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t-o-m-hollands · 3 years

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And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?” he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothee fanfic

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marvelyningreen · 3 years

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Aftershocks - Night 1

Night 1 | Night 2 | Night 3 | (deleted scene)

[Summary: Peter Maximoff is an unflappable sorta guy. He’d never let anything get to him before, and this recent misadventure will be no different. ...Right?

Warnings: mild language, references to injury, general trauma-related angst

Notes: Peter Maximoff x reader, of the established relationship variety. A ‘what if Fietro really was Peter?’ scenario. Same continuity/reader character from Linger and Late-bloomer. ]

On your first night back from Westview, you hesitate at Peter’s door. You’ve gotten so close to saying goodnight to each other half a dozen times, but here you still are.

“Why don’t you stay for a while?” Peter asks after an awkward few seconds of silence. “I’m not really all that tired. Are you?”

“Not really,” you lie.

Judging by the dark circles under Peter’s eyes, he’s not being entirely honest either.

It was late afternoon when you’d gotten back. Well, it was late afternoon here, at least. The passage of time in Westview was nebulous, to say the least.

Hank had been there to meet you when you all emerged from the portal – Peter, yourself, Mr. Lehnsherr and the professor, and the newcomers: Wanda Maximoff and her twin sons, Billy and Tommy. Hank summarily hurried you all off to the lab for debriefing, and also for a precautionary exam. Who knew what side-effects there could be from traveling between realities?

None, as it turns out. Wanda and the boys were just fine. Peter was a little dehydrated and underfed, but was otherwise in good health. You were ultimately the most scuffed-up from the experience.

In addition to the same issues as Peter, you’d amassed a fair amount of cuts and scrapes and bruises. Thankfully, the worst of it is just a badly sprained knee that’ll take several weeks to heal. Inconvenient, but bearable.

Peter has been pretty positive the whole time. If anything, he’s maybe a little too chipper, all things considered. But then again, he was immersed in playing cool uncle to the twins, and was probably just trying to keep their spirits up. They’d been through quite a lot, too.

“You should at least try to sleep, though,” you say, as you limp into Peter’s room.

Peter scoffs good-naturedly. “Are you trying to baby me?”

“Well, one of us has to be the responsible one.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Before you can blink, he’s changed into shorts and an old Pink Floyd t-shirt. He leans in to kiss you.

“I’ll try to sleep if you’ll at least sit down,” he says. “Deal?”

You smile. “Deal.”

As Peter climbs into bed, you settle yourself on the sofa. To say that it’d been a long few days would be understating things to a criminal degree.

You’d stepped through a mysterious portal to rescue Peter from wherever he’d been abducted to. You’d found that the culprit was a witch who’d taken him in an attempt to steal the power of another witch, and that witch is an alternate reality version of Peter’s sister… sorta? Or maybe not. You still aren’t completely clear on how any of this works.

Regardless, you’d ended up helping a woman named Captain Rambeau – who has powers like a mutant, but apparently isn’t one – to free Peter from the witch’s control. And then the young sons of Peter’s not-sister were in danger from some military creep, because said military creep had apparently made a cyborg zombie version of Wanda’s late husband.

Or something. Again, this was a lot to take in in a short period of time.

And no sooner had the business with magic and the military been cleared up than the professor and Mr. Lehnsherr appeared, intending to serve as backup. Luckily, there was no need.

Peter went to make his goodbyes and, in true Peter Maximoff fashion, wound up inviting Wanda and her sons to come back to the mansion with all of you. You weren’t the least bit surprised that the professor was fully on board with this. He’s always the first to reach out with compassion to a soul that’s lost and hurting.

What shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did was hearing Mr. Lehnsherr do the same. Between the three of them, Wanda was convinced to come to the school and to learn about her powers in a place where she and her sons would be safe and among friends.

It was at this point that Peter was trying to be in two places at once – serving as liaison to Wanda and the boys, and also making sure that you were alright. He only succeeded in making everyone dizzy, until Mr. Lehnsherr stepped in. He instructed Peter to focus on guiding the newcomers and volunteered to look after you himself. You found yourself leaning on Mr. Lehnsherr for support as you limped through the portal and back to your own world.

“Y’know what I can’t stop thinking about?” says Peter.

“Hmm?”

He turns to grin at you. “Your strawberry rhubarb pie.”

“I know I canned some of that this summer,” you say. “Do I have any left…?”

“If you don’t, one of the students has plant manipulation powers. I’m just sayin’.”

You laugh, and the conversation goes on in much the same vein - talking about a hundred little things that don’t matter.

Westview isn’t brought up, and neither are witches and magic. Nobody mentions Wanda and her twin sons in the room down the hall.

Peter hadn’t been able to give very clear answers to Hank’s questions about his experience. He said that it was all pretty blurry, and chalked up to a side-effect of that weird mind-control necklace thing.

You aren’t sure whether this is cause for worry or not.

The conversation with Peter has been fading in and out for a while now. Typical sleepover experience, really. Silence for a few minutes, and then a bit of banter, and a scattered response here and there, and then more silence.

It’s… It’s actually been silent for a while now. And when did your eyes close, anyway?

You look at the clock to see that over an hour has passed since you last checked the time. But you’re awake now, and you find that you’re not tired anymore. Moonlight streams through the windows, falling across Peter’s bed. He’s still sleeping, thank goodness.

At first you think that the sudden sense of reassurance is just because Peter’s getting some rest. He’s had quite the experience, after all. But there’s more to it than that. You realize that you’re just glad that Peter’s home and safe.

You haven’t really thought about it before, but part of you had always seen Peter as, well, sort of invincible. He’s clever, and capable, and impossibly fast. He can outpace an explosion. He can redirect bullets as easy as breathing. Nothing outside of a godlike entity or an otherworldly power had been able to touch him.

But you can’t stop thinking about this other man – this Pietro. He was fast, too, and he was probably just as capable. That didn’t prevent him from being shot to death while saving the lives of two other people.

Odd coincidental similarities aside, Peter and Pietro aren’t the same. You know this. And yet… You’ve already almost lost Peter once.

In Westview, once you’d found yourself abruptly separated from Vision, you’d realized that you were in way over your head. There was something sinister going on, and you had no idea whether Peter’s kidnapping was a part of it, or if it was something else entirely.

You’d wandered the streets, trying your best to look like you were supposed to be there. At first glance, everything seemed normal. But the more you looked, the more things just felt… off.

It seemed to be summer, but there were no kids at the pool, or in the park, or riding their bikes up and down the block. All the cars looked just a little too shiny and new for a small town. All the yards were too perfectly manicured. Every single person wore well-coordinated outfits. It all felt staged.

Down the block, you noticed a mailbox labeled with the name “Vision,” and-

You hesitated. Maybe best not to go barging in, right? Leaning against a streetlight, you pretended to rummage for something in your bag while you kept an eye on the house. Again, the oddly regimented behavior continued. People walked past the house at intervals that seemed random at first, but weren’t quite. It was more like they were spaced out intentionally to seem random.

Aside from that bit of weirdness, nothing unusual had happened. You hadn’t seen any trace of Peter in your wanderings. This Vision guy was your only lead. Steeling yourself, you started walking down the street, intent on knocking on that door and figuring out the rest from there.

And that’s when somebody clamped a hand over your mouth and twisted your arm, pinning it behind your back. Before you had a chance to struggle or even scream, the scenery in front of you blurred and darkened.

You blinked. The world was still again. You were in a dark, oddly-shaped room. It might’ve been hexagonal, but you couldn’t move to look around. The person who’d grabbed you was still holding you immobile.

“So, they sent another one in, huh?” said an unfamiliar voice. “You’d think they would’ve learned by now, but that’s military types for you.”

The speaker stepped into view. It was a woman – middle-aged and dark-haired. She wasn’t worried like Vision had been, nor was she blithely serene like the other people you’d seen. Her presence was commanding, unconcerned. There was something about the way she sized you up that unsettled you.

“I’ve got it from here, thank you,” said the woman.

The other person released you, and you immediately felt some strange energy wind around you. It tightened around your wrists and ankles, binding them fast, and yanked you several inches into the air.

“Who are you? Let me go!” You struggled to free yourself, but you couldn’t budge the restraints even an inch. Even your powers seemed to glance off them ineffectually.

The woman raised an eyebrow.

“Now that’s interesting,” she said. “How did you manage to get into Westview with your personality intact? Even he was calling himself ‘Ralph’ at first. You’re not with S.W.O.R.D., are you? And I can tell already you’re not a witch. Let’s see…”

The woman made some complex gesture with her hands. A purple mist crept across your vision. You felt something wrapping itself around your mind – covering it like a net, humming like an electric current. You shook your head, trying to clear it away, but it clung like a spider web.

The professor. Just before you’d left, he placed some sort of psychic shielding around your mind, just in case. He wasn’t sure what sort of dangers you’d be facing. You doubt this was what he’d been anticipating, but whatever this woman was trying to do to you, the shield resisted it.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. You felt the web’s grip on your mind tighten, vice-like. At first it was just uncomfortable, but the pressure increased until it was a stranglehold on your consciousness. The edges of your field of vision started to go gray. There was a pounding in your head, a ringing in your ears. You tried to scream.

You couldn’t breathe.

And then its hold released, leaving you gasping for air. If you hadn’t been suspended in midair like that, you would’ve collapsed. The woman watched you with something like fury in her eyes.

“What are you?” she demanded.

Dazed, you blurted out an answer. “I’m nothing. I’m nobody. I’m just trying to find my friend.”

You nearly ignored the movement in the corner of your eye as you tried to pull yourself together. You’d honestly forgotten that there was somebody else in the room. You looked up, and-

Your blood ran cold.

“Peter!”

He was there. He was alright! He-

No. No, he wasn’t. Something was wrong.

Peter watched you with the blank, nonchalant gaze of a stranger.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, shrugging. “Peter’s not here right now.”

“Wha… What did you do to him?!”

You wrenched uselessly at the restraints and Peter… he actually laughed.

“What, him?” said the woman. “He’s fine. I needed a replacement Pietro, and he was the best I could do on short notice.”

She eyed him critically, reaching up to adjust his hair like some sort of demented stage mom.

“Get your hands off him!” you snarled. “And who the hell is Pietro?”

The woman laughed incredulously. “You’re really not from around here, are you? You followed him from that other reality, and- Oh. Oh… I see it now. Oh, that’s too adorable. You’re in love with him.”

Her laugh turned into something that was almost a cackle, and Peter joined in. You felt sick.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do to this town, but Peter’s got nothing to do with it. Let him go.”

“What I’m trying to do-? Oh, pumpkin, you have no idea what you stumbled into.” The woman shook her head in feigned sympathy. “Sorry, but I’m not done with my Fietro yet. And as for you… I won’t be able to get rid of you, but I can’t have you running around getting in my way. I’ll just have to put you someplace for safekeeping, and I know just the spot.”

The woman raised her hand again, and smiled menacingly at you.

“You can try to tell them who you really are,” she said, “But I wouldn’t count on anybody believing you where you’re going. Buh-bye, hon!”

Movement in the room catches your attention, drawing you out of your reminiscing.

Peter stirs in his sleep. He reaches out for a moment, and then his hand falls back onto his chest. He exhales heavily – not quite a sigh – and is still once again.

Then, his hand moves restlessly towards his throat, fingers gripping at nothing like he’s trying to pull at the collar of his shirt, or-

“No, please,” he mumbles, “Please…”

Your knee is stiff from being motionless for so long. It just about gives way under you as you scramble to Peter’s side. You stumble, falling rather than sitting on the edge of the bed.

You catch Peter’s hand in yours and smooth his hair back from his forehead.

“Peter?” You’re surprised at how frantic your voice sounds. “Peter, wake up!”

Peter snaps awake with a gasp. He yanks his hand free of yours, scrambling to push himself back towards the headboard and staring wildly around the room.

You hold up your hands where he can see them, careful not to reach towards him at all. “It’s okay! It’s okay. It’s just me.”

“You…?” Peter stares at you for a moment, as though trying to remember where he is. “Listen, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but can you tell me something only you would know? Anything. Please.”

For a second, your mind goes blank. Something only you would know? You’d spent enough time with Peter that there has to be…

You’ve got it.

You look Peter in the eyes, giving him a little smile. “Who else would know that you’re my hummingbird?”

Peter’s laugh is brief, but genuine. You’d called him that once as a joke – saying that it’d be a fitting codename with his speed, attitude, and love of sugar – and it’d since become your teasing pet name for him. You’d never said it in front of anyone else, though. You may only use it to get a rise out of him, but you never wanted it to become an embarrassing nickname for him or anything.

Peter’s initial panic is replaced by an apologetic smile, but you’re certain that his heart is still racing.

“Thanks. And I’m sorry,” he says. “Bad dreams, y’know?”

“No kidding. You wanna talk about it?”

“I…” Peter looks away, frowning slightly. “I can’t say I actually remember what I was dreaming about, to be honest.”

If you were unsure before, you’re definitely starting to worry now. You make up your mind to talk to Hank and the professor about Peter’s memory lapses. Maybe it’s nothing, but for your own peace of mind, at least…

Still, you don’t want to let on to Peter that you’re worried about him.

“Are you gonna be okay?” you ask. “Need me to get you anything?”

Peter musters up a grin. “Oh, I’ll be fine. And there’s no way I’d send you off to get anything for me with your knee all messed up. But… would you mind staying a little longer? Or you don’t have to leave at all. I mean, it’s already late, and it’s pretty cold out there.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you say, smiling gently. “You just lay back down, alright?”

Peter nods. Once he’s resettled himself under the covers, you lean down to kiss him.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you, too.”

Peter reaches over to hold your hand. He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes again.

That Peter falls back asleep within the hour is a testament to how wore out he must be. As for yourself, you remember seeing the horizon brightening outside the window before you finally drift off.

#peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #peter maximoff fanfiction #x men fanfiction #wandavision fanfic #(I mean... it’s both and neither)#who ordered the angst? ... nobody?#well have it anyway. it’s on the house

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whimperwoods · 3 years

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Oswin - The Archdevil

Part 2 of a new series about Oswin Greystone, wizard con man and deeply unfortunate man.

So anyway, yeah, the captain of the guard wants a pet wizard. Things are not looking great for poor Oswin. They’re not looking great in his own series, now, because this is long enough to need a readmore. Let me know if you want to be on a taglist and I’ll start one. I’m not sure how much of this there will be, but he and his creepy captain really grabbed my imagination, so certainly there will be some more after this.

Continuation of this post.

tw: abuse, tw: abuse of authority, tw: fantasy police brutality (though he’s kind of stopped pretending to be acting as a cop at this point), tw: fantasy devil worship, tw: pet whump (working toward it anyway), tw: devil contracts

*****

Oswin’s legs couldn’t hold him, but the whip that had nearly killed him was back in the guard captain’s hand, so he kept dragging himself along beside him, crawling awkwardly forward on his good hand and his knees and nearly tangling himself up in the robes that, with the back sliced open, hung down in his way, barely attached to him anymore.

At the bottom of the steep, winding staircase, Oswin’s limbs were already quaking, and he let out a soft whimper that made his throat ache.

The captain moved around him and squatted down in front of his head, cupping his face in one hand. “First choice, pet. You’re going up two flights of stairs, up to my chambers over the main office. You may crawl, you may be dragged, or you may be carried. I spent too much on that healing potion to hope for dragging, but you’ll need to be a very good boy if I carry you.”

Oswin’s brain couldn’t catch up. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. This wasn’t how people talked. It wasn’t how people were. Except - wasn’t it? He’d been in the courts of petty, tyrannical lords before, on occasion. He’d watched men who could get away with it pinch serving women and belittle servants and - and perhaps that was what this man thought was happening. Perhaps he thought Oswin a servant, or likely to become one. And without Oswin’s books available to him, maybe he was right.

Oswin wanted to look down, to avert his eyes, but his time when he tried, the captain kept a steel grip on his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. They were dark, a brown that tended toward gray, without any of the warmth of his own, and hard as stones. He swallowed heavily, the pain in his throat insignificant next to the pain still raging across his back, but still easily made worse.

It had been hard enough getting himself to the foot of the stairs, and he couldn’t imagine breathing or moving would be easier on an incline.

“I can be a good boy, Master,” he whispered.

The captain smiled. “Clever. I’ll have to keep my eye on that. But then, I knew you would be. Come on, put your arms around my neck.”

Oswin knew he was a little underfed, but the captain picked him up like it was nothing. The pressure of the captain’s arm across his ruined back felt white-hot, and he cried out hoarsely as he wrapped his arms around the captain’s neck and tried to hold himself up, away from the contact. He wasn’t strong enough, and had to settle back into his new master’s grip, his eyes filling with tears and his breath growing ragged again.

“That doesn’t sound like being a good boy,” the captain whispered into his ear, a low half-growl, “That sounds like complaining when you’re being done a favor.”

Oswin forced himself to breathe through the pain, to catch his breath, to talk. His voice came out strained, and barely above a whisper. “No, Master, please! I’m grateful! I just -” he grunted in pain, in spite of himself, “I just needed to adjust but now I can be - I can be fully grateful, Master, please.”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever begged so much in one day, but this time it seemed to work, or at least, his master didn’t drop him down the stairs. Instead, the captain started climbing, not winded no the stairs even carrying Oswin’s weight. Oswin shivered in the man’s arms. He’d hoped during his whipping, before his mind fully abandoned him, that the beating would stop when the captain grew tired, but he was certain now that that hadn’t been the case.

He’d been in dangerous spots before, but this time - this time he couldn’t afford the sob that threatened to rise up in his throat, so he buried his face in the side of the captain’s neck, clinging more tightly so that the man wouldn’t think he had any thought of trying to get away.

The captain’s pleased little hum made the pressure behind Oswin’s eyes spike, but he couldn’t afford the tears, so he focused instead on his breathing, on keeping it steady, on leaning into the captain’s grip so as not to fall, and then they were at the top of the stairs and his master was still carrying him, his footsteps steady as he walked through a small receiving room, a smaller office, which was little more than a closet with a desk in it, and into a sparsely-decorated bedroom.

The captain set Oswin down on the floor, just inside the door, and Oswin watched as he pulled an old, soft-looking rug to the side and revealed a set of sigils carved into the floor in circles, which he calmly traced over in chalk, reinforcing them.

Oswin’s skin crawled, and his stomach soured, but he knew he had no hope of making it down the stairs, much less out of the building, without being caught and, presumably, tortured to death.

The captain retrieved a set of fine wax candles, more expensive than Oswin would have expected in a room like this, and Oswin thought, passively, that a quick death might have been worth it, but that wasn’t what he’d been promised.

The captain lit most of the candles and then came toward Oswin, manhandling him into the center of the circle without a word, and then arranging him on his knees, barking a single order: “Kneel.”

Oswin’s hands were bound behind his back, and he hung his head, not sure if he was going for deferential, or just for too pathetic to hurt again. Either way, the effort of staying upright soon took all of his attention, so that he hardly noticed the final candle being lit.

An enormous, winged figure stepped into the room, out of nowhere. He seemed to fill the space entirely, then shrunk down to merely looming, a head and a half taller than the guard captain and clearly strong enough to break either of them in half.

Oswin’s master was beside him, and knelt, too, albeit only on one knee, bowing deeply to the archdevil.

As the captain’s back straightened, the devil said, “Rise. Why do you request an audience, my champion?”

The captain got to his feet, but then bowed again, still standing. “I humbly propose an addendum to my contract, Master.”

Oswin’s mouth dried instantly. Power radiated from the archdevil like nothing he’d ever felt before, and his voice dripped with it. Was this fool really going to try to negotiate with it?

The archdevil laughed. “I already own your soul, child. What else is left to offer?”

The captain gestured toward Oswin. “His, for a start.”

Oswin looked up in surprise, and instantly regretted it. It had been one thing to sneak glances at the archdevil through his eyelashes; it was another to look directly up at him, meeting a pair of terrifying eyes that seemed made entirely of fire.

“You think you can make contracts with other people’s souls?”

“I can if you’re willing to agree to my terms - what I want is his soul, but not to keep, of course. I’m happy to cede it back to you the moment he dies. And my original contract stipulated that I was willing to work for you, but not to proselytize. It was a point of contention at the time, if I recall, but I told you I would not be certain enough to promise such a thing, outside myself, for some years. It has been ‘some years,’ Master, and I’m happy to find you new followers, provided that it does not jeopardize the other work I do for you.”

“And your interest in his soul?” the devil asked, still looking Oswin in the eye. Oswin found himself paralyzed, unable to look away. Under that devilish gaze, he felt like his chest was being torn apart, his insides pulled out and studied, even though no one was touching him.

“I’ve always wanted a pet wizard,” the captain said casually, “Call it professional curiosity. I know my magic is yours, of course, Master, but I’d like to study those humans who do it on their own - and I’d like to harness it. I won’t be learning myself, of course. I know where my skills lie, and the purpose you’d have me put them to. But I don’t like the idea of humans with power, and I want this one under my thumb, where I can learn to tear those apart.”

Oswin was shaking, the wounds across his back pulsing again, agonizing, while the devil’s eyes continued to rove over his front. He felt like a bug, pinned to a scientist’s paper, but the paper was burning, too, acidic and deadly.

“And why this one?” The devil’s eyes suddenly left him, turning their full force on the captain, and Oswin sagged forward, gasping for breath.

“This one’s a very interesting case,” the captain said. “No respect for a contract, which I’m hoping to beat out of him, but for once I had a wizard in my sights who wasn’t blatantly dangerous, and I thought I’d make good on the opportunity. He’s been selling counterfeit spell scrolls, and then disappearing to ply his trade somewhere else in town before his victims actually try to read or copy the damned things. The thing is, we know he’s strong enough that he could make the real thing, were he properly - motivated. He’s useful, but in need of - management.”

The archdevil hummed thoughtfully, and the captain added, “In our attempts to capture him, he displayed quite a bit of power and - spunk. I know better than to think I could control him without your direct assistance, my lord. But I hope to use him in your service.” He bowed again, more quickly this time.

The archdevil stepped forward into the circle, which Oswin had really been hoping he couldn’t do, and reached down, raising Oswin’s chin to make him look into those flaming eyes again, and nearly lifting him off the ground by the head as he did it.

“And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that he’s a pretty little thing, hmm?” the devil asked, his flame eyes flicking quickly to the captain and back.

The man chuckled. “No, my lord. It does not. Nor does it hurt that he’s already proven he breaks beautifully. You should have heard him begging earlier.”

“We will negotiate the details without him,” the archdevil said imperiously, “It’s simpler that way. And he can agree or refuse.”

Oswin was nearly hyperventilating in the devil’s grip.

“I’m not sure which I think is more interesting,” the devil added casually, before letting go of Oswin’s face and waving his hand in a pattern too quick for even Oswin’s practiced eyes to follow. A blanket of silence fell over him and he could hear nothing, not even his own breathing, for so long that he found himself collapsed inward before the sound returned, bowed low, with his forehead on the floor and his chest and stomach cushioned against his legs, where he could feel the rise and fall of the breaths he couldn’t hear and know that he was still alive.

He realized he was sobbing in dry, heaving gasps only when sound came rushing back to his ears, but he wasn’t sure how long he had been doing it.

“Very well,” the archdevil said, “Lift his head. I want to look him in the eyes again.”

The captain’s hands forced Oswin upward, tilting his head back to make him look up at the looming devil.

“Oswin the wizard,” the archdevil said, power already crackling in his voice in a way that seemed to bind up the air in Oswin’s lungs. “I assume there’s a surname that goes with that.”

“G-greystone, my lord,” Oswin said, the answer tearing out of him in spite of his dry mouth and aching throat, “My father was a mason, but thought to better himself, or at least our family.”

“Hmm, well, now you’ll be in service of a captain of the city guard - and of me. It seems he’ll be getting his wish.”

Oswin shuddered. The archdevil’s voice was oil-smooth, but so, so dangerous. He nodded wordlessly, knowing better than to disagree.

“Should you agree to cosign this addendum with my champion,” the archdevil continued, “You will be bound, body and soul, to his service. Your soul will be mine, to be delivered upon your permanent death. You will be marked as mine, but you will not receive any of my power, nor will you be allowed to use yours outside of your master’s orders.”

The archdevil’s mouth quirked upward into a smile. “I should warn you, wizard, this is an extremely bad deal for you. But my champion assures me that you are a genuine affront to order, and that whether you sign or not, you will be brought to heel. Or you could choose to be tortured to death. But you should know that your master’s contract with me stipulates that if you do not cooperate, he may kill you up to five times and have you returned to his care to try again. I have never seen a man strong enough to withstand being tortured to death a third time, much less a fourth. I’m afraid a bad deal is the only one you’ve got.”

Oswin’s mind swam. He was trapped again, pinned by those eyes, and he was burning, he was sure of it. His mind felt like it was caught in an earthquake, struggling to run to safety with the land bucking underneath him. Just as he took in a breath to speak, the archdevil interrupted him.

“Do not think you can make a deal of your own with me, instead, Oswin Greystone. This one likes a challenge, and he is a useful servant. I don’t make contracts with the desperate. Not worth the work of keeping an eye on them. Break his hold on you, and I will let the consequences be what they will. But try to take your soul back from me and I will destroy you where you stand. I do not have the patience to shepherd one who is reluctant.”

The captain held up a knife. “This agreement will be sealed in blood, or not at all. What do you choose, submission or death?”

The archdevil’s eyes had not left him. Gods, he was burning up. He knew with complete certainty that death, even drawn out, would mean facing this devil again, would mean those flaming eyes burning into him, that oil-slick voice talking to him, that crackling, unbearable power licking at the edges of his own, and he’d just wind up right back here again, waiting to be tortured.

What escaped his lips was a sob, and not an agreement, but the archdevil looked away, making a soft noise of satisfaction. “He chooses submission. Bring the parchment.”

#whump #fantasy whump #d&d whump #abuse tw #fantasy devil worship tw #fantasy police brutality tw #abuse of authority tw #abuse of power tw #is anything whumpier than contract negotiation?#(I mean... yes. but that's not the point)#the captain will get a name if and when i decide he actually needs one #right now the salient point is evil warlock who figures it's chill because at least he's organized about it #(it isn't)#also this warlock was already in the city guard and already had martial training prior to the warlock gig so not a guy to mess with when #you have no particular physical prowess to speak of and haven't been eating well for a couple of months

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makoodlesarchive · 4 years

Text

a gift

pairing: bakugou x reader

summary: drunk reader finds a kitten in an alleyway and brings it home to surprise their boyfriend bakugou. it doesn’t quite go to plan

word count: 2030

i uploaded this last night but apparently it didn’t work properly ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ so here we go again

It was possible, that you were maybe, a little bit drunk.

You stumbled a little on a kerb, but managed to keep yourself on your feet as you clutched the little furry bundle in your arms to your chest. A quiet giggle bubbled out of your lips, but you kept hurrying along in the darkness - it really wasn’t a good idea to be out on your own at night on the streets, especially while drunk, but it had been your coworkers birthday party and you would have felt guilty if you had missed it. Still, maybe the rum had been a bad idea.

Your pocket was buzzing. You squinted down at it, puzzled. It buzzed twice more before you realised it must be your phone ringing, and then you fumbled to answer it one-handed. “Hello.” you said, hoping you sounded at least a little sensible.

There was a pause, before you heard. “[Y/N]?”

“Katsuki!” you tried to whisper, but it came out far too loud. You frowned, puzzled, then tried again. “Katsu-ki!” it came out quieter that time and you smiled, satisfied.

“Where are you?” he sounded irritated, but you knew him well enough to be able to hear the subtle undercurrent of amusement in his tone.

“On my way home.” The furry little bundle in your arms squirms a little, and you peer down at it in delight. “I have a gift for you!”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” you turn left at the donut shop on the corner, and put a little more speed in your step as you come up to your apartment. “I found it in an alley, just now.”

“You’re bringing me something you found in a fucking alley as a gift? How fuckin’ drunk are you?”

“Tipsy!” you correct with a frown. You struggle for a moment to find the keys to the front door with one hand, the other arm cradling your precious find while your shoulder kept the phone pressed against your head. “Are you coming over?”

“It’s 2am, idiot.”

“Okay.” you say easily, keeping your voice low as you slip in the front door; the walls are thin in your building, and the last thing you need is Mrs Namamoto from down the hall giving you another lecture on keeping the noise down. You don’t think you’ll ever forgive her for her claims that your ‘heavy gait’ keeps her awake at night.

“Tch.” Bakugo said, then paused for a long moment. When he spoke again, there was a vein of forced casualness in his voice. “I’m on my way.”

“You don’t have to.” You press the button for the elevator, listening to the rattling sounds of it approaching.

“Fuck off. I’ll be there in a few.”

“I can just see you tomorrow, Katsi.” you say as the elevator arrives and you absently press the button for your floor. “It’s no big deal, you don’t have to go out of your way or anything.” Fatigue has hit you now, probably as a result of the alcohol. You feel sleepy, and listening to Katsuki’s deep, rumbly voice always has a way of relaxing you further.

“Whatever, asshole. I’m nearby anyway.”

You smiled at the tinny sound of the wind whistling through the phone. “Nearby? At 2am?”

“You got a problem with that, fucker?” Katsuki said, a little bit too fast and a little bit too breathlessly for it to be entirely believable.

You laugh a little as you step out onto your floor, and as you step up to your door the little animal in your arms stirs. You had found the kitten in the alleyway outside the bar your work friends had been in, where she had been rustling through the garbage rummaging for something to eat. Scooping her up and bringing her home had seemed like the right thing to do - she was so small and thin, you didn’t like to think of what might happen to her if she was left on her own in that dank alley.

“Hello, pretty baby.” you coo as the kitten blinks up at you, slow and lazy. The alcohol turns your words a little syrupy and they slip out slower than you’d intended, but at least you’re not slurring.

”Who are you talking to?” Katsuki asks, a little suspicious now.

“Hm?” you ask, heading for your small living room. You had almost forgotten you were still on the phone, distracted by the little ball of fur in your arms. “You’ll see in a few minutes!” Your balance is a little off, but you manage to curl up on your beat up old couch without disturbing the kitten.

The sound of Katsuki’s impatient tongue clicking sounds distant over the phone, but the familiarity of it still makes you smile. You position the kitten carefully on your chest, making soft little cooing sounds to try and keep her docile and unafraid; it seems to work, because she lays passively just below the hollow of your throat, taking in her surroundings with dark eyes. She’s such a sweet little thing, so mild and gentle.

“Few blocks away now, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

You hum, satisfied at the thought of seeing your boyfriend in a few short minutes. “Guess you weren’t that close by at all, huh?” you laugh a little as Katsuki grumbles, and run a hand down the kitten’s skinny back. The fur is oily and a little matted in some places, no doubt as a result of the time she spent on the street. Your heart goes out to her, and you sigh quietly as you pet her. She doesn’t purr, which you find a little odd, but then you consider the fact that this might be her first contact with humans and you get sad all over again.

You doze off, just for a few moments, but come back fully into wakefulness at the sound of the door to your apartment creaking open. The kitten has fallen into a light doze of her own, and so you sit up with the utmost care as you watch your boyfriend slide into the living room. “Katsuki.” you whisper, beaming as your thumb strokes the length of the kitten’s back.

“Did I wake you-” he begins, but he breaks off as soon as he turns his eyes your way.

Your beam just gets bigger, and you gaze at him excitedly. “It’s a kitten!”

Katsuki stands frozen, still half bent over from toeing his shoes off. His mouth hangs open, his forehead scrunched. It’s not his usual scowl. “Ah.” he says, sounding strangled.

Your smile falters a little, confused by his unenthusiastic reaction. You had thought he would be more excited - the more you sober up though, the more you start to wonder if your lack of impulse control had impaired your judgement. It might have been the rum, either. “I want to keep her.”

“[Y/N].” Katsuki says, approaching slowly. You frown at him, a little bewildered at the uncharacteristic caution he was displaying; it’s not as though you were going to attack him. “That… is a rat.”

You gasp, scandalised, and pull away from him as he approaches, clutching the kitten to your breast. “Katsuki!” you snap. “How could you say that? She’s underfed and a little ragged, maybe, but she’s been living on the streets! She just needs a little love and care! What the hell is wrong with you!”

“With me?!” Katsuki shouts reflexively, then squeezes his eyes shut tight and takes a deep, forced breath. When he speaks again his eyes remain shut, but his voice is steadier. “Babe. That’s a rat. Give it to me now. It might be diseased.”

You stare at him, hurt, bewildered, and still a little tipsy. “I think I know what a rat looks like, Katsuki.” you sniff, but you can’t help the doubt that begins to creep in and you steal a look down at the kitten(?) that is still laying pliantly in your arms. Grey/black fur, little pink nose, rounded ears, long hairless tail.

You blink at her, feeling a bit betrayed. “Right. Okay. Hm. This is a rat.”

“Give it to me.” Katsuki says, his voice stiff with forced calm.

“No!” you blurt, holding the kitten rat protectively. “I rescued her.”

Katsuki’s shoulders twitch, his jaw clenching against his aborted movement. His calm is beginning to crack around the edges. “I think,” he growls, “It was probably happy where it was. Give it to me, before it decides to go feral and chew your dumb face off.”

He’s right, obviously, but you still frown. You can’t help but feel protective over the little guy. “Lots of people have pet rats.”

“Yeah, but not sewer rats found in alleyways, idiot.” Katsuki’s calm facade fractures, but the look he shoots down at the rat in your arms is a combination of panic and disgust with very little of his usual annoyance mixed in. “Has it scratched you anywhere? Or bitten you? You could get really fucking sick.”

“No.” you say quickly, adjusting your hold on the dozing animal. “She’s been a perfect angel!”

Now it’s Katsuki’s jaw that twitches from where he’s clenching it so tight. “Of course it has.”

“I don’t see why she can’t stay.” you say, scratching the rat behind its ear. She flicks her tail, but otherwise sits placidly still.

“Because it’s a rat!”

“I let you stay!”

Katsuki’s nostrils flare dangerously. “At least I ain’t gonna eat you in your sleep!”

You pout. “Aw.”

Katsuki momentarily looks like he’s going to explode, his palms sparking ominously until he clenches them tight into fists. “Let it sleep on the fire escape.” he says at last, apparently having come to the conclusion that you’re not going to back down about this. “Decide whether you’re gonna keep the gross fuckin’ thing in the morning.”

You bite at your lip sharply, thinking. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that your ridiculous, emotionally-constipated boyfriend is worried about you, and you don’t like causing him stress. Besides, his suggestion really isn’t all that bad. You just hope the little guy will be there in the morning and that she doesn’t wander off in the night. “Okay.” you say quietly, and a little reluctantly.

Katsuki exhales, quick and sharp, then stands to make room as you move off the couch, still clutching the rat. “Don’t let it fuckin’ bite you.” he says, hovering at your shoulder as you move toward the still open window. “Watch it!”

You set the rat down very gently on the fire escape, and watch as it moves immediately to the corner and begins sniffing around. Now that you’re looking at it from a bit of a distance, you’re really not altogether sure how you had mistaken it for a kitten; you supposed you could blame that on the rum, too. “She’s a good rat.”

“Right.” says Katsuki, a little doubtfully. He frowns mistrustfully at the rodent, who has started to wash its face with its paws, and then at you when you awww over it. “You’re such a dumbass. D’you know how many diseases they carry? It’d be fuckin’ embarrassing if you’d had to be hospitalised cause you got scratched by some gross rat.”

“Lucky I didn’t then, hm?” you smile in an attempt to appease him.

His scowl remains fixed for a moment or two, then his shoulders relax and he presses a kiss to your temple. “Don’t put yourself at risk like that again.” he says seriously, then adds hesitantly, “It was...a nice thought, I guess. I want a better present next time.”

Grinning, you reach up to cradle his face, only for him to catch you by the wrists. “Shower first.” he says, grimacing at your hands and making you laugh for real. The sound of your laughter pulls a genuine warm smile from him as he directs you towards the bathroom.

It’s when you reach the bathroom that you hear a low chuckle, and you look back to see Katsuki shaking his head a little. “What?”

It’s Katsuki’s turn to grin at you, his white teeth flashing in the dim bathroom light. “I’m just thinking about how much Kirishima is going to love this story.”

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou imagines #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #mha bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader

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awhiskeyriver · 3 years

Text

le cirque monstre

This is the prologue to an old but newly updated story I idea I’ve had for years, sort of forgot about and recently remembered and became interested in again. I honestly don’t know when I will transfer this over to ao3 (probably at least the prologue, soon) or when I will add more. My inspiration for things is very fleeting right now, but I wanted to get your thoughts here in tumblrland on whether or not I should bother continuing!

Unedited and some things might end up changing in the future, but enjoy!

+++

Prologue: 1918, Coney Island

She used to think the cotton-spun candy that tasted like melted sugar was just like a dream; too good to be true. She was younger then, and everything about life was shiny and vibrant. Her nose crinkled with distaste as her boney knee stuck to the floor of the bleachers. Not anymore, though. Now, the popular fair treats were only a nuisance, making her job of cleaning between shows all the more difficult.

“Applesauce,” she muttered, twisting to sit on her butt as she peeled a piece of gum from her skin.

“What are you complaining about now, Katniss?” Gale asked, poking up from the row behind her with a devilish grin. Katniss rolled her eyes when he reached out to poke her nose, wondering how someone three years older than her could still be so immature. Gale and her had been best friends since the time she was small, bonded through unfortunate circumstances of life.

“I’m tired of cleaning these seats,” she pouted, sweating and absolutely exhausted. It had been their fourth show of the day, with five more to get through before calling it an evening. Katniss felt the sharp pangs of hunger vibrate through her stomach and moaned.

“If you quit being such a dewdropper this could’ve been done by now and we’d be off eating lu—“ he cut off, ears perking at the sound of distant voices growing closer. Katniss turned to face Gale before he pushed the top of her head in signal to crouch, doing the same for himself.

Female voices billowed through the auditorium, followed by that of her father, whose voice was authoritative and all business. He cleared his throat loudly a couple of times before joining in their quiet laughter with a hardy one of his own that reverberated off the bleachers. Katniss shrunk further into the ground with the sound. Father had always been a vocal man. Vocal when he was happy, even more so when he was angry. He talked, and Katniss listened. Katniss was always listening.

“The children all loved the performance today.”

“Simply loved it!” another high-pitched voice agreed. Katniss twisted her head uncomfortably in hopes of seeing beneath the bleachers and caught sight of two women dressed in long black robes with matching white-lined headdresses.

Nuns from the orphanage.

Gale had sold them tickets earlier before the last showing, and Katniss had hoped she would’ve finished her chores in time to see the children. Because despite living within her father’s circus (what he advertised to be the happiest place in America) there was a surprisingly low number of people who were willing to keep her boredom occupied.

“Children, what must you say now to Mr. Snow?” A chorus of cheerful thank you’s sounded, and underfed children whose clothing didn’t exactly fit wore bright grins. Perhaps the advertising hadn’t been entirely false. They all sure seemed to think so.

The children lined up behind the tallest sister like toy soldiers, marching towards the opening flap of the tent. All, except for one.

“Not you, young man.”

Katniss had practically turned herself upside down in effort to keep the woman in her line of sight, and caught the faintest glimpse of the child. He wasn’t facing her, but his hair was ash-blonde and unattended. Although he wore the same uniform as the other boys, it was sloppy with his shirt un-tucked and it’s color slightly off-white.

“You are not going anywhere,” she spoke dismissively as the other sister came to stand beside her.

“…But, have I done something wrong?”

His voice surprised her. Strong for a child, despite the same unavoidable squeakiness Gale experienced sometimes, being almost fourteen.

“Part of becoming a man,” he’d said proudly when her and her baby sister Prim giggled. “It’s called puberty.”

“Puber-what?” Prim asked, nose wrinkled.

“Awe, forget it.”

“Peeta...” The one reached out, as if to touch him but recoiled before her hand could land on his shoulder, and drew back. “Our home has no place for you, anymore. There is nothing we can do for you.”

He remained quiet as the softer one peered up at her stone-faced sister, who only nodded with agreement.

“You belong here. There is simply nowhere else for you to go.”

“There is not a soul in New York who cares to take in a crippled boy.”

Father took a step in closer to the nuns, who stood a fair distance from the wilting boy. Katniss watched on, her heart beating explosively inside of her chest in a way that made her breaths almost ragged. She’d witnessed cruelty tenfold and was not blind to its existence. But the reality of what the young man was crashed down on her heavily, and she realized perhaps they were not being heartless afterall.

The boy was grotesque. Evidence of the fact made clear as he turned on a crutch made of wood and exposed his profile. It took a hand covering her mouth to keep from making any audible sound.

So, they were simply right, then. There wasn’t a soul in New York, or most likely any state, that would willingly take him into their care. Nobody but a circus.

He resisted as her father’s thick hand clutched his arm, but surprisingly enough did not scream. He did not say a single word as he finally spun around fully into Katniss’s view. Watching with a mixture of fear and dread as the two nuns who had escorted him in left without him.

+++

“Quit trying to bug him, Kat,” Gale snapped, catching her arm outside of the tent where all of the circus freaks were busy preparing for their shows.

Three weeks had passed since the boy joined her father’s circus, parading around with clowns on stilts and the small people that waddled around in shoes five times too big and circular red noses. Three weeks and any time she tried to catch a glimpse of him outside of the show, Gale caught her.

“Aren’t you at all curious?” she huffed, twisting out of his embrace with a thoughtful rub to her elbow. “Haymitch says he is only thirteen. The youngest carnie we’ve ever had.”

“Then going in there will only make him feel like more of a freak,” he scolded and Katniss wilted, realizing the truth to his words. They both jumped as father’s booming voice sounded from a distance, calling Gale’s name.

“I need to go start selling tickets,” he sighed, turning to leave with suspicion in his eye. “Promise me, Kat.”

“…Oh, alright.”

“Promise me.”

Katniss sighed, smoothing out the fluffy material of her dress as something to keep her hands busy. “Yes Gale, I promise to stay out of trouble. Now go, or you’ll have to answer to the whip.”

He left and Katniss paced the length of the carnie tent. There was music playing inside, the soft blare of a saxophone and some sticks against metal pots. Katniss enjoyed spending time with the performers when allowed. Chaff, the deep-skinned muscle man that could lift four hundred pounds despite missing a hand, made her laugh. And Haymitch, a magician, let her play with some of his props when he was drunk enough.

So, really, her going inside of the tent wasn’t completely for the new boy. She had been keeping her fingers crossed during the promise to Gale, anyways.

Katniss glanced around the abandoned backlot, where dark puddles of mud created divots in the green grass she was forced to hop over to keep her shoes clean. Then, she slipped past the thin curtain, which closed off the strange world of fantasy from harsh reality.

Katniss went unnoticed, weaving her way through lounging performers and billowing clouds of smoke. It was always louder in the back tents – deep laughter and saxophone practices, occasional drunken arguments and the escaped moans from two closer carnies. She winced when the volume grew unexpectedly, and bowed her head as if to provide a thin veil of privacy to a group of outlandish people who didn’t know the meaning of it.

She waved at Haymitch, who only raised up his eyebrows in her direction before blowing up a shining red balloon and twisting it with his skilled hands. The other clowns seemed to be hanging close by; some sleeping, others smoking. The new boy most likely wasn’t far. She bit the inside of her cheek, silently debating with herself whether or not to ask of his whereabouts before she caught a glimpse of something that captured her attention.

There it is again, she thought, following the thin trail of light that bounced off the draped edge of the tent, which was otherwise dark. She bent over in half, silently pushing past it with curiosity in her expression. The corners of her mouth lifted when she saw him, sitting perched on the clear opposite end near one of the long poles, which held the tent in place. With a thin, melting candle for light, he kept a novel perched in his one bent knee, his eyes scrolling the pages like a typewriter.

“Hello,” she offered, jumping in surprise when the boy dropped the book and shot up on one wobbly leg.

“Oh…” she bit the corner of her bottom lip to keep from giggling at his startled expression. His overgrown hair fell haphazardly into his eyes despite his best efforts to push it back.

“Did I scare you?” She asked, reaching out to hand him his cane. He didn’t reply, but accepted the crutch quickly before bending over for the book, which he tucked behind his back away from her view.

“It’s alright, I’m not gonna take it,” she promised. He glanced down at her, bright blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I was just curious.”

He huffed in silence, falling back to the ground silently as he dusted the dirty pages. Katniss frowned, shifting on her feet as she watched the boy flip through his story. She hadn’t thought past the initial finding him, and now that she had, the silence was deafening.

“Can you speak?”

The tips of his ears turned red as he kept his gaze focused at the ground, running his hands over the dirty cloth of his pants.

“Of course.”

“I know,” she smiled slyly, inching closer to him the way one might approach a nervous animal. “I just wanted to hear you say something.”

She sat down, pushing her butt closer when he didn’t protest and leaned over his shoulder to glance down at his lap. She’d never seen a book so close in real life, only in the hands of strangers or in pictures. Father had never bothered teaching her how to read more than a few simple words, claiming it was pointless for girls to fill their heads with nonsense like knowledge. Certainly, as a circus girl, it wasn’t Katniss’s place to argue. But, it hadn’t helped her curiosity. She sat in silence, wondering if the boy could actually read the words on the pages, or if he was pretending. It was just as ridiculous for the time to be spent teaching him such a skill as it would be for herself.

“What is your novel about?”

“You can borrow it, if you would like,” he offered, dog-earing one of the pages before handing it over to her waiting hands. Her lips pursed sourly as her eyebrows furrowed, pushing the book back into his hands with a sting of betrayal in her chest.

“Well, you don’t need to make fun of me.” she mumbled, rising up to her feet. How humiliating, to be made fun of by this boy she’d only hoped to make feel more comfortable.

“Wait.” He grabbed hold of her arm, the first physical contact he’d offered to her since she’d approached. Her body stiffened and the warmth of his fingertips was gone in a flash as his hand twitched back down to his side. He pushed a long lock of hair back behind his ear, eyes boring into her despite her back being turned.

And it was then, under the candlelight that she saw the gnashes and hideous scarring that ripped apart more than half of his face up close. Quickly, she looked away.

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” he promised lowly, sounding almost sincere. “I wouldn’t.”

“I can’t read. You should know that,” she sniffed, chin tilted up in the air as her eyes shifted back to his forlorn face. “I’m a lady.”

“My apologies. Someone I kne—” he stopped himself short with a shake of his head before cocking his chin back in the direction of the book. He ghosted a hand over its impressive script before opening it back up to the page he’d previously closed. “Perhaps, I could teach you. If you wanted to learn, then you could borrow it sometime.”

Katniss took a moment to truly ponder the idea. Plenty of carnie’s had taught her things over the years. Octavia, the lady with facial hair as long as that which grew on Katniss’s head, had taught her how to properly buckle her shoes when she was younger. And to that day, Haymitch took credit for teaching the girl her first words. She didn’t suppose accepting such a proposition from this boy was much different.

“What would you like in return?” she wondered aloud, confused by the boys humorless laughter, sounding through the dark space.

“Your company shall be payment enough.”

She imagined the boy, all by himself in the dark confines of the carnie tent with only the book as company, and pitied him. She knew well that it took more than being surrounded by a sea of people to not feel alone. Gale and Prim would like her new friend though, she was sure of it, and together they would all keep him fine company until he found a solid place within the odd circus family.

“Alright,” Katniss agreed, dusting the dirt from the bottom of her old dress. She needed to be going soon, or Gale would grow suspicious. The last thing she needed was father out searching for her when he had a show to run. “Friends, then.”

“Sure,” he agreed slowly, as if mulling over the word. “Friends.”

“But we can hardly be friends if I don’t know your name,” she argued, waiting patiently with her hands twisted together. Her tightly spun sausage curls bounced with every step she took in the direction of the main tent before stopping just outside of it. “Mine is Katniss.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Katniss,” he spoke, so eloquently for someone of his status. “I’m Peeta.”

#fanfic #writing #circus!everlark #this will definitely be on the darker side...lol #probably the darkest thing ive written #very different #but i hope interesting??#let me know if its worth continuing or aborting LOL #writing is hard #everlark #everlark fanfic #thg #why is putting something out into the universe so hard?? lol

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archiveofpiaandkathi · 3 years

Text

When Dudley Dursley turned nineteen and moved into his own flat to get rid of his mother’s clutches, he finally started to see how wrong and hateful his parents had been. Actually, it had started when he was fifteen and Harry had saved him from the Dementors. That day he had started to realise that his cousin, whom his parents still called a freak whenever Dudley dared to bring him up once a year, was the one who literally saved his soul and had stared to slowly turn from all the bullying he had enjoyed so much before. It took a lot of time and he needed to unlearn a lot of things before he could actually see how twisted his parent’s minds were and how wrong all the morals were that his parents and Smeltings had taught him.

Now, a few weeks later sitting on the white leather couch his mother had furnished her “Dadas' first appartement – oh look how grown up and good looking he is” with, he had already come to realise that even though he had already learned a lot, he still wasn’t at the end of his journey.

After two years of absolutely no contact to his cousin, not even knowing if he was still alive, Dudley realised that he kind of missed him. He wanted to reconnect or if Harry didn’t want to, he at least wanted to say sorry. Dudley felt guilty. Guilty for all the stuff he had said over the years, guilty for all the times he had punched the already underfed and neglected boy and guilty for all the times he called him a freak and more.

At first, he didn’t know where to start. He didn’t have an address, didn’t know where this mysterious “Hogwarts” was, he didn’t even have a bloody owl which wizards obviously used to ride letters.

So when his parents went for a in their opinion well earned holiday on a cruise ship, he took his key and went to take a look around their house, to see if he could find any left evidence of where his cousin might be. After Harry has left shortly before his seventeenth birthday the Dursleys had closed the door to his old “poisoned” room and never opened it again.

Dudley had no idea where the key was, but he knew how to open a door without having one after he had already forgotten the keys to his appartement several times.

The room was completely deserted. On some level Dudley had always known that Harry had little to no own possessions, but the fact that nothing was left except from Dudley’s broken toys made it even more real. Harry couldn’t have taken a lot of things fleeing in such a rush. Dudley’s heart hurt thinking about it.

He still looked through the room but couldn’t find a single thing. Sad and miserably he turned to leave the room, when a quaking part of the floor made him stop. He took a step back and looked at the noisy piece of wood. It didn’t quiet fit in with the rest. He tried to pull it out with just his fingers, but couldn’t really get a grip on it. Excited and hopeful he pondered down the stairs, running into the kitchen to grasp a knife to try it again. At first the wood resisted but finally broke free. There was a huge gap under the wood. Big enough to fit several books. It was almost empty except from a few papers. Dudley pulled them out and sat down on the shabby and dusty bed to read through them. The first few almost looked like a normal essay if they hadn’t been about trolls but two at the bottom of the stack were letters.

“Harry”, one said, “if you need anything just call me. – Hermione”, and underneath was a phone number. Dudley’s heart ponded excited and he ran down to grasp his parent’s phone to call the given number. After he picked up the phone, he realised that he had absolutely no idea what to say. It didn’t matter as no one answered the phone anyways.

The calling code told him that the number was from north London, so Dudley went to purchase a phone book from five years back. It took him three weeks. Three weeks with evenings spent reading through a phone book to find the right name to the number he had.

He now had the address of Doctor Marie and William Granger, living in 8 Gardnor Road in Hampstead, London.

So on a rainy Saturday morning in late November, Dudley took his car to drive from Bristol to Hampton. He had tried to call once again, but no one had answered. The same thing now happened to him when he knocked on the door. No voices, no steps and no one opened the door to let him in. He turned around his own axis. How hadn’t he seen before that there was no car on the driveway, nothing in the carport, it seemed quite deserted. He gripped the window sill to his left to steady himself while he tried to look through the window.

The house was empty. Not empty in a “no people inside”-way but a “we moved and haven’t found a new owner yet”- way even thought there was no sign along the road.

Dudley sat down on the steps heavily. He clapped his hands over his face to hide the tears running down his cheeks. The Grangers had been his last connection to his lost cousin and now even this last bit of hope was lost.

“Hey there young man”, a voice suddenly said, startling him in his misery, “why so sad on this beautiful Saturday morning?”

Dudley had no idea what to say, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

“It’s raining.”

“That it is, but it’s still beautiful. Now tell me, why are you crying on an empty house’s doorstep, maybe I can solve that problem with you.”

Dudley thought about his answer for a moment before he decided that if she already knew that the house was empty, she might know what happened to the habitants.

“I’m looking for my cousin. We lost contact over two years ago and I’ve been trying to find him for a while now. I know that he was friends with Miss Granger, so I looked up her address and ended up here. But they obviously don’t live here any longer, so it seems like I lost my last way of finding him.”

The old woman, who belonged to the voice that had spoken to him cooked her head.

“They moved”, she said, “the Grangers, they moved to Australia two years back. It was very sudden and they left without any real explanation except that they always wanted to.”

“Australia?!”, Dudley exclaimed. It seemed like it got more hopeless the more he found out. How should he find someone in Australia?

“Na, only the adults. Hermione stayed at her boarding school and now moved in with her boyfriend. I’ve got her address, come on I’ll get it for you.”

Dudley stared at her – it seemed like he was doing a lot of staring lately – and then went to follow. Could it really be that easy? It almost seemed unreal.

Half an hour later he hadn’t only gotten the address but also a batch of cookies for himself and another one for Hermione and “her lovely but strange young man”.

Armed with cookies and a lot of hope, Dudley got back in his car to drive to Ottery St Catchpole in Devon. He was pretty sure that he could make it in four hours and therefore arrive one and a half hours before dinnertime. Hermione’s boyfriend’s family didn’t have a phone so he again couldn’t call before driving there. It stared to unnerve him, having been raised to believe that it was improper to simply come by.

The moment he entered Ottery St Catchpole it started. The closer he got to his destination he more wanted to turn around and leave. He felt like he didn’t belong there, but he had a place to be if he ever wanted to find his cousin.

When he turned right at a very lonely crossing – he hadn’t seen another car in nearly fifteen minutes – he saw an old windswept wooden sign saying “The Burrow - follow the road for three more miles or if you are arriving by broom keep north-west”. Dudley had no idea what “The Burrow” was, but given that the sign say said “if you are arriving by broom” he was pretty sure that it was a wizard thing. It probably belonged to wherever he wanted to go considering that his navigation system also told him to go straight for three more miles.

Dudley wasn’t even staring, he was gaping. Open mouthed. He now understood what “The Burrow” was. The house he was standing in front of really looked like a burrow. It looked so much like fairy tale wizard house that Dudley wasn’t sure how a whole community managed to stay hidden.

Recovering from his shock Dudley walked up to the door and knocked without knowing what would happen for a second time today. He could hear voices from inside which obviously meant that at least this house was lived in. After a few seconds the door opened and revealed a young woman around Dudley’s age with flaming red hair.

“Hi, how can-”, she said before she stopped herself and turned around with her flaming hair flying around her head.

“Mom, there is a Muggle at the door.”

“A Muggle?”, a voice from inside the house called, “Arthur go and check the wards and take Bill with you maybe they have been tampered with.”

“Ahm I’m sorry”, Dudley started, “I don’t want to cause any inconvenience, but I’m looking for Hermione Granger and I have been told that she lives here.”

“Oh”, she turned around again, now really looking at Dudley, “how do you know her?”

“I don’t. But I am looking for someone and the only connection I have is the name Hermione Granger.”

She eyed him for what felt like an eternity before she turned around and hollered again: “Oi Mione, there is someone at the door who wants to talk to you.”

“Hu? Who is it?”, hurried steps came down the stairs.

The woman turned around and raised an eyebrow. It seemed like this was her way of asking him for his name. Dudley cleared his throat.

“Dudley, my name is Dudley.”

“He says his name is Dudley.”

“Unusual name, but I don’t know any Dudleys.”

“Well, he is a Muggle, so no one I would now either.”

Dudley almost felt a little bit stupid with the two girls one he couldn’t even see yet talking about him. He really wished the step he was standing on would vanish so that he could disappear into the ground.

The woman that had come down the stairs while he was staring at the floor was gorgeous maybe he even found her more gorgeous because his parents would disapprove of her. She had wild frizzly hair and was dark skinned. Her eyes shone bright and intelligent and she had a no-nonsense aura around her. But the most beautiful thing was how the two women were now standing right next to each other obviously being very protective of and caring deeply about each other. After all the racism Dudley had experienced at home, towards Harry and towards random people on the street and in TV it almost felt heeling seeing two people so deeply connected without letting any animosity get in between them. It still felt awkward when they both turned to look at Dudley though.

“Ahm hi”, Dudley rouse his hand.

“Should I know you? Cause if I should I have to say that I’m sorry but I have no idea who you are.”

“No, you don’t. I am looking for someone and the only thing had to find him was your name and phone number. So I went to your old house but it was completely empty. Your neighbour gave me this address.”

Hermione looked a little bit less suspicious now, so he continued.

“I am looking for Harry Potter, he is my cousin and last time I saw him he left to fight a war. I just want to know if he is alive and if he is, I want to apologize and just…”, he trailed of, tears in his eyes for a second time today.

“You are Dudley Dursley.”, Hermione looked at his stunned, the other woman just gaped.

“I don’t want to deal with this, I really don’t.”, murmured the dark haired one before she turned around to holler up the stairs once again.

“Ronald tell your brothers to let Harry go. Here is someone who wants to talk to him.”

“I’m sorry Mione, that won’t work.”

“Why?”

“Fred and George turned him into a canary he is currently sitting an my shoul- hey Harry don’t shit on me!”

Hermione just looked up the stairs, about to go ballistic, while the one on fire just slumped on the ground, giggling hysterically.

Dudley was let into a living room which was crammed with way too many misfitting sofas. It still felt way more homy than his own childhood home has ever felt like. Hermione and the woman, who had now introduced herself as Ginny, sat down on one of the sofas, Dudley on the one facing the two of them. It still felt a little bit awkward since none of them knew what to say, but it now had a kind of cosy atmosphere. When a large man entered, as red haired as Ginny, so Dudley assumed that he was her brother, Hermione pulled him down on the sofa next to herself. He was holding a little yellow bird with incredibly green eyes in between his hands, which Dudley assumed was Harry.

“Don’t let Draco see him like this he is going to murder them”, Hermione hissed.

“How did he even get like this? What have they done this time?”

“He ate a sweet he found in his pocket.”

“Beginners mistake.”, Ginny grinned.

“Please don’t tell me you helped them.”

“Maybe.”

At Hermione’s angry glare she slumped a little bit further down into the sofa, but didn’t lose his grin.

“He had it coming. This morning at the breakfast table he told everyone that he hadn’t been pranked in weeks, so Fred, George and I thought-“

“That it would be nice to turn him into a canary.”

“Actually no, we wanted to colour his hair into yellow feathers, but as you can see, he decided to go the whole way.”

The dark-skinned girl looked like she still wanted to say something, but in this moment a cloud of yellow smoke started to rise from Ron’s hand and a loud bang sounded. Suddenly Ron had a very dishevelled, only half clothed Harry Potter sitting on his hands and legs.

“Wow Ginny”, he said, “that was awesome.”

At Hermione’s glare he retreated looking a little bit afraid and way less enthusiastic than before.

“It was not?”

“You knew someone put it into your pocket and you still ate it, why would you do such a stupid thing?”

“I – Dudley?!”, while trying to avoid Hermione Harry thrown looks through the whole living room which of course wasn’t that big, given that it had never been. While doing so his eyes had landed on Dudley who had been listening to the exchange with a gaping mouth. Apparently, it wasn’t that uncommon that people got turned into animals, which was new to him.

“What are you doing here?”

Dudley needed a few seconds to figure out that Harry was talking to him. He had been so caught up in the exchange that he didn’t realise that he now had his cousin’s attention.

“I came to see if you were still alive.”, he whispered, voice suddenly thick and clogged.

“I also came to apologise for all the things I have done and said to you over the years. I have been a dick and a bully. I’ve also been incredibly racist and always let my parents influence my decisions and action when I should have stood up for you. I am sorry for everything I have done and I know that I am not even allowed to hope that you will accept my apology. But over the last few months I’ve come to realise how much I admire how you stood up to my parents even though you knew that it would only make your living situation worse. If you accept my apology, I would love to have you back in my live and at the same time to start completely anew. I’ve missed you so much.”

During his little speech tears had stared to roll down his cheeks again and his voice had grown more and more quiet.

For a few moments it was quiet. Not a single thing could be heard before Harry suddenly got up.

Dudley thought he would leave and his heart broke and he retreated back into his shell, but the only thing his cousin did was to cross the room, sit down next to him, sling his arms around him and hug him firm and for a long time.

“I missed you to Dadas.”

Dudley stayed for Dinner. It was loud, it was dirty – a lot of food was flying over the table – and most important; it was amazing. Dudley could really see how much all of this people loved each other and his heart stared bleeding a little bit at the thought of what Harry and him could have had, if he and his family hadn’t been so fucking awful. But the moment a piece of potato, thrown by Fred, found the way into his face he knew, that with Harry’s forgiveness he had finally found a piece of real family he had never known before and by getting to now the Weasley’s he had gained even more.

It didn’t even took a week until an owl too flew through his open kitchen window with an invite to a Sunday roast at The Burrow.

#archiveofpiaandkathi #harry potter #harry potter blog #ron weasley #hermione granger #harry potter fandom blog #harry potter fanfic #fanfiction #dudley dursley #dudley dursley redemption arc

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henshengs · 4 years

Text

Welp, here’s my take on the Hunger Games AU. I went in a bit of a different direction from @la-belle-et-la-bete, but this definitely owes a lot to their amazing fic and all the brilliant ideas I stole from it.

I made Zonghui a girl since mdzs oppresses me specifically by not having any female Qinghe cultivators.

---

Under other circumstances, Meng Yao would have enjoyed the view outside the train window. There was a certain harsh and rugged beauty in the mountains of Qinghe, or so certain poets claimed. Meng Yao couldn’t see it. He’d spent four years in Qinghe, and begun to despair of seeing green fields and wide rivers and placid lakes ever again. Under other circumstances, he might have glued his face to the window and gazed enraptured at the landscapes rushing by.

Things being as they currently were, however, he simply didn’t have the time.

The train carriage was thankfully large enough that he and Zonghui could sit almost ten feet apart from each other. She was staring at her untouched food in grim silence. He was watching the televised broadcast of the Reapings.

He was unsure where Nie Mingjue was, and normally, that would be cause for anxiety. Right now, it was something of a relief. It allowed him to concentrate on the screen.

The Yunmeng reaping had been first, and he’d missed that one, standing in the heat in the Unclean Realm’s main courtyard next to other dressed-up seventeen year olds, most of them peasant children but a few in the gray or black of outer sect cultivators. Then had come the Qinghe reaping; he’d have to wait for the replay to see how he’d looked, walking steadily up to the podium. How much damage Nie Huaisang had done with his cries of protest and the way his small fists had pulled at Meng Yao’s robes. He knew what his own face had looked like, and he knew what expression had been on Nie Mingjue’s, because he’d been looking at it, across the podium, for the whole ceremony.

After Qinghe came Gusu, and he’d missed that one too, because he’d been sitting very straight, hands folded across his lap, in a cool air conditioned room inside the Qinghe Regional Administration Office, and Nie Huaisang had been sobbing uncontrollably into his chest.

Now, sitting on the train, the screen in front of him showed banners of gold and white, crowds of people gathered before a familiar vast set of stairs. Something inside him tightens. Of course, Lanling is after Yunmeng.

He watches a name be chosen from a giant golden emblazoned bowl. A girl steps forward, in the robes of an outer sect disciple, an empty sword belt at her waist. A cultivator; that explains why she doesn’t look terrified, only furious. She looks like she’s fourteen or fifteen.

His competition, he thinks, and a wave of nausea hits him. He breathes through it.

They draw the boy’s name.

“Jin Zixuan,” the announcer reads, with a bit of a smirk on her face. The commentators make noises of surprise. The Jin heir, how thrilling, what a coincidence! Meng Yao’s hand tightens on the arm of his seat.

So it isn’t just Qinghe that’s being sent a message.

The cameras zoom in on the ranks of teens in the deep yellow of the inner Jin disciples. They focus on a handsome boy in very expensive clothes, with no expression on his face. He doesn’t seem to move. The cameras circle his parents, catching their reactions. Meng Yao does not blink.

After a long moment, an older teenager in the deep yellow of an inner Jin disciple saunters forward to volunteer, and even before the cameras zoom in on his face and his life details pop up in bullet points on the screen, Meng Yao has him identified as Jin Zixun. A cousin. Not a surprise. Jin trains its well born children as competitors- though not its heirs- and four times out of five they win. They have the money to buy any number of advantages in the arena. Meng Yao guesses this one chafes in the shadow of his cousin, is itching for a chance to prove himself and bloody his sword on the bodies of peasant children at the same time. Meng Yao does not think it will be difficult to kill him.

As the tributes reach the top of the stairs, the Sect Leader comes forward to congratulate them. Meng Yao wants to look away. He doesn’t. It’s important, to glean any information he can from this. His fingers twitch, longing for his notepad, but his memory will suffice. Physical notes are a luxury he can no longer afford.

After Lanling come the minor sects. Often, in Qinghe and in Yunmeng, people would turn aside and go back to their daily work, after the tributes from the major sects had been chosen. Meng Yao knows better, even though he wants to see the Yunmeng and Gusu reapings, needs to see what message their leaders have been sent. He watches. For about a third of the reapings, a clan heir is chosen. The commentators pretend at surprise, but not too much of it, apparently choosing to preserve the laughable pretense that the drawings are random. Most of the heirs who are chosen are saved by volunteers. The volunteers are usually younger children, looking underfed and threadbare. No sword belts at their waists. No minor sect cultivators are going to volunteer their children to fight the well trained and equipped Jin and Lan tributes.

The big surprise is Yueyang, where both tributes selected turn out to be blind. Not utterly insurmountable, Meng Yao thinks, with a high cultivation level and a strong spiritual tool- but spiritual tools are banned in the Cultivation Competition, and these two are children, the girl looking much younger than twelve, the boy also small and delicate. He ought to be pleased. Two less threats to worry about. He isn’t, really.

The commentators laugh about Yueyang’s bad luck. Meng Yao wishes he could see their faces. It would make it easier to imagine killing them.

After Yueyang, the channel shows a condensed replay of each ceremony, with additional commentary now that the news crews have had a chance to frantically research each competitor. Meng Yao watches an aerial shot of Yunmeng appear on the screen, and then a wide angle of Yunmeng’s largest square. The nausea returns, because he can remember standing in that square, holding his mother’s hand, before she gently pushed him to go stand with the other twelve-year-olds. By that point she’d been very frail, and he hadn’t wanted to leave her to stand by herself in the heat.

“Keep your hat on straight, A-Yao,” she’d said softly, and held his hands in hers.

At this point, it’s not a surprise to him when the first name drawn is Jiang Yanli. It’s a shock to the Sect Leader’s family, though, as the cameras zoom in on a well dressed man who’s gone pale and nearly fallen from his position on the podium, on a beautifully decorated woman who’s gone white with rage. On the rows of purple-clad teenage boys, and the two in the front who appear to be scuffling. When the cameras show a close-up of Jiang Yanli herself as she walks to the stage, she’s also gone white under her makeup, but she’s composed and dignified enough. Meng Yao doesn’t know anything about her, and that’s both embarrassing and worrying. The commentators don’t know much either, though since this is a recap they’ve had time to remember that she’s engaged to Jin Zixuan. “An exciting problem for him,” one of them says, “he’ll have to decide whether to root for his cousin or his betrothed!” He sounds thrilled to have found such a juicy angle.

The faces in the crowd don’t appear pleased, so the Jiangs have at least some degree of loyalty from their people. Or perhaps just Jiang Yanli does. But no one volunteers to take her place. The sect leader looks like he��s about to have a heart attack. Meng Yao is unable to summon up much sympathy for him, though he understands why it would be harder, to send your own child to die, rather than someone else’s.

“Jiang Cheng,” the announcer reads, drawing the boy’s name, and the crowd goes very still. Well, Meng Yao thinks. That certainly is a message.

The boy in black and maroon at the front of the rows of teenagers wins his fight with the boy in lavender and violet, and somersaults onto the stage, landing with a showman’s bow. A cultivator, and a recognizable one. Wei Wuxian, the chief Jiang disciple. “I volunteer,” he says, and grins. Jiang Yanli bursts into tears. Madame Yu’s mouth twists. Wei Wuxian winks at the cameras. The commentators go wild. Jiang’s chief disciple is already a crowd pleaser. The cameras don’t show what happens to Jiang Yanli’s brother.

When the view switches to the gates of the Unclean Realm, Meng Yao glances over at Zonghui. She’s shifted from staring at her food to staring out of the window. There’s no sound inside the high speed train but the mechanical noises of the air system and the low volume voices of the commentators coming from the television. Nie Mingjue and the Wen escort must be in another cabin.

Ten feet away from him, Zonghui stares out the window. On his screen, she stands, back straight, and moves to the podium. Meng Yao tries to remember what he’d been thinking, watching her. He’s afraid it might have primarily been consideration of who would make the best replacement aide to keep Nie Huaisang out of trouble. He and Zonghui had never been friends, and it would have been something of a relief to have her gone.

Then, on the screen and in his memory, the announcer calls out the name of the male tribute. Nie Huaisang.

He remembers, with crystal clarity, the frozen moment when understanding of the situation had passed through him like a sword through his chest. The Cultivation Competition had never quite served its true purpose, when it came to keeping Qinghe in line. The Nies had developed a tradition, in response to the first Competition; each Nie heir, in the year they turned eighteen, volunteered as tribute. Most of the time they won both the competition and the loyalty of their people, who did not resent the sacrifice of their children as much as they might have, knowing that each of their rulers fully understood the cost.

(Though did they? There was a difference, between an eighteen year old trained nearly since birth in the saber, and a twelve year old peasant child chosen on one of the years there was no Nie heir to take her place.)

And so the Wens had decided to disrupt the balance by selecting the name of the sect leader’s useless baby brother, who would die five minutes into the Competition.

In that moment of clarity, Meng Yao saw the future. In all likelihood, one of the younger disciples would volunteer. The army was not particularly fond of Nie Huaisang, who was a brat and an embarrassment, but they loved their young leader with an intense ferocity, and so one of them would volunteer to save his brother. And that volunteer would die. The Qinghe disciples were trained for war, but they were not trained for the Competition, not like their leaders were, not like the Jin were. The volunteer would die, and the survivors would resent Nie Huaisang for needing to be saved, for being such a disappointment. That resentment would spread and corrupt their love for Nie Mingjue. And next year, Huaisang would be selected again.

If the Wen didn’t simply tire of Qinghe’s defiant attitude and send Wen Zhuliu to crush Nie Mingjue’s core.

“They want humiliation,” he had explained to Nie Mingjue in that air conditioned room, speaking almost too softly to be heard over the roar of the fans. “They want your brother to make a fool of himself in the arena. But they will be satisfied with your lover making a mockery of you on every screen from here to Qishan.”

Nie Mingjue flinched from the word lover, and Meng Yao resented that, too, when he’d been careful not to say whore. Others would say it. Nie Mingjue did not have the luxury of delicate sensibilities, now.

Nie Mingjue’s hands squeezed so hard, when he lifted Meng Yao up into the air, that there would certainly be bruises, later. “We do not submit,” he growled. “We do not accept their humiliation, we do not play their game.”

Meng Yao had a horrible urge to laugh in his face. What did you think you were doing, last year, when you killed four other teenagers? he wanted to ask. But Nie Mingjue’s red eyes were filling with tears, and Meng Yao remembered that he was, in the end, only nineteen. Only a boy who wanted to protect his brother. Who wanted to make his father proud.

On the train, Meng Yao blinks away the memory, pressing his head back against the velvet seat, but it is only replaced by a worse one: Nie Huaisang, his hair undone and falling around his face, looking very, very young. He’d insisted on redoing Meng Yao’s braids himself, holding them in place with that silver hair ornament. “Your token,” he’d said, leaking tears and snot, and Meng Yao had thanked him, very sincerely.

On the screen, in the train, Meng Yao watches himself walking to the center of the courtyard, head bowed, eyes modestly downcast, a small drab figure distinguished only by his Nie braids and subtly expensive robes. This time, watching on the screen, Meng Yao can see the faces of the Nie disciples. The anger, the resentment, the humiliation that he, the servant son of a whore, had stolen their chance to die horrifically.

You would die, Meng Yao thought now, remembered thinking then. They would die. And it would be a waste. Tributes were brought inside Nightless City. Victors had access to the highest levels of cultivator society, and travelled throughout the sects.

If that victor was someone who was able to make use of the opportunity-

It was not how he had imagined winning his father’s attention.

The screen changes to a commentator’s face, caked in makeup and perfectly coiffed. “We regret to report that seasonal weather is continuing to disrupt broadcasts from Gusu,” she says. “The competitors have been selected and we look forward to you meeting them tonight at the Nightless City parade.”

Meng Yao stops digging his nails into his arms.

What is happening in Gusu?

#meng yao #nieyao #the hunger games au #fic

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 3 years

Text

Crimson Shadows 2

Jercy Vampire AU: Percy

masterlist; information post for fic

I was debating whether i should change traditional things like greetings but then i realised this is my fic and im writing it for purely self indulgent purposes so like i could if i wanted. Thanks for joining in on my hedonism! Please enjoy.

Perseus steps onto the creaky wooden floor of his ostentatious 16th century mansion and mentally reminds himself for the two-hundredth time that he needs to get someone in to fix it. The worst thing about being immortal, he has come to learn, is that he procrastinates everything ten times harder. At least his teenage self would be impressed with his tactics, even if his mother was rolling in her grave.

The house is unusually quiet for an Orion morning and he strains his already sonic hearing to catch the sounds of silent footfalls and bustling bodies. But the wind rushes through the space and there are no other noises. A flutter gives in his chest as he steps into the kitchen to find breakfast waiting for him and a note folded neatly next to it.

Hey Doc,

Twins have gone to Bharatanatyam class and Hoku went to the beach. I’m just picking stuff up at the grocer, be home in a jiff.

- Keeya

He releases a breath and sits down at the table with a smile. The delicious smell of eggs and blood hit him as he takes off the cover to reveal a plate of eggs benedict, hash-browns and a small glass of ichor. He shoots down the blood, content to let it work through him as he gobbles down the heavenly breakfast. He knows Keeya cooked because she was always experimenting with food, always in here creating dishes and making them beg to eat whatever is giving off that sublime smell. Just as he cuts into a hash brown he hears the door shut and hurried footsteps rushing towards him.

“To the Sun,” Keeya flurries into the kitchen, face blocked by brown paper bags stuffed to the brim with what he’s sure to be her latest concoction.

“Amongst the Stars,” His lips twitch in amusement, “Early morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep so i-” Her voice muffles as she busies herself packing items in the pantry, “-thought I’d start on breakfast but while i was looking for an eggs benny recipe i came across this golden cake and-” Her head pops out of the pantry, black eyes flashing with excitement, “Doc when i tell you i almost died right there, it sounded so good. Anyway of course i had to leave immediately to get all the things we didn’t have.” She finally collapses onto a stool across from him and takes a breath.

He hides a laugh and waits for the rest of the story, because with Keeya there is always more.

“Anyway i get to the shop-” She starts. He covers his inescapable laugh with a cough. “And they don’t have desiccated coconut. Can you believe that? I mean it’s the main ingredient in the damn cake. So I was panicking a little because it’s the closest shop open at that time, the others I'd have to take a train for which is so inconvenient?” She gives him an incredulous look. He nods seriously; inside he is fighting off giggles. “But they found some in the back, thank the stars, and then I just grabbed a few things because it’s ‘make your own pizza’ night and I think some people from the Araw house are joining us.”

“Sounds fun, is Elouan going to be here?” He pops the last bit of poached egg in his mouth and looks at her expectantly.

She makes a disapproving face, “No, he’s off with his new partner. I don’t trust them at all.”

“Why?” Perseus is on guard immediately, fingers curling, hair sensitive, and gums stinging with the need to unsheathe his fangs.

“Their vibe is off,” Her nose scrunches up, “Like they’re used to getting into trouble and bailing out.”

“I’ll tell Elly to be careful but maybe go with him next time Kee,” He suggests, a tentative look in his eyes as her own widen.

“All we’ll do is argue, and besides, he hates me hanging out with his friends.”

“Ever asked him why?” He has a feeling about it but he’ll never voice it. No, the two can come to their own conclusions. After all, they had forever to figure it out.

“I don’t care why. He’s a dick and I'm not interested in anything he has to say.”

He shrugs but leaves the conversation, and the kitchen, so Keeya can do her thing. He has some admin to do anyway; a dreary task but one that must be done all the same. Besides without the twins and Hoku the house is absurdly silent, so he needs something to occupy himself.

His study is actually a little desk situated in their library. It’s his favourite room in the house for the opulent fireplace that stays lit through Baridi and serves as a soot-slide in Caldu, and of course the books which although he doesn't read many of, remind him of his mother. He has been alive for almost three hundred years and there is hardly a day that goes by when he doesn’t think of her. For every part of him that isn’t human, there’s a part of her that makes him so. He stares up at the portrait of her hanging near the doorway, painted by a friend long gone and with a loving smile gets to work.

He sorts, and signs, and stamps, and notes in an endless cycle until finally his finances are in order, his donations are chequed and his letters are sealed. He’s sure Hoku will groan endlessly about receiving yet another letter under their pillow and try to explain that email is much more convenient and faster for everyone. Perseus tilts his head to the ceiling and watches the stars dance as he plays out the conversation in his head.

“Doc, I really appreciate the effort you put into sending us letters but this is not the eighteenth century, just use email.”

“Hoku i like the letters, they’re personal and calming to write.”

“Doc, emails are more convenient and i can take them anywhere.”

“Okay I’ll stop giving you letters. I’ll just give the others.”

“What? No? That’s a terrible idea. I still want my letters.”

And they would have the conversation every month without fail. It is a rather amusing part of the routine and sometimes Perseus purposefully makes Hoku’s letters a little longer, just to bother them. A secret best kept as such, but funny nonetheless.

“DOC!” A voice screams through the house, shattering his ear drums.

The twins.

He steps out of the library, and half jogs to the source of the noise, which he discovers is coming from the entertainment room.

“To the Sun, you two.”

Serafina looks up first, her brown eyes shining with never-ending energy. The anklets on her feet jingle as she runs towards him and slams her body into his. He holds firm as he catches her and wraps his arms around her shoulders.

“Amongst the Stars,” She mumbles, face buried in his shirt.

“How was Bharatanatyam?”

She gasps, stepping out of his embrace and squealing with delight. “Doc we have to show you what we learnt! Aaru come!” Her dark eyebrows knit together as she focuses on her brother.

“Tusa Aarush.” Perseus smiles, squatting down so he’s level with the boy. A little hand, the colour of cherry wood, reaches up to give him a high-five. A standard greeting for the quiet brother; a complete opposite to his outgoing sister.

“Aaru are you ready?” Serafina comes to stand beside them, after setting up the sound system.

He nods and moves so they’re in the middle of the room. Quickly they do the opening prayer before Serafina bounces to the sound bar and presses play. The sweet, sturdy music fills the room and then they're going through a whole routine. Stamping their feet in a rhythm that matches the beat perfectly. Aarush pinches his fingers and fans them out. A closed flower opening, he recognises. They do a series of moves all impressive and beautiful, before the music fades and they pose, breathless with exertion and excitement.

He claps enthusiastically and opens his arms for hugs. “You did wonderfully!” Serafina slams into him. Aarush gives him another high-five. “When is the performance?”

“Not for a long time Doc.” The little girl says, as if he should know this. She heads off to fiddle with the speakers.

“In two months,” Aaru answers. His voice is clear and even. He is quiet but not soft. “In Pluto.”

“Ah, I'll make sure I have it down in the calendar.” The little boy's face lights up like a stadium and Perseus’ heart clenches with love. The twins had only been living with him for half a century but within the first year they had him completely wrapped around his fingers. Their claimed age is ten but their true age is one hundred and two. He found them shivering behind a dumpster in Orman, their skin stretched across their bones and that rabid look of underfed vampire in their eyes. He had taken them in and given them blood and a bed for the night, which turned into a week, and then a month. Before he knew it he was bringing them to this house in Roshani where they had immediately fallen in love with the city and made it their home.

“Fina, i’m going to shower.” Aarush states and without further flurry he leaves.

“Is everything okay with classes? All of them, not just Bharatanatyam.” Perseus asks the talkative twin.

“Yes,” She nods, unclipping her anklets. Her voice lowers, serious bleeding in. It is hard to forget their age, true or claimed, when this happens. Because suddenly their bubbly little girl who flits around the house and talks your ear off and throws herself into everything with the vivacity of a ten year old, disappears. In her place is the century old girl who has experienced more of life’s pleasures and hardships than most of the world can only begin to imagine.

“We’re covered for everything. And Aaru starts teaching a new linguistics course on Monday so he’ll have some cash to fling around. Although,” She rolls her eyes, “We all know he’ll just put it in his account and let it sit like a fat cat.”

He laughs, flicking her nose at her distaste for her brother’s complete lack of spending. “He likes to invest in stocks and give it away. You know he doesn’t hoard.”

“I know i know,” She grumbles, scrunching her nose, “I just wish he’d spend some on himself.”

“I think he thinks you spoil him enough.”

“I don’t spoil him nearly enough. Most times I try to buy him something and he just shuts it down. Like last Draco i tried to buy him that new puzzle he was talking about and he just slammed my laptop shut.”

She looks so put out he can't help but giggle, and when she scowls at him for it he pulls her in for a hug and kisses her head. “He likes to do things with you. Maybe try getting things you guys can do together.” She brightens at that, and he can see the gears turning in her sharp mind. “Alternatively, save up all the buying for special occasions like Birthdays or Turning or Koro day.” She hums in acknowledgement but her thoughts are still going a mile a minute so he steps out and lets her work it through.

The house is alive again: Keeya is still in the kitchen, and by the sounds of it Hoku too, begging for something. Elouan still isn’t in and he cannot stop the trinkle of worry that falls between his ribs. Trying to keep it out of his mind he walks towards the noise and is greeted by the site of countertops covered in dishes filled with all sorts of delights. The smell is enough to put him in a coma. And Hoku sits on the counter, pale blue eyes puppy-wide with pleading. He glances to their wrist and sees the sunshine yellow band. She/her today then. It gets exhausting, she had told them, to continuously have to announce yourself to the world, especially when you didn’t know how the world would react.

“Hoku,” Keeya sighs, “I am not giving you the poli until you go and change. You smell like seaweed.” The coconut-stuffed pastry pockets sit on the counter, still piping hot from the oil they had just been fried in.

“Awww come on Kee, i just need one. I’ll pass out in the shower if i don’t get it and then it’ll be all your fault.”

Keeya’s eyes roll so far back he’s worried she’ll get them stuck behind her sockets. But they roll forward and give Hoku a very pointed glare.

“Get your ass out of my kitchen and go and shower, you irritation!” She scolds; rendered a little ineffective by the flour smeared across her cheek which is a startling contrast to her brown-scapolite skin.

“You are the absolute worst.” Hoku sulks as she slides off the stool and trudges to the entrance. "Tusa Doc.” The sigh is heavy and he struggles to keep in the laughter threatening to spill past his lips. It is never a dull moment in the Aarde House. Perseus collapses onto the stool Hoku had just vacated and lets loose the smile he had been trying to hide. Keeya returns it with one of her own and then launches into a conversation about her latest creations.

Hours later they had moved from food talk, which made him unfathomably hungry, to her teaching, to his own escapades and ideas. She laughed as he recounted the night out he had some weeks ago and the beautiful blue-haired person he had taken a bodyshot on. But soon the sun is sinking to the city floor and the people in the house emerge from their various rooms to congregate in the kitchen, which serves as the house hangout spot. Keeya had packed most of the food away, save for a loaf of fresh bread and the poli Hoku had been begging for. She puts the kettle on and starts up the coffee machine, chattering away as she did.

Aarush shuffles into the room and immediately takes up a spot next to Perseus. Serafina and Hoku walk in next talking about knee pains and sore feet.

“Did you guys bother to put ice packs or kinaesthetic tape on?” Keeya raises an eyebrow. They both stick their tongues out at her, and move to sit on the opposite side of the table.

“Hoku,” Aaru settles his brown eyes on her, “Will you teach me how to do the splits? My Bharatanatyam teacher says i need to learn to be more flexible.”

Hoku is already nodding enthusiastically, “Of course A, i can absolutely teach you. But you should know flexibility doesn’t come from doing the splits it comes from muscle control and ligament manipulation.”

“I read up about it but i don't feel confident enough to try on my own.”

A gleam enters Hoku’s blue eyes, “You should come with me to a ballet class. Elouan is doing piano for us next week in preparation for our concert coming up. We’ll be able to get the studio to ourselves for a little while.”

“Sure,” Aru shrugs, “Sounds fun.”

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?” Serafina tugs her twin's sleeve, looking at him with hurt in her eyes.

“I didn’t want to bother you, and besides Hoku teaches ballet I figured she’d be the best bet for me.”

Serafina looks like she’s going to say something, argue maybe, but then the last of their little household walks in and conversation drifts.

“Past the Moon, Elouan,” Perseus smiles at the oldest of the group, save for him.

A floppy smile transforms a pasty face. As he hobbles towards them, leaning heavily on his walking stick, he mumbles a round of greetings.

“How are you?” Keeya asks once he’s settled into a chair next to her.

“I could do with some food and maybe some blood but otherwise just peachy.” His moonlight white curls fall into his face and he pushes them back absentmindedly.

“Can we finally have the poli now?” Hoku glares at their baker, rebellion already flashing in her blue eyes.

“Dig in you little heathen,” Keeya shoves the plate towards her and they all descend.

Tea and coffee are passed around as well as small glasses of blood for any of them that need it. Perseus and the twins refrain, having had their fill at some point during the day but they happily dig into the coconut pastry and drink copious amounts of coffee.

“So,” Elouan says around a mouthful of poli, “Who’s coming with me to the Red Queen tomorrow?”

“Me!” Hoku shouts immediately. Ever the party animal.

“I’d love to.” Keeya mumbles behind her tea, suddenly shy.

“No thanks.” Aarush pulls a face and goes back to stacking the knives into a precarious tower.

“Fina? Doc?”

“I have to work on stuff for varsity but maybe next time.” Serafina shrugs a shoulder, her brown eyes glazing over as her mind goes back to working a mile a minute.

“I’ll let you know after our dinner tonight. I think some of the Houses want to call a meeting tomorrow to discuss funding and housing in a few cities.”

“You should invite them along,” His white eyebrows knit together in thought, “You guys should invite anyone you want.”

“What’s got you so friendly?” Keeya gives a suspicious look.

“Arrow said they wanted to meet you.”

Her face pulls into something resembling horror, “Uh never mind i think i have stuff to do, maybe next time.”

Elouan pins his honey eyes on her and they look more like the sting of the bee than the gold of the nectar. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I don’t trust them.” She bites out, setting her mug down with a hard crack.

“You don’t even know them. You’re just being judgmental because they’ve turned a few innocents.”

“It’s not just that Elouan,” Where he is the sky, Keeya is the earth. “They are leading you to the dens and soon you’ll be following in their footsteps.”

Perseus was content to ignore their argument and continue talking to everyone else or eating his way through the feast, but that angered whisper steals his attention. “You’ve been going to the dens?”

“I went twice and i didn't even do anything.” He rolls his eyes.

“It’s not about what you do El,” Keeya’s voice is lethal with fury, and worry. “It’s about what gets done in there.”

“It’s not safe Elouan. Not only for you but if something happens you put a target on all of our backs. And I will not have you endangering anyone in this house just to look cool for your new partner.” There is no compromise in Perseus’ hard green eyes.

The younger vamp sees this and nods once. “I won’t go to the dens again, Doc.”

“Right now that we have that sorted,” He leaves no room for further say on the topic, “What do you need us to do for dinner before the Araw House gets here, Kee?”

He sees her hide the emotions still burning in her eyes before she claps her hands and puts them to work. And when the members of the Araw house arrive there is no lingering anger suffocating the kitchen. It is bright and loud and messy. It is home.

“Tamo, tamo, everyone!” Musical greetings come from the front of the house and a few seconds later Drew Tanaka and Charles Beckendorf appear in the doorway, as radiant and deadly as always.

Drew looks devastating in a blood red jumpsuit and a gold choker glittering at her neck. Charles has a hand wrapped around her and looks just as sinful in an emerald green suit lined with the most startling azure. His wedding band glints in the soft yellow lights of the kitchen and the two rubies encrusted in it match the band around Drew’s finger.

“Towards the Moon, old man,” Drew sits down with the grace of a dancer who has been perfecting their art for centuries.

“Who are you calling old man?” Perseus scoffs, “I’m only one month older than you. Besides Charlie is the old man.”

The subject in question rolls his eyes and shoves both their shoulders, flashing his fangs. His wife just laughs waggling perfectly sculpted eyebrows that suggest more than any of them are willing to interpret.

“Where’s the rest of your chaotic crew?” He motions to the lack of people that usually surrounded them.

“They’re all busy tonight, something about the Safe Haven Sound.” Charlie shrugs, “I’m actually surprised none of you guys went. It was apparently some big event.”

Hoku makes a face that means trouble. Nobody stops her. “It’s mostly for new vamps trying to enter the world. There’s a lot that can go wrong. We tend to stay away.”

Drew turns to her sharply, “Who runs it?”

“The Underboss.” Hoku makes another, more disgusted face.

“Actually,” Keeya says quietly, “It’s the Underboss’ lackey that runs it. The Underboss just owns it.”

“Ugh i hate that slimy little shit more than my ex.”

“Hoku,” Serafina frowns, “Give Luke some credit. At least he was hot.”

Perseus lets a smile loose at that. “Octavian is not ugly, he’s just ghaunt.”

“Doc,” Elouan raises a brow, “He is a ghost.”

“Literally? Aarush frowns, the first thing he’s said since their guests arrived.

“No,” Drew has a contemplative look on her face, “At least i don’t think so.”

“He was part of the Trials.” Charlie adds “That’s what i’ve heard anyway.”

Perseus shudders inwardly as he remembers those dark times. Power-hungry people, people who had no right to participate in their world, had taken it upon themselves to try and create their own supernatural creatures. It was a horrible, terrifying time for humans and duniyarall alike. They had stopped it before it had become the war it intended to be but it was deemed unethical to kill the products of those experiments. So, even today, a century and a half later, there are still Triallers- as they had been so creatively named- roaming, existing, living. For the most part they seem to be peaceful, despite being created for violence, but there are some like the Underboss’ lackey that still give an off-vibe; like feral is just around the corner, one blink away.

“How about we make some pizzas?” Keeya interrupts their conversation before they dive into what will inevitably become a two hour discussion.

“Let’s!” Serafina claps her hands, and Hoku matches her as they hop up and dive towards the fridge where cut and readied ingredients sit.

The evening is chaotic, and bright and full of laughter. They discover that between all their years of life, none of them had ever learnt how to toss pizza dough. Charlie and Keeya make a deal to go to Italy and learn before the decade is out. Drew sees the trip as a chance to get a tan in the beautiful Italian heat, and be fed delicious food straight from her husband’s hands. They make the most of the evening, a rare and peaceful one that recharges the energy in them like bolts of lightning. Perseus hasn’t felt this content in many many moons.

Soon enough, however, it is just Elouan, Charlie, and Drew sitting on the velvet couches of their lounging area, chatting quietly as they sip various expensive liquor.

He looks at his friends, the gentle glow of the chandelier striking their features. They are beautiful. It is a warm kind of beauty, noticeable in the softness of an expression, or the happiness of a moment. They’re angelic.

“Doc?” Elouan drags him out of his quiet admiration.

“Sorry?”

“Drew and Charlie were just discussing what to do about the hotel on Palace road,” The moonlight caught in his hair ripples as he speaks. “They wanted to find out if you’d be okay with extraction?”

Perseus nods, considering the angles, the necessities

“I don’t feel it’s right to go in armed.” Charlie looks around the room, that composed intensity washing over them. “They’re children, and they’re probably scared.”

The frown between Drew’s perfect brows deepens. “I heard there’s cubs and sangrinos inside.”

“Who’s getting them food? How do they leave? What’s keeping them there?”

A loud ding sounds from someone in the room, and Elouan scrambles to reach his phone. The screen is bright in the dimly lit space and he has to blink hard to adjust his eyes, but then he lets out a curse and rushes towards the door, leaning deeply into stick as the anger worsens his limp.

“Everything okay El?”

“Just Arrow.” He waves it off, “I’ll be back before sun.”

Perseus just nods, watching as the large wooden doors slam shut behind the vampire. When he hears the front door bang, he stands, bowing to his guest in a sign of quick return and steps out of the room in search of members of their household.

“Keeya, Aaru.” He calls from the parlor.

They arrive within seconds, her with a face mask on and her dressing gown half tied, and him with charcoal smudges on his cheeks, and a loose paper in his hand.

‘Doc?” Keeya frowns, sensing the urgency in his aura.

“Elouan just stepped out to help Arrow. Please will you two trace him, make sure he isn’t going to the dens. Don’t make yourself known until you know it’s safe.”

“Armed?” The steel reflecting in Aarush’s dark eyes calm Perseus’ nerves.

“No.” He doesn’t need to cause trouble with the Underboss. “Just make sure Elouan is okay. No violent blood is spilled tonight at your hands.” The volatile expression on the little vampire’s face lessens only a fraction. They both nod at him and disappear into their rooms to ready themselves.

He goes back to the lounge, and continues his discussion with his friends. When he hears the front door close, the quiet click echoing in his mind like a drum, he tells Charlie and Drew what is happening.

Drew, ever the mother, is immediately righteous, demanding she send out some of her pack as scouts. Charlie just holds her hand and looks to him with that expression that so often graces his face: how can we help?

Perseus smiles at Drew and her anger, understanding how she feels. “It is okay Tanaka,” He reassures her. “I’ve got it covered. We should talk about the children.”

She growls, and he can hear the wolf in her throat. “You will let us know if you need help Perseus.”

“Yes,” Even Charlie looks adamant, unstoppable. “We will not be in the dark again. Not when it comes to our own.”

He breathes, and it has taken two centuries to get here. To this moment. “I will ask for help if the time comes.”

“The Underboss is holding them in the hotel, and bribing them with food to join her army.” Just like that they move onto the next problem. The next call for help.

“Well then,” Perseus grins, and it looks like the first signs of destruction, “i guess we’ll be paying the Queen a visit.”

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

Elouan my love what are you doing????? Also: Who do you think the Queen is? *sus eyes*

Tags (if you want to be added to/taken off the tag list all my channels of communication are open):

@msdrpreist; @sparkythunderstorm; @aalikun; @crazy-stupid-bean; @queen-of-demons-and-hell; @pjo-hp-things; @nishlicious-01; @spoopylucy; @larrikin-is-a-himbo; @cyra04; @leydiangelo; @elecsinnerz

#crimson shadows #part 2 #jercy vampire au #jercy #percy jackson #pjjg series #pjjg fanfic #Ciara's ocs #OCs #original characters #drew tanaka #charles beckendorf

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

Text

baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle (chapter one)

Peter Nureyev has a new name, a fake identity, a fake life to step into to complete his very first off planet solo mission. Unfortunately, it involves going undercover as a high school student at Oldtown High. And the people he meets there mean his mission will go anything but smoothly.

This high school AU was the idea of my amazing girlfriend @spiky-lesbian

Please leave a comment over on ao3 or reblog if you like this!

---

If he repeated his mission over and over again in his head, he couldn’t fail.

That’s what Peter Nureyev told himself as he sat on the hard plastic chair, gripping it’s edge with knuckles tighter than they needed to be, his jaw set hard like he was trying to chew something that wouldn’t go down. He would fix his face, smooth his posture, shift his face into the look of unshakable confidence he’d spent so long perfecting but he needed to look nervous right now. He needed to look like a cornered animal.

Which was convenient, at least. Less work for him.

Repeat the instructions. Remember the rules. Follow the plan. Don’t fuck up. It sounded so simple and, if Peter believed hard enough, it would be. First rule of thieving, belief in your own skills is half the battle.

There was a secretary at a desk across from him, taking up most of what little room there was in the anteroom to the office. She was mostly focused on her computer screen, typing or tiredly slapping the flat of her hand against it when it glitched out, but every so often she’d give him a sympathetic glance. The kind of glance you’d naturally give a clearly underfed, scrawny teenager, starting a brand new school in the dead centre of the roughest part of Oldtown, with his too big, second hand clothes, scuffing his worn trainers against the carpet. The kind of glance that said oh you poor thing, you have no idea what you’re in for.

If only she knew, Peter thought with a dry amusement. If only she knew just how far he’d travelled, how out of his element he was right now, how he’d simultaneously faced things so much worse than a high school and was so deeply terrified by it. If she saw everything in his cheap rucksack that weren’t school supplies; the long range signal device, the pen drive stuffed full of the galaxy’s most insidious malware, the plasma knife, all carefully concealed amongst the notebooks and pens and pencils. Peter wondered how her face would change then.

It was as if remembering it was there had reminded him what he was here to do and the nerves welled up fresh, like a wound had been prodded. His heart began to thud in his thin chest, his palms began to prickle with heat, the old tic he’d been trying so hard to suppress made his knee bounce. Peter tried to tell himself it would be fine, talking himself through the plan, repeating the mission again and again as if to prove to himself that he knew it by heart. As if simply remembering the words Mag had left him with would be the same as pulling off his very first solo, off planet job.

First rule of thieving, don’t go into a gig you aren’t ready for. Mag was a pragmatist, he’d always been the one sensibly pouring water on Peter’s fervour, after all, making their risks calculated and manageable. And so much was riding on this, the work Peter did here would open up whole new streams of income for them back on Brahma, so much more fuel for the fight. With everything invested in it, the ticket to Mars, the accomodation for a month, the effort to build Peter a fake life solid enough to get him enrolled in a government funded high school, there was no room to play it fast and loose. If Mag said his apprentice was ready for this, then it had to be true. When had he ever steered him wrong?

Peter allowed himself a sigh, one that the secretary wouldn’t hear or, if she did, she’d chalk it up to the understandable anxiousness of the new kid. He’d come a long way from the first time he’d stolen an apple from a stall under Mag’s careful eye.

To keep himself focused, he played a game. Peter did that a lot, he found himself uncomfortable with any time not consumed by some useful distraction. It was why he always listened to the radio as he fell asleep, no matter how many times Mag threatened to take the power brick out of it. He just couldn’t stand idle silence. So he pushed his glasses up his nose and took a quick study of the secretary’s desk to see what information he could glean about her.

His brain worked fast, plucking the bits of information out greedily. Family picture, wife, three children. Notes on her desk, the numbers of different homes for the elderly in Hyperion. Infirm parents and an upcoming heavy drain on her finances, then. Her nails were long but the polish was chipping, like she drummed them on her desk frequently. A short temper or just stressed? More likely the latter, she’d been kind to him so far. Or at least as kind as someone who worked in a place where she must see a hundred neglected, underweight kids with clear signs of poverty could afford to be without going insane. Her desk had no signs of organisation whatsoever, not so much as a sticky note to pin a flag in that riot of loose papers. So she was distracted, under pressure and clearly prone to losing track of information.

Peter thought he could drain the full contents of her bank account within a month.

Obviously, thinking that didn’t make him feel good and he’d never actually do it. But he could feel how proud Mag would be, if he brought him all of that from just a minute of observation, her whole life mapped out in a blueprint. How he’d smile at him and squeeze his shoulder and remind him of the first rule of thieving, know how to read your marks in a single glance, a glance might be all you get. Peter had mastered that one at age seven.

The secretary’s intercom buzzed suddenly and Peter didn’t need to fake his nervous jolt at the harsh, staticy sound. The voice on the other end was too muddy to make out but the secretary lifted her eyes and said, “You can go on through now. Mr Spoor is ready for you.”

Nureyev nodded, scrambling to his feet, patting himself down in a way that would look like he was trying to neaten himself up when in fact, he was deliberately ruffling his hair, yanking down his t-shirt so the frays on the hem would be visible, missing the smudge under his ear. First rule of thieving, you’re never in such a position of power as when the mark underestimates you.

The principal’s office was pretty meagre but at least had a slight edge on the rest of his run down, underfunded school. The chair Peter sat in was worn through so the stuffing poked out, the desk between them had deep gouges in it that hadn’t been sanded down, the computer to the side of them was an ancient model that Peter could have cracked with his eyes closed. That boded well for the rest of his mission.

“It’s customary to have these orientation meetings with your guardian present,” the principal's voice was cool and had no trace of a warm welcome in it, not even a greeting. It matched the expression on his craggy face, “I was expecting to meet them.”

“Um…” Peter swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably, shrinking himself down, “They, uh...my dad...he...he was sick this morning so he couldn’t come.”

There was a lot that could be read into that, half a hundred hidden explanations that, given the catchment area of Oldtown High, Mr Spoor would have seen again and again. So he didn’t press, just giving Peter an unimpressed glance like it was his fault that his non existent father was absent, turning to the screen.

“Very well then...Peter Ransom, correct?”

“That’s right…” Peter nodded.

“That’s right, sir.”

Peter gave a little start, cheeks reddening to come off as merely intimidated and unsure rather than outwardly defiant. As fun as that would be, it wouldn’t make his task any easier, “Sir. Sorry. Sir.”

Mr Spoor likely would have narrowed his lips if they weren’t already worn down to a permanent grimace of disapproval, turning back to the screen and whatever information was on there. Most of it counterfeit, of course.

“So you were born on the outer rim...passable scores in your previous assessments…”

Peter kept his face impassive, though something roiled inside him. The grades Mag had put together for him were fantastic, he knew that for a certainty, and he could match them with his ability. But he didn’t rise, he didn’t bite. He just looked suitably shy and intimidated, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor, fidgeting with the large, second hand glasses Mag had given him to replace his usual sleek, cat eye ones.

“You’ll be starting with us as a senior, given your age and...supposed ability. I expect you to maintain an acceptable standard of work, given that you’re joining so late in the year. We cannot afford for you to fall behind,” Mr Spoor continued, looking more at the screen than the child in front of him, “What is it exactly that brings someone from a place like Brahma to a Martian high school?”

Peter swallowed, “My dad got a job on Mars, sir. He said things would be better for us here...that I’d be able to go to a good school and make friends…”

The principal didn’t even try to hide his snort of disdain, deepening Peter’s instantly formed dislike of the man. He must have thought this new student of his was blind, that he hadn’t seen the graffiti covering the front of the building, how the chairs didn’t match in the classrooms he’d passed, how the books were dog eared and the floors permanently scuffed. Did he enjoy seeing these children clearly born just after the war, with their tattered families and nightmares of a time they could only half remember, crossing the galaxy for something close to a life worth living, coming through his school and being ground down just like the rest of them? Did he find it amusing, seeing a boy who’d grown up scared of the sky itself daring to hope that things might be better here?

Again, Peter repeated his mission in his head.

“We might as well take you on,” Mr Spoor said, as if he didn’t particularly care one way or the other, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in with our other students.” The way he said it made it sound neither reassuring or like a positive.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter feigned a mix of relief, excitement and fear, “I promise I’ll work really hard and do really well.”

The look Mr Spoors gave him made him wonder how he’d like a plasma knife at his throat but, thankfully, it was brief, soon replaced by dismissal, “You’ll begin classes after lunch. Go wait outside again and my secretary will give you your timetable.”

With more breathless, slightly panicked enthusiasm, Peter retreated, looking forward to rewarding himself with a momentary, bitter scowl in between the door closing and approaching the secretary.

But, as it happened, he never got the chance. Because there was now another student was occupying the same chair he’d been sitting on. And Peter’s heart stopped dead for a moment, for a number of reasons.

One, their face was covered in blood. Splatters of it radiated out from a nose that was now swollen and tender, from a lip that was messily split, and Peter knew enough of basic field medicine to know their left eye would be black and purple and swollen nearly shut the next day. The fists angrily clenched in their lap had split knuckles too, just to complete the image.

Two, the face beneath the gore was beautiful.

Peter steadied himself, swallowing hard and taking the seat next to his new schoolmate. Almost immediately, the uninjured eye fixed a glare on him so sharp and vicious that Peter promptly shifted to the next chair along.

He knew the over eager, overcompensating new student he was supposed to be playing would immediately try to make friends, stick his hand out in the gap between them and introduce himself in a too loud, too sunny voice as Peter Ransom. Probably to be met with another glare and possibly a punch to the face, given how much they were twitching with what was clearly post-fight adrenaline. But for some reason, he couldn’t quite manage it so they sat in a frosty silence, punctuated only by the secretary's nails tapping on her computer keys and the steady drip of blood from their nose to the floor.

Still, Peter had a thief’s curiosity. He stole enough glances at the other kid to glean a little bit about them. They were his age, though shorter and stockier by nature, with an anger naturally set into their face that poor newbie Peter Ransom would never feel. Their hair was a mess of black curls, piled on top of their head and shaved underneath, their ear held numerous piercings they were clearly too young to have acquired legally or hygienically. That surely wouldn’t be permitted by the dress code Peter had studied avidly along with the schematics of the school, the faculty list and every other piece of information he’d been able to get about Oldtown High, determined to do a good and thorough job. The code would probably have had something to say about their combat boots that were a size too big, their fishnet tights and short skirt, their sleeveless shirt with, incongruously, a picture of a cartoon man on it and the bright, bubbly text reading ‘Turbo!’. There had probably been bigger misdemeanours to think about at the time than a dress code violation.

“What the hell are you staring at?”

Peter jumped at the rough, angry voice, realising the kid was scowling right at him. Their face was clearly made for that expression; Peter had faced down armed guards, lasers from the clouds, jobs that would have landed him in jail for ten times the years he’d been alive but he’d seldom felt so intimidated.

And people didn’t normally notice him looking. After all, first rule of thieving, your eyes are your greatest weapon, don’t be obvious when you use them.

“I...nothing, I’m not…” he searched for a response, glad it was in Ransom’s nature to be easily put off.

“Do I look like the kind of guy you want to mess with right now?” the scowl deepened, sending a fresh line of blood running down their chin from their broken lip.

“Um...no,” Peter decided it was better to give simple answers.

“Yeah,” they gave a dry snort with no humour in it, “So keep your eyes to yourself or lose them, pal.”

Blood, angry tones and threats didn’t scare Peter Nureyev but they weren’t the reason he looked away hastily and was glad of it. It had more to do with dark eyes, holding depths he knew he’d never open up with just a glance, a faded white scar across a flat nose that he thought he’d like to trace with the very tip of his finger, full lips that looked soft somehow even as they were curled in anger.

Peter gave himself a mental slap, repeating his mission again, louder and firmer. He could practically hear Mag laughing at him all the way from Brahma.

First rule of thieving, stop mooning after every pretty boy who so much as glances at you, Pete! How many times do I have to tell you?

He had to admit, he’d been hoping for a smoother start on his first off planet solo mission.

Fortunately, the secretary spoke up not long after, “Peter? Peter Ransom?”

He jumped to his feet, receiving a few papers from her. A class schedule, a map and an outline of expected behaviour. Peter had seen all of this and far, far more in his research but he made sure Ransom looked at it with apprehension, as if it was written in another language.

“And for you, Mr Steel, another detention slip,” her voice took on a kind of fond, bemused exhaustion, “Add it to the collection.”

The other student jumped up and swiped the pink piece of paper from her hands, stuffing it carelessly in the pocket of his skirt, “Thanks, Brenda.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to Peter, “It’s lunchtime at the moment, I’m sure Mr Steel here would be happy to show you to the cafeteria.”

Instantly, Mr Steel stiffened and shot her an exasperated look which she soundly ignored, turning back to her computer screen in a manner that suggested he could stand and look at her like that all day, for all she cared. Eventually, he gave a growl and stomped out of the office, down the corridor. Peter followed, pausing in the doorway to give him a chance to storm off and leave him behind.

There was no hiding his surprise when, after a few seconds, he snapped, “Are you coming or what?”

Peter did.

Nureyev knew every inch of the hallways but of course Ransom didn’t, so he fixed an expression of wary awe on his face. There were some things that didn’t take a lot of effort, like the swear word carved into one locker that he’d never even heard of or when the sound of a muffled explosion shook the floor above them where the science rooms were. They passed other students, who shot unsurprised looks at the state of Steel and appraised him like a piece of fresh meat in a butcher’s. Peter would have loved the chance to try his knife or his wits against one of them, he’d long ago learned to make up for the scrawny appearance that made them look at him so hungrily.

Stick to the mission. Follow the instructions. Do your job.

Abruptly, Steel stopped, without turning around, “Cafeteria’s down that way. See you.”

Peter blinked, glancing at the double doors he was indicating with a thumb, which were practically shaking out of their frames with the sound of what had to be a riot behind them, “Aren’t you eating too?”

“What’s it to you, pal?” Juno did turn then, just enough to fix him with an incredulous look.

Before Peter had to come up with an answer, they were interrupted by a loud shout of, “Juno!”

Peter thought his eyes were playing tricks on him for a moment, an exact copy of Steel was bounding down some stairs to their left. Except this one was smiling, a hundred kilowatt grin, and wearing leggings, an oversize sweatshirt and sneakers that flashed when they hit the floor.

“Oh god, Juno, your face is a mess,” he grimaced at the sight of his twin’s face, “Jones did a number on you, huh?”

“‘Bout half the number I did on them, they got carted off to the emergency room,” Steel, now Juno, grunted, still stiff and awkward, throwing glances in Peter’s direction.

“I’m sure they deserved it,” the other Steel shrugged, turning their grin on Peter, “Hey! I’m Benzaiten, you can call me Ben or Benten. You new?”

“Um, yes! I just started today actually, I...I’m from off planet and…”

“That’s cool! You can tell us more over lunch,” Ben’s tidal wave of positivity bowled over him, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.

Both Juno and Peter froze.

“Over what now?”

“Uh, that’s kind of you but...um, I don’t know if I…”

“He’s new, Juno, of course he’s coming to sit with us!” Ben shrugged, like the matter was obvious.

Juno was staring daggers at his twin, looking ready to throttle him, “The guy says he’s fine, so he’s fine.”

“Come on, Juno, don’t be a bitch,” Ben laughed fondly, like he didn’t see that his twin was gritting his teeth hard enough to shatter, “We’d better get moving, Mick and Sasha will already be waiting…”

He turned on his neon flashing heel and bounced down the hall in the complete opposite direction to the cafeteria, not waiting for them. Juno groaned and pressed his fingertips to his temples like he was trying to ward off a migraine. After what was clearly him counting backwards from ten, he frowned and set off after his brother.

“Come or don’t come,” he growled over his shoulder at Peter, “I couldn’t care less.”

For a moment, neither Nureyev nor Ransom really knew what to do. He repeated his mission again in his head.

Blend in. Sneak in after dark. Find the evidence. Upload the malware. Send it to Mag. Run.

Nowhere in that list did it say follow a beautiful, angry stranger and his bubblegum brother god only knew where. In fact, Peter was pretty sure they fell squarely under the definition of a distraction, something he knew to avoid. He knew what the sensible choice was, the decision someone who could be trusted with missions like this, who would work tirelessly to be the best thief he could be, would make.

But...wouldn’t this count as blending in?

Armed with that flimsy excuse, Peter followed Juno Steel.

#jupeter #juno steel #peter nureyev #high school au #benzaiten steel #mick mercury #ben/mick #sasha wire #slow burn #enemies to friends to lovers #please reblog!#or comment!#or both!#make my whole damn day!

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sunflowersupremes · 3 years

Text

A Strange Acquisition (2/?)

Read on AO3

Geralt stared as the Omega ate. He’d rented a room at the end and had food brought up to it, telling the boy to help himself. Deep down he knew he ought to offer him his spare clothes - trousers, at the very least - but he wasn’t quite done looking at him yet.

There was a strange thrill about the knowledge he would get from the Omega, like when he’d stumbled across books of forbidden magic during his training at Kaer Morhen. He’d been beaten once he was caught, but no one was going to beat him for studying the Omega.

No one would care what he did to the boy. He shook his head. I’m not going to hurt him, he told himself sternly. I’m just going to help him and learn a bit along the way.

It didn’t matter to Geralt if he kept the baby or not - he intended to offer him an abortion, he wasn’t a monster, he wouldn’t force him to carry his rapist’s baby - either one would be interesting. “Have you had a baby before?” he asked.

The boy paused mid-bite. “I’ve been pregnant before,” he said slowly. Then he quickly looked away, mumbling, “I- I lost the baby.”

“It was aborted?”

“No sir.”

“You miscarried?”

“Yes sir.”

Even though it was clear that the line of questioning was upsetting the man, Geralt couldn’t resist asking, “What was that like?”

The Omega looked down, shoving a bit more food in his mouth, then whispered, “It hurt sir.”

“What were the symptoms?” The Omega winced at the question and Geralt quickly lied, “So I know what to watch for, in case you get sick.”

“Pain in my stomach,” he said quietly. “I woke up to blood between my legs, soaking everything.” He licked his lips and took another bite. “Sir?”

“Hmm?”

His eyes were huge saucers, full of fear and trepidation. “What happens if I loose the baby?”

Geralt tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

The boy looked down at his half-empty plate. “What would the punishment be?”

“You were punished for loosing the baby?”

“My master let all the servants use me,” he whispered. “And then he sold me to buy a better Omega.”

Geralt placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look at me,” he said. “I don’t care what happens to the baby. If you loose it I will be sorry, but I will not punish you.”

The Omega’s eyes flicked nervously, looking away from Geralt and studying the wall behind the Witcher. “What if I don’t want it?”

“Then I’ll buy you a potion for an abortion.”

“You won’t just punch it?”

Geralt shook his head. “No. I won’t punch you.”

The Omega’s eyes gleamed, he leaned forward, almost crawling onto the table with excitement. “At all? You won’t hit me?”

It seemed he needed to lay down rules with him. Geralt hadn’t really thought anything through, hadn’t thought about what he was going to with with an Omega in the long run. He won’t be pregnant forever, murmured a voice in the back of his head. He pushed the voice away, focusing instead on his young companion. “I will not punch you, or slap you. I will not hit you on your head, your chest, or your belly. I don’t believe in using whips or knives.”

“I understand sir.”

“I expect you to do what I tell you to do and to always be truthful. In return, I will see to it that you’re cared for. I don’t make much, and sometimes you will go hungry, or have to sleep outside. It is unfortunate, but unavoidable. However, I will never withhold basic needs as a punishment.”

“Yes, sir.” He seemed less excited than he had been before, clearly realizing that there would be consequences.

“Look at me, Omega.”

The boy looked up, still afraid to meet Geralt’s eyes, staring instead at his chin. “Sir?”

“If you misbehave I will punish you, with my hand or a switch, no more. I will never break skin and I will only hit your bottom and thighs.”

“Really?”

Somehow, out of everything Geralt had just said, that was what made him sit up and look excited.

“I’m not cruel. And, no I do not eat babies or Omegas.” He gave him a small smile, hoping that it would show the boy that he didn’t mean him any harm. “You are always free to ask me questions. I won’t ever punish you for asking questions.”

“I can ask questions?”

“Always.”

He looked around, licking his lips nervously. His cornflower eyes landed on the narrow bed. “What about… sex?”

“I’m infertile,” Geralt said bluntly. “I am capable of having sex, but I cannot impregnate you.”

The Omega stared at him a moment longer. Geralt sighed, realizing he wanted to know more. “I’m not going to rape you. Perhaps one day I will take you to bed, but only if you want it.”

He wanted the boy to want it. He’d never bedded an Omega before, wanted to know what it felt like, but he wasn’t about to tie him down or drug him.

Once again, the Omega was far too pleased by such a simple act of kindness. “Thank you.”

Geralt motioned for the boy to finish his meal and leaned back, studying him. He kept one hand on his belly as he ate, not quite protectively, it seemed more than anything that he was supporting it. He didn’t seem attached at all to the child growing inside him. Perhaps he would want to terminate the pregnancy.

Geralt hid a bit of disappointment at that thought. I’d always been told that Omegas are fiercely protective of their offspring, but perhaps not. It was one of the excuses he’d heard people give for raping Omegas, that they craved children and didn’t care who put it in them.

But studying the young man, he couldn’t help but realize he was little more than a child himself. I really don’t know anything about him and I probably should. It’s not fair to him if I keep calling him ‘the Omega’ or ‘boy’ and I’m certainly not going to call him cumbucket or anything else those men came up with.

“I really do want to know what your name is,” he said softly. “Surely you have one?”

“My parents named me Julian, sir.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Julian,” he said. “My name is Geralt. You may call me that.”

“I- you want that sir- uh Geralt?”

“Yes.” After a moment’s pause Geralt asked, “How old are you?”

“Seventeen sir- I mean, Geralt.”

He winced. Seventeen and already on his second pregnancy? Geralt didn’t know much about Omegas, but that didn’t seem right.

Julian picked at his food, then whispered, “That’s what I’m supposed to say.”

“Supposed to say?” Geralt repeated. “Is it- are you younger?” It wasn’t easy for him to guess the ages of humans, and the Omega was chronically underfed, making it even harder. Oh gods, please don’t let him be a kid. I had my hand in his ass.

“Twenty three.”

Geralt relaxed. “Good,” he said quietly.

Julian pushed his empty plate away, tapping his fingers nervously on the table.

“What is it?” Geralt asked.

“My bottom is very sore sir, could you hit my thighs?”

“What?”

The boy curled in on himself, pulling his knees into his chair hiding in them. “I lied,” he whispered. “Will you please hit my thighs?”

Geralt didn’t think the lie was worth disciplining the boy over, but he wasn’t certain that giving him a free pass for his first transgression was a good idea. “Fuck,” he moaned.

“We could do that.”

“No, kid, I’m not-” He shook his head. “Come here.”

The boy struggled to his feet, making his way around the table by leaning heavily against it. His feet dragged over the ground, too weak to pick them up properly. Geralt felt sick at the thought of punishing him.

I have to, he thought worriedly. He expects it, and if I don’t it will only confuse him. But he couldn’t.

Geralt cupped his chin. “I’m not going to punish you,” he said quietly. “You had that lie beaten into you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. With a riding crop sir.”

“Then it wasn’t your fault.”

Julian nodded slowly. “Thank you Geralt.”

The Witcher pushed his chair back and stood, wrapping his arm around Julian and guiding him toward the bed. “You need to rest,” he said. “And then tomorrow I have questions for you.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

He had to pick him up to get him onto the bed, since the Omega was too weak to do it himself, laying him out and carefully draping the blanket over him.

#jaskier #dandelion #geralt #geralt of rivia #Witcher Fanfiction #Witcher Fanfic #The Witcher #Wiedźmin #My Writing #series: A Strange Acquisition

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nekojitachan · 4 years

Text

Hmm, got a new story idea the other day (actually, have had a couple in the past couple of weeks, but this one requires world building). I might be playing around with this a little - I never do too close a retelling of canon because... well, I like to shake things up a bit and make them interesting, but it’ll probably start out a little similar to TFC and then the changes will snowball from there.

I think this gives an idea of some of the world building, though.

*******

I Am Fire

******

Nathaniel stood near the old sedan while it burned, while the acrid stench of burnt plastic and rubber didn't quite mask the sickening odor of his mother's body slowly breaking down beneath the flames under his command. For a moment he almost made them burn even hotter, made them reduce her thin, worn body to nothing but ash (like he should, like she'd always told him to do if the worst ever happened... like it had happened) but the thought of losing her so completely made him banish the flames before they finished their job. Some still licked at the metal frame of the car as he reached into its ruined shell to fetch his mother's remains, the heat inconsequential to a Fire as powerful as him (not powerful enough, never powerful enough when it came to his father), to gather her charred remains.

He used a broken piece of metal from the car to help dig a hole in the sand as the waves washed onto the shore, then buried what was left of Mary Jamilyn Wesninski (nee Hartford) in the shallow grave, smoke rising from the remains. Once the sand was hastily smoothed back in place, the cold Pacific water lapping at his heels, Nathaniel used his power to turn it to glass, to seal the unmarked grave and give his mother as peaceful a resting place as possible. He bowed his head for several heartbeats, not so much in memorial as an impromptu breakdown, as despair and bone-deep weariness bore down on him.

Then he forced himself onto his feet and to take a step forward, to take another one and another, to keep moving because that's what his mother had told him to do - to keep running and to never stop. He only paused to gather the backpack he'd assembled from both their supplies before he'd set fire to everything else, which contained what he needed to survive for the foreseeable future (except a phone, which had been reduced to melted parts in the car), should help keep him alive long enough to buy a new ID in Reno. Then he unleashed the flames on the car once more, let them feed until the damn thing would be nothing more than a twisted hunk of metal and walked toward the nearest leyline without another glance.

*******

Andrew hummed in boredom as he rolled the handle of the striker’s racquet (Josten’s) he’d picked up to play with between his hands – bored and hyped-up and oh so done with everything already.

“Put it down before you break it,” Kevin ordered, perched on top of an entertainment center and busy reading through Josten’s stats yet again, as if he hadn’t memorized them in the last few days.

“Oh, what a shame if that happened,” Andrew drawled while he grinned, while he swung the racquet through the air just to annoy the bastard. When Kevin’s green eyes took on a golden cast, his grin widened and ice began to form on the racquet; two could play that game. Mindful of the reason they were in this shithole of a town and their ‘beloved’ coach’s instructions to ‘behave’ while he went off to talk to their quarry, Kevin quickly stifled his power and shook his head.

“Don’t do anything to scare Josten away, Hernandez warned Coach that he’s a bit… squirrely.”

“I’m not the one who started it,” Andrew reminded the arrogant bastard as he resumed spinning the glorified stick between his hands. “And so what? Just find another rookie,” he needled with a faint shrug.

As expected, Kevin took the bait. “Another roo- we were lucky to get Josten’s tape, dammit!” he hissed, mindful to keep his voice pitched low. “You think we’re going to find another striker who’s a fire elemental, any fire elemental out there at this point who’s unsigned, let alone with half his potential?”

“What potential?”

Kevin shook his head at Andrew’s unimpressed scoff.

“No, it’s there, it is,” he swore. “Hernandez said the Dingoes haven’t gotten this far in years, not until Josten showed up. That he hasn’t seen a Fire with his potential in all his time coaching, even if he’s still rough on the court.” Something hungry flashed across Kevin’s face for a moment as he set the papers aside to rub his scarred left hand. “He’s right, too. The way he plays, the way the team comes together whenever he’s out on court… it’s there, that promise. The Foxes need it, while Coach and I will make him better. You’ll see.”

So boring – Andrew had already heard this over a dozen times before, back when Kevin had argued for Wymack to chose Josten to replace poor, poor Smalls (maybe not so ‘poor’ since she didn’t have to suffer the Foxes now) and then as they flew to shithole Millport, Arizona. He already knew that his life was one big joke, but the past week had been a never-ending punchline of ‘oh wait, let’s really rub it in, shall we?’

Oh well, at least he could sit back and watch Gordon’s reaction when the asshole realized that Wymack had recruited a fire elemental more powerful than the homophobic druggie. The senior should have been replaced ages ago, except Fires weren’t easy to find, so any of real talent were scooped up by the many, many better teams out there.

Which made one wonder, why was such a diamond in the rough like Josten just waiting for Kevin to find him like this?

Just a little suspicious, yes?

Mistrust merrily bubbled along with the drug-fueled euphoria and boredom inside of Andrew’s head, which didn’t help with the whole ‘must not start smashing’ things. Oh, Wymack and Kevin owed him for this, yes they did.

He was swinging closer and closer to the racquet stand when there was the pitter patter of swift feet – was the little squirrel pulling a runner? Oh, clever boy, to want to get as far away from Wymack and his do-gooder self as possible, but Andrew had suffered on this fool’s errand for a reason, so that meant squirrelly-boy (or perhaps ‘rabbit’) would suffer, too.

Now things were getting fun.

Andrew braced himself in front of the nearest exit, the door leading out to the parking lot, with the ‘borrowed’ racquet held in both hands ready to lash out, but he literally felt rabbit-boy near – felt a rush of fire from the panicking kid (rabbit indeed). The tingling sense of pulsing heat laced with a simmering anger/threat made his own water magic rise, made the surrounding chill as it prepared to protect him.

A vague, shimmery shape propelled itself forward, toward the door, only to slid to a halt as fire and water slammed into each other; Andrew lashed out with the racquet but their elements, their magic, created enough of a buffer between them that the end of the stupid stick barely brushed against the kid’s chest.

Huh, maybe Kevin was right about Josten being a powerful Fire.

Andrew wavered on his feet from the backlash of their elements smashing together, somewhat inured to it after a year of collegiate Exy, of dealing with Kevin, of being somewhat prepared for the rabbiting Fire rabbit, while Josten ended up falling down hard onto his ass. He stared up at Andrew with dark eyes wide as his power receded, the shimmering effect around him fading away to reveal the lean, underfed kid with overgrown black hair and baggy, worn clothes and too-attractive features in the one picture which Hernandez had sent.

“Water,” Josten choked out as he gazed up at Andrew, as Andrew felt a traitorous flicker of interest overtake the boredom, both over that too-pretty face and the lingering feeling of intoxicating warmth from Josten’s element.

Uh-oh.

“Goddammit, Minyard, this is why we can’t have nice things!” Wymack bellowed as he and Hernandez finally caught up to the little rabbit, his dulcet voice echoing through the lounge as he took in Josten sprawled out on the floor and Andrew leaning against the racquet. “Are you all right, kid?” he asked and held out a hand to help Josten off the floor, which of course was ignored.

“Oh Coach, if he was nice then he wouldn’t be of any use to us.” Andrew ‘grinned’ at Josten, who managed to stand up on his own, his attention focused on Andrew with a wariness which made it clear that he’d an idea of just how powerful Andrew was, even though Andrew had only used a fraction of his talent. Huh, someone wasn’t adding up, not if he sensed Andrew so easily, not if he’d recovered so quickly, not if he made Andrew want to lean forward to soak in that odd, tingling sense of warmth….

“Besides, he looks good as new. Or, well, second-hand new,” Andrew said with an exaggerated grimace as he motioned to the kid’s outfit, as he leaned away instead of closer.

“Fuck off,” Josten muttered as he clutched at the handles of the battered duffel bag slung over his left shoulder. “And what’s with the racquet?” His wary look morphed into a glare after a brief flare of recognition. “Hey, that’s mine!”

“So grouchy,” Andrew complained then once more grinned. “Here you go!” He iced the racquet before he threw it at the kid, and felt a rare spark of amusement over the way that Josten cursed beneath his breath as he fumbled to hold on to the slippery object.

He also noticed how quickly the Fire negated the ice without blasting everyone with steam, which required skill along with power.

“What the hell?” Hernandez demanded as he approached Josten (who skittered out of reach, which was also interesting). “You okay, kid?”

“Andrew’s a bit raw on manners,” Wymack said in an attempt to smooth things over as he got between Josten and Andrew in a clear sign for Andrew to back off and stop with the ‘fun’ tricks. “But he’ll behave from now on. So what about it, Neil?” Over on the entertainment center, Kevin, who had been oddly quiet the entire time, leaned forward in interest.

Josten shook his head and once more clutched at his duffel bag (hmm, security blanket or something more?) while he shoved the racquet at Hernandez. “I’m fine. Just let me go,” he insisted as he shook his head again.

“We’re not done.”

“Coach Wymack.” Hernandez seemed rather protective of a certain rabbit – how odd, especially since he’d ratted him out in the first place.

“Give us a second?” Wymack somehow summoned a measure of charm (and a good dose of his earth magic) to put Hernandez at ease (Andrew sensed a weak amount of air magic in the man) which made the Dingoes coach grumble and agree to leave after giving his precious striker one more look and a promise to be back soon.

As soon as he was gone, the rabbit found his voice again (could a powerful Fire be a rabbit? Something to ponder). “I already gave you my answer, I won’t sign with you,” Josten insisted as he gazed at the door as if desperate to go through it, too.

Sighing as if tired already (Andrew knew that he was, and eager to hit up the pathetic minibar in the hotel), Wymack rubbed along the back of his neck "You didn't listen to my whole offer," he said slowly as if in hopes that the words would sink in that time. "If I paid to fly three people out here to see you then the least you could do is give me five minutes, don't you think?"

There was another flare of fire magic as Josten must have finally realized that it wasn’t just the three of them in the room, as his face paled and ugly dark eyes widened yet again while he searched around the room as he stepped away from Wymack (oh, yet another fascinating and suspicious reaction). “You didn’t bring him here.”

"Is that a problem?" Wymack’s earth magic pulsed out in an obvious attempt to calm the panicked kid (to keep them all from being flambéed – well, Andrew could protect himself, and he supposed Kevin).

"I'm not good enough to play on the same court as a champion." The kid sounded as if he believed that – and about two seconds away from the flambé thing.

"True, but irrelevant.”

Ah, finally, Number Two had spoken, and as usual, didn’t appear impressed with what he saw. Yet he added his earth magic to Wymack’s, though it didn’t appear to calm down Josten at all.

"What are you doing here?" Josten asked while he continued to edge toward the door, which Andrew moved to block once again.

"Why were you leaving?" Kevin countered as he leaned forward, his attention focused on the Fire with an intensity reserved only for Exy.

Josten didn’t seem to care for that intensity – that or for Kevin. "I asked you first." Oh, wasn’t that mature?

"Coach already answered that question.” Kevin sounded a bit testy over having to point that fact out, while Andrew was almost amused over the exchange – almost. He’d need another dose of his medicinal chains soon, judging from the way his skin itched and stomach churned. "We’re waiting for you to sign the contract. Stop wasting our time."

"No.” Both Kevin and Wymack appeared stunned over that flat denial, especially Kevin, Exy’s precious Number Two. "There are a thousand strikers who'd jump at the chance to play with you. Why don't you bother them?" Oh, Andrew might have an iota of respect for the pain in the ass, but he just wanted to go back to the hotel and start drinking instead of suffer through this scintillating wordplay.

“None of them are fire elementals,” Wymack said as he folded his tattooed arms over his chest. “We want you.”

"I won't play with Kevin,” Josten declared as he once more eyed the door. “And you already have a Fire.”

"He’s not good enough, and you will," Kevin shot back without pause, which earned him a brief glare from Wymack.

"Maybe you haven't noticed, but we're not leaving here until you say yes,” Wymack warned Josten once he finished giving Kevin a dirty look for insulting Gordon. “Kevin says we have to have you, and he's right." The kid didn’t look happy about that.

Kevin opened his mouth again, definitely to argue more with the kid, most likely to insult him a good bit (the true Kevin Day way), maybe, just maybe to mention that the rookie striker did have some potential beneath the roughness, had one hell of a drive while out on the court (there was a reason for them to come out after him, after all, and not just because of his element), but Andrew was tired and bored and needed to get away from a certain too-attractive Fire enigma right then.

“Coach is right, he’s not going to let this go, so why don’t you, someone who supposedly plays as if he has everything to lose, save us all a lot of time and jump on the chance to get out of this boring hellhole, hmm?” Agree to sign, and then Andrew could spend the summer figuring out just what Josten was hiding, why a Fire with so much potential was hiding in Millport, of all places, and appeared freaked out by Kevin.

Was this a Moriyama trick? Planted bait?

“But… but I’m not good enough,” the kid tried to lie even as his distasteful magic kept making Andrew’s insides tingle in a disturbing counterpart to the damn drug’s withdrawal.

Kevin jumped onto his feet but one look from Andrew kept him from approaching Josten. “Not yet, but we’ll get you there. Give us some time to train you and your talent, and you will get there.”

When Josten stopped eyeing the door to focus on him, Wymack piled it on as well. "It actually works in our favor that you're all the way out here," he argued. "No one outside of our team and school board even knows we're here. We don't want your face all over the news this summer. We've got too much to deal with right now and we don't want to drag you, some unknown Fire, into the mess until you're safe and settled at campus. There's a confidentiality clause in your contract, says you can't tell anyone you're ours until the season starts in August."

Josten was quiet for a few seconds before his shoulders slumped forward, a sign that his defenses were weakening. "It's not a good idea,” he announced after he looked away from Kevin.

"Your opinion has been duly noted and dismissed," Wymack said while Kevin grinned in victory. "Anything else, or are you going to start signing stuff?" Just in case, Wymack ‘pushed’ a little with his talent, gave off soothing waves as if to calm Josten.

The kid was quiet for a few more seconds before he mumbled some bullshit about needing his mother’s permission, even though Hernandez had warned Wymack out how Josten’s parents were never around and might be abusing the striker. When he kept going on about them, Wymack glanced over at Andrew, who gave a quick shake of his head.

The kid was lying – he was interested in the contract, but it was pure bullshit about him needing his parents’ permission, from what Andrew’s magic could sense.

Wymack’s lips thinned before he told Andrew and Kevin to go wait in Hernandez’s SUV, which would take them back to the hotel. Kevin wasn’t happy about the command, but as (almost) always, obeyed their benevolent tyrant which meant that Andrew followed.

“Is he going to sign?” Kevin asked once they were outside.

Andrew cocked his head to the side and ‘thought’ about it for a moment; water elementals weren’t exactly precogs (or the majority of them weren’t), at least not beyond a vague impression of the future and people. His ability lay in knowing if someone was telling him the truth or not, if they were ‘safe’ or not – and the impression he got from one Neil Josten?

LIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIARLIAR…..

Yet he’d felt something toward the end there which led him to believe that the young man would show up at PSU, after all.

Now that he thought about it… it was probably an impending sense of doom.

“He’ll sign,” Andrew sighed as he went to the back door of the SUV to fetch the bottle of water he’d left with his backpack while motioning for Kevin to throw him his bottle of pills, all the while ignoring Hernandez. Josten would show up just to annoy the fuck out of him, he was certain.

He used his talent to chill the water, which was warm from sitting in the vehicle for the past half an hour, then forced himself to take the pill, biological clock all fucked up (ha, more than just that) because of the time difference. After a few minutes and a cigarette, Josten finally left the building with Wymack and Hernandez at his heels, and when Josten made to walk past the SUV, Andrew opened the back door with a wide grin and a slight, mocking bow. "Too good to play with us, too good to ride with us?"

The Fire gave him a cool look (ha!) before breaking into a run; Andrew had to admit he made just as pretty a picture fading off into the distance with that lean form and long legs. Hmm, as much as Exy annoyed Andrew most days, he had to appreciate its effects on the human physique.

“Well?” Kevin snapped at Wymack once they were in the SUV, in what probably was meant to be a demanding tone but contained too much anxiety, considering that they had to sign a new striker or else.

Wymack picked up on it, too, considering how he pushed more of the ‘soothing’ bullshit while he shook out a cigarette. “He’ll be spending the summer with us, as soon as he graduates.” He twisted around in the front passenger seat to glare at Andrew. “No rough shit with the new kid, do you hear me?” Next to him, Hernandez radiated displeasure while he drove. “He’s a Fox now.”

Mindful of the non-Fox in the car, Andrew merely bared his teeth and gave his coach a two-fingered salute before he slumped back into the seat as the drug began to take effect. He hummed a little and closed his eyes while he thought about the alcohol awaiting him in his hotel room, and tuned out Kevin and Wymack arguing about the best way to go about training a rookie Fire.

Wymack could bitch and moan all he liked, but the more Andrew reflected back on his encounter with Neil Josten… oh yes, too many pieces which didn’t fit together. Someone was a too-attractive, too-powerful liar, which meant that Andrew had a new toy to play with that summer. A toy he would poke and prod and twist about until either all the pieces fit, or it was broken badly enough that any danger to him and his was all gone.

As he thought about that sharp-boned face and addicting tingle of magic… he hoped it was the latter.

*******

#aftg #aftg fic #aftg au #neil josten #andrew minyard #kevin day #david wymack #nekojitachanfics #elemental magic #of course it'll be andreil

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i-am-snowils-admiral · 4 years

Text

Slip Away

Someone in a discord told me to do Izuku angst with a bit of vigilantism so have some.

This is just blatant dadzawa-adopts-kids-off-the-street-at-random have fun with it.

1960 words, also on Ao3

---

He’s been chasing the kid for a few months now.

If he’d been taking it seriously, he’d be in custody by now. The kid was young, inexperienced, and nowhere near as difficult to capture as most villains. For a vigilante, he wasn’t terrible, taking out small crime here and there, seemingly with nothing more than his wits and a crowbar, but there was something about him that made it obvious he had no idea what he was doing.

That was the problem, though. He was skittish, distrustful. Shouta had only ever seen him on the street, and he constantly looked underfed and dirty. He probably lived in one of these alleyways. There was a part of him that wanted to just grab the kid by surprise and drag him back to the station, where Naomasa could either find his parents or shuffle him into the foster system, but he’d done that before and it hadn’t gone well. There was a look in the kid’s eyes that was too familiar.

Hitoshi had run away from three different homes before he figured out what that look meant. Trust wasn’t something that came naturally, and the kid would just end up in the streets again if he didn’t do this slowly.

He’d complained to Hizashi about the situation extensively, ranting over the phone (as much as it could be considered ranting) about how the kid just kept slipping away from him every time he thought he was getting somewhere. Hizashi had taken to calling him Slip in response, and as a person who was terrible at naming things, Shouta couldn’t help but feel it was accurate. To both his slippery nature and his small size.

Slip wasn’t strong. He stuck to resolving the smaller, more common crimes, and didn’t like drawn-out fights. If he didn’t knock out his target within the first few minutes, he pulled back and contacted the police.

Unlike Shouta’s students, he seemed to have some knowledge of his limits.

He had learned, though, with Shouta’s help. Shouta had met the young vigilante about six months ago, arriving at the scene of a crime just in time to see him disappear deeper into the alleyway, and the kid just kept showing up. He didn’t talk to him at first. As they encountered each other more often, he started staying on-site after the take-downs, but it wasn’t until Shouta had to re-locate his shoulder after a particularly brutal fight with a mugger that he had finally received a quiet “thanks.”

It was unclear how old he was. His figure and voice suggested that he was young, but in this quirked society, those aspects didn’t mean as much as they would have otherwise. The way that he spoke and acted definitely pointed towards early to mid teens, though. Shouta had alerted Naomasa of the situation, and politely asked for permission to handle it on his own time.

He couldn’t make that mistake again. The cost had almost been too high.

Their first actual interaction had been about the punching. Slip used his crowbar almost exclusively, relying on the strength of the weapon to make up for his lack of muscle mass, but on one particular fight, it had been knocked out of his hands. Instead of pulling back as he usually would, he darted forwards, fist thrusting forwards in a continued effort to bring down the low-level criminal he was facing.

He would have broken all of his fingers had Shouta not intervened. Had this kid never thrown a punch before? He’s certainly watched plenty of punches. How could he possibly not know that you couldn’t tuck your thumb underneath all your other fingers?

Shouta had ended the fight in an instant, leaving the criminal unconscious on the ground as he rounded on the smaller figure.

Slip had left that fight knowing how to throw a proper punch. And how to stand properly. And how to break out of a few holds.

Shouta had had to knock the criminal out a couple extra times. It was a long lesson.

After that, things snowballed. Slip was tiny. While fixing his stance, Shouta had been able to feel every rib through his sweatshirt. His wrists were bony and pale. So the next time they ran into each other, Shouta shoved a protein bar and some juice packs into his arms. It was all he had on him at the time. The time after that, he had a proper meal. They sat on the sidewalk while Slip ate, Shouta turned slightly away so he could keep his face hidden without the medical mask he normally wore. They talked a little bit, about fighting and life. Shouta plied the kid for information about where he was living, what his name was, and whether he was safe, but got little in return.

That was ok, though. Shouta wasn’t trying to find him out. He just had to gain his trust. Food would gain his trust. Bandaging his wounds would gain his trust. Listening to him would gain his trust.

Slip liked to ramble. About anything and everything. Mostly heroes, but occasionally about criminal groups he’d run into and subsequently fled from. He always had some new tip for Shouta, some new fact that he’d picked up in his wanderings.

“Mr. Eraser,” he’d say, green eyes serious and intense. “Did you know that the Yakuza has been recruiting lately?”

Shouta had known that, but he hadn’t known that the new recruits were all highschoolers, or that most of them had expressed an interest in studying biology.

Slip seemed to be simultaneously terrified of him and desperate for his attention. After a few months, it became clear that he was seeking Shouta out, though he didn’t stick around very long. He’d flit in and out of Shouta’s reach, sometimes refusing to come closer than the nearest rooftop, and other times sneaking in close to hang off of his sleeve. One time, he simply walked up to Shouta and hugged him, burying his face in Shouta’s side and standing there, trembling slightly. For a moment, Shouta thought that that was the end of it, that he could finally take the kid off the streets, but when he’d reached out to reciprocate the gesture, Slip had run off once again.

He couldn’t be hasty, though. It couldn’t happen again. He knew where Slip was, at least. He was keeping track of him, knew what villain groups were in the area.

Hitoshi had been in another city when it happened. A place he was unfamiliar with. He’d run away again, and run into the wrong people.

It took Shouta nearly three days to find him after that.

He hadn’t seen Slip in a few days when he finally ran into him. For once, he’d found the kid instead of the other way around, and he wasn’t facing a mugger or a thief. He was slumped against the wall of an alley, sweatshirt seemingly still damp from yesterday’s rain. His shoulders trembled.

Shouta slid down the wall to sit next to him, leaving some space between them. Slip’s breaths were labored, the trembling looking more violent and uncontrolled closer-up.

“Hey, Mr. Eraser,” came the quiet greeting. The words were grating, and ended in a fit of nasty-sounding coughs.

“Hey,” Shouta responded, leaning forward to make sure Slip knew he was studying him. What little of his face he could see was flushed, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Slip sniffed, looking away.

“I’m tired,” he said, curling into himself, digging thin fingers into his arms in an attempt to stop the shaking. “I’m tired, Mr. Eraser.”

Shouta reached out slowly, laying his fingers on the kid’s forehead. It was damp and hot. “You should rest, then. Do you have somewhere you can rest? I can get you medicine.”

Slip just hummed a little in response, and they sat in silence.

“Hey,” Slip said, sniffing again through some heavy congestion. “It’s my birthday today.”

“Yeah? I should get you some birthday cake too, then.”

Slip laughed a little. “I don’t think I could eat it.”

“Maybe when you’re better, then. How old are you turning?”

Slip hesitated a bit, and buried his face in his knees. “Thirteen.”

That…was younger than Shouta had expected. He’d expected the teenage part, but he’d thought that he’d be fifteen at the youngest.

He’s been chasing a twelve-year-old for six months.

Slip coughs again, and Shouta’s heart stutters in his chest. It sounds bad. Really bad. The coughs last a long time, and Shouta has to rub his back before they taper off. The kid slumps a little more, breathing hard.

He can’t leave him out here. He’ll die if he spends more time outside.

“I have a son around your age,” he says slowly.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Hitoshi had been younger than this. Shouta had chased him down time and time again, because he was the only one who could find him and bring him in after he’d run away again.

That last time, Hitoshi refused to come with him. He huddled deep into an old draining pipe, staring out at him with terrified, unfocused eyes.

Hitoshi had tried to fight off the villain group with his quirk, and they’d taken a liking to it. He’d escaped, but not before they’d locked a muzzle around his jaw, locking his mouth shut.

He was half-dead with dehydration by the time Shouta found him. He’d crouched outside that pipe for four hours, coaxing the kid out. It wasn’t until he promised that he wouldn’t have to go to another foster home, that he could stay with him, that Hitoshi had dragged himself out of the pipe, collapsing into Shouta’s arms.

Hitoshi had been eight at the time. Five years later, and he hadn’t run away once.

Being a single parent and an underground hero at the same time was hard, but Shouta doesn’t know how he’d lived without him before.

Beside him, Slip starts to cry. He’d been too careful this time. Twelve was too young to be on the streets for that long. What had happened to Hitoshi had made him paranoid, unwilling to force the issue, but he should have moved faster. Should have gotten this kid safe sooner. The sobs are broken, interrupted with coughing.

“I’m tired, Mr. Eraser,” the kid says again. “I want to go home.”

“I can take you home.”

Slip shakes his head. “There’s nothing there anymore.”

“You can come home with me.”

It’s not the first time he’s offered, but it’s the first time Slip doesn’t shrug it off. Instead, he sniffs loudly and says, “really?”

Shouta reaches out again and brushes the damp hair from Slip’s forehead, hesitating before pushing the hood of his hoodie down off his head.

Slip’s hair is dirty, and matted, and wet, but he thinks it might be green. “Really.”

The kid slumps against him, burying his head in Shouta’s shoulder. The fever burns through the fabric of his hero costume.

“Okay.”

It’s quiet, but it’s permission. Shouta moves slowly, but sweeps the kid up into his arms bridal style, keeping his head rested on his shoulder. Slip’s head lolls, and the kid stares up at him with clouded eyes.

He’s sick and vulnerable and young and he trusts Shouta so much, he should have done this weeks ago.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Izuku.”

“Well, Izuku, when you feel better, we can get some birthday cake.”

Shouta walks towards his apartment. It’s not far, and Hitoshi will be home from school soon. Shouta had told him weeks ago that he may have to start sharing his room. Izuku hums, smiling slightly at the mention of birthday cake.

By the time they reach the apartment, the kid is already asleep.

#bnha #my writing

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freedom-shamrock · 5 years

Text

Hero Cafe

Also on AO3

The idea for this was sparked by a recent comment Dawn_on_Fire made on AO3 on the BAMF Marinette story "Snack Chat."

⁂

Marinette looked over everything in the mini refrigerator while Tikki ran down the checklist.

"It looks like you've got everything set, Marinette," her kwami said brightly. "This is such a sweet idea. I'm proud of you for moving past your worries to make this happen."

She closed the door and stood up, gazing proudly at her balcony's new setup. Superhero work was exhausting and took a lot of reserves. A few months back, she'd started bringing a bag of end-of-day breads and pastries whenever she was on patrol or training with any of her teammates. While they'd all appreciated it, Chat Noir had actually gotten tearful in his gratitude. Her partner was far too thin. Sure, his black suit emphasized that, but she'd picked him up enough times to know that it wasn't an illusion. She'd heard enough to know that his home life was garbage, and while she couldn't ask, it was clear he wasn't getting enough to eat.

It had taken far too long to come up with a solution that didn't involve her going out every night to feed her kitty. Lycee had gotten intense and she was stretched too thin as it was; she couldn't afford to give up more sleep if she wanted to keep all her commitments and ensure Paris' safety.

Pitching the plan of creating a superhero rest stop to her parents was easier than she'd expected, though perhaps pointing out Chat Noir's dangerously underweight physique, and likening it to her friend Adrien's, was all it took. Her parents were feeders and caretakers; they couldn't abide underfed children.

"It was so nice of your parents to get you the mini-fridge and microwave," Tikki said. "You're not the only member of the family with great ideas!"

"We Dupain-Chengs are creative." She tickled the little red being's tummy. "And I'm sure it helps to have the literal embodiment of creation hanging around us."

Tikki shook her head. "I'm drawn to creativity, and I might boost it because we're so close all the time. But I can't make what isn't there."

Resting her hands on her hips, Marinette surveyed the finished project. It far exceeded her plans of a cooler and box of snacks, with boxes to sit on. She'd found a tiny table and two low profile chairs at a cafe that was changing out all of its patio furniture. She'd expanded her brightly colored awning to cover the entire patio, not just the corner where the food was kept. She'd added curtains on all sides that could be dropped for privacy or protection from the weather, though she expected they'd stay rolled up most of the time. For the nights when more than two heroes were out and about, she'd added a storage bench full of blankets. Her fairy lights had been swapped out for a larger set.

Tikki swooped over to the pseudo-kitchenette and hung up the laminated page explaining all the features of the space. Then she darted over to circle the empty rings in the new ceiling. "Let's put up your sign. Then you'll be officially open for business."

"Business," Marinette snorted, but picked up the little sign she'd crafted. "This is a philanthropic activity. I don't get paid for it."

"True," Tikki agreed. "But you do get peace of mind."

Sighing happily, Marinette nodded. "Yeah. I do."

⁂

"Where are we going?" Chat Noir asked as Ladybug led him over the rooftops.

"It's a surprise." She couldn't look at him right now; she was afraid her giddiness would give her away. She couldn't wait to see his reaction. They were nearly there. "You'll want to vary your approach trajectory in the future to prevent suspicion."

"So it's someplace we'll be going routinely, then?" he asked, and she could imagine him tapping his clawed index finger against his chin as he followed. "New roof for meeting or training?" he guessed.

"Nope. This is way cooler." She paused on a roof where she could see both her old college and the faint twinkling of her patio lights. She had her glee under control now, and could glance over at him. "I know we've saved and met a lot of civilians, but do you happen to remember Marinette?"

His smile practically lit up the night. "Marinette Dupain-Cheng? The amazing up-and-coming fashion designer and daughter of the folks who run my favorite patisserie? That Marinette?"

She nodded. She'd managed to stay out of akuma attacks as a civilian for the last two years, so she was frankly surprised he remembered her so clearly.

"She's amazing," he gushed. "She's so kind and brave, and she's as creative as you are. You should probably consider her as an option for a third string miraculous wielder. I bet she'd be fantastic."

She turned away so he wouldn't see the hot blush in her cheeks. Why did her partner's effusive praise please her so much? This was ridiculous! "Sounds like some kitty has a crush," she teased.

"Won't deny that for a moment," he said, completely unperturbed. "I think it's impossible to meet Marinette and not develop a crush."

"Really?" she asked, her voice squeaking in surprise at the confirmation.

"It's like a whole new law of physics," he said, rubbing his chin with one knuckle. "If you are capable of romantic or physical attraction, you will be attracted to Marinette."

"What?" Where had this come from? "Hyperbolic much?"

"Not at all," he insisted, utterly serious. "Every one of my friends who have ever come in contact with Marinette has gotten a crush on her."

He sounded so sincere, but his words didn't match up with her reality at all.

"So much concentrated energy and compassion," he continued with a sigh. "Definitely doesn't hurt that it comes in such an adorable package. She's deceptively strong, but so nurturing. I know she'd treat a sweetheart right."

She let out an undignified squawk and tripped off the edge of the building.

Chat was snickering when he caught up with her at the next rooftop over. "So shall I add you in the crushing on Marinette club?"

"Oooh, no." She shook her head. Dating herself? That'd be a trick.

He smirked. "Aaah yes. Denial. I remember that stage. You should just move on to acceptance. Then we can talk about how awesome she is when we're playing hot-or-not. Spoiler, she's hot."

"Are you dating her?" she asked, hoping to derail that trainwreck. "Because if you're not, it sounds like you want to."

"I wish." His amusement turned to wistfulness. "I don't dare get that close to her as my super self or my bland civilian self." He shook his head. "It wouldn't be safe for her."

"Wow," she whispered. "That's both really sad and amazingly wise all at the same time."

Chat Noir shrugged. "I've grown up a bit the last few years."

"I'd noticed," she pointed out with a grin.

"No, I mean mentally… emotionally." Another shrug. "I was kind of stunted when we met. But I've learned."

She patted his shoulder. "Well, we're heading to Marinette's," she said. "She's got snacks for us."

His eyes were wide, and a blush kissed his cheeks.

She swung herself over, landing just before him, so she could see his face as he looked around the renovated space.

"Marinette's Hero Cafe?" Chat Noir read the sign she'd hung up with Tikki as the final touch. His mouth was open a little in awe. He crossed into the kitchenette where a little chalkboard on top of the microwave declared stew the special of the evening. She'd worked with multi-colored chalks to draw designs like she'd seen in various cafes around the city. He reached out and ran a finger over the stack of dishes and peeked into the refrigerator, stocked with energy drinks, a pitcher of water, fruit, cheese, and the pot of leftovers.

After he'd read the laminated sheet and marveled over every last detail, he turned to her. "Did you already see this?" he asked.

Ladybug nodded. "She flagged me down and shared the idea with me when she was just starting work on it. It's… grown a lot from what she first envisioned." She shrugged. "It's probably a little over the top. What do you think?"

He beamed at her. "I love it." He glanced down at the skylight, but her room below was dark. "If she were home… or awake, I'd have to thank her profusely. Grandly. In true Chat Noir style." He struck a pose, then dabbed.

"You're ridiculous," she said, snorting with laughter. "And while thanking her is fine, you really don't need to go over the top."

"But…" He waved around them at the remodeled space. "She made this for us. I know she used to use this space for brainstorming and designing."

"She still can," she pointed out.

"Yeah, but… I don't think she'll feel as free to do so now. Maybe during the day, but not at night." He rubbed at his chin. "I know what she's like. She's set this space aside for us, and I bet she doesn't even really think of it as hers anymore."

She stared at him, blinking in stunned silence. How did Chat Noir know Marinette so well?

"She'll want us to feel comfortable here without risks, so she'll probably take care of the space, and bring up the leftovers from dinner." He pointed at the refrigerator. "But she'll want to leave it for us."

"I hadn't thought of that." It wasn't true. She had thought of it, and felt the pros outweighed the cons. "Maybe she feels it's worth it? It's her way of thanking us for taking care of Paris."

Chat Noir lifted the glass cover off a platter of pastries to pluck out his current favorite, a croissant with just enough dark chocolate to make it feel decadent. "I may not be able to thank her tonight, but mark my words, I will rectify that in the future."

"There's no need to get all over the top and ridiculous about it," she cautioned.

"Pfft. I am Chat Noir," he announced. "Ridiculous is what I do."

She shook her head. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"And Marinette deserves an extra helping of my gratitude."

"Chaaaat," her tone was a warning.

"Think she'd accept payment in exotic fabrics?" he asked.

Ladybug stared at him, stunned for approximately the fifth time in the last hour. He knew her, Marinette her, well enough to know exactly what would appeal. She found her voice after a moment of heavy silence. "I think Plagg needs to add a tag to your collar."

His luminescent eyes blinked slowly in confusion.

"You are clearly Marinette's cat."

⁂

It’s not a one-shot anymore, and you can now check out Chapter Two if you’d like.

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#Miraculous Ladybug #Fanfic #My Writing #Marichat #Fluff #Marinette #Tikki #Ladybug #Chat Noir #Hero Cafe

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