out of your way if you choose it.”

He downs the last of his drink and pushes up and away from the bar leaving her to it. She’s drunk enough this time to not even realize when midnight comes.

***

For a brief unexpected run of days, she’s given some new fight. Somehow encouraging though without context words from someone who’s not a friend gives her new drive to fight.

But that drive turns into anger eventually.

One day she just snaps and the only person around to take it out on is the person she’s trying to save. The phone rings and she tosses it against the wall immediately shattering it into a hundred pieces.

John looks at her like she’s gone crazy and before he can even so much as question her she’s railing into him.

She doesn’t know why, it’s not like he planned this, it’s not like she blames him, but she’s just so angry.

Angry at the world, angry at this curse she can’t seem to break, angry at Midnite and Chas and everyone who’s ever mentioned this cup. Angry at John for dying. Angry at herself for not solving this yet. So she picks a fight, yelling at the cup isn’t cutting it anymore evidently, she doesn’t even know what she says first to provoke it, but it’s something harsh enough it stuns John silent. She shouts and says things she doesn’t mean and walks out eventually with a loud slam of the door.

It hurts her to hurt him, but she’s just so damn angry.

The upside is tomorrow she’ll get another shot. She’s not worried about running out of chances to redo this anymore, she can say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, act as out of character as she wants because tomorrow she’ll be the only one who remembers it, the only one who has to live with it.

She’s out of fight, she’s out of answers, she’s just out. So when the phone rings the next morning she’s determined to just make the most of every second even if it means she’ll lose him again before midnight strikes no matter how hard she tries not to.

Day Seventy-Eight

Seventy-eight days, seventy-eight deaths most of which she’s seen and she’s finally decided to listen to what Doctor Fate said to her what feels like a lifetime ago.

She lets the magic takes it course. She’s done everything she could think of, she’s altered every course she could and the result is always the same. So this time she just lets the magic dictate the day.

She just accepts fate, destiny whatever the fuck it wants to call itself, she accepts she can’t save him even if it breaks her heart.

The day goes much like the first had just with a few different bumps and changes here and there. She doesn’t fight anything, she doesn’t argue. She just takes it all in in ways that she hasn’t allowed herself to on any of these repeats.

She doesn’t bother checking the time on her phone, she slips it in her pocket out of sight and out of mind. She just keeps her fingers twined with his and listens to him rattle on about finally having an upper-hand against Midnite the next time they have to see him.

She soaks in every word, every bit of his accent, the way he says her name and the way his chuckle sounds when a cigarette is dangling from his lips.

She just soaks it in, accepts whatever this day brings. She’s done being reckless, she’s done fighting. This day has been the closest to the original one yet and she’s letting it go.

It’s a little closer to midnight than usual since they decided to shower together after breakfast when they finally walk into the mausoleum, easy breezy just like it always is.

She lights the place up and feels her minutes to midnight reminder vibrate in her pocket. She ignores it, silencing it quickly as John investigates the space. He steps up to the cup and Zatanna closes her eyes, just because she’s accepted what’s inevitable doesn’t mean she has to watch it.

There’s no sound. No shouts or screams, no sick burning flesh, no ash floating in the air. Just the sound of John making the start of a humming sound.

She opens her eyes as John touches the cup and nothing happens, just nothing. He picks it up and passes it around between his hands back and forth, back and forth like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s breathing, he’s whole and he’s humming a fucking Metallica song under his breath tossing an ancient magical artifact around like it’s a tennis ball.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and there in bold letters across a picture of her and John from that day they borrowed the Wayne mansion pool for themselves is the time.

12:01 A.M.

It’s a new day, it’s Thursday.

She doesn’t know if she should scream or cry or laugh, but evidently her body chooses for her, chooses the thing it thinks will be the most cathartic for her. She laughs, hard and loud and frankly maniacal. She feels like the final girl at the end of a horror movie, like she’s riding off in a stranger’s truck as a man with a chainsaw can’t quite catch up, like a girl who just watched the rich bastards who spent all night trying to kill her explode one by one. She won, she fucking won and she doesn’t have a clue how and it feels impossible, but she did and all she can do is laugh.

She probably looks and sounds crazy, cackling like the witch she is, tears of joy? Relief? She’s not sure which, streaming down her face. John freezes with the cup in hand staring at her a look of worry on his face. Something about the look on his face makes her double over in laughter even more, she crouches closer to the ground head down and hands on her knees.

John comes over to her side a gentle hand on her back.

“Luv, you alright?” he says sitting the cup down on the ground. She catches sight of it and falls further to the ground flat on her butt, her legs kicked out on the ground purposefully kicking the cup away from them.

“I’m fine,” she says through hiccupping laughs as she finally starts to calm down. John settles down beside her a hand on her thigh. “Best I’ve been in seventy-eight days.” She giggles a little lifting her head to the ceiling. She wipes under her eyes clearing her face of the tears that fell during her unexpected laughter.

She curls a leg under herself and turns to him lifting her hands to his shoulders.

“I need to tell you something,” she says shaking her head in disbelief.

And tell him she does, everything. She tells him all the little details from day one to day seventy-eight. She tells him the good, the bad and every bit in between. She tells him about the days she didn’t handle it well and the days she made the most of.

She tells him the things she regrets, even if he doesn’t remember them. She even tells him about the day Boston talked her out of letting herself die to save him and he holds her hands a little tighter. She lets it all pour out, seventy-eight days of heartache, frustration and anger and he takes in every word.

It’s well after midnight by the time she runs out of steam, runs out of things to tell him and he pulls her in close. He presses a soft gentle kiss to her forehead.

“You are the strongest woman I know, strongest person I know,” he says his eyes looking a little glassy. “I never could have survived all that, I never could have handled losing you so many times.”

He’s said that before, he doesn’t remember of course, but it’s more comforting and fulfilling today than it was before. Because today he’s alive and she won’t have to go through this same damned day again.

“Let’s go home,” he says rising from the floor. He holds out his hands that she accepts immediately and pulls her up alongside him. “Forget this cup ever existed.”

The cup. Yeah she’s not leaving without dealing with it first.

She drops his hands and raises one of her own putting a protective wall around John. He opens his mouth to argue about it and she silences him.

“Nope, this thing has killed you, so bubble boy it for a minute for my peace of mind,” she says turning and picking up the cup from the ground. She doesn’t bother with trying to destroy it, it’s never worked before and she has an inkling it won’t today either.

She sits it back where it started and closes her eyes. She twists her hands in a complex movement and speaks loudly echoing across the mausoleum.

“Dnes siht raf yawa dna reven tel enoemos eb deppart nihtiw s’ti sehctulc niaga!”

A swirl of her magic, a kaleidoscope of colors swirl around the cup and lift it into the air and in the next second it’s gone puffed out of existence, or at least her existence, in an instance.

She breathes out a sigh of relief waving a hand to drop the protective bubble from around John. She walks over to him and wraps her arms around his waist.

“Home now?” he says rubbing his hands up and down her back. “You need some rest.”

She nods her head into his chest, her nods matching up with the beat of his heart.

Day Seventy-Nine (aka Thursday)

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna shoots up immediately from where she’d been curled comfortably in bed her head against John’s chest. No, this can’t be happening.

No, no, no, no, no.

She saw the time, it passed midnight, John’s alive. It’s a new day and this can’t be happening.

John grabs his phone from his own nightstand, not hers where it usually sits, and silences it quickly.

“Sorry, luv, I should have changed it, I didn’t think,” he says reaching out and putting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She deflates with his words and his touch, reaching up to curl her fingers around his.

“Never use that ringtone again,” she says turning towards him. “I never want to hear that song for the rest of my life.”

“Consider it done,” he says moving their joined hands to his lips and kissing the back of hers softly.

Day Eighty (aka Friday)

She spends more of Thursday, Thursday god isn’t that a nice thing to be able to say, than necessary trying to work out what exactly it is that broke the time loop.

John never leaves her side as she pours over her memory and over the books she’s already memorized but nothing quite adds up. All she can chalk it up to is the cup protecting itself, why it cursed her instead of John who got closest first she’s not certain, but it’s the best she’s got. Hopefully the spell she cast on it will keep it from ever putting someone else through what she went through.

She eventually decides to settle on what Doctor Fate said all along, sometimes you can’t fight magic. And maybe when she finally stopped fighting the fight stopped for her.

She wakes on Friday to a normal alarm and John’s arms around her. He presses kisses across her shoulders, he indulges her need to be a little more cautious and her occasionally overprotective moments as they come one by one.

He definitely doesn’t complain when they shower together and only snorts a little every time she bubble boys him. He even doesn’t bat an eye when she won’t let him use the toaster. She already saw that electrocute him once and she’s good without witnessing that again.

John’s in the kitchen now flipping some stir fry in a pan over the oven’s open flame. Zatanna had only flinched a little when he lit it and the protection spell she sent his way when he did, well it was a small one.

She uncurls herself from the couch and joins him slipping her hands up under his barely buttoned shirt. She warms her hands rubbing them slowly across the light trail of hair on his chest. His skin is always borderline fiery and it’s soothing against her cold hands. She’s so glad she won’t have to go without this anytime soon. So glad he’s breathing and still just as hot blooded as he’s always been.

She drags her nails just above his waistband and his breath hitches a bit.

“So handsy,” he says with a wink over his shoulder to her his focus still on the food in front of him. She shrugs, she’s going to be very tactile for the foreseeable future just to remind herself this is real.

She’s also going to need to make a few of those therapy sessions she’s been skipping up, but that’s a job for Monday. Because there actually will be a Monday, and every day of the week after that. It just feels refreshing to think about.

A few minutes later their food is done and she backs away from him slowly still trailing her hands across his back. They curl up comfortably on the couch with their plates in hand and some cheesy Godzilla movie on tv, Zatanna’s legs thrown across John’s lap.

When she’s done she leans over to sit her empty plate on the table alongside John’s just as a flame appears on the coffee table. She pulls her hand back quickly and John’s grip on her thigh tightens as the flame dies out a piece of crisp burnt at the edges paper appearing in its place.

Zatanna grabs it slowly and brings it up so that she and John can both read it.

The note is written in delicate, old style cursive that she doesn’t recognize.

‘Thanks for getting that cup for me, New Orleans and its superstitions happen to be all too true for me. Too much hallowed ground and all that, especially with an artifact so shrouded in mystery. Sorry, the process had to be so daunting, they do say that cup can be unpredictable, but hey acceptance is important, right? – your favorite enemy, Circe.’

A second piece of the flaming paper appears on the table as they finish reading the first and she snatches it up.

‘P.S. I’ll let you know if I figure out what it does, or if it’s really good you’ll just hear about it ;)’

Zatanna turns from the notes in her hand and meets John’s eyes.

“Midnite never did say where he heard about the cup from did he?” John says. He takes the notes from her hand where she’s started to grip them a little too tight. He crumples them up and tosses them into his half-filled glass of water.

“She whispered in his ear and he didn’t even know it, she knew you’d find out and want to beat him to it and she knew that I’d help, she knew we would make it safer for her,” Zatanna says gritting her teeth. This whole time she’d been so angry at so many things and it never crossed her mind that Circe would want something so inconsequential. A cup that for all intents and purposes is nothing more than a trap.

“I’m gonna kill her next time she makes her way to this dimension for putting you through that,” John snarls.

“Imprisonment seems more fitting,” she says in response drifting her hand up and into his hair. She moves her fingers along his scalp and feels his anger simmer down just a bit.

John turns from where he’d been staring at the soaked notes in the glass and looks into her eyes. He leans in and kisses her hard.

“I’ll hunt her down,” he says fiercely pressing another quick kiss to her lips.

Zatanna smiles resting her hand at the base of his neck. “Okay, but can you do that tomorrow?” she says because the word tomorrow won’t lose its novelty any time soon. “I just want to keep basking in your aliveness for now.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispers into the space between their lips. Tomorrow. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?

#my fic #johnzee #john constantine #zatanna zatara #magicblazersource #time loop fic baby! always wanted to write one and finally did

23 notes · View notes