#am i wrong to see this as ominous???? because this kind of creeped me out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

broadstflyers · 3 years

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A/N: I am so excited to be starting my first ever series. This is inspired by Taylor Swift’s “Cardigan” because her music creates stories in my head that I must write down on (digital) paper. Please keep in mind this chapter is written in past tense, and the story probably won't be in present tense for at least another few chapters. Let me know what you think! If you want to be on the tag list for the next chapter, or drop any (constructive) feedback, you can take this survey here.

Word Count: 2.3K

Warnings: None

Summary: They say at fourteen you’re too young to know you’re in love. But what if you aren’t?

Navigation: chapter two

Grade: 9 Age: 14 --------------------------------- As sure as you are that spring comes after winter, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and seconds turn into minutes, you know you are in love with Joel Farabee. Not the gushy “I want to hug you and kiss you and never let you go” love, the intense “I want to burst at the seams because I just want to scream it on the rooftops and tell you and it literally crushes my heart that I can’t” love.

Yeah, that love.

The problem?

You were only fourteen when you knew.

Yes, the grand old age of fourteen. The age you were supposed to be nervously texting multiple boys, wondering if you were going to be asked to the ninth grade dance and worrying about who your first kiss was going to be, or even the first person you were going to hold hands with.

It started on the first day of school, but the start of it all was less than romantic. You shuffled up the hallway with one of your best friends, your feet felt like lead.

“What’s wrong?” Luna whispered in your ear.

“I really hate math,” you huffed. It was the last period of the day, eighth period, and you had to spend it in what was probably going to be a room full of rambunctious athletes who would be itching to burst out of the room at the very sound of the bell. How did you know this? Because you had been stuck in a class like that ever since the beginning of middle school. It made for some laughs, yes, but for some reason a pessimistic attitude bitterly swarmed around you in dark circles. Also, math in general made you anxious, and it didn’t help that the last few years you had to fend for yourself because of your lack of friends in said class.

“Well, at least you’ll have me this year,” Luna attempted to reassure you and your looming anxiety.

“Yeah, but I wonder who’s going to be in our class this year,” you mumbled. Your stomach swarmed with butterflies, but you’d rather call them icky moths.

Luna opened her mouth to respond, but you reached the door frame before her. Before you could even make it through the entrance, you made eye contact with a group of rowdy boys sitting at a table directly in front of you. You stopped dead in your tracks. They paused in their shouting to turn and look at you and Luna, since you were only about seven or eight feet away.

You scanned their faces, and you recognized most of them. They were mostly hockey players that played for the local team that looked for a shot at the NTDP in just a few short years. It was Syracuse, hockey was a pretty big deal there. There was also the prospective varsity quarterback and his star wide-receiver, these labels given to them at just fourteen. Of course, more athletes. Suddenly, you locked eyes with this boy you strangely have never seen before. His hand was hovering in air over his friend’s head with what you could only assume is his friend’s pencil in a lame attempt to keep him from grabbing it.

He blinked a few times, and you might have blinked a few times, you honestly couldn’t remember.

You snapped out of your trance and looked over to the board that said, “Welcome class! Pick your seats for the first day!”

“Hey,” Luna nudged you and grabbed your arm, “let’s sit over there.”

She lead you to a table adjacent to the boys’ table, despite your unheard protests of being “too close” to them.

You took your seat huffing, and you pulled out your binder and got ready for class, something you wished the crazy boys would pick up on. Thankfully the bell rang, your teacher shut the door, and class began.

That’s the first time you saw him. Not very eventful, but hey, you two were awkward fourteen year olds just entering grade nine. Of course things were not going to be all fireworks and love at first sight.

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

A few classes went by, and the only disturbance that occurred was when the class was taking one of those horrible diagnostic tests. See, you really hated disturbances, interruptions, anything relating to that matter.

So when this dude named Joel (you learned his name when he was yelled at for playing rap music in the middle of class) started fooling around with his friend while you were trying to figure out why letters were in math now, you weren’t happy, to say the least.

And when he locked eyes with you and made a silly face, yours did not move in a rather unamused manner. You simply blinked and looked back down at your test.

You missed his face slightly fall, but it was short lived when the teacher yelled his name from across the room and made everyone jump ten feet. He was quiet after that.

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

It was a random Tuesday in late October.

You and Luna were chatting about your previous classes, until you both stopped in your tracks and you raised an eyebrow. Everyone in your class was standing up and congregating away from tables. You could hear the ominous music creeping over everyone’s heads.

“Oh no,” you whined to Luna.

She winced. “We’re being assigned seats, aren’t we?”

You nodded. You both stood in the sea of kids and awaited your fate.

“Alright, everyone,” your teacher said. “You guys have been extremely chatty lately.” She paused to side-eye Joel and his friends.

He opened his mouth to protest, but he quickly shut it when she frowned.

“So you leave me no choice, but I must assign seats,” she dramatically said as she unveiled the new seating chart on the board.

Everyone pushed and shoved to the front to see where their name lied in the cards of fate. You heard some soft celebrations and loud protests.

You nudged your way in and scanned up and down the board. Luna wasn’t at the same table, but she was sitting facing towards you at another table. Hopefully you and her would be able to make eye contact. You scanned until you see your name fall right next to someone who you would rather forget you treated so poorly. It was there in bright, bold red.

Joel Farabee.

“Aw man,” you and a voice said in unison. You looked up at your side to see that it’s him. Oh dear brother. Did you both just admit out loud that you don’t want to sit next to each other? You and him rolled your eyes at each other, huffing that you’ll be forced to be in each other’s presence.

And you knew he was thinking some sort of variation of what you were: how dare your teacher.

You trudged over to your seat and plopped down. He threw down his stuff and sat next to you. You could sense his extreme dislike for your rather serious demeanor. Hey, you could crack a smile.

Just not around him. And for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out why. It’s almost like if you did, you knew you would never stop...

You both avoided eye contact, you played with your pencil as he yelled to one of his friends across the classroom about some stupid video game.

And that’s just how it was for weeks. You’d both come in, sit down, he’d scream to his friends, you’d fight shooting him a really dirty look.

Until one day, you accidentally did. Now, later when you told Luna, you swore up and down you didn’t mean to, and it was just the fact that seventh period gym was terrible (but when was it not). Okay, so maybe you were fed up with him yelling about whatever rap song came out, or whatever Instagram model popped up on his feed (that made you shutter).

But what you did wasn’t really admittedly the nicest.

“Joel, do you always have to yell so freaking loudly?” you snapped.

He feigned a stunned expression, or maybe he really meant it, who knows what goes on in that boy’s seemingly empty head.

“Do you have to be such a downer…like all the time? Kinda ruins the vibe bro.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks Joel, because the number one thing I care about is ruining your ‘vibe’,” you put that word in air quotes, “and not getting any work done in this class, bro.”

Now he rolled his eyes. “Look, you could benefit from loosening up a little, you know? You’re kind of just, not a fun person.”

A look of real hurt flashed across your face. One that he caught. “No,” you punctually state. Then you turn your seat so you completely have your back to him and you’re facing the board.

Meanwhile Luna and your table-mates watched the whole situation unfold. Okay, and maybe most of the class.

And when the bell rang and he called your name, you simply decided you didn’t hear it.

“He’s calling you,” Luna prodded.

You just shook your head as you continued down the hallway to the bus. On the bus, you had some thinking to do.

Did he really think of you as...boring? You usually didn’t let the immature words of boys get to you, but this, this really hurt.

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

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” Luna insisted that evening while lying on your bedroom floor that same Friday evening.

“Yes he did, and he’s kind of right,” you begrudgingly conceded. “I haven’t been the nicest to him,” you sigh into your hands, “and maybe I should be.”

“Well, what’s stopping you?” Luna curiously asked.

“I, I don’t know.”

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

The following Monday, you winced and leaned into Luna as you approached the classroom. To say you were terrified is an understatement.

But you took a deep breath, held your head high, and locked your face into a neutral expression. You never let anyone get the best of you, and you weren’t going to let Joel out of all people be one of the first.

Luna offered a small sympathetic smile as she made her way to her seat.

Your heart beated out of your chest anticipating his arrival. Sure enough, you caught him out of the corner of your eye. He took his time and strutted around the room to talk to all the friends he had. He was obviously looking to avoid you, too.

Coward.

Eventually, he made his way to his seat. He cleared his throat, but you didn’t budge. Ever heard of being saved by the bell?

“I’m going to hand back everyone’s quizzes from last class,” your teacher announced. You audibly groaned. That quiz did not go well. Who puts diamonds and boxes and something called factoring in math?

Sure enough, she shoved a C- into your sweaty hands.

“Dang,” you whispered.

You glanced over at Joel’s paper. 100%.

Are you kidding me?

His prying eyes had the audacity to spot your C-, as if you didn’t pry on his paper seconds before.

“That’s rough,” he said, trying to make eye contact with you.

“I- um, yeah, it is,” you choked out with your eyes still glued on your paper.

His heart broke when he heard your wavering voice. He had to do something.

“Can I see it?” He quietly asked, when quiet usually isn’t typically his demeanor.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “Uh, sure?”

He took the paper and started drawing stars around the C- mark, very messily, may you add.

You went to take the paper back, but he moved it away from your grasp.

“One second,” he pleaded. He stuck his tongue out in concentration.

You tried to see how badly he was defacing your quiz, but the position of his arm prohibited you from peering over to see.

“Done,” he proudly said as he slid the paper back over to you.

Instead of a plain old C-, there was now...a C- with stars around it.

“Joel, this is very lovely and all, but why the stars around the C-?”

He smiled with his sickeningly sweet toothless grin, and your heart absolutely backflipped into oblivion.

“That’s not a C-,” he goofily joked, “that’s the moon, y/n,” he said through a smile. “See it?”

You looked up from your paper and looked at him in the eye. Your hands shook from adrenaline, your heart was fluttering, goodness, you didn’t know how you could feel any lighter.

That smile was going to be the death of you.

“Yeah, Joel,” you cracked a smile, “I do see it. Thank you,” you sincerely said.

Crack a smile.

You cracked a smile.

His heart skipped a beat. He knew instantly he was going to do whatever it took to keep that smile on your face for as long as possible. He didn’t care what he would have to do.

He smiled once more, and he turned to his buddies to shield his face from you. He didn’t want you to see how red it was turning. He proceeded to explain to them how perfect his stars were and how no one could top them. Something along the lines of “Bro, you have to see this one, it’s so perfect bro…” He also told them how he made you feel better while slapping his chest, for some reason, as in yeah, I made the mopiest girl in school smile. He sounded like he was priding himself on it.

His smile, the way he talked about you, those freaking stars. You’d let him draw those all over your arm instead any day.

At that age, you may not have known why there were letters in algebra, but you knew that the way he made you feel wasn't the same as you did with your two other crushes back in middle school. This just felt...absolutely weird.

But absolutely right.

And that’s the story of how at just fourteen years old, you knew you were absolutely screwed.

#joel farabee #joel farabee imagine #joel farabee x reader

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tinyboxxtink · 3 years

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“Helpless” *FINALE*

Mwahahaha I got around the un-even numbering. Well, this is it! I hope you’ve enjoyed this series as much as I enjoyed writing it. I really need to make a Master List of all my “works”, but if you wanna check out my other stuff just type “Rafael Barba Imagine” into the search bar of my page.

As always, big thanks to my lovies:

@wanniiieeee

@dumauier

@word-scribbless

@chasingeverybreakingwave

The COMPLETE Collection:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

And without further ado, the CONCLUSION!!!!

After your shower and you were in some clean pink scrubs, you decided it would probably be best to go look for the squad. Apparently you were still “a suspect”, so you didn’t want to make it look like you were trying to flee or something.

You found your way back to the waiting room, but only Fin and Carisi were still there.

“...Where’d Benson and Rollins go?” You asked, glancing around the area.

“Well it’s like 4 am, they both have kids, I’d told them we’d update them if anything happened with Barba,” Carisi told you.

“Which you can now do,” Fin added, grabbing his jacket off a chair.

“...I’m sorry, what?” you asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be ‘watching’ me or something?”

“They combed your street and found the gun, the idiots tossed it as they were driving. And as far as your whole ‘hustling’ business, if Barba vouches for you, I’m not gonna bother with a shitload of paperwork just because you got some money out of some old white dudes,” Fin chuckled.

“So you’re off the hook, and I’d really like to sleep in my own bed,” Carisi patted your back as he walked out with Fin.

“I--Are you sure? Olivia isn’t gonna--”

“Olivia’s gonna be a lot of things, but none of it matters legally speaking. So y'all need to work that out on your own,” Fin held up his hands like he was washing his hands of the drama.

“Right. Well I’m sure the doctor will call her,” You really didn’t want to have to talk to her anymore than you needed to.

“Right. Night, Y/N” Carisi waved as they continued to walk down the hallway and out the front doors.

Okay, so now you were alone. On your own. In a hospital. Great.

Suddenly, you remembered the magical sticker. You pulled it out of the scrubs pocket and stuck it to your shoulder. Then you turned to the big doors that read

“ICU: Approved Personnel ONLY”

Well, you were in scrubs.You took a deep breath and made a sign of the cross before you walked confidently through the doors. Hopefully people would just assume you were a nurse.

You were met on the other side with a bustle of doctors and nurses running around, patients being pushed through the hallways; lots of machines were beeping, and you could hear a CODE BLUE down the hall.

“Please don’t be Rafael Please don’t be Rafael…” you closed your eyes and whispered, but were quickly interrupted.

“Excuse me sweetie, are you lost?” An older male doctor tapped your shoulder.

“Oh um-- yeah YES. I am,” you lied. This is what you did best, just roll with it.

“It’s my first day, and I got separated from my group. We were doing rounds, and I believe our next room was the ADA?”

“The ADA…?” The doctor started typing in his tablet, as if someone would add “The ADA of New York” in his patient notes.

“I think his name is Ralph something,” you lied; a nurse wouldn’t be all on the up and up of law people, would they?

“Ah. Rafael Barba. Oh you’re right, it says VIP PATIENT here. He must be something special,”

“He really is,” You sighed, causing the doctor to look at you funny.

“I mean, so I’ve heard,”

“Well it says here DO NOT DISTURB, so I don’t believe you were doing rounds in his room…” The doctor raised an eyebrow as he tilted the tablet towards you. You saw “ROOM 304” next to Rafael’s name.

“Oh, you know what you’re right! I think they said we were NOT rounding on him, y’know cuz he’s the ADA,” You gent;y rubbed your shoulder against his. “I must’ve gotten mixed up because of your beautiful blue eyes,” you batted your lashes, to which the elderly doctor happily ate up.

“Oh well, no harm no foul,” He smiled.

“Ok well I’m sure I can find them, thank you doctor!” you gave him the cheesiest smile and a wink, walking away quickly. You made it into an elevator right before it closed. Luckily, the only other person in it was “Another” nurse, who looked like she might pass out right there in the elevator; she paid you no mind.

You hit FLOOR 3 and rode up to the floor, practically jumping out of the elevator. You turned to see signs that pointed 300-320 left and 320-340 right. You went left, searching the numbers until you saw 304. You looked around to make sure no one had noticed you definitely did not belong there, and when the coast was clear you opened the door slowly and snuck in the room.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

Fuck, you were caught. You were running multiple scenarios of lies in your head as you turned around, but to your relief it was the nurse who had given you the sticker.

“Ah, I see it worked,” she gestured to the sticker on your uniform.

“It did, thank you so much,” You thanked her softly, your eyes moving towards Rafael’s still unconscious body. You immediately grabbed a chair and pulled it up next to him, stroking his hair.

“Hey...baby I’m here,” You whispered, wondering whether he could hear you or not.

“It says here he coded three times in surgery, but he came back,” The nurse read his chart off her tablet.

“Why….why would I want to know that?” you asked almost angrily.

“...Patients have a lot to do with their own response and recovery,” she replied. “I was just implying he was fighting like hell for something,” she smiled, making you smile for the first time since Rafael had left you at your apartment. God, that moment had been so perfect; how did you get here from there?

“I’ll put a DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the door, no one will bother you,” The nurse put a hand on your shoulder as she started to walk out. “I think he’s going to be okay sweetie, I really do,”

“Thanks,” You gave her a small nod, and she was gone. Leaving just you and Rafael, alone.

“So...I’ve never seen a guy work so hard to get me alone,” You chuckled, calling back to the first conversation you had at Forlini's. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

“Hey so, they caught Arianna and those guys,” you kept talking, praying he was listening. “I think they’re gonna go to jail for a LONG time,” you stroked his hair.

“So, y’know obviously that means I’m out a roommate. Probably an apartment too, I don’t really know what Arianna did about that. Surely she didn’t just get out of a six month lease in the middle of the night, she must have just thought they could abandon the apartment.

“So, if you know of any fancy mahogany couches that are open, let me know,” You tried joking again with a fake laugh, but it just turned into tears.

“I’m so sorry, Rafael,” you whispered. “I never intended for any of this to happen. I should have never even talked to you, I should have just admired you from afar and sniffed your scotch glasses in private like a fucking creep,” you laughed for real between your tears.

“I just--” you started to talk again, but you felt Rafael’s hand squeeze yours.

“....R-Rafa?”

Suddenly, Rafael started to thrash and choke, his breathing tube was still breathing for him.

“NURSE!!! NURSE!!” You jumped up and screamed down the hall; your lucky nurse came rushing in. She quickly pulled the tube out and after a few gasping breaths, Rafael finally calmed down. He was conscious, but his eyes were barely open.

“Welcome back, Mr. Barba,” The nurse smiled. “I think you gave this one quite the scare,” She nodded to you, to which Barba gave the weakest smile.

He tried to speak, but just scratchy gibberish came from his mouth. But his beautiful green eyes were more open and had their sparkle back.

“Your throat will be sore for a while,” The nurse informed him. “....But everything else seems to be doing good!” She checked all of Rafael’s stats on his machines, and the different tubes coming out of his body.

“I’ll be back later-- let you two, catch up,” She gave you both a knowing smile, then walked out the door.

“I...told...you,” he hoarsely croaked.

“What? You told me what?!” You asked him frantically, as if this was some kind of ominous threat.

“I’d….,” He cleared his throat as you grabbed a water bottle off a nearby table.

“I told you, I’d fight for you,” He said almost completely normally after taking a swig of the water.

“...Yeah, well-- I think that was a bit much, don’t you, counselor?” You raised an eyebrow, implying taking a bullet for someone after the first date is a bit melodramatic.

“I mean, here,” he pointed to the bed.

“W-What?” you blinked in confusion.

“I fought to come back,” he took your hand and kissed the back of it. “For you,”

“Why?” you blinked again, still in awe.

“Because you asked me to,” He smiled, taking his free hand and stroking your hair back as you had been doing while he was out.

“Y-You heard all of that?!” you gasped.

“Well, I thought I had hallucinated it until you just confirmed it for me,” He gave you a mischievous smile.

“Oh my god,” You blushed and hit him softly, forgetting about his tubes and shoulders. He winced in pain, and you immediately started to comfort him again.

“Oh my GOD, what is wrong with me?! Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, carino. And I’m not done yet either,” his words made you stop fiddling with the wires and look him straight in the eyes.

“....Done what?”

“Done loving you, dummy,” he shook his head as if to say “DUH.”

“Oh my god you DID hear all of it!” You put your hands over your face, your face turning red. Then you realized what he had actually said.

“WAIT...did you just say…?” your eyes bugged out of your head.

“I love you, Y/N.” he smiled sweetly, squeezing your hand.

“Really? Are you sure? Because we can just--” He shut you up by leaning over and kissing you.

“Since I saw you sniff my scotch glass,” He cut you off. “I thought ‘I’m gonna marry that weird girl one day’,”

“Whoa whoa whoa, slow down there mister,” You put your hands up. “I mean, you can almost die for me, but marriage? That seems a bit much,” You gave him a tongue-in-cheek smile.

“We’ll negotiate,” He smirked. “In the meantime…” He moved himself away on his bed, adjusting the wires to make a space. He patted it for you to get in.

“I...I don’t think these are made for two people, what if I break it?” You eyed the bed, trying to calculate the weight max.

“I’ll buy them another one,” he chuckled.

“Oh right, with your copious amounts of money,” you rolled your eyes with a smile.

“Yeah, better spending it on that then more ties,” he smirked.

“NO. Never stop buying ties!” You giggled, climbing into the bed with him. He adjusted the arm that wasn’t in a sling around you. You snuggled into him, and he placed a kiss on your forehead. The feeling was back; the safe and warm feeling

And you knew in your heart, you’d never feel helpless again.

#rafael barba #rafael barba x you #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagine #law and order special victims unit #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction

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jacks-wylan · 3 years

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It started to rain a day later.

Geralt's already bad mood started to increase even more, as he stomped down that trice damned mountain. His fingers trembled, and he knew very well that it was not because of the now terribly colder wind blowing, but he couldn't help but notice that the temperature was lower than the day before – lower than that same morning.

He gritted his teeth, eyes roaming up to the gray sky. Winter was coming, and that felt like the only blessing that was falling upon him lately, because winters meant home and late nights with his brothers and the closest thing he could ever have as a break, to have some time off everything .

He felt a pang of worry when, as the day passed, the weather worsened. Not for Yennefer, no, because she could take care of herself, and just portal out of there – but that idiot that went down the mountain path alone, without waiting for him at the clearing as he should have done no matter how much he was offended... the thought of him in a dangerous territory, with an upcoming storm no less, is worrisome. He tried to not think of Jaskier, because the he was still angered – and the guilt was already creeping up his spine, gnawing at his insides – and deep down he was hoping that he, indeed, joined the dwarves in the end, and he was not at all alone – as he was, as it should have been from the start.

Caingorn and the stables where Roach was waiting for him is half a way down, when he had to find shelter for the night. He found an empty cave, built a fire, and meditated. He couldn't fall asleep. Not that he tried, but he knew that slumber would not come easily on him this time. He would not fall asleep peacefully, safe , as he did with Yennefer ever again.

The rain became a downpour by the time he reached the inn.

He was surprised the same when, once entered inside the inn, knowing that he could not go anywhere with that kind of weather – he could not permit that something bad would happen to Roach – he found every single still alive member of the dragon hunt there.

Even Borch. Even Jaskier. Even Yennefer .

She did not deign him of a glance, and Geralt did expect as much. Jaskier, instead, looked at him with a relieved expression, but... but still, he didn't come to him, didn't run towards him and started to ramble as always. He noticed Jaskier's belonging at his feet, belongings that – apart from his lute – should have been inside Roach's saddlebags, with Geralt's things.

He told himself thank fuck .

He did not feel so thankful, though.

The common room was crowded, but Geralt found a table in a corner regardless. He settled there, ordered food and ale, and ignored the conversations around him. Someone was saying that if the storm did not placate, it would be impossible to walk the roads. He heard Yennefer snort and say that if things would not get better, she would just leave them all there and portal away. Jaskier muttered a mean: “Of course you will, but why are you still here?”

It was Borch that reached out to him. He sat next to him, and after he gulped a mouthful of ale, Geralt just asked: “Your child?”

“Safer than us here.” was his response, “The skies are enraged.”

“Shouldn't you be with them?”

“Not now, no.” Borch shook his head, “But I will be, if the rain ever stops.”

Geralt wasn't in the mood to understand Borch's cryptic words, so he just kept eating and drinking. Then he went out, saw Roach, gave her enough clean water and fresh hay, made sure that there still was pellet for her to sleep on. She seemed content, but she also seemed like she was waiting for something – for someone – that wasn't there with them, sniffing at Geralt's hands but not finding the treats he never gave her.

Geralt patted her muzzle and turned back in. The rain still didn't show any sign of stopping, falling almost cruelly on the ground. Roads became torrents, trees bent under the force of wind.

The skies are enraged.

None of the patrons could go back to their lives, when the night came. So the innkeepers decided that until the storm ended, the rooms were available for all of them – Geralt did not talk to Jaskier, as they walked up the stairs to their shared room, because he was expecting the bard to break the silence, but at first he didn't.

The awkwardness fell upon them until they had to look into each other's eyes by the only bed in the room, when Jaskier finally, finally talked. “Left or right?”

Geralt sighed, leaning his swords against the wall. “Jaskier,” he said his name, but abruptly stopped, because he didn't really know what to say.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is a very shitty situation, isn't it? We are all caged here for who knows when, and funnily right after–” Jaskier's voice faltered, until it stopped. “Can you endure me for a little more? I won't get in the way. You can talk with the witch, sort out all your problems, and live happily ever after. If there might be a silver lining here, it has to be this.”

Silence fell on them again. Geralt raised the blankets and got under them: he was pretty sure that not even that night sleep would come to him, but he could at least try. The road to Kaer Morhen was long and tortuous, he needed to be well rested before taking that way.

There was an acrid, bitter scent lingering in the air. Geralt ignored it.

“You really have nothing to say to me?”

Lying on the bed, Geralt looked at him with a sigh, “Just sleep, Jaskier.”

The room got illuminated by a thunder, fallen not too far from the inn. Jaskier jolted, head shot back towards the window with a panicking jump. Geralt could not see his eyes, but he imagined them being wide open, like a deer caught by a lightning. It might not even be too far from reality.

“If only I could.” Jaskier murmured, lying too on the bed but giving him his back. That position made Geralt feel lonely, but it was a sentiment so absurd that he just shrugged it off and closed his eyes.

Outside, the storm did not end, but it got calmer when he got up the next morning.

It was still a downpour, and it still made the roads impassable, but Geralt could see, with some difficulty, a timid ray of sun peaking through the thick, gray clouds covering the sky. He did indeed sleep, for a bit, he felt as refreshed as he could ever be.

Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt saw him still sleeping, his face relaxed, messy hair covering his closed lids. There was a slightly frown between his eyebrows, but so soft that it was difficult even for him to notice under the brown locks of his fringe.

Geralt swiped them off with the lightest touch he could gather so not to wake him up, then turned around and left the room.

The common room was almost empty, if not for Borch, the two Zerrikanians, and the innkeepers. “Most of the patrons went back to their home the second the storm calmed. After all, their houses aren't so far away.” one of the innkeepers was muttering, “Didn't even pay for the rooms, those whoresons.”

Not even an hour later, the storm increased again, with more force, with more violence it hit against the walls and doors. The sky darkened, it was an ominous scene.

“This looks like a catastrophe.” the other innkeeper said, “If it keeps like this, the land will become a giant swamp, and nothing will grow up again. If it keeps like this, our rations will end, and we will all die.”

“Always the same, you shithead. Stop being so gloomy, it's just the second day!”

“Myths spoke of a similar catastrophe cast by an angered God. It lasted forty days and forty nights, to drown the evil on Earth.” Borch said, calmly. “Just myths, they were. Evil is still on Earth, after all.”

The skies are enraged.

Moments later, Yennefer walked down the stairs, followed by Jaskier. They were talking in hushed tones, so low that Geralt couldn't understand most of the spoken sentences, but for the look of it Jaskier did not seem happy with their argument. Yennefer, though, she looked smug, a cutting grin baring white teeth.

Geralt felt something , something ugly and slimy kneading his mouth at their camaraderie. He felt left apart, abandoned, ignored. It was a feeling he should be used to – it was a feeling he always felt with Yennefer, it was a feeling he always made Jaskier feel – but somehow he felt the injustice of it burning on his cheeks, like embarrassment, if more humiliating.

He hated it, this weakness.

“I'm sorry, Yen.” he then said, because what else he has to do? Beg forgiveness, drop into his knees in front of her and say that what he did was wrong, but he just did it to save her. Not to see her die right after saving Jaskier's life, not to see her die after she mended his mistake which would have killed Jaskier, drowning him in his own blood that Geralt helped spill. “I had no right to do what I did, but I don't... I can't regret it.”

“Well, well.” Yennefer snorted. She sat gracefully on a chair, and looked up at him with an elegant black eyebrow arched. “You are apologizing. For someone else it might be enough, but not for me, Witcher.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “Would anything be even enough?”

“I am kind of disillusioned, to be honest, now that I know the truth. Things I could not comprehend before are now clear, and bitter. I do not know what love is supposed to be, of course,” she pursued her red lips, then looked around until her violet eyes stopped on Jaskier – Jaskier that was standing still in front of a window, watching the hell outside. His back was tense, his hands were trembling so slightly. He was close enough to be hearing everything Yennefer and he were talking about. Strangely, Geralt felt guilty. “But I know that ours wasn't love yet. Not a love that matters.”

“Could be, one day.”

“Sure.” Yennefer sneered, “But am I willing to wait? With the risk that once we break the Djinn's spell, all will be lost? I am not an hopeless puppy like your bard,” at that, Jaskier flinched, “I will not wiggle my tail at every scrap of attention you'd deign to give, to be then discarded when you will get enough of it.”

“Like you've done all this time with me?” Geralt growled.

“Like you've done all this time with the bard.” Yennefer replied, unapologetic.

They stared at each other for long moments, Geralt trying so hard not to turn and look at Jaskier again. He didn't want to acknowledge that those words were true and how much effects they had on him. “Why do you care? You can't even stand Jaskier, damn it!”

A thunder fell just outside the window Jaskier was leaning on. He shouted, scrambling away from the shaking – cracking – glass, and it was not long before another thunder fell, and the window shuttered.

Geralt fumbled up from his table, but Jaskier didn't get hurt, just soaked in the rain gusted in as he fell on the floor in fear of it. He whimpered, and brought a hand against his chest. In the chaos surrounding them, Geralt could clearly hear his heart beating like a war drum, louder than any noise, more deafening than the storm outside.

Yennefer went and, with a flick of her fingers, the window returned whole again.

“Fucking hell.” Jaskier creaked, “What the fuck is happening?”

Geralt looked out, and the gray of the storm became black, filled with blue and white, blinding stripes that made the land shake. Trembling like Jaskier's fingers tightened around a chunk of his own red doublet.

The skies are enraged.

And they were bringing down on Earth all of their anger.

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read the rest on ao3!

#geraskier #yennskier #yennralt #geraskefer #geraskefer fic #the witcher fic #mine:fyccina #i still don't know why i wrote this #but i guess i have just to follow the flow am i right #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #yenneralt #yenralt #yenskier

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stachmousworld · 4 years

Text

P*$$y fairy P. finale

Pairing: Steve rogers x WOC original character

Tag: Daddy kink, vaginal fingering, virginity loss (blood), oral sex, consensual all the way through.

Part 1

She closed her eyes…

“So, do you remember, now?” Steve asked, still on the armchair.

She swallowed with difficulty.

“Y-ep.”

“What happened then?”

“I lost my virginity to you.”

Steve hummed. “Yep, to me. Then you had to go back to college, and I didn’t see you again, until now. A year later. I had to dig up a little bit and I found out that I’m still the first and only one.”

She grunted annoyed. Who told him that? Was it Julie? No. She didn’t even know she had lost her virginity.

“Don’t pout. I have my ways. I was the only one, right?”

“Yes,” she hissed with snark.

“Good. Because I haven’t slept with anyone since you. Been having a serious case of blue balls and God know I’m not a teenager anymore, so there shouldn’t be a reason why I have to jerk off three times a day.”

“3? At your age?” She asked, suspicious. She didn’t really want to focus on the rest of what he said. She couldn’t think of his balls. His balls that she had in her hand a year ago.

“I fucked you 4 to 5 times last year, you didn’t complain. At the end, you were a babbling mess, not that I was doing better, mind you.”

4 or 5. She barely remembered the first one but the others. Doubts creeped inside her mind.

“Missionary, cowgirl, doggy, spoon, and doggy again, because why not. Your pussy was dripping with my cum. I even second guessed putting a plug in you.”

Ok. She was definitely aroused and way too wet. She cursed her boldness. She should have put a panty. Now her juices were running down her leg.

“Ok. I believe you. Can we go now?” She asked, hastily.

“Why so quick?”

“We are supposed to be at this conference,” she explained as if he was dumb.

“No.” He simply replied.

“Mister Rogers –.”

“Daddy,” he corrected her.

Her mouth fell open.

“You should close it or I’ll put something for you to suck on.”

Her mouth shut in an audible click.

“Mis –.”

Steve tsked disapprovingly. She sighed inwardly.

“Daddy,” she started through gritted teeth. “The conference is starting in a few. If we don’t want to get late, we have to go now.”

There was something in Steve’s smile that didn’t seem right. He patted his lap. She raised an eyebrow. He patted again.

She straightened her back and walked with confidence toward him. He eyed her expectantly.

She sat down on his legs. Steve grabbed her by the waist, turned her and forced to straddle his hips.

“A pretty girl like you, who am I to resist. Plus, I brought a little gift.”

“Why do you always sound ominous?”

“If ominous is making you cum then I’m evil,” he concluded with a smirk.

They stayed in this position for a while. Actually, she almost couldn’t feel her legs. She tried to move but he blocked her moves.

“Do you dream of me? Pounding you like the first time. Making you faint and die a little.” He didn’t let her answer. His hands went lower between them. She heard the unmistakable sound of belt and a zipper. She looked quickly down and tried to get off him. Steve caged her with his arms pressing her chest against his. There again, she couldn’t move. Her cheeks got warm. It reminded her of her second orgasm. How he bent her legs so far and he went so…

The only warning she got was the tip of dick hitting her hole and he slid in with ease. They both moaned. She gripped his shoulders, biting the tendon of his neck.

“Home.” He moaned. “’feels like coming home.” He grabbed her buttcheeks, massaging them. His rough hands spanked her flesh until she yelped. He licked her lobe and bit it. She keened, hands roaming in his luscious hair.

Hungry for his lips, she grabbed his head and kissed him. For the first time she was the one initiating one. Steve let her do whatever she wanted. She was still clumsy but did her best to please him. As a reward he slapped her cheeks and rolled his hips pressing the rest of his dick in.

“Bounce on my dick, baby girl. I want to see those boobs jiggle.”

She started moving and almost lost her stability. It felt so good…his dick felt better than in her dreams. She moved up and down, enjoying the pulsating hardn—

“Daddy!” she screamed as Steve bit her right nipple. He sucked the bead and rolled the other with his finger. She hissed and moaned not knowing where to concentrate. The pain and pleasure brought her to new heights.

“God, you’re still too tight,” Steve grunted. He grabbed her, stood up and walked to the kitchen. She tried to correct him and show him her bedroom, but he kept bouncing her on his dick. She screamed his name.

He slid out and bent her down on the kitchen table. He opened her lips and spit on her hole. Her hole twitched. Steve slapped her cheek and slid right in.

“Such a good girl…” He moaned. “Your hole was made for me.” He slammed in. Her eyes rolled back, she gurgled something resembling his name. She gripped the table and tried to stay stable. Steve chuckled darkly and started pounding her pussy. She bumped her head against the table to refrain her pleasure. It was so…she grunted as he lifted her left leg and placed it on the table. The new angle allowed him to get deeper.

“Fuck…should have fucked you in your dorm…should have fuckin…” He trailed off. Their grunts and moan resonated in the room. His balls slapped violently against her clit pushing her slowly over the edge.

He leaned forward his stroke getting deeper.

“I’m com…” He didn’t finish and bit her shoulder. Her entire body tensed. Her walls spasmed around Steve’s unforgiving dick. She didn’t know how he could be so hard and fast. She gasped and whined as he kept fucking her, stretching her hole so pleasurably.

“So tight…” he moaned. His body stilled. She sighed in relief that he was done. She enjoyed the feeling of fullness and the sticky mess inside her. She rolled her hips loving the friction.

“You really are pussy fairy. Should have known you’d steal my sanity,” he whispered on her back. She felt him smile and chuckled.

“Pussy fairy, huh?”

“Didn’t you listen to Jhene Aiko’s song?”

“You know Jehne Aiko?” She asked, shocked.

“I don’t live under a rock, you know?” He slid out of her and kneeled. “Anyway, I have a little gift for you.”

“Money?” She asked, hopeful.

“Better.”

“Better than mo—”

She gasped as a thick plastic plug slid inside her sore vagina.

“I don’t think it’s better than money,” she mumbled, tired.

“Think about it this way. At least, if you get pregnant, you’d be rich.” He helped her to get on her feet and held her in his arms. Pregnant?

“Do you see me pregnant?” She laughed, awkward.

“You’d be perfect,” he replied sincerely. His eyes bore into hers. The tension from previously turned into something more…intimate. She dropped her gaze and shuffled her feet.

“Thanks,” she replied quietly.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I know that the situation is kind of weird but I’d…I don’t want you to think I’m using you for sex.”

He caressed her cheek softly.

“I have known you since Julie’s 20th birthday. I know it sounds creepy and I’m almost twice your age, but I’m interested in you. Really, not just your body. The discussion we held, the multiple conferences you accompanied me to and all the other activities where Julie couldn’t suddenly go.” He stopped talking, sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. Realization dawned on them.

“Julie…” she groaned, annoyed. “That’ll explain a lot, actually.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “My own daughter…it’s always our family. Always.”

Gathering her confidence, she spluttered. “Me too, you know.”

“Your family did that to you?” He asked, stunned.

“No. I mean I’m also interested in you,” she answered, suddenly shy.

Steve’s face shone. He grabbed her face and kissed her with passion. She responded with as much fervor. Happiness bloomed inside her chest.

A little later.

“So, you are my boyfriend or sugar daddy?” She joked before running away.

Steve stayed silent behind her. She giggled thinking she had won. Until a deep vibration erupted in her vagina. She stumbled and rolled on the floor as the plug vibrated. She clenched her legs and writhed on the floor. Waves of warmth washed over her.

“What did you, sugar?” He said, kneeling next to her head. His grinned was full of mirth.

“S-s-orry.”

Steve tsked. He stood up and unzipped his pants. His throbbing erection popped out. The vibration went higher. She bit her tongue.

Steve waved his dick, eyebrow raised. She rolled onto her knew barely making it. He slowed the plug. She sighed, a little relieved. It wasn’t better. The vibration was constant, and the plug was moving every, time she did. Steve understood her issue and approached until his dick was in her face.

“Last year, I didn’t have the time to cum in your mouth,” he explained, simply as if it was a normal reason to shove his dick in her face, while torturing her with a plug. “The faster you go, the faste –”

He didn’t have to say it twice. She swallowed his dick to the root. Steve grabbed a fist of hair and pressed her closer. She gurgled and contracted her throat around his dick making him moan her name. His grip loosened up.

She bobbed her head loving the thickness in her mouth. The saltiness of his precum and the vein throbbing on her tongue were salivating.

It didn’t take long for him to cum. He grabbed her head and fucked her throat. She closed her eyes enjoying the burn and discomfort.

Above her Steve was grunting, swearing and breathing hard.

“…made to suck…on your knees all the time…”

She barely had a warning before he came in her mouth. She swallowed quickly his load, coughing when a few went the wrong way.

“Good girl.”

Fin.

#steve rogers x original female character #steve rogers x woc #steve rogers x black!reader #steve rogers x woc character #black female character #stepdad!steve

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fandom-necromancer · 3 years

Text

On Cloud Nine

This was prompted by the amazing @smolandangry001! Enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Hannor/Hancon

‘Am I allowed to know where we are driving?’, Connor asked with a smirk on his lips. They were driving through Detroit towards the riverside in Hank’s car, Knights of the Black death blaring in the background. ‘Somewhere special’, Hank answered ominous. ‘It’s a special day after all.’ ‘Really?’ Connor could list a lot of events that would make this day an anniversary of something, both personal and in general. But what in particular Hank could mean, he couldn’t pinpoint. ‘Yeah.’ Hank huffed a laugh. ‘Today, exactly a year ago, we met for the very first time. Me, wasted in a bar when we had a case. You came in there the stuck-up machine sent by Cyberlife. God, back then I thought all of it was some sort of prank. That someone rented me a plastic prick to babysit me. I planned on trashing you the second you weren’t needed anymore back then. And now…’ Connor smiled and cocked his head. ‘And now?’ Hank looked at him, lips slightly parted, before he could press them together oddly serious. ‘Now I have a hard time concentrating on traffic with you sitting next to me.’ Connor knew the man had a habit of flattering him, but still he felt a blush creep up and he had to look out of the window, realising they were on the bridge to Belle Isle already. ‘Maybe I should drive, so you could admire the view’, he answered cheekily and side-eyed his human just in the right moment to see him swallow at that. ‘Con, I love you, but there is no way you will drive this car outside of absolute emergencies.’ The android laughed and nodded. ‘Thought so.’

They drove down the road towards Cyberlife Tower, now headquarters of New Jericho, android repair centre and a place for androids and humans to get together. How much everything had changed in just one year. Not everything was perfect and would likely never really be, but everything was progressing in the right direction. In every aspect but the minds of a few people, androids and humans were equals now. And Connor was proud to have been able to contribute to that, even though he had sent quite a few deviants to their demise in his early days.

‘What are you planning?’, he asked curiously, as Hank parked the car and walked towards the entrance. ‘They opened a restaurant in the very tip of the tower’, Hank unveiled. ‘If it is to be believed what the brochures say, you have the best view of Detroit’s skyline from up there. And they serve android food that’s made by your kind, so I hope it’s not the slushy disaster they gave you last time I took you on a date.’ Connor remembered that day very fondly, but that didn’t help the sudden terror setting in when he heard the words “very tip of the tower”. ‘Everything alright?’ ‘Hm? Yes! Just remembered how I tried to scrub my filters clean afterwards.’ Hank winced, holding the door open for him. ‘Yeah, sorry for that!’ ‘It’s okay. It’s funny looking back now. Let’s go.’

The relief of having avoided telling Hank didn’t help with his anxiety building up at the prospect of being up on the 40th floor and having the perfect view of Detroit. He knew he wasn’t good with heights ever since he hurled himself and Daniel from the apartment balcony. Even as a machine led by clear orders and logic, he had felt that fear keeping him from analysing possible landing sites of Marcus and his team. He doubted deviancy would make it any less intense. But as he entered the elevator, he saw Hanks content smile and tensed his shoulders. Hank planned this for them. It would have a nice view without a doubt and be very romantic. It wouldn’t be that bad, right?

But with every number ticking up and every second passing in the tight space of the elevator and the steady pressure of being pulled upwards, it was hard not to analyse velocity and distance from the ground. By the time it passed the height he would have still survived a fall at, he had to take out his coin and calm himself by calculating the exact motions. ‘You sure you are okay?’, Hank asked and his worry was obvious. ‘Yes!’, Connor answered maybe a tad too fast. ‘I’m just excited’, he lied. ‘It’s been a while since we had time to do something together.’ ‘Yeah, trust me, I’d take you out more often, but I’m out of the age I could go out after work still.’ Connor dropped the coin into his pocket, reaching for the man’s hand instead. He was about to reassure him how he was absolutely perfect in his eyes, but in that exact moment, the doors opened to a restaurant, adequately dark so the city lights in the night were accentuated. The words he had prepared were forgotten.

It looked far higher than it should be according to the simple facts. Simple numbers and complex experiences were two entirely different things.

Hank hadn’t realised his frozen state until he stepped forwards, Connor’s hand slipping from his. ‘Connor? Connor, what’s wrong?’ ‘Nothing’, he tried, but Hank was not having it. Opening his mouth to say so, a waiter approached them. ‘Good evening! Your reservation please.’ ‘Err… Anderson. A table for two.’ ‘Of course, if you would follow me, please!’ Connor had stomached the first shock, but his legs were barely cooperating with him. The ground seemed to dip and his programming automatically tried to compensate by leaning away from the large glass front despite there being no objective need for it.

The waiter led them to a table directly next to the window. A perfect spot normally, but Connor shook his head. ‘Hank, I can’t sit here’, he whispered. ‘Could we have one further away from the window?’ The man looked at him in confusion, but nodded as he saw his expression and how his eyes were fixed on the edge of the ground. ‘Uh, excuse me, do you have a table closer to the wall?’ ‘Of course. Right here.’

Connor felt overly self-conscious sitting down across from Hank. He didn’t want to look up and see his eyes on him. Clearly, he had just ruined the date as the view was likely the reason Hank had decided on this restaurant. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Why? Connor, what’s wrong?’ ‘Before we met… I had a case. There was a deviant caretaker android that considered himself family. As he was about to be replaced, he kidnapped the daughter. I was sent in to save the girl. I could have talked him down, but back then I missed that opportunity. The only way to safe the girl for me was to jump at the deviant, taking him down with me. I… Well, that Connor died there. I have his memories. And ever since I… I guess I developed a fear of heights. I’m sorry. I guess I ruined it.’

‘Hey, Con. Connor. Look at me.’ He did and met his gentle gaze. Hank held out his hand on the table and Connor took it. ‘You didn’t ruin anything. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have taken you here then. But it’s fine. Do you want us to leave?’ ‘No. No, from here it’s… it’s okay. But I couldn’t have sat directly at the window. Just… Aren’t you disappointed? I thought you decided on this to see Detroit.’ Hank sighed. ‘Connor, I see Detroit every day. And I can see the Skyline from here alright. But I came here to spent time with you and relax. To have a nice evening knowing you had one too. If you are comfortable, I’m too.’

Connor relaxed a little. ‘Still, you pictured it differently, I’m sure.’ Hank shrugged. ‘Con, I pictured a lot of things differently in life. I definitely didn’t picture my family to be an android and a dog. But god, I’m happy it turned out that way.’ He brushed his thumb over Connor’s knuckles and marvelled at the way his artificial skin retracted under his touch. ‘Connor, I love you and I want you to be happy. If that means we leave and go somewhere else, I’ll be in the elevator this very second.’

The android relaxed into his chair. ‘No, I’m… I’m fine with this, really. It is triggered as soon as I am close to an edge or once I can look down to the ground. This is… Really, it’s okay from here.’ ‘Thank God’, Hank laughed. ‘Because my backup plan would have been takeout. Took some time to find a restaurant that guaranteed no filter-scrubbing afterwards.’ That had Connor smiling again, tentatively looking over to the windows as the waiter came with the menu. When he had left, Connor was still staring at the twinkling lights. ‘The view really is amazing.’ Hank let his eyes wander over Connor’s hazel ones and further down getting stuck on his soft smile. ‘Yeah, it really is.’

#detroit become human #dbh #Hannor #Hancon #hank anderson #Connor dbh #RK800 #antis come fight me #I will defend Hannor to the bitter end #Honestly I don't know if I like father son or relationship better but I will fight for both #oh boy fear of heights really is a bitch #I once nearly fell over on an escalator because I leaned forwards too much XD #also the absolute worst is when you love the view but hate the way up #worst for me was the belltower of a church in Schneeberg. Complete wooden stairs you can see through all the way down #I died like a hundred times there #but it was worth it for the view #and the Hamburger Michel was bad too. But I always have to go if there is a good view because I am like that #rant end

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whumprincess · 3 years

Text

World of Pain: Ch. 2 - Juliet Takes the Stage

Word Count: 2352 words

CW: Creepy/Intimate/Possessive Whumper, Lady Whumpee, broken bones, torture, body control/human marionette, dehumanization, death threat, begging, mild horror, True Fae

Summary: Clara learns the misfortune that falls upon anyone unlucky enough to attract the attention of a True Fae obsessed with theatre.

Related Content: Intro, Chapter 1

Clara’s wakefulness came as erratically as a skipping record. There was an unsettling tune playing in her mind, one that was both familiar and unknowable. It steadily grew louder and more intrusive with every passing second.

“Rise and shine, Juliet!”

Their speech was nothing more than a mess of music notes escaping into the air and yet she understood all the same. Her vision was blurry as her eyes fluttered open.

“My, my, how precious.”

She felt woozy and captivated with every… word. However, even amidst her haziness, it was abundantly clear that something was wrong. Horror sank deep into her body when her eyes focused on thin, translucent wires wound taut around her flesh. Instinctively, she fought against her bonds only to be interrupted by an aggravating pitch she just knew was a laugh.

“And such fun too!”

“FUN?!” Her voice pierced the air, addressing the presence that seemed to be simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

“About you, Juliet!” The strings entangling her shifted to prop her up onto her feet and then concentrated around her elbows and knees. “Most of them don’t notice until…”

The sound of snapping harp strings accompanied the sensation of snapping bones. In an instant Clara lamented every object she had ever broken. The screech that left her lips was impossibly loud and pathetically quiet.

“Ah, such a beautiful song.”

Her joints gave way, but she remain standing. A delicate thread slowly creeped its way under her chin.

”Now… let’s take a look at your pretty face.”

Gently, her anguished expression was directed upwards. She nearly drowned in her own tears as she came face to faces with an abomination of reality.

“Perfection.”

This wasn’t happening… it couldn’t be happening! What she was looking at wasn’t even possible. The only way she could interpret it was as three large masks that didn’t fit in her field of vision, made up of an ever-shifting number of eyes. Their eyes conveyed emotion by warping smaller ones into crescent brows. Each face was connected to a large smile that resembled a harp… or perhaps it was the other way around? The “teeth” were the very same wires that were holding her up. She had wanted to refute its existence, to tell it to burn in hell, but every time she opened her mouth her voice was replaced by cries.

“Still conscious and singing? You must be trying to impress us!”

Clara’s anger overrode her pain and fear, “I-!”

“Oh?”

The eldritch horror reeled her in, eagerly awaiting her response. She was lost in their presence, but made found by the countless amount of eyes that gazed upon her. The need to breakdown was immense, but she fought it with the entirety of her will.

“PUT ME DOWN!”

Their screeching laughter nearly made her pass-out, “Now why would we do that? You can’t even move without us!”

“I DON’T CARE!”

“Now don’t be cruel.” They let out a sorrowful note.

“CRUEL!?” Surely even in this godforsaken place irony must exist.

“We went through all this trouble to welcome you home. You should be grateful to be ours.”

The mere insinuation made her blood boil, “I AM NOT YOURS!”

“Of course you are!”

“I DIDN’T AGREE TO THIS!”

“Agree? You say the cutest things!” Their smile extended beyond their faces. “Surely you understand a plaything has no say over who owns them.”

The weight of their words sat heavy on her broken bones. She was preparing to retort, when they abruptly gave each of their cords a twist. Agony once again robbed her of her words and forced screams out of her throat.

“We knew you’d understand, Juliet! Now, let’s get you ready!”

Clara must’ve succumbed to her overwhelming torment because the next thing she knew she was in what appeared to be an extravagant dressing room. Her earlier memories started to trickle back in causing her to panic. She jolted forward, attempting to escape, only to be met with the harsh reminder that her limbs were no longer hers to control.

The melody of her wail put them at ease, “Good, you’re finally awake! We were worried you’d be late for the show.”

The pounding of her aching body was ear-splitting; she shouldn’t have been able to hear that monstrosity as clearly as she did… there truly was little mercy in the world. Obstinately, she endured the rush of queasiness that threatened to send her back to sleep. She had to collect herself, she had to show them she would not be toyed with!

“What the hell do you mean: show?”

“Come now, Juliet, don’t be silly! It’s the reason you’re here.”

She was confused for merely a moment, before she caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror. In the glass she saw reflected her fragile frame strung up and decorated like some hapless marionette. Her heart plummeted as she fought the invading realization, “No!”

“Yes!” They responded, all their eyes lighting up with joy.

“I won’t do it!”

“Oh, Juliet,” they sighed. “You’re so eager to make things difficult.” They puppeted her towards the mirror, ensuring they were visible right behind her. “You’re forgetting…” Their tone was low and accompanied by strings coiling around her neck, “we’re the ones who run the show.”

Her heart was beating like a hammer, she couldn’t run even if she wanted to. As her mortified eyes stared into their soulless ones she recognized death was as close as she wanted it to be. “I-“ She considered her next words more carefully than her outfits, “I don’t know the script.”

Their amusement echoed throughout the space, “Of course you do!” They spun her around and waltzed her across the room to where a script lie on a table. “Go ahead, pick it up!”

They extended her arm towards Romeo and Juliet. For whatever bizarre reason, whenever this thing moved her around there was no pain; in fact it was almost soothing. With a scowl, she took the paper in her hands and flipped through it. Surely there must be some sort of demented twist. It came as a complete shock when, not only did this appear to be an ordinary telling of the story, but she also did indeed know all of Juliet’s lines flawlessly.

“How?” her question was halfway amongst demanding and disbelief.

“I’ve known you a long time, Juliet…” They moved a string to rest on her shoulder. They delighted in the vibrations of her shudder, “You were made for this role.”

She felt lightheaded. She was stuck between wanting to pry for further answers and wishing she had never asked in the first place. However, one thing was for certain: All this stress would not be good for her performance.

“When is the show?”

“Whenever we want it to be.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at their smug attitude, “Well then, could I persuade you to postpone indefinitely?”

They gave a deep chuckle as they caressed either side of her face with their cords, “Careful, Juliet.” They ominously inched closer to her pupils, “It would be a shame if we had to hold your pretty eyes in place too.”

Reflexively, she shut her eyes tight. She wanted this villain to touch her as little as possible, which was already a challenge considering they hadn’t let go of her since she arrived at this horrid place. “Right, well…” she cleared her throat, “What time suits you?”

Pleased with her change in demeanour, they rearranged their strings to maneuver her towards an ornate door. “Immediately.”

She had a sinking feeling that’s what they would say.

The stage was hotter than hell and the audience looked like they belonged there. Beings appearing even more sinister than her captor were among the crowd, fervently awaiting to witness a show, where she could only assume, no one was a willing participant. She felt sick considering she could be connected to all the other actors on stage via that thing. Her vindictive urge to ruin this damned play boiled to the surface, but before she could indulge it, its voice filled the auditorium.

“Fair folk and accompanying unfair folk, we thank you for coming to the greatest show in Arcadia!”

Cheering erupted from the crowd and in an instant Clara was reminded of home; her real home up on stage, where she was revered and she could do no wrong. A home where the applause harmonized so perfectly with the rhythm of her heart, she knew it belonged solely to her. Her instincts as an actress took over; she was determined to get her praise.

And she did.

Her performance was immaculate. Every line spoken from her soft, tantalising lips was angelic; every movement she was forced to complete was made her own by the flourishes of her fingertips and fluttering of her eyelashes; every minute she spent in the spotlight was blessed by her poise and passion. By the end of the show, she had undoubtedly earned the standing ovation offered by the cursed spectators. She fell so deep into the sound, the fame, the adoration that it was all she could remember, all she could dream of until…

They could never possibly tire of the sweet refrain of Juliet’s cries. As much as they loved seeing her be their perfect little puppet they were overcome with fondness whenever she writhed for them. They had waited with anticipation for the inevitable reminder that their kindness was a gift they had graciously given to her; one that could be easily taken away.

She didn’t even believe she was the one making those mangled shrieks until the unrelenting pain tore her from her dreams. All too vividly, she felt the twisting and turning of her bones as they attempted to fuse with something that was not her own. When she clamped her eyes shut, an intense image of thorny vines drilling deep into her flesh filled her mind. She watched as it scraped the length of her bones and spread out to contort around her broken parts.

“What’s the matter, Juliet?” They asked, teeming with glee.

As its sound danced its way inside her head, she attempted to close them out- to pretend she couldn’t hear them, but it was impossible to ignore the feeling of infinite eyes leering at her; making a spectacle of her suffering. She felt exposed. Exploited. Violated.

Overindulging their enjoyment, they pried her dripping eyes open, “Let us see those pretty eyes!”

She was utterly helpless as her last semblance of control was ripped away. Gawking at her nightmare, reality set in like cement: there was no escape. The violent convulsions of her healing body were the only means of protest she had left.

“Aw,” they cooed with mocking sympathy, “Is it too much for our plaything to take?”

Defiance mixed in with all the other hellish sensations housed within her. Her weak voice was dragged out of hiding, “N-o…”

“Hm, what was that? We couldn’t quite hear you.”

With all the energy she had left she shouted, “NO!”

“BRAVO! SPLENDID!” They played a congratulatory tune as they lifted her off the ground. “You can still sing!” They twirled and tossed her around from string to string until she was chaotically ensnared. “That means we can hear what we want.”

Being thrown around like some ragdoll should have aggravated her wounds, but it didn’t. Just like when she was performing, being connected to their cords brought her peace. Betraying her desire to flee from her tormentor, she let out a pleasant sigh of relief.

“There’s our Juliet.” They mused softly.

Although she was undeniably in less pain, she was sick to her stomach. The thought that it had any claim over her was revolting. She was seconds away from ordering it to unhand her before fear told her to hold her breath.

“Is there something you want to say?” They urged deviously.

She bit her tongue until it bled, maintaining a hateful glare. It was excruciatingly obvious they wanted her to lash out, to expel curses that would be used against her, so she practiced a new form of rebellion: silence.

“No? Just as well. It’s important you listen to what we have to say.” They intentionally began to rub their wires over her tender joints. “We have spoiled you, Juliet; Chosen to show you kindness without so much as asking for a please or thank you, however…” Without warning, they applied pressure, “We think it’s time you begged for our mercy.”

Unable to restrain herself, she spat blood and vitriol, “OVER MY DEAD BODY!”

Euphoric at her response, they cackled while jostling her around. Eventually, nothing but a single strand of string remained, precariously wrapped around her slender ankle. “That can be arranged!”

Vertigo set in as she faced the threat of plummeting to her death. Unfortunately, it wasn’t strong enough to overshadow the pain that impatiently returned to occupy its natural place in her body.

“So what will be?” They asked with a tightly strung note, “Would you rather beg or die?”

Just when she thought she might accept death, a pining voice resounded inside her mind:

“I’ll miss you, Doll.”

Why? In this world, where she was reduced to nothing more than an object; where she was certain to be subject to more misery; where there was no hope of escape; did she hear her? And why, oh why, did it fill her with such melancholy resolve?

With a heart torn more viciously than any part of her she sobbed, “Please…”

She remembered the brightness of her hair.

“I’ll do anything…”

The inviting hue of her eyes.

“Anything for you…”

The allure of her smile.

“So please…”

The warmth of her hands.

“Let me live!” Her desperation came to a crescendo. By the end of her pleading, she found herself enveloped in the villain’s embrace.

“Oh, Juliet.” They played with the red locks of her hair, “We didn’t know you loved us so.” They gently squeezed every cord surrounding her, “How could we ever let you go?”

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bubonickitten · 4 years

Text

TMA fic: where there’s a will, we make a way

New chapter is up on AO3 here!

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 11 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 11: mild self-harm (brief instance of wrist banging/bruising to distract from intrusive thoughts; mention of scratching/skin picking); some Buried-related claustrophobic memories; mentions of Jon starving himself (wrt to consuming statements, but worth mentioning for anyone who needs content warnings related to eating disorders, restrictive diets, etc.; there will be more going forward of Jon being hungry and restricting himself, and I'll keep warning for it, especially in chapters where it features heavily). SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 11: Reaching Out

The tunnels are as ominous as they’ve always been, but at this point, Jon just might be growing accustomed to them. The creeping fear he’s always felt down here has faded to the background – an ambient sense of dread. It's almost tolerable, or at least less oppressive than the omnipresent sense of being watched that he’s long since accepted as his normal.

Here, he can compose his letter to Martin without the risk of Jonah Seeing exactly what Jon’s eyes see.

After the Watcher’s Crown, Jonah did not Watch through Jon’s eyes anymore. Whether that was because Jon was stronger than Jonah at that point or because Jonah did not bother to try, Jon doesn’t Know. Once the ritual was completed, Jonah no longer had any stake in Jon’s trajectory, no need to monitor his progress or ensure his survival. Moreover, Jonah’s inflated ego never allowed for the possibility that Jon could pose a threat to his reign. His Archivist – his Archive – had no further interest to him except as a source of entertainment, and he didn’t need to See through Jon’s eyes in order to behold the show. He could See all of creation from the Panopticon.

Jon is stronger now than he was the last time he was here, but he’s still nowhere near as powerful as he was during the apocalypse. He’s tried to Know how he measures up against Jonah now, but the Beholding seems intent on withholding that knowledge from him. Last time he made an attempt, the Eye treated him to a litany of statistics about the interactions between the human body and the venom of various species of spider.

Sometimes Jon thinks that if the Beholding is sentient, it might just be the pettiest of the Dread Powers.

In any case, Jonah Magnus is still as much of a gnawing question mark as he’s always been. It’s safest to assume that he has the advantage until proven otherwise – and Jon will take the tunnels over Jonah’s voyeurism any day, no matter how harrowing they may be. Even if he has to be down here alone – which he is.

Georgie is with Melanie, and Jon is reluctant to ask Basira for any favors right now. He wonders again if this is how Martin felt, living in the Archives, spending sleepless nights with himself and the scratching of a pen as his only companions. Just like Jon, Martin was never very good company for himself, especially back then – and back now. He was primed for the Lonely long before he started working at the Institute.

Speaking of which…

Jon sighs, puts his pen down, and begins to read through what he’s written.

I’m sorry I left you.

…now I’m here, trying to explain things –

– had changed since he left –

– it seemed he was alone –

– as far as I could tell, all alone in the world, and rather unhappy about the fact.

I will admit to taking a dislike to the man when I first met him – but –

– I’d say that – was a foolish act of past me.

Jon is still worried about starting the letter like this, but this is a point in time not too far removed from his early mistreatment of Martin. Jon had made his apologies and explanations at length in his future, but this version of Martin hasn’t experienced that yet. Jon can’t just jump into showing affection before taking accountability for his past behavior – recent past, from the perspective of this timeline.

He can only hope that Martin will read through to the end, and that Jon’s intention – his sincerity – will be understood.

Soon I was giving my account as a full confession –

– trying my best to fit this into a relatively coherent narrative.

It’s plenty of things I’ve done I couldn’t explain to you. I mean, I’m constantly – looking back at my past self and thinking, what an idiot. How the hell could he have done such an obviously stupid thing? How was I surprised it went so badly? What a relief I’m now so much older and wiser.

I’ve never really been the social type – I’ve always just been happier alone. Well, maybe happier isn’t quite the right word. I did get a bit lonely sometimes. I’d hear laughter coming from other rooms in my building, or see a group of friends talking in the sun outside, and maybe I’d wish I had something like that, but it never really bothered me – I didn’t need another people and they certainly didn’t need me.

Jon looks down at the words with a dissatisfied scowl. Does this come off as too self-centered? As more as an excuse than an explanation? This would be so much easier if he could just say what he means. Then again, Jon’s always struggled with discussing emotional matters, hasn't he? He can’t blame it all on the Archive.

These thoughts, these feelings were always in my mind – until – I realized the deeper truth of it all.

I tried to put it into words, but without any real success. Even here, with the time to compose it properly, I’m not sure I’ve caught the essence of what I felt –

– I had a look through my library, and couldn’t find anything that matched it –

– those are musings for poets, among whom I do not number –

– it’s all very well to say ‘write down what you saw,’ but what if you don’t have the words?

I suppose I’ll just have to try.

I’ve always been more comfortable alone –

– had few friends – reluctant to make the sort of connections that might lead to –

– the prospect of being genuinely loved –

– fully and completely known –

– having people be genuinely lovely to me, I didn’t know what to do with those feelings –

– I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone.

It is the fear of being watched, and judged, and having all your secrets known.

Ironic, in some ways –

– being what I am –

– an Archivist pleading for knowledge –

– to feed the sick voyeur that lurks in this place.

Eventually, I opened my eyes –

– feeling absurd about how terrified I was about being seen –

– kicking myself for having been so stupid –

– it wasn’t natural for people to live in isolation – we were creatures of community by nature.

Soon enough, I could no longer fool myself –

– the man I loved –

– who was by all accounts such a kind and gentle soul –

– when I – saw him standing there waiting for me – I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than in that moment.

He spoke words I thought existed only in my heart, and I loved him as the soil loves the rain –

– and it seemed he felt the same way –

– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.

Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me, it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already.

…to say – “I love you” – honestly it’s one of the few decisions I’ve ever made that I completely understand.

It’s… woefully inadequate. Too devoid of context. Unlikely to reach Martin through the fog. But maybe it will be enough to at least convince him to talk to Jon. To keep the Lonely at bay, at least for now.

After leaving the hospital, the next thing that is properly clear in my mind is –

– I need him to be okay.

I couldn’t see him or hear him –

– I didn’t even get a chance to speak to him – asked what had happened, he was just gone. And I was alone again.

I wanted to say something reassuring, to reach out and let him know I was still there –

– I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed.

I think he might be part of something really awful, and I don’t know how to make him see that – of course I did worry. I knew that, secretly, he was as well.

I know how that sounds – but – I ask you to read on.

For a split second, the memory of the ritual flits through his mind – Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading … – and Jon brings his wrist down on the side of his chair, hard. The pain jolts him out of the recollection and brings him back to the present. He watches halfheartedly as the discoloration fades before his eyes, frustration with his overreaction itching in the back of his mind. Stupid.

With a longsuffering sigh, he rereads the previous section again. The borrowed words sound patronizing, without the qualifying context he wishes he could provide more explicitly. He isn’t just nitpicking – it’s crucial that Martin knows that Jon isn’t underestimating him, despite a history of doing exactly that for far too long.

The first time around, he trusted Martin – more than he trusted anyone, including (perhaps especially) himself – and even knowing what he knows now, he doesn’t regret it. He heard the tapes.

“But if I could just explain,” Martin had said.

“And how do you think Jon’s going to react to that explanation, hm?” Peter had replied. “You think he’ll accept it calmly? Come through with a well-considered, rational response?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Or would he assume he knows better than you and do something rash?”

“I don’t like being manipulated.”

“That’s fair. But I’m not wrong.”

“No.”

In Jon’s original timeline, he had proven Peter wrong. He had trusted Martin, respected his boundaries, followed his lead. This time, though… Jon won’t be able to demonstrate that with non-interference, and not being able to use his own words doesn’t help him explain that this isn’t just another instance of Jon just assuming he knows better than everyone else, that he actually does have special knowledge, and – well, truthfulness aside, that sounds condescending, too, doesn’t it?

He doesn’t blame Martin for agreeing with Peter. For a significant portion of Jon’s life, it would have been a fair assessment. He didn’t trust people. He didn’t trust himself, either – not really – but at least he knew his own intentions. That bone-deep fear of being manipulated, of being rejected, of not having control… it never played well with the concept of trust.

And when they first started working together, Jon made no secret of his knee-jerk judgment of Martin as being incompetent, clumsy, and unreliable. In retrospect, he couldn’t have been more wrong – and he knows now that he was only seeing what he wanted to see, projecting his own insecurities and fear of failure onto Martin to distract from his own floundering.

After learning that Martin had lied on his CV, Jon readjusted his initial opinions. He was impressed. Martin was remarkably capable for someone with no prior qualifications, no experience, no degree. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for in effort. He was clever, and resolute, and dependable, and genuine, and… and god, wasn’t Jon a fool for taking so long to notice? And then for never saying as much until it was almost too late?

This version of Martin hasn’t heard that apology just yet – or the corollary apology for waiting so long to apologize. Georgie had told him years ago that he needed to use his words, that people needed to hear directly that they were acknowledged and appreciated. Jon himself struggled with reading between the lines. Just because he had low tolerance for receiving direct praise – despite craving it deeply – didn’t mean that other people had the same hangups.

He’s since taken that advice to heart, but he should have done sooner. Georgie had been right about a lot of things.

Jon did eventually say as much and more, during those brief few weeks they had in the safehouse. Peter hadn’t been all wrong when he questioned how much they really knew one another. Between Jon’s early irascibility and the distance he felt obligated to keep given their employee/boss relationship; between preventing apocalypses and being in such constant life-or-death peril that it started to feel normal, so normal that Jon didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t being chased or held captive; between the coma, and descending into inhumanity, and the Lonely… they hadn’t had a chance to get to know each other outside of a crisis situation.

Jon didn’t even know himself anymore. He wondered if he ever had.

For the first time, they finally had the time and space to remedy that. Both of them were changed and would never be the same, but they had each other. They were both willing to put in the effort, to learn how to communicate and accommodate and navigate boundaries, despite neither having much experience with a healthy relationship. And for a little while, it had seemed that they could both learn how to be present in the world again – starting with their own microcosm, one day at a time, encouraging one another to be more patient and kind with themselves.

It wasn’t fair, how abruptly that hesitant, hopeful attempt was stolen from them. Jon didn’t feel like he deserved comfort and contentment – he still doesn’t – but Martin… Martin deserved – deserves – to be safe and cared for and loved. Martin deserves to be happy.

Jon desperately wants to help him See that.

Don’t… misunderstand me, please –

– I trusted his instincts almost as much as I trusted my own.

More than I trusted my own, Jon amends in his head – but the Archive isn’t cooperating.

But I knew that I – knew the future –

– the promise of secret knowledge, of seeing something that no one else was privy to –

– there was – a lot – we were missing.

Please. All I ask is that I be allowed –

– a chance to express myself –

– said something about knowledge being a good defense here –

– so here I am, pouring out my lunatic story on paper in the hopes that you might eventually read it.

Statement of Georgina Barker regarding –

– travel through time.

Jon still has to ask Georgie if she can explain the situation to Martin, but he doesn’t think she’ll mind. It won’t be as comprehensive as Jon wishes it could be – he still struggles with explaining the fine details of the apocalypse to the others given his current limitations – but he’s done his best, and he can trust Georgie to do the same.

Some fears can only be endured for so long. I remember every second of that fall. Like it was happening in slow motion. I was certain I was about to watch him fall like I had.

That knowledge I had gained – could finally be put to use.

I shall do my best to explain, and hope that any revelations contained here in me sway you from the path you have started upon.

I wanted to tell him to stop, to warn him – because I knew –

– the Extinction – while I have seen evidence of its influence in other powers –

– there was no sign of – imminent arrival – I resolved –

– its emergence as a true power of its own –

– wasn’t a threat.

Whatever he was planning –

– to try and rescue those trapped –

– trying to protect me –

– defending the world from the darkness…

…I know – to talk to other people about it –

– desperately wishing for another human being to talk to –

– to take too much comfort in – people – would go quite strongly against the spirit of the experiment – had to really feel alone. That at least didn’t take too long to set in.

All that remained was the fog – could wander there for years, and never meet another – utterly forsaken – there seemed to be no end to it.

But it didn’t need to be forever, did it?

“This too shall pass.”

I tried to explain but all I could manage to get through the shaking sobs was, “I love you.”

By then it looked like he was on the verge of tears,

Jon stops reading for a moment, realizing that, aptly enough, he’s on the verge of tears right now. He swallows them back and continues.

By then it looked like he was on the verge of tears, but I couldn’t leave it alone – just couldn’t let it go.

I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that –

I cannot lose him.

I – cared deeply about his well-being.

I know he didn’t deserve what happened to him.

He deserved to –

– to be – beloved –

– cared for – trusted –

– being wanted and appreciated –

– being genuinely loved –

– no matter how wrong it might feel –

– when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable.

I need him to be okay –

– and the world is so much better for –

– the easy, charming man I’d fall in love with –

– being in it.

Please. All I ask is that I be allowed to –

– talk to you, before it all comes to an end –

– and I swear to you that –

– if you decide to do it – if –

– you want to be alone – and –

– didn’t say much to me after that –

– I made sure to keep – distance.

There’s so much more Jon wishes he could say; so much that he wishes he could say in his own voice, rather than the stolen words of survivors recounting the most traumatic moments of their lives. It still feels perverse, to use their statements like this. It might not be as bad as feeding directly on a victim, but it still falls on a spectrum of appropriating the torment of others for his own use.

At the end of the day, it really doesn’t feel all that different from Jonah’s brand of dehumanization. It’s just one more way Jon is complicit in the evil that thrives in this place –

“Hey,” comes Georgie’s voice from just a few yards away. Jon startles, sending his pen clattering to the floor. He had been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even heard her descending the ladder. “Sorry,” she says with a wince. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Retrieving the fallen pen, Jon waves the apology off – it’s okay – and Georgie comes to sit next to him.

“Finished with your letter?”

“…I’m vague on the details,” he says. “I have to be.”

“Want me to take a look?”

Jon nods; he had been planning on asking her to read it through. Even if it was in his own words, he would likely run it by her. He trusts Georgie’s judgment regarding relationship matters far more than he trusts his own, and he knows she’ll be straightforward with him if he’s said something… well, stupid. He’s gotten better at communicating, but that doesn’t mean his tendency to put his foot in his mouth has disappeared entirely.

He jiggles his leg restlessly as she reads, increasingly self-conscious the longer the silence goes on. He resists scratching at his hands – Georgie is sure to reprimand him if he starts that up again. It isn’t that she has a problem with his fidgeting; she was actually one of the first people in his life to tolerate it. Encouraged it, even. She pointed out quite bluntly once that whenever Jon tried to force himself to sit still, his restless energy didn’t go away, it just came out as waspishness instead.

But she had a rule: no self-harm, no matter how mild. Personally, he didn’t categorize the scratching as self-harm, but she was firm about it. Lately, the scratching is limited mostly to his burned hand, and he’s tried explaining to her that it doesn’t even hurt – the scar tissue doesn’t register much sensation anymore – but she won’t hear it. For the past couple weeks, whenever she catches him at it, she gives him a look until he stops.

“I think it’s good,” Georgie says. “But…”

Jon tenses, but then he glimpses Georgie’s playful grin.

“It’s nothing bad! It’s just… well…”

He can hear the spark of mischief in her tone and somehow that makes him more apprehensive than the prospect of criticism.

“See, you say you’re not a poet,” she says, pointing at the letter, “but this part here…”

He spoke words I thought existed only in my heart, and I loved him as the soil loves the rain –

– and it seemed he felt the same way –

– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.

“You go and use a sappy metaphor – and I know,” she says, seeing him ready to protest, “they’re not your words and you’re using what you have available.”

Yes, he wants to say, and my vast library comprised solely of people’s retellings of their supernatural trauma isn’t exactly forthcoming with declarations of love, Georgina.

“But,” she says, goading now, “then you go and rhyme the first and last lines.”

Jon squints at the letter, and…

Fuck. It does rhyme.

He moves to snatch the paper away and Georgie stands and holds it out of reach, dancing backwards.

“No, nope, absolutely not,” she says, laughing. “Jonathan Sims, I refuse to let you change it. You’re leaving it exactly as is.”

“…being used against me in a cruel joke,” he huffs, glowering at her – but her laugh has always been infectious, and he can’t fight it as his lips twitch into a smile.

She hands the letter back to him after a minute, still grinning when she takes her seat again.

“I’m teasing you. You can change it if you want, but I think it’s adorable and you should leave it. Besides, Martin’s a poet, isn’t he? He might get a kick out of it.”

Honestly, it doesn’t bother him enough to rewrite the entire thing. And if there’s a chance of it coaxing a smile out of Martin…

“On a more serious note – this part here, ‘statement of Georgina Barker’ – I’m assuming you want me to try to convince him that you actually are a time traveler here to stop the apocalypse?” Jon nods. “Probably easier than trying to write it all out. I don’t mind, but are you sure he’ll listen to me?”

Jon shrugs. He has the same worry, but…

“As for myself, I must cling to –”

“– that most insidious of emotions: hope.”

“Somehow both unexpectedly sappy and predictably ominous,” she replies, “but I’ll take it. Better than despair, anyway.”

Despite the light teasing, the smile she flashes is genuine. Fleeting, though, as she continues.

“Oh, and one more thing – that one bit, capital-E Extinction? One, don’t like the sound of that, and two – should I know what that is? Melanie hasn’t mentioned anything like that before.”

“I’m sorry – it won’t let me say the words,” Jon says with a frustrated sigh.

“Will Martin know what it means, though?” Jon nods. With any luck, Martin can be persuaded to fill the others in on it. “Good enough.”

She watches him for a few moments as he chews at his thumbnail, leg still shaking, staring at the floor.

“Something’s on your mind.”

Jon sighs and closes his eyes.

“I could feel hunger gnawing at me.”

“You still haven’t had a statement?” Georgie says, frowning at him.

“Something he could salvage from the whole situation,” he mutters, not looking up at her. “Just a way of getting some control over his life, you know?”

“Jon, you can’t just starve yourself –”

“Running was pointless,” he agrees sullenly. “To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do –”

“– some hungers are too strong to be denied –”

“– you have to feed it – or it will feed on you.”

“So why haven’t you?”

“Even as I did so, in the back of my mind I hated myself –”

“– to feed the sick voyeur that lurks in this place.”

“I’m not saying you should… go hunting, or whatever you want to call it. This is an archive, there are plenty of statements lying around.”

“…you’ve got all this… all these people’s experiences listened to and filed away.”

“Right. They’re already given. They can’t be taken back. You’re not going out and hurting people, you’re just… reading what’s already here.”

She thinks he was just agreeing with her, he realizes – she didn’t comprehend his true meaning there. How could she have? He hasn’t properly explained to them that he is the Archive. He already Knows all of the statements housed here. Old statements were stale even when he hadn’t read them yet. Now, they’re even less fulfilling.

As a child, he hated reading anything that he felt like he had read before. It seems morbidly fitting that the Archivist in him is much the same way.

“Think of it like… like harm reduction,” Georgie is saying now. “From what I can gather, abstinence just isn’t an option for you, at least not right now. The next best thing is to meet yourself where you are. Even if you can’t stop, you can still take steps to minimize the harm – and that includes harm to yourself. Reading the statements that are already here – I think it’s justifiable, if the alternative is starving to death.”

“I am not sure how long this might continue for. Maybe years. Maybe forever.”

“Maybe. But right now, you need to take it one step at a time. You’re getting ready to hurl yourself into danger. You should be at full strength for that. If you aren’t going to sleep, you at least need to eat something.”

She has a point. There is one other concern, though.

“It seems I cannot avoid the ceaseless gaze of – Jonah –”

“– still there, still watching me –”

“– eyes were always focused on something, always watching. And – I always felt afraid –”

“– being under constant scrutiny and observation –”

“– it may be worth your while to keep an eye on the statements – in case he finds his way here –”

“– my mind has always been receptive to the thoughts that lurk in the written page –”

“– that throw out strange or sometimes even dangerous things –”

“– a simple ruse or deception –”

“– quietly waiting for you to lose your footing, to slip up and fall.”

“You’re afraid of getting tricked into reading the wrong statement again.”

Jon nods, not quite meeting her eye. All of the statements housed here are already catalogued in the Archive. He can recall them on his own word for word, if he concentrates. But something about that doesn’t feel right. Physically reading the statement, speaking it into the tape recorder… it’s like its own little ritual – like there’s an order of operations that has to be followed or it doesn’t count, somehow.

“…I outlined basic checks in due diligence –”

“– checking and double checking –”

“– before I finally felt safe enough –”

“– to read a statement – hitting record and speaking it aloud.”

“Well… we can probably vet them before giving them to you?”

“…they were also there as a backup in case something went horribly wrong – in case –”

“– it tried to read me back.”

“Okay,” she says after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll let Basira know.”

Her expression is concerned, but there’s something else underneath it. It doesn’t seem like judgment, or suspicion, or any of the other reactions he’s come to expect when discussing his reliance on the statements. It’s definitely not fear; this is Georgie. Pity, maybe?

Whatever it is, it makes him feel small and exposed and uncomfortably seen.

“Jon, look at me.” He does, with hesitation. “I know things are bad, and I’ll admit I was skeptical when you first said you wanted to change, but based on what I’ve seen over the past few months? I believe in you. It’s okay to have a little faith in yourself, too. I think you’ll need to, if you want to get through this.”

His gaze drifts to the floor, self-conscious.

“Anyway, it's probably best that Elias doesn’t see us pre-screening statements for you, right? Might make him suspicious. I can just gather a box of them and bring them down here. I’ll bring Basira with me, and we can explain the situation.” She stands and starts to walk toward the ladder, then stops abruptly. “Wait.”

She does a half-turn, not quite facing him, watching the floor pensively.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for. Is there something particular – like, do you have preferences, or – are there… nutritional requirements or something?” Jon can’t help it; he smiles at the absurdity of it all. “Do you need variety? Does a balanced diet even apply in this –”

Realizing he isn’t replying to any of her questions, she finally looks up, sees his amused smirk, and pauses mid-flustered gesture. He chuckles softly and shakes his head, mortified by the idea of cultivating a preference for statements as if choosing from a menu, but also just a bit shamefully, morbidly endeared at her thoughtfulness.

“Well, I don’t know!” she says indignantly, but she grins back. “Fine. I’ll grab a bunch at random then, and you can just deal. Ass.”

God, he missed this easy, playful banter even more than he had realized.

Jon watches as she climbs the ladder, preparing for the customary anxiety that tends to hit him whenever she leaves his presence – that conviction that it will be the last he sees of her.

When she pulls herself up through the trapdoor, though, he’s pleasantly surprised to note that the fear doesn’t come. He’s even more surprised that a half-hour later, when Georgie sends Basira with a box of statements but doesn’t accompany her, the fear still doesn’t overwhelm him. It shouldn’t be that surprising – he does trust Georgie – but intellectually understanding something isn’t the same as emotionally assimilating it. It seems that for once, his emotions have caught up with reality.

“Melanie needs company right now, so Georgie couldn’t come with. She didn't say exactly what you needed help with, but I think I have an idea.”

“…to keep an eye on the statements –”

“– they were also there as a backup in case something went horribly wrong.”

“Figured as much. Anyway, Georgie said she’ll come see you before she goes home today.” Basira drops the box on the floor in front of him. “I told her you probably wouldn’t want her present for the statements anyway. No need to expose more people to them if we can help it. I thought you’d agree.”

Jon nods, thankful that Basira is on the same page and he didn’t have to bother explaining it himself.

“So, any stand out to you?”

May as well get it over with, Jon thinks with a heavy sigh.

He leans over the box and sifts through them, eyes skimming over the case numbers until one catches his eye. CASE #0020312, the label reads. Figures, he thinks to himself with a grim, humorless smile, and he hands it over to Basira for her to inspect.

She skims through it quickly – she’s a fast reader, Jon notes – and at several points her eyebrows raise and furrow.

“Seems normal enough – for a statement, anyway,” she says, handing it back to him. Then, meeting his eyes: “A bit on the nose, though.” Jon shrugs. “You want me to stay while you read it, right? Go on, then.”

The tape recorder clicks on in his pocket, as if to voice its agreement. Jon removes it and takes a moment to glare at it before turning his eyes to the statement, clearing his throat, and beginning his monologue.

“Statement of Tova McHugh, regarding their string of near-death experiences. Original statement given December 3rd, 2002. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins…”

The Coffin sits where Breekon dropped it, hungry and waiting. It’s the densest, most solid thing in the room, as if it has its own gravity, a sort of metaphysical black hole. It’s not as bad as the rift at Hill Top Road, but it has a similar feel to it: oppressive, wrong, its existence impossible but unavoidably present all the same.

Jon stands at the threshold, blocking the entrance, Basira and Georgie standing behind him.

“So this is it, then,” Georgie says. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

“…as you can imagine, getting out of there proved – difficult –”

“– but they did return.”

She still looks uncertain, watching the Coffin as if it might move on its own.

“…try to keep you far away –”

“– didn’t want a good look inside that room – stopped at the threshold –”

“– make it very little distance over the threshold before – swallowed –”

“– you must trust me on that and not come looking –”

“– supervise from a distance –”

“Jon,” Basira says, cutting him off, “we get it. It’s dangerous, stay away, et cetera. I can feel the compulsion from here; you really don’t need to tell me twice, let alone five times.”

Jon barely hears her, his mind already entirely occupied with what he’s about to do. He stands paralyzed, knees locked, hands trembling just slightly, pulse thundering in his throat. Already his breath feels constricted, and he hasn’t even opened the thing yet.

“Do you need more time?” Georgie asks gently.

Jon shuts his eyes, swallows around the lump in his throat, and shakes his head no. The longer he puts it off, the harder it will be to take the plunge. And Daisy has waited long enough.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Jon breathes out, opens his eyes, and turns to face her. She opens her arms slightly, offering an embrace – but he shakes his head, giving her an apologetic look. Pressure is usually good, grounding him, but right now – well, he’s about to have all of creation pressing in on him, and any reminder of that is only going to send him spiraling.

“Okay. You have everything you need?”

He nods, trying to project whatever thin veneer of confidence he can muster – more for himself than the others, really. He holds up the tape recorder with Daisy’s statement tape in it, then gestures vaguely at the tape recorders littering his desk.

“…like breadcrumbs taking us home. Home, in this case, was –”

“Martin,” Georgie says with a knowing smile. “I’ll make sure he gets your message – and yes,” she says, seeing him about to interject, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t read it outside the tunnels. And I’ll explain… the situation. Don’t worry about things over here. Just focus on what you need to do on your end.”

Jon nods again, clenching and unclenching his fist at his side, stuffing the tape recorder back into his pocket with the other hand.

Time to stop dithering, he tells himself firmly.

“Tell Daisy I –” Basira blurts out, then pauses, struggling for words. “Tell her…”

She breathes out a short exhale and looks up at Jon. He nods at her: I understand.

“Tell her I’m waiting.” She pauses, biting her lip. “And Jon?” He makes a questioning noise. “Come back safe,” she says, then turns on her heel and walks briskly away down the hall.

“We’ll see you home soon, Jon,” Georgie says. She pours every ounce of reassurance into it that she can manage, but he can feel that she’s still apprehensive. “Don’t get lost.”

“…I’d – get out of there as soon as possible,” he says, trying to mirror her composure.

“You’d better. I doubt I’ll be the only one cross with you if you stay away too long.”

The tape recorders fill the room with a low, static-leaden murmuring – dozens of overlapping tones, unbroken streams of phonemes rendered nearly incomprehensible, discrete parts unable to compete against the cacophony of the whole. Although it sounds like the background noise of a crowd to Jon, he Knows every word being said: a litany of horror and dread unspooling in the air around him.

He also Knows that they will continue running, replaying each statement on a loop until he returns, no batteries required.

A notebook sits on his desk, battered and careworn. It’s Martin’s, half-filled with poems and works-in-progress, many of them from the weeks he was living in the Archives. He left it here when he went to work for Peter. Whether it was meant as a deliberate symbolic gesture – leaving the past behind him, sacrificing this sentimental part of himself in order to become what Peter’s plan required him to be – or was simply an oversight after months of having no time or mind for writing, Jon still doesn’t Know. He never asked. In the future, after Martin started writing again, Jon felt it was best not to reopen old wounds for the sake of satiating his own curiosity.

If only he could have learned that lesson earlier in life.

Jon has never been a fan of poetry. It’s never really resonated with him; he’s never understood it, and he… doesn’t have much patience for things he cannot understand. But then, Martin went to work for Peter Lukas – and the last time Jon was here, he had burned every other bridge between himself and humanity.

When he was a child, he had convinced himself that he didn’t need friends, didn’t need affection. He found human connection in books, and he told himself that it was enough. It wasn’t, in retrospect: he entered adolescence and then adulthood with stunted social skills, and practicing didn't seem worth the risk of failure. Between that and being the Archivist, it was no wonder he had chased everyone away.

By the time he woke up from his first coma, he knew that books would be no replacement for actual companionship, but he thought it might at least take the edge off, like it used to when he was a child. It backfired terribly. He would always Know how the story ended before even finishing the first chapter, and it would demolish any motivation to continue reading. It wasn’t just that his reading habits now tend to be as particular as they were when he was young, having little patience for anything that felt like he had read it before. It was that he couldn’t have a moment of peace from the knowledge of what he had become.

One day he stumbled across Martin’s notebook in Document Storage, along with some spoken word recordings that Martin had made while living in the Archives. At first, Jon didn’t know what the tapes were, and listening to any tapes that turned up had long since become automatic for him. Once he realized what was on them, he probably should have stopped, but he listened to every second of that handful of tapes, over and over and over again. He felt guilty – he had already violated Martin’s privacy once before, when he was deep in the throes of paranoia – but he justified it to himself because he… well, he'd needed to hear Martin’s voice.

The poetry was… well, Jon still didn’t get it, not really. But he found himself liking it anyway, because it was Martin’s voice and Martin’s words and Martin’s story, and Jon didn’t have to understand it for it to have meaning and value and warmth. He should have been content with the tapes, but he kept stealing glances at the notebook, itching to open it and start reading. Part of it was that simple curiosity that was always leading him astray, but for once, that wasn’t the loudest part of him.

It wasn’t a need to Know. It was a need for closeness.

So, he pushed that guilty voice in his head aside and… he read. Unlike the fiction stories he had been trying to lose himself in, he never once Knew anything about a poem before he finished reading it. He rarely Knew anything about it even after reading it, and then rereading it, and then rereading it again. For the first time in his life, not having answers was… refreshing. Freeing, even.

It didn’t take long for Jon to memorize every word, cover to cover – and he never grew bored of them, despite their familiarity.

Gingerly, almost reverently, Jon turns the pages. There are a handful of poems in here about him, and even now, indelibly etched into his memory, reading them on the page still makes him feel seen in a way that is all at once terrifying and comforting. Affecting, certainly, but in a way he could appreciate, once he gave it a chance.

You’re stalling, Jon tells himself, closing the notebook and placing one last tape on top of it.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to take several deep breaths – it’s the last chance he’ll have for the next few days – and he checks his pocket for the tape recorder with Daisy’s statement in it. Pointless, really; he already Knows it’s there, same as it was the last dozen times he checked.

Swallowing hard, he finally turns to look at the Coffin. The moment he lays eyes on it, the static rises in his mind.

Oh, shut up, Jon thinks tiredly. The Dread Powers are like cats yowling at overflowing food bowls, insisting that they haven’t had supper yet. At least cats are endearing. The Fears are noisy and intrusive with none of the charm. You’re all so goddamn needy, you know that?

The Coffin carries on, and Jon rolls his eyes. Wrapping himself in annoyance does little to drown out the fear, but it offers a slight buffer. He’ll take it.

You’re still stalling, he reprimands himself.

With trembling hands he picks up the key, fits it into the lock… and he opens the lid. It lifts easily with only a slight creak, no heft or resistance to it: it wants to be opened, like so many of the other hungry doors lurking around this world, bear traps and snares and spiderwebs all lying in wait for somebody foolish and curious enough to ignore all the alarm bells for just one… peek… inside.

Knock-knock, comes the intrusive thought.

Shut up, Jon shoots back.

The tape recorder clicks on, whirring impatiently in his pocket, as if to urge him onward.

You too, he snaps – but as much as his knee-jerk impulse is to be contrary, he has put this off long enough.

Jon steels himself, takes one last deep breath – savoring fresh air, full lungs, airways clear of dirt and grime and debris – and he begins his descent.

Martin is in Peter’s office, tending to some tedious administrative tasks. His brain feels fuzzy, thoughts sluggish and stunted from the lack of stimulation. The tick-tock of the wall clock drones on and on. He’s considered removing the batteries, but it’s the only company he’s had in days. Complete silence might be worse. Besides, the longer he sits here, the less and less the noise scrapes against the edges of his consciousness – and even when it does penetrate the fog filling his head, he can’t bring himself to care.

If Peter intends for the monotony to highlight his isolation and desensitize him to the absence of… well, everything, it’s working.

Then, between one moment and the next, there’s a shift. It crashes into him, tears through the quiet, and the world around him comes rushing back in, a sharp and blinding and cacophonous flood of sensory input.

There’s a palpable void where one shouldn’t be, and he knows with certainty that it’s distinct from the general sense of absence that he’s grown accustomed to over the past few months. The Lonely feels soft, quiet, gentle – natural, like a cocoon tailored specifically for him. This feels like a knife to the gut, a gaping wound, alarm bells screaming in his mind that something is wrong, wrong, wrong –

“Something’s happened,” he says to himself. He flinches at the sound. It’s jarring, hearing his own voice, raspy as it is with disuse.

Before he even realizes that he’s moving, he’s out of the office and hurrying down the hallway, not bothering to close the door behind him.

“Jon,” he whispers with a passion and urgency that feels alien to him now, thoughts no longer muffled and detached. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does: Jon’s done something drastic, and given his track record, it can’t be good.

The only thought running through his mind is Jon, playing on a loop like a stuck tape; like the nervous stammering of the person he used to be, intimidated by and enamored with the man in equal measure; like a – like a prayer: Jon.

Martin picks up his pace, making a beeline for the Archives.

End Notes:

The Buried, Round Two: BEGIN.

I might not have much free time to write this weekend, so the next chapter probably won't be ready until next weekend at least. It will have some Martin POV though, FINALLY. This story hasn't had enough Martin screentime yet and that is entirely a hell of my own making, but I WILL remedy it. Also: ACTUAL DAISY CONTENT SOON, I SWEAR.

Citations for Jon's letter to Martin are as follows: MAG 040; 112/007/029/102; 007/150; 020/019; 150; 013; 135; 048/144/007/021; 021; 013/002/032/147/153/013; 161/091/101/089/135; 048/028/067/013; 143/150/008/013; 135/048/009; 013; 150; 013/117; 085/052; 063/124; 123; 011; 123/133; 070/154/123; 133/019/036/011; 094/088; 075; 135; 127; 124/157/050/157/130; 143/107/012/056; 122/012/057; 013; 145/121; 150; 042; 042; 032; 037/136/110; 152/008/101/153/032/129/153; 117/155/013/155; 133/112/152/154/013/051/049.

Citations for Jon's dialogue are as follows, broken down by section: Section 1: MAG 064; 019; 138/139; 019; 058; 148; 121/014/089; 066/135; 043; 096; 138/060/154/060/113/017/005/116/121; 054/022/054/147; 057/091; 155. Section 2: 150/096; 095/006/023/157/139; 125; 047. Section 3: None. Section 4: None.

The cited dialogue between Peter and Martin is from MAG 126. And it probably goes without saying but the Jonah/Elias statement quote is from MAG 160.

As always, you can also just ask if you want to know where a particular line comes from. c:

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #long post #tma spoilers

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shieldwinter · 3 years

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Of Green and Grey [Preview]

Here’s the preview for my new fic! Inspired mostly by Fallout 4 (because I’m most familiar with it over the other Fallout games)

Synopsis: Steve was recovered from the arctic in 2040 due to melting icecaps, but instead of defrosting him, the United States government decided to store him in a cryogenic state until desperate times would call for the activation of Captain America. This time would never come, as the world entered the last World War in 2077, and the world was ravished by nuclear fallout. Over two hundred years later, Nick Fury and his group of ragtag defenders find Steve in cryogenic sleep, and release him from his icy slumber. The United States is no more, but with the rise of an insidious scientific group known as Hydra, Captain America may be needed more than ever.

Enter Hydra Courser B1-07, a third generation Synth, created to be their number one agent. He is tasked to infiltrate, and take down these so called Defenders, Avengers, and meets his match in Captain America; both mentally and physically. The peak of technological innovation, meets the peak of human perfection. What can become of them?

He was cold. He was numb. Moving his fingers proved to be difficult. They were stiff, his bones feeling brittle, as he attempted to curl them into a fist. His eyelids were another challenge, darkness clouding his vision as Steve fought to open them. They felt glued together, frosted over with a biting chill. Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell. Every breath he tried to force in burned, like he was shoved down face first into a snowdrift, forced to struggle in oxygen.

Where was he? The last thing Steve remembered was the Valkyrie, the fight with Johann Schmidt, speaking to Peggy and putting the plane into the water. He remembered the feeling of rushing arctic water, filling the plane and sinking her down, down, into the depths of the ocean. He remembered accepting his fate, knowing people were safe because of his sacrifice, and that Steve could die relieved, could die a hero.

He didn’t feel dead, however. He felt like he was struggling to wake up, to fight against the cold that consumed him. Steve felt like he was slowly getting warmer, his body regaining some function as more time passed. He sucked in his first breath that didn’t hurt, but it resulted in a gasping cough, his lungs fighting the chilled air. “Oh my god, Nick, he’s alive!” He heard, the voice sounding like it was underwater, and Steve lifted his head to the best of his abilities, finding frosted glass obscuring his vision. So he was alive, then? This wasn’t some bizarre afterlife that was defrosting him from the arctic before opening it’s gates. A buzzer sounded, then a mechanical voice blared from somewhere in the distance, and slowly the frosted glass left his eyeline, lifting and lifting to reveal a man with a shock of blond hair, wide blue eyes peering at Steve as if he was some kind of anomaly.

“Who..?” Steve tried, but with the rush of warm air flooding the chamber he was in, his iced over clothing began cracking away, his only anchor to keep him upright, and he began to tumble over. “Wow, wow, wow!” Shouted the man, and suddenly too warm hands landed on him, preventing Steve from smacking into the ground. “Shit, dude, you’re like ice. You alright?”

Steve blinked, and blinked again, his vision swimming. He tried to focus on his surroundings, but everything was so grey, so metal. “Who..? Where am I?” Steve tried again, his voice coming out wrong, scratchy. The man held him up, shifting his grip to straighten Steve on his own two feet, and he stepped back to arm’s length. He looked him over with concerned, and curious eyes. “Name’s Clint, and we’re in some fucked up military facility.” The man, Clint, offered a smile with his words, and Steve wondered if it was supposed to reassure him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement, and turned his head to see a dark skinned man, with an ominous eyepatch over one eye, and a red-haired woman who seemed to have a permanent frown, evident by the down turned smile lines on her face. The man with the eyepatch stepped forward, and Steve took note of the confident way he walked, accentuated with the long trench coat he wore. “I’m Nick Fury, and this here is Natasha,” he made a motion to the woman, still standing behind him. She hadn’t bothered moving a muscle. “Now that our introductions are out of the way, who are you?” Nick asked, his tone commanding. It reminded Steve of Colonel Phillips, a man who asked questions expecting immediate answers.

Steve, feeling sure of holding his own weight now, shrugged off Clint’s hands before taking a step back and rising to his full height, assuming parade rest. Clint backed off, understanding that Steve didn’t need the support. His clothes felt wet, the longer he stood there, body warming to the temperature in the facility, and thanks to the serum that coursed through his veins. “My name is Captain Steve Rogers, sir. United States Army,” he informed, voice finding that happy medium between his normal timbre and the tone he used with the Commandos.

There was a snort of a laugh, and Steve’s attention flew to the woman, Natasha, who hadn’t made a move or a single sound since he fell out of the chamber. Now, she looked amused, whereas Nick had an eyebrow raised. It was like they found what Steve had said odd, out of place, and he couldn’t wrap his head around why. Sure, he had just been defrosted right in front of them, but that didn’t seem to faze them much aside from Clint’s comment of him being alive, and feeling like ice. Yet his military introduction stifled a laugh out of Natasha.

It was Clint who spoke first. He seemed to be the more hospitable of the three, and the one to show the most emotion. “You’re pre-war?” He asked, sounding awed, but his words caused Steve to blink, dumbfounded. Pre-war? What did that even mean?

He voiced as much, falling from his parade rest to lean back on his heels. “What does that mean?” “Y’know, from before the Great War?” Clint elaborated, but it only led to Steve feeling more confused. “Son, the Great War happened before my time,” he tried to explain, glancing from Clint, to Natasha - who still looked amused - to Nick, who just looked like he sucked on something sour. “I was just a few months old when the Treaty of Versailles was signed.”

Now, it was everyone but Steve’s turn to look confused. What the hell was going on? “The Treaty of Versailles?” He spoke again, tone questioning, “the ending of World War One?”

“Oh shit,” Natasha said, the amusement completely gone from her face, replaced by horror. Nick glanced back at her, before his attention went directly to Steve. He looked disbelieving, angry almost. “Are you trying to tell me you were alive for the first World Wars?” Nick asked, voice booming. If Steve wasn’t used to dealing with military superiors, he would have flinched back. He held firm, however, unsure what Nick was about to get at. “Yeah. Steven Grant Rogers, born July Fourth, Nineteen-Eighteen. I fought and served in World War Two, on the Western front,” he explained, and at the stares he got, a creeping chill shuddered up his spine, and it wasn’t from the chamber. It wasn’t from the arctic. This was different, this was terror. “What year is it?” and he was met with silence, the trio looking back and forth to each other. Steve felt that terror spike, his heart in his throat. He took one step towards Nick Fury, fists clenching at his sides, and he didn’t miss the way Natasha’s hand went to a gun at her hip that Steve failed to notice. “What year is it?” He repeated, voice demanding.

“It’s Twenty-Two Eighty-Seven, Captain Rogers. The United States fell in Twenty Seventy-Seven. Seems you’ve been asleep for over three-hundred years.”

Steve felt off-kilter. He felt like the ground was slipping away from him. This was so much worse than the water of the arctic. This was so much worse than going through with the serum. Not only was the war over, but the United States was gone. Everything he fought, and died for, was gone. His friends weren’t just dead, and buried, they were ash. Were their headstones even still standing? How long was too long without proper maintenance to a cemetery? And God above, Peggy. He wouldn’t get to see her again. He wouldn’t get to know if she went, and had a family. Three-hundred years was a length of time he couldn’t even wrap his brain around. Everything was gone. He felt his knees hit the ground first, and Steve thought he heard Clint’s shout of surprise, but darkness began to consume him again, only this time Steve craved the biting chill, but was only greeted by smooth metal.

#stucky #stevebucky #stucky fic #steve rogers #bucky barnes #fallout

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anistarrose · 4 years

Text

Some Sunny Day Bonus Chapter 3: Seen and Unseen

AO3

Summary: A grove of birch trees on a familiar hill, an encounter in the woods that goes terribly wrong, and two memory guns.

Characters: Stan Pines, Bill Cipher, Ford Pines, Fiddleford McGucket, Blind Ivan

Been a while, huh? I was planning to celebrate the anniversary of finishing this fic with two bonus chapters just stuffed chock full of hurt/comfort, but then life happened (I got a part-time job and also mild insomnia, you know how it is) so enjoy some prequel angst instead! This one is canon to SSD and set in early 1982, shortly after the portal incident.

***

After a scare with frostbite in late February, Stan sets out at the first sign of melting snow to resume his search for the journals. A snowdrift had blocked several trails behind the house last week, but now they’re passable — so long as you don’t mind the overcast weather, and being up to your heels in mud.

Stan had enjoyed hunting for fake treasure and following Ford’s cryptic clues when they would pretend to be adventurers as kids — he’d been good at it, even. But this time, Ford has left him no hand-drawn treasure maps or whimsical riddles — only more ominous clues, like a ransacked, now empty medicine cabinet, or a ripped out journal page about being watched with X-ed out triangles drawn in all the margins. Clues that make Stan feel like throwing up, because they should mean something to him, but he just can’t bring himself to think it through and face the inevitable conclusion.

This is all my fault.

He stumbles to a halt at the foot of a hill, and realizes he’s surrounded by birch trees. He’s surrounded by eyes that never blink — or maybe, he thinks, before he can tell himself he’s going crazy, eyes that only blink when I’m blinking.

The birch trees don’t scare him the way the rest of the forest does — he’s not afraid of some creature or cryptid sneaking up on him here, where the forest is so deathly silent and he’s left all alone with himself. They don’t scare him the way the town does, either — despite everything, he feels less watched here, where there are no strangers shooting him suspicious glares or cloaked figures vanishing around corners and into the shadows.

No, the birch trees set Stan on edge because whenever he sees them — makes eye contact with them? — he knows he’s forgetting something. It’s something important, something horrible, something dangerous — like the fear of having left the stove on, except multiplied by a million. Disaster is impending, and he’s the one to blame.

This is where I belong.

He hates this place, but he’s come this far, so he can’t leave without giving the eerie birch grove a proper search. He doubts that Ford, at the height of his paranoia, would hide a journal on a hill where even the trees could watch him — but if Stan leaves now, and can’t find the journal anywhere else in the valley, he knows he’ll have to revisit this place eventually. He doesn’t ever want to revisit this unpleasant memory again, if he can avoid it.

Setting out to leave no stone unturned, he finds there are few stones on the hill to turn in the first place. There are few hiding places of any sort, nor any signs of recent digging. Stan suddenly regrets throwing out his metal detector all those years ago, and wonders if the other journals have enough brass in them to give a signal —

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up before he realizes why. He knows someone’s coming before he hears the snap of twigs or the hushed voices, the murmur of “look at the footprints, he came this way.”

They’re coming from the direction of his — Ford’s house. They must’ve followed him — or as they believed it, followed Ford out here for a reason.

“Who’s there?” Stan shouts, cringing as he hears how hoarse his voice is. His impression of Ford improves as he adds, “What brings you out here?”

“We could ask the same of you, Dr. Pines,” a deep voice booms as two figures in hooded red robes step into view, one more hesitantly than the other. They both wield identical, uncomfortably gun-shaped contraptions. “Still haven’t given up on your project, have you?”

If these cultists, or assassins, or whatever the hell they are know anything about Ford, then Stan needs to know it too. He takes a measured risk.

“I have a lot of projects. You’ll have to be more specific —”

“Ya know what we mean, Stanford.” It’s the second robed figure who speaks up, the one who’d lagged behind his deep-voiced co-conspirator, and the Southern accent throws Stan for a loop. His words suggest some kind of threat, but his gun-toting arm hangs limp at his side. “I — I didn’t want to do this, I really didn’t — but you’re becomin’ a danger, Ford, a danger to yourself and to everyone. And we — we’re here to stop you.”

“Wait!” Stan holds up his hands, dropping his Ford impression. “You’ve got this all wrong! Ford’s not dangerous, he’s in danger and I’m trying to —”

“Enough excuses!” the first figure barks, raising his gun. “IT IS UNSEEN!”

Blue light beams out of the contraption’s bulb, and Stan instinctively raises a hand to shield himself — but the light bends in midair, as if refracted by an invisible prism. It illuminates the clearing like a flash of lightning, but misses Stan by a mile.

“I told you to wait,” he whispers. He understands nothing about the bending of the light, yet somehow, could not be more certain that he alone had caused it.

“Ford?” the second figure asks, no longer sounding hesitant nor conflicted. There’s only one emotion in that voice, and it’s fear.

His companion, on the other hand, aims again without a word — and the light soars over Stan’s head as he falls to his knees, numb to the pain of the impact. Numb to everything except one thought, one single truth, easier to face than any sort of self-reflection on the power he held.

They think I’m Ford. They tried to hurt Ford. They tried to hurt Ford. They tried to —

He makes a fist with his right hand, and he sees the scene through a hundred new perspectives as sickly yellow eyes blink to life on every birch tree. He makes a fist with his left hand, and the forest comes alive.

The robed figures trip over gnarled roots, one of them even dropping his gun, but the trees continue to animate, trunks bending over and bare branches wrapping themselves around limbs. A wind whips through the grove as the cultists flail, begging as they make eye contact — not with the arboreal limbs ensnaring them, but with Stan’s body itself.

And Stan watches in both complete control, and complete disbelief of it all.

There’s a pressure against his skull, a dam about to burst after holding the flood of memories back for too long. There are leaks already, trickles of information and sparks of blue fire that chill him to his core, as images flash through his mind without coming from the birch trees, or even from his own lifetime.

Ford’s not the dangerous one. I am.

Ford’s the one who’s in danger.

Because of me.

The birches loosen their grip on the cultists, who flee the second they can shake themselves free. Stan’s left alone again, staring himself down with his hundred yellow eyes, and he can see guilt in every one of them.

He rises to a standing position, roots winding around his boots and bark creeping up his mud-soaked pants. He can’t face the world, he can’t face Ford, he can’t face himself knowing what he’s capable of, knowing that he’s the worst of all the monsters lurking in the woods —

As the trees of the grove reshape their roots and the ground shakes from the strain, the dropped gun bounces towards Stan’s feet.

It is unseen, he remembers one of the figures shouting.

He picks it up, inputs birch trees, and holds it to his head as he closes as many of his eyes as he can. Fire burns away his memories, and a deluge of ink-black water rushes in to absorb the ashes and fill their place.

***

Fiddleford McGucket runs for dear life with Ivan hot on his heels, until they reach the museum and barricade themselves inside an empty room, bracing themselves for pursuit. When it doesn’t come, Fiddleford enters a name into the memory gun, starting over several times after his trembling fingers betray him.

“Just — just another monster to erase,” Ivan stammers, “with a more human name than most.”

Fiddleford finally gets the spelling right. Two flashes of light with the input screen reading Stanford Pines, and memories of the day’s encounter — and then some — go up in flames.

It is unseen.

***

Stan is kneeling at the muddy base of an even muddier hill, surrounded by trees that look like they’re staring at him.

Or maybe, eyes that only blink when I’m — never mind. That’s ridiculous.

On the ground in front of him is a strange kind of gun, with a lightbulb in place of the barrel. He thinks he’s glimpsed some robed, vaguely cult-looking types carrying these around in town before, so after staggering to his feet, he smashes the device beneath his boot.

He has a feeling he’s forgetting something important again, but he can’t be bothered to try and remember again. He can’t bear to think about it any longer.

***

End notes:

This hill with the birch trees is the same one where Ford took a nap and first met Bill, so needless to say, Stan’s gut instinct about Ford not hiding any journals in a place like this was dead-on.

I have a lot more bonus content planned for this series, like the two-parter I alluded to in the earlier notes, but I’ve got no idea when any of that’s coming aside from a cautiously optimistic estimate of “later in 2020.” Once again, I’m so grateful for all the support you guys have given this fic from the beginning just over two years ago, to the “ending” exactly one year ago, all the way up through today :’)

#gravity falls #same coin theory #stanley pines #bill cipher #fiddleford mcgucket #stanford pines #blind ivan #fic: some sunny day #rosalia writes fic

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youarejesting · 4 years

Text

Witching: 07

[MASTERLIST]

Beta: @tinysweetscrown, @lunarlxve

Summary: After your brother goes missing, you find yourself in Seoul with nothing but a prosthetic limb as the only clue to what might have happened. Circumstances lead you to a coven of seven handsome young men. But they happen to be a well-known coven that go by the name ‘Bangtan Boys’. Can they be trusted? Where is your brother?

Pairing: BTS x Reader, OT7 x Reader, Monsta X coven

Genre: Supernatural, Mystery, Drama, Romance, Comedy, Action, and more. HONESTLY ALL THE GOOD STUFF.

Words: 1.5k

“What do we do?” Jungkook turned to their coven leader, waiting for his orders. Namjoon looked at you, removing his glasses and observing your reaction.

“He is not our brother, what do you want to do?”

“I want to save my brother before they kill them, and I want them dead” You growled standing up ready to leave immediately to locate these men.

“Easy their Jagiya, You don’t have any powers, and you have no idea how to find him.” Biting your lip, the weight of your options hanging over your head. On the one hand, you could use your powers and hopefully save your brother, and on the other, you might accidentally kill someone, like you almost killed your brother all those years ago.

“What have I done?” You dropped the book of Dark Spells and Curses, watching the flesh on Thackery’s leg turn black and creep up towards his torso. The healers took him away using spells to hold the magic at bay, and you cried in front of the magical council.

“From what we can tell, you have dark magic, more specifically, Necromancy.” The members of the council and even your father looked at you nervously. It was all an unspoken fear.

“I am not telling you not to pursue your specialty magic, but it has the potential to cause damage to others, and something could go wrong. I would never tell you not to, but the council and the villagers are all concerned” Your father spoke softly, his hand providing a comforting pressure on your shoulder as he sat beside you on the couch. This was the day everyone was supposed to find their mentors to help them with their specialty magic, but you didn’t have anyone in your coven to teach you.

“I need some air.” Taking the stairs up to the roof, where you saw a greenhouse, you sat on the bench, looking out at the stars littering the sky. You didn’t want to be evil or dark or a murderer.

“You might want to move down a little, Dak is about to bite you” Jimin’s soft tone called to you; you turned to see a plant behind you, flower petals retracted to show a large set of teeth dripping a bio-luminescent venom.

“Why do you work with poisons?” You blurted out, trying to figure out exactly why someone so nice worked in such a dangerous field. He turned to you, his eyes pierced into your soul. Did he know why you asked? “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“It definitely is, sweetheart” his answer caught you off guard, well maybe not the answer, but the delivery, the cheery smile.

“What did your family say about it?” They must have been like your parents, wanting to keep him away from others, hiding you away so you can’t hurt anyone.

“They approved, told me to be careful and start slowly.” Again his answer stunned you, ‘they got me about six different mentors so they could make sure I had a thorough understanding of the plants I worked with”

“Did you ever think you were a monster, did you ever hurt anyone?” Playing with your hands, you avoided his eyes; they seemed to look a little too deep into your soul.

“Once or twice, I asked myself why my specialty was growing poisonous plants and not regular beautiful ones. And yes, I had injured a young girl one day without knowing she picked a flower I had grown, and she got sick, but the healers took care of her.” He laughed coldly, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was young, and I didn’t understand. Her family petitioned to have me kicked out of our coven, and so I left willingly and ended up joining Bangtan Boys. I was the final member to join.”

He smiled, letting the plant chew on his arm, you could see Jimin’s eyes glow a vibrant color that matched the venom of the plant. “Why do you ask? You aren’t scared of me, are you?”

“Of you? No.” You laughed, and he grinned, shuffling into the greenhouse, and you looked at your hands. “Of me? Yes.”

You were walking back down the stairs when you were met with the bright smile, red hair braids, and clatter of beads that was Hoseok. “You and I need to have tea.” He linked his arm with you walking you off to the kitchen and sitting you down in front of Butters, who was chewing on a ceramic dinner plate.

“Alright, sit and drink.” He said, pouring the tea without moving his hands, busy shuffling a pile of tarot cards. “We are going to do a regular three-card read past, present, and future, is that okay?”

His smile was innocent, but his eyes were loaded with questions. You nodded understanding he must be under orders to gather information for Namjoon. You couldn’t deny that you weren’t a little curious as to what your past, present, and future would look like. “Let’s start with your past.”

The Three of swords

Your brother watched you from the hallway trying to revive a flower only to watch it shrivel in your hands some more. “You don’t have to be someone you’re not.”

“Tell that to the whole coven who is afraid of me. To our parents who are afraid of me” You hissed at your brother “Because I hurt you, I almost killed you. You could have been one of the greats going down in history. You had so much potential and now—”

“I know this is going to be hard to hear, but I am not afraid, I’m not afraid of you or your magic. Isn’t that a twist.” He laughed, propping his good leg up on the corner of the desk. “You are my sister, and something unfortunate happened, but no one has the right to fear you or shun you if they haven’t been on the receiving end of your magic.”

“Seriously with magic like yours, you could be a part of history,” he grinned, pulling off his prosthetic leg and waving it about in emphasis. “and I can say that my leg was taken by the greatest necromancer the world has ever seen.”

“That would be great except Mum and Dad don’t let me out anymore,” the sigh that escaped you was one of exhaustion. “I am to stay in my room and practice my normal magic.”

“They did not use the term normal.” His mouth fell open. “Oh, they did.”

“Ah, The Three of Swords represents rejection, sadness, loneliness, heartbreak, betrayal, separation, and grief. Such events feel so painful because they are unexpected. It’s not a good card.” Hoseok eyed you frowning, and you nodded in understanding.

“That sounds accurate.”

The Devil

“I am going away for a while.” Your brother smiled strolling into your room with his uneven footfalls, it was comforting to hear him coming, but you knew others thought the sounds were ominous. “Have you been reading the books I got you?”

“I haven’t gotten around to reading them,” you lied reading your ‘Normal’ spells some more “Where are you going this time, I hope you aren’t trying to find me another mentor.”

“I am because you can’t just sit here y/n! You can’t spend your life in the attic hiding away from the world like some kind of mistake. There is nothing wrong with you.” He seemed out of breath from arguing and he sighed, walking out before stopping at the door. “I found a witch specializing in Dark Magic that I am going to ask to teach you, her name is Son Dam Bi, and she seems to be a lovely young lady who knows a fair bit about it.”

“The Devil represents some kind of negativity in your life. Perhaps you are ensnared in an addiction. Maybe you’re self-destructive.” Hoseok said, rattling off the meaning before his eyes met yours, searching deep into your soul, “Or perhaps you’re letting fear control you.”

You shivered and looked at the next card, suddenly worrying about your brother and what might happen to him. Hoseok’s long fingers waved above the card, flipping it.

Death

“Death is symbolic of the ending of a major phase of your life. It may be difficult to let go. If you resist these necessary endings, you may experience pain, both emotionally and physically.”

Your head filled with images of your brother suffering, just like he had that day. His voice screaming in your head as the curse you created ate away at his body. Speeding away from the table in distress, your heart racing. Running straight out of the apartment and out onto the street. There was a strange panting from beside you, looking over and down there was a golden retriever following alongside.

You speed up faster and faster, your fear, anger, and anxiety overtaking your body. There was a dark smoke moving around your body. It engulfed you and Taehyung completely leaving you in total darkness.

Tag yourself [HERE]

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radishtears · 4 years

Text

lay me down (on a bed of roses)

If you found yourself facing your younger self, what would you do?

aka the kids (no, not those ones) have an interesting day.

... ... ...

wangxian, yunmeng bros, time-travel?, blood, violence

... ... ...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305264

... ... ...

Jiang Cheng and his fellow students are milling about, relaxing after their lesson, when an ominous bell begins tolling. A brief hush falls, followed by curious murmurs. Jiang Cheng exchanges a glance with Nie Huaisang even as some Lan Sect disciples hurry over and begin corralling the crowd.

Ah. It’s a warning bell. An intruder. Someone has forcefully entered Cloud Recesses, breaking through the carefully cultivated barrier.

“How can that be?” Nie Huaisang clutches at Jiang Cheng, sounding equal parts impressed and terrified. Even the Lan disciple acting as their shepherd looks concerned.

They walk a few steps when Jiang Cheng suddenly freezes.

“Jiang-xiong?” Nie Huaisang tugs at him. “Hey—!”

Jiang Cheng only pauses long enough to toss out a succinct explanation before taking off towards the edge of the forest.

“Won’t be long,” he yells back to the Lan disciple he barrels over.

...

“Wei Wuxian! Where did you go off and die this time?!”

Jiang Cheng lets out an irritated huff of breath. His shixiong really has the best timing. Just the best. Of all the days to go explore the mountain. Again.

If he trips on a branch and ruins his clothes, he’s going to steal all of Wei Wuxian’s and let that asshole go naked for a week, he vows.

...Wei Wuxian probably wouldn’t care, actually.

Tsk.

“Hey, where the f—?!”

The shink of a drawn sword steals his attention and Jiang Cheng is immediately high on alert. He barely has time to focus when the sound is followed by a loud crack. A tree?

Suddenly, Jiang Cheng is thrown onto his back, completely winded. He didn’t see what hit him. The flora around him creak back into place, swaying in the aftermath.

“What just...?”

He scrambles to his feet, uninjured but winded. A heavy, sickly feeling lingers in the air.

Vengeful energy?

...In Cloud Recesses?!

There’s no way...wait...unless...? Oh well it really is his lucky day, huh?!

As proud as he is, Jiang Cheng is no idiot. He’s not Wei Wuxian. That energy he just felt isn’t anything he can stand against on his own.

Heart pounding, holding his breath, Jiang Cheng backs away slowly.

“Stop...! W-who...?!”

The voice that reaches his ears is barely audible, faint and choked. But it’s enough to send a horrified chill down Jiang Cheng’s spine. As if he could mistake that voice anywhere.

His feet spring to action a beat before his mind registers it.

It doesn’t take a second before Jiang Cheng is bursting into a clearing, Sandu drawn and ready, heart in his throat. And there they are.

There’s a sword — Suibian — skewering him to the mess of a tree behind him and there are hands around his neck. His shixiong had chosen a light lilac uniform today, perfect for early summer weather. Perfectly contrasting the crimson spilling down his side.

He must be seeing things, he must be.

His heart stumbles but thankfully his body does not hesitate, years of training serving him well. A haze of red colours his vision, sharpens it, because this is simply unacceptable.

Dimly, Jiang Cheng wonders what happened. Was it just a coincidence? Was Wei Wuxian just at the wrong place, at the wrong time? Or did he run towards the danger? But Jiang Cheng knows, really, that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t do that. Not when it mattered.

“Get off him!”

Surprisingly, the assailant — the intruder — listens, letting Wei Wuxian slide to the ground, limp and silent. The man turns and Jiang Cheng stares into bottomless scarlet eyes. Coldness creeps up his arms.

“You’ll regret saving him.”

Jiang Cheng’s head feels woozy and, pumped full of adrenaline, he can barely think straight. The maniac in front of him looks disconcertingly like Wei Wuxian. Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“Who are you? How dare you attack Yunmeng’s head disciple?!”

But it can’t be him. Wei Wuxian is right there bleeding out behind him. The torn and bloodied black robes flow and drape off a skeletal frame, so unlike the practical outfits his shixiong favours. It lets Suibian — and his good looks — shine even more, Wei Wuxian likes to say.

The corpse-like pallor and blood-red eyes of this stranger fill Jiang Cheng with a muted sense of horror. Beyond his face, there’s nothing similar at all, Jiang Cheng thinks.

The stranger only laughs. It’s a soft and broken sound.

“Leave now, Jiang Cheng. You can pretend you never saw anything. Pretend...he never existed.”

Rage boils under Jiang Cheng’s skin. He doesn’t have time for this, not when his idiot of a brother is lying, unmoving, on the ground. And yet this maniac is spewing some kind of nonsense.

“Bullshit! Who the fuck are you, even?! You think I, the future sect leader of the Jiang Sect, will stand by and let you attack one of my own people?”

For a split second, Jiang Cheng thinks the stranger might cry. It’s a bewildering thought. He’s never seen Wei Wuxian cry.

“It’s better this way. Trust me, please. Just this once.”

Suibian’s blade flashes, still wet with blood. Sandu rises.

Jiang Cheng’s mouth opens in a silent scream. He’s too far. He’s too far.

A ripple of energy rips through the clearing. A clean strum of the guqin.

“Wei Ying!”

Jiang Cheng has never heard that voice infused with such panic. But it’s not enough. Lan Wangji buys them a fraction of time but Suibian is still descending, falling like an executioner’s final blow.

“No, please...”

The clearing explodes into blinding light.

As soon as Jiang Cheng’s eyes adjust a little, he cracks open a slit, just in time to see a tall silhouette pull the black-clad figure into his arms.

Even from afar, it looks intimate. Jiang Cheng wants to look away, but he doesn’t. He sees the silhouette lean down to whisper quiet words. They are pleading words yet they are filled with a steady and firm conviction. They are not for him but Jiang Cheng hears them anyway.

“Come home, Wei Ying. Come back to me. I am waiting for you.”

The world collapses into nothing.

“We are all waiting.”

...

Wei Wuxian wakes slowly. It’s like floating up from deep, murky waters and finally breaking the surface to bask in the sunlight above.

The last tendril of the dream releases his mind from its grasp. He blinks open heavy eyelids.

“Wei Ying.”

A deep, familiar timbre rumbles next to his ear and he instinctively tries to shift closer.

“Lan Zhan~”

He burrows into a warm embrace.

“Mn. I’m here.” His husband shifts and pulls him into a sitting position, still comfortably arranged in his lap. “How do you feel?”

“Never better. What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Wei Wuxian plays absently with a strand of Lan Wangji’s hair and doesn’t answer.

He remembers the conference. It’s why they’re here in Yunmeng, the first time in an official capacity. Hanguang-jun and his cultivation partner. Surreptitiously, he glances around the room. Indeed, they haven’t left. He recognizes Lotus Pier’s style of furnishings.

And then what?

Oh, yes. The beast. Its poisonous talons.

Some young upstarts had smuggled it in using a qiankun pouch of all things. They’d wanted to...what was it? Reverse an unnatural, undeserved rebirth and set the world to rights? Have their names etched into history through this noble deed?

Something like that.

Wei Wuxian scoffs.

But as uncoordinated as the effort had been, it almost succeeded. Wei Wuxian had been far too unguarded, far too comfortable in a place he used to call home. All it took was a turned back, a split second of divided attention, and the last thing he saw was Lan Wangji’s widening eyes before he fell into darkness.

The wound itself is barely a scratch. The bandages Wei Wuxian can feel around his arm are definitely overkill.

He presses a kiss onto his husband’s cheek. An apology.

“You must’ve been worried.”

Lips brush against his temple. Arms tighten around him.

“Mn. I was.”

They bask in each other’s presence for a good few minutes. Lan Wangji isn’t one to fidget, not at all, but sometimes he likes to run his fingers through Wei Wuxian’s hair, thread their fingers together, press gentle kisses down his neck...remind himself he’s really here. Wei Wuxian knows it all too well.

“Your dream?” Lan Wangji asks.

Wei Wuxian sighs. He doesn’t really want to think about it but he knows he should. And Lan Wangji makes him braver.

“It was just after Nightless Sky. Shijie had just...” He swallows. It’s never easier. It never will be. “And I...I don’t know why. Maybe I was just thinking about it, wishing, so hard that...well. It was a dream anyway.

“So suddenly I was back. Standing in front of Cloud Recesses. Those barriers didn’t stand a chance against the Yiling Patriarch. Heh.”

“Wei Ying...”

“I know! I know. It’s stupid but I...I guess I thought it was a good idea. At the time.”

He remembers the dream more vividly than he would like.

He remembers the screams, the blood, the emptiness. He remembers all of it falling away and then a glimmer of hope and desperation burning into his chest.

He had been given a chance. A chance to reset, a chance to erase the pain.

It had been such an easy choice. It made so much sense. Everything would have been better.

“Do you still think that?”

Wei Wuxian startles. The voice came from the door and sure enough, it’s the one person he doesn’t want to see right now.

“...Ah, Jiang Cheng. You’re here.”

Lost in memories, Wei Wuxian didn’t notice him arriving. He frowns.

“Well?” Jiang Cheng presses, the picture of impatience.

“I...”

Lan Wangji’s chest is a solid warmth against his back. Wei Wuxian can’t help but slide his hand into his husband’s. He squeezes tight. Jiang Cheng scrunches up his nose in his typical disdain.

“No. No, I don’t.”

Wei Wuxian stares fixedly down at his and Lan Wangji’s joined hands. The silence drags on so long that he thinks Jiang Cheng might’ve left. But then...

“I’m...glad to hear that.”

The admission is quiet but the words are enough to stun Wei Wuxian into stillness. Jiang Cheng looks highly uncomfortable.

Wei Wuxian takes one look at his face and laughs.

... ... ...

Extra:

“Wei Wuxian!”

The young Sect Leader Jin skids to a halt in front of the Yiling Patriarch and his husband.

“Hanguang-jun,” Jin Ling adds, making a hasty formal greeting. He pauses, taking a moment to look Wei Wuxian up and down. Wei Wuxian returns his scrutiny with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re awake.”

“...Indeed. Is there a problem?”

“Yes!” As if suddenly reminded, Jin Ling jolts in place and wastes no more time dragging Wei Wuxian away.

“Uncle is about to kill those rogue cultivators!”

“So what are you coming to me for?!”

“Ah, whatever! Just come already!”

... ... ...

Was that confusing? Is it a bit ooc for JC in the end? Maybe. But I couldn’t help it. No regrets.

Anyway, the idea was basically, WWX got scratched and poisoned and fell into that dreamscape, as his younger self, right after Nightless Sky. The way to save him was to enter the dream via an “antidote” and pull him out. Very cliche, I know.

Why did Jiang Cheng get there first? Well, he strongly insisted by stealing the only dose of antidote as soon as it was ready. Poor Hanguang-jun was quite livid.

But why did Jiang Cheng not appear as his adult self (and didn’t know he was in the dream)? It’s because Wei Wuxian’s consciousness didn’t recognize him strongly enough. Their connection wasn’t strong enough. Not then, not anymore.

But no worries, they’ll get to a good place again, eventually. I am adamant about this.

Also, did anyone catch the title reference??

... ... ...

Ko-fi | Drabble Commissions

#mo dao zu shi #the untamed #yunmeng bros #wangxian #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #lan wangji #mdzs time travel au #not really #radish writes

63 notes · View notes

inessencedevided · 4 years

Text

The Untamed, episode 19 - watching notes

Last time on "sophie watches the untamed": Jiang Cheng goes hiking in some gorgeous mountains and, unfair as his life is, cannot see any if ot cause he's blindfolded

Btw, I've started to skip the intro because I've noticed that it's pretty spoilery

What have I missed??? Wei Wuxian sits coughing on a street corner,looking like he hasn't had a change of clothes in weeks 🥺

Ah, he's waiting for JC. Doesn't explain the state he is in though

Honey 🥺

Shitshitshitshit

I don't enjoy watching this at all, but at the same time I kinda appreciate how hard this show is leaning into wwx looking like he just spent about a week in the streets. He isn't just dirty, but in a rough hot way. He's sweaty, his hair is greasy, he's got bags under his eyes and his lips are so chapped they are bloody

Also f you Wen Chao

Oh wow, Jiang Cheng waking up feels like he is reborn. The camera, the music, the pristine clothes, his childhood home, all of it.

But why?

Or is it a dream?

Never mind, it's a dream

Honey ... 🥺

I know he is going to kill his brother one day, but I honestly appreciate how much we're meant to emphasize with him. He's not innocent, but he is human and he does mean well

I'm honestly crying while he's thanking Baoshan Wanderer. I know it's not what happened, (I'm almost certain now, especially with the state that wwx is in that wen Qing somehow gave jc wwx's core) but that doesn't make his joy any less real

The anger in wwx's face when wen chao says "jiang sect is done for". Can one form a new core out of glaring hot anger alone? No? Just checking

People keep reminding wwx of his humble origins ina really dismissive and often insulting way and it always make me angry. Classist assholes

Though I live for all the times, wwx throws their disrespect right back in their faces

About that core you want to take from him ...

I think I see the Yiling Patriarch creeping up on us 😳

I mean, I get why. He's paid his (perceived) debt to the Jiang clan, he has no core left (at least I think so...?), so doesn't think he can be useful anymore. All that's left in that moment is his grief, his anger and the search for revenge. At least that's how I'm reading his damn near suicidal behaviour here.

I want to fly on a sword, too 😔

First I don't get to go to Hogwarts and now this! The disappointment never ends

Oooh! So Yiling is a place!!!

"Burial grounds"? I'm sure that it's a popular vacation spot! ... right?

A mountain of corpses 😳

And they're going to just leave him there ...

I think I just connected the dots ...

The Yiling patriarch - is he going to somehow master this mountain of corpses? Fuuuuu ....

😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳

The ghosts caught him. That's very considerate of them

(I'm just downplaying how GODDAMN CREEPED OUT I AM)

Wen Qing and Wen Ning!

Who hurt Wen Ning and how can I hurt them????

Oh it's that strange sword!! I've seen that one before!

Huge props to wwx's actor!!!!! Just wow!

I don't quite understand yet where exactly it is he is asked to "stay"? Among the dead?

Holy holy holy shiiiit!!!

You give me that desperate, desolate, goddamn TERRIFYING scene, we get one shot, ONE SHOT of wwx looking ominously into the camera and the you cut to THREE MONTHS LATER???? are you kidding me!!!!!

And it's some drunk dudes ... I have a feeling they'll soon wish that they were sober

Aaaahaha! Those boots!!!

LAN WANGJI!!@@@

Seriously, this was me when I realised that it's him:

Also, on my list of dramatic entrances on this show (that I just started) this ranks #1!

I wand to have a fraction of his aura, just a fraction

Too bad if you're drunk on the job

I am so confused right now.

This seems to be a coordinated attack?

Oh! They're searching for Wei Wuxian

I'm really thankful that they explain what the sunshot campaign is in a letter. Otherwise I would have been completely lost

Okay that's it. Lwj can never be sad again. The look on his face when he takes wwx's sword is just not okay 🥺

This show is not playing anymore. Four episodes ago everything was bunnies and homoerotic staring contests and now it's full on war

Wait??? Has Shijie gotten married in the meantime? 🥺

Okay no, apparently not

Poor Shijie, she's been out of the loop the whole time

The Nie sect leader is a piece of work 😅

Just chill dude

Okay maybe not completely. It's war. But still ... a bit

They want to go save wwx 😭

About the scene in which Shijie says goodbye to Jiang Cheng: i know she isn't really the kind of character to project this on, because she's gentle and not a fighter (which is not a bad thing!) But whenever there is a coming battle or rescue mission in a movie or book and the men prepare while the women stay behind, I have to think of how in their shoes, I'd be absolutely furious because all women can supposedly do is "worry". I honestly think that Eowyn in lotr (the movie) is the best representation of how I feel everytime when this happens in a scene. "He has just as much reason to go to war as you do. Why can he not fight for those he loves?" ("He" cause she is talking about Merry her, though it's implied that she is also talking about herself)

I still love Shijie! Don't get me wrong!

And I'm not specifically attacking the untamed for this. There are great female characters on this show! This scene just reminded me of this pet-peef of mine.

It's still absolutely beautiful and the continued theme of Shijie making them soup tears my heart apart 🥺

The eyes 😳

She's going to die, right?

Right?

Well, I'm going to find out next time

@sweetlittlevampire @fandom-glazed @elenirlachlagos @allhailthedramallama @luckymoony (thanks for your patience guys :))

#sophie watches the untamed #the untamed #wei wuxian #wwx #lan wangji #lwj #(he's back!!!)#wangxian #jiang Cheng #wen chao #wen qing #wen ning #jiang wanyin

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shipaholic · 3 years

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 18

We’re close to the end! Adam’s rediscovered the concept of murder, oops. Warnings again for death, mind control, creepiness, reference to nuclear strikes and car accidents.

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 18

Madame Tracy gave a great scream, in what was clearly her own voice.

“Mister S, Mister S, say something!”

She flung herself down beside Shadwell. In an act of great bravery, she grabbed and tore open the alarmingly dirty coat the man was wearing, and started doing chest compressions.[1]

Crowley stood, unmoving, and a little stunned. His head whipped around to the four Horsepeople. Death’s head tilted down and left. He appeared to be having a quiet conversation with someone no-one else could see. Crowley felt a little shudder.

Madame Tracy counted chest compressions under her breath. Crowley could see it was pointless. There was no life there to bring back.

Madame Tracy suddenly twitched and paused her first aid.

“I’m very sorry, dear lady, there’s really nothing you can do for him now.”

“No…” she whimpered.

She wavered as Aziraphale gently but firmly reasserted control of their body. He grasped the gun that had thudded on the lawn at Shadwell’s side, and rose to his feet, mouth set in a grim line. He cocked the gun at Adam.

Then, his face twisted in desperation, and Madame Tracy was back.

“Don’t you dare!”

Wincing with effort, she wrested their body back onto its knees by Shadwell’s side. Aziraphale just barely hung onto the gun.

Spacedog let out a string of whines.

Adam looked pained.

“Stop!”

He jerked his hand.

It was like a wave of TV static. Crowley wasn’t the target, but a wave of fuzziness hit him and momentarily wiped out all thought.

Tracy stopped struggling. She sagged, almost falling forward onto Shadwell.

Then her spine slowly straightened out. It looked robotic. Crowley could practically hear the clicks.

She clambered to her feet in a series of jerky movements. The gun was in her hands. She held it in a relaxed, almost friendly way, like one might hold a guitar. She smiled as though hooks were pulled taut in her cheeks. Her eyes stared into space.

She revolved to face Adam, face and mind as clean as a newborn.

~*~

Newt scurried down the corridor after Anathema. He couldn’t believe they’d done it. Three days of planning, holed up in Shadwell’s flat, marking up diagrams and drinking disgusting tea with condensed milk. All that work, and it had paid off. They’d actually broken into a London military base.

“I can’t believe all the amazing stuff we just did,” he panted.

“Shh,” Anathema said. Her forehead was creased in concentration. She was checking room numbers as they strode by.

“This one,” she said, and pushed the door open.

It revealed a room full of computer monitors. An ominous-looking flashing display was counting down to a very final sort of number.

Anathema grabbed a computer chair and pulled herself up to the nearest screen.

“OK,” she sighed. “Time for us to do something really clever…”

~*~

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to see if I could make a real person stop existing, like the imaginary ones.”

Adam’s eyes held a shade of the same dull horror as when he’d shot Aziraphale. Already, though, he seemed far less affected from causing someone’s death.

Spacedog’s ears were pinned back. The little dog looked as if he were battling twin urges to back away from Adam and hide behind his leg.

The blandly smiling Madame Tracy stood like a statue drained of colour. A bead of sweat formed on her temple. Her smile flickered for an instant. Crowley’s heart thumped. That was Aziraphale.

He rounded on Adam. “Let Aziraphale go.”

Adam looked unimpressed with his lack of chivalry. “And that woman?”

Crowley would freely admit to caring far less about Madame Tracy. He had the feeling Adam was judging him, though, so he said, “Er, yeah, her too.”

“She’s still holding a gun,” Adam said, pragmatically. “But ok, I’ll let Aziraphale go. He shouldn’t’ve been in there. It’s not right, two people crammed into one person.”

He waved his arm.

Suddenly, Aziraphale stood next to Tracy, back in his own body.

Crowley almost yelled with relief. He held back the urge to bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. He looked at Aziraphale’s right hand, searching, and felt his head swim with gratitude. His gem was back on his finger. Adam had brought it back. He was ok.

He looked at Aziraphale’s face, and saw that he was very much not ok. He looked as though he had seen Hell, from the damned soul end of the equation. He stared about the garden, wide-eyed.

Crowley stepped towards him. “Angel. Hey. It’s me.”

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered over and alighted on Crowley’s face.

“Hello, Crowley dear,” he whispered.

Crowley grabbed his hand. He gripped it tightly and ran his little finger over the ring, a solid bump between Aziraphale’s knuckles.

Aziraphale’s eyes still roved around the garden. He took in the frozen, washed-out Madame Tracy beside him. His gaze slid down to the gun, held in her arms.

Adam took a warning step forward.

Madame Tracy revolved, slowly, to face Aziraphale. Her smile did not falter as she tightened her hold on the gun.

Crowley gave Aziraphale’s hand a gentle tug. Adam had made his point. They weren’t getting the gun back.

“How’d you learn to do that, anyway?” Adam said.

He sounded casual, like he was asking for video game tips.

“What?” Crowley asked.

“That thing you do where you turn into one person.”

“Oh. That.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, possessively. He wasn’t in the mood to share Zadkiel with Adam.

“That’s a long story,” Aziraphale said. A trace of a spark came back to his eyes. “I suppose it started in the Garden. He was a wily serpent, and I was technically on apple tree duty -”

“Natural disaster. Focuses the mind,” Crowley snapped. “What’s your plan here, Adam?”

Adam ignored him. “Can I do that? What d’you call it - fusion? Because we’re the same, aren’t we? We’ve all got one of these.”

He tapped his fingernail against Lucifer’s gem. It glowed red in the sunset. Crowley’s eyes darted upward. Was the sun setting, or was the sky just turning red…?

He tore his gaze back to Adam.

“Yeah, we’re the same,” he said. “If you like.”

“Am I an angel?”

Crowley laughed.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, unexpectedly. “In a way, I suppose you are. Your father… was one.”

“My father?”

Adam stared at the ground. It was clear nobody was talking about Mr. Dowling.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “Well. The Book made that kind of obvious.”

Great. They were all singing from the same hymn sheet at last.

The sky was definitely red. Clouds churned overhead, bubbling like squid ink. Fish had stopped dropping from them, but in a way that made Crowley afraid of what might start dropping instead.

“So it’s all true,” Adam said. “I’m going to end the world.”

The Horsepeople grinned. War, Famine and Pollution leaned forward. Something oozed between their teeth. Crowley tried to ignore the sensation like creeping flies on the inside of his skull.

“But you don’t have to,” Aziraphale burst out. “You’re so powerful. You can use that power for anything. You could do good.”

Adam shook his head, slowly. “I don’t think I’ve got the good sort of power. I’m pretty sure all I’m made for is destroying things.”

“That’s not true,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale, at his side, looked briefly surprised. Crowley knew he was lying. But for a moment, he felt it would be pretty wonderful if it were true. Maybe it was worth a shot, anyway.

“You weren’t made just to destroy. That’s just something my people said to get you to end the world. But Aziraphale’s right, your power isn’t good or evil. Satan didn’t start out Lord of Hell. He was an angel, once.”

Adam contemplated, head on one side.

“So? Why do good instead? Why save the world?”

“Because you have to live in it?”

“Wasn’t really living, was it? My parents weren’t even my real parents. Everyone around me was lying to me. My Nanny was a demon -”

“Look, we’re not all that bad,” Crowley said, hastily.

“I don’t want to go back to that.” Adam gave a shudder. “Things’ll be better when I’m in charge of everything. It’s ok. I won’t kill any more people. I don’t think I need to. I think my destiny was to sort everything out by just being in control. Most people don’t really think, so I can do their thinking for them.”

Crowley tried not to look at the Dowlings.

“But you’ll be erasing them!” Aziraphale’s eyes were large and desperate. “They won’t even be human anymore, not really. It’s no better than killing them.”

“Adam,” said Crowley. “I know you’ve been told all your life you were put here to rule the world. But demons told you those things. No offence to me, but are you really going to trust them?”

Adam looked at him as though he was stupid. “My dad told me those things.”

Crowley had the terrible thought that he’d been right all along, and Lucifer was still in there, in his gem, lucid, planning Crowley’s horrific demise.

Then he cottoned on. “Wait - hang on.”

He looked at the slack-faced, smiling American ambassador.

Aziraphale caught on at the same time.

“Oh, no.” The angel paled. “He’s not demonic, he’s rich.”

Crowley swore. He hadn’t even factored American exceptionalism into this whole mess.

“Well, your dad was wrong too! What does he know, he’s a cultural attaché, whatever that is. He just… culturally… attaches things.”[2]

“So you’re saying I don’t need him?” Adam said.

He looked at his parents. They didn’t respond. They stood vacantly, arms floating at their sides. Like bodies washed out to sea.

“Fine.”

Adam stepped towards them, one arm already rising. Crowley and Aziraphale could do nothing to stop him.

A blood-curdling howl of rage rang out. Crowley’s skin wanted to turn itself inside out at the sound of it.

Adam’s hand dropped. He turned back, frowning.

Crowley was afraid to see what was making the noise, but he steeled himself and looked over.

The blood-stained, red-haired woman, whose skin gleamed unpleasantly like gun-metal, was screaming.

Crowley presumed this was War. Her scream was like the roar of a bomber coming in fast and unstoppable.

The two beside her clutched their heads. They also looked furious.

“What’s wrong with them?” Crowley shouted to Aziraphale.

There was no reason the angel would know, but Crowley was out of thinking room. He needed to at least outsource his bafflement to someone else.

Aziraphale winced, but looked like he was considering as he looked at War.

“You know, I think something’s gone wrong…”

~*~

Newt’s heart knocked at his esophagus as he sprinted up the road. The military base lay behind them. He wasn’t looking back to see if they were being followed.

Anathema was a step ahead. She held her hand back for him. Pulse leaping, Newt took it.

“Where are we going?” he gasped.

Anathema’s voice was grim. “To get my Book.”

~*~

“Something’s happened,” War screamed. Crowley felt the words hitting his organs like bullets. “The warheads are offline. There was supposed to be fire across the sky and now no-one’s going to die.”

Famine and Pollution, Crowley assumed, gnashed their teeth. Death just grinned. Although Crowley supposed he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Oh,” said Adam.

He didn’t look concerned. He’d also forgotten about killing his parents. Win-win, by the look of it.

“You are our leader, our master, our friend. Can’t you bring them back? Just bring them back online. Just think of all that death. Don’t you want that? All those clean strikes, falling from the sky, wiping everything away.”

War, Famine and Pollution looked feverish. Their teeth were on full display. It looked less and less like smiling.

Adam screwed his face up. “I dunno… I don’t see the big deal, pers’nally. What’s the sense in that? Just bombing everybody. I think I’m happy to keep them all alive.”

The three Horsepeople looked anguished.

“But humanity must end! It is written,” War howled.

“I can overwrite it,” said Adam.

The grass stirred in a nonexistent wind.

“I can overwrite anything.”

Adam’s voice had a sinister reverb. He stared into the sky, intent and hungry.

Crowley felt the sweep of a terrible power pass him by, as it crept out over the lawn and the house and the street, further and further, out across the world.

~*~

It was a ripple effect. Everywhere it touched, people stopped.

One by one, their eyes went blank. The colour drained from them. Their smiles turned vacant and ever-present.

Dick Turpin bounced up the road, squeaking like a wheelbarrow that hadn’t left the garden shed in quite some time. The wall of white static washed outward, through London, and passed through the car.

Dick Turpin rolled to a gentle stop. So did every other car. Some of them kept going just long enough to hit a building, or another car, or a person. Nobody reacted.

Newt and Anathema forgot about what they had been doing. Anathema had no thoughts of her Book.

Newt’s hands fell lax on the wheel.

They sat together, staring through the windshield, thinking of nothing at all.

~*~

Warlock cowered under the broken seesaw. He wanted to go home. He wanted his parents. He wanted to stop getting hit by fish.

On the last point, he got his wish. The sounds of the splats hitting the playground tapered off.

He raised his head, trembling.

Heaps of dead fish covered the playground. The three Them had fled back to the egg-shaped climbing frame thing. They were all huddled with their hands over their heads.

No more fish fell. Warlock got to his feet, wobbly kneed.

He wiped his grimy face and looked for Pepper.

She was helping the other two out of the cage-thing. All three of them looked spooked, but way less covered in fish-slime than Warlock.

Suddenly, they stopped dead. Their faces slackened. Their arms fell to their sides. Their spines jerked strangely, as though a marionette-holder had just plucked a string for each of them and reminded them they weren’t real.

Moving as one, they revolved on the spot and stared at Warlock.

Warlock stumbled back. No, it wasn’t even like they were staring at him. More like through him.

As if hooks had been inserted in the corners of their mouths, they smiled.

Warlock’s blood ran cold. He turned and bolted for the street.

He didn’t get far.

A wave of grey static hit him like a tidal wave. It wiped his brain clean. Every bit of anger, of unhappiness, of boredom, of anything at all. It left nothing.

There was nothing to do but smile.

Adam’s power rolled through Tadfield and onward, sweeping every mind it encountered.

The wave pushed on, relentless and pure, across miles, across land and ocean, until it covered the Earth.

---

[1] Madame Tracy took her obligations very seriously, especially for her clients who were a bit longer in the tooth. She took refresher first aid courses every couple of years.

[2] Crowley kicked himself for not having learned Tad Dowling’s job at any point during the many years he lived in his house. To be fair to him, it wouldn’t have helped.

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #~endgame shenanigans!~

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searchingforstarss · 4 years

Note

I'm playing the ultimate spiderman game and there's these guys with bats and now I can't get the idea out of my head. could you write irondad whump h/c with peter being beaten with a bat, maybe getting his jaw broken? Love all your fics so much!!!

i’m so sorry this took me a few days anon! i adored the prompt and i really wanted to make sure i did it justice. thank you so much for sending this in, i loved writing it so i hope you enjoy it x

–

“Look, kid, I’m listening to you, trust me, and I know things are getting bad but I’m not back in town until Thursday and I just need you to wait until then. Once I’m back we can come up with a game plan together.”

“I can handle it by myself, Mister Stark, we might not have until Thursday.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker, I do not, under any circumstances at all, want you going anywhere near this guy without me there. You hear me?”

“Okay, fine. I hear you.”

–

For the last three months, women have been being attacked in the middle of the night, usually in alleyways or secluded areas of parks, the kinds that most people know not to go anywhere near at night. None of this is particularly new, per se, because New York is a dangerous city and that’s why Peter spends so much time out patrolling, trying to protect the people and the city that he loves.

But it’s the same man, tall, broad shoulders, dark clothing and masked every time. Rumours have been flitting about the city that he carries a baseball bat with him.

Peter’s been dreaming of finally achieving something important, being able to break a big case all by himself, to prove to the Avengers and the NYPD that he’s capable of much more than they give him credit for.

This seemed like exactly the right opportunity, even if Tony kept telling him to leave it the hell alone. Once Peter’s successfully caught the guy, he’ll change his tune, surely. Just like the Vulture all over again.

So, he mapped it all out as carefully as he possibly could. He tracked the masked man’s movements around New York using Karen to hack into the city’s security camera network (and a whole lot of bribing and convincing her not to tell FRIDAY about his efforts because that would have Mister Stark putting an end to everything before he would even have a chance to go after the guy.)

The man operates between midnight and three am, Peter noted, and then he catches a C line train back to a ramshackle apartment block on the outskirts of Brownsville.

Peter figured that would give him a three-hour window. It all seemed quite easy, really. Wait until Mister Stark was out of town, tell May he was spending the night at Ned’s to work on a physics project and sneak out the window in his Spider-Man suit to slip into the man’s home. He thought maybe he could rummage around a bit, look for come evidence while he waited for the man to come home, only to ambush him and call the police on him in his own home. Right where he’s not expecting it.

Peter was quite proud of himself, honestly. He was so sure that he was going to prove Tony wrong, show him that he can do things like this himself.

It all would have been fine if Peter didn’t miss one tiny little detail. The man always returns home earlier on a Saturday night.

(Maybe he’s religious; maybe he has to get up early for church in the morning, Peter thinks to himself slightly deliriously, later on, wouldn’t that just be wildly ironic.)

He was caught off guard, so engrossed in the pair of bloody gloves that he’d found just lying out on the couch that he hadn’t heard the masked man creep into the apartment behind him.

Then everything went horribly, horribly wrong and he ended up here.

Wrists shackled to the wall behind him, slumped up against the ratty wallpaper in what looks like a bedroom inside of the apartment that he’s spent the last few days monitoring security footage of so closely. He really didn’t mean for this to happen. He should have listened to Tony.

Now, he’s just sitting, arms aching and splinters poking through the suit into the backs of his thighs from the neglected wooden floor below him. But honestly, most of his worries stem from the fact that this masked man is just sitting across from him. He’s settled on the edge a threadbare looking mattress, unmoving. It’s dark in the room and the only light slipping through the windows is from the flickering streetlamps outside. Peter can barely see the man anyway, face shielded by the mask, but he can tell he’s being stared at.

He’s getting sick of it. Sure, maybe he’s in a little over his head and maybe this is all just the universe punishing him for deliberately going against what Tony told him to do, but he’s over it and he wants to go home.

“Nice place you got here, but would you mind, like letting me go? I have places to be, man.”

“You’ve been pissing me off, Spider, prancing around the city in those tights, trying to get in my way. I think I’ll keep you right here.”

So he does speak. It’s a little unnerving when Peter can’t see the lips move from behind the mask.

“First of all, they’re not tights. Plus, who are you to talk, anyway? Who’s your style icon, Jason Voorhees?”

The man stares at him. “Shut up.”

“Oh c’mon. Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th? You really don’t know him? He’s kinda a psychopath, not to spoil the whole thing for you or anything. It really is a great movie, you really should sit down and give it a watch sometime.”

“I said, shut up.”

“Alright, alright. Just trying to be helpful, but clearly, I’m not here for my movie recommendations. That’s fine, I get it.”

More silence.

“Seriously, though, I’m getting kinda bored over here. What are we doing, exactly? Apart from the whole me sitting here and looking pretty while you stare at me like a serial killer thing. Now that I think about it, the resemblance between you and Jason really is uncanny. “

“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.”

Kinda ominous, but whatever.

“Whatever you do, I’d like to be wined and dined first, preferably.”

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m going to make you,” the man growls, voice low and ripping from the back of his throat.

“That sounds a little like an innuendo and I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“That’s it,” he mutters, turning to leave the room. Peter is relieved to have a break from dark eyes boring into him when the man returns only a minute or so later, breaking Peter’s brief solitude far too soon and oh - shit, there’s a bat clutched in his grip and his blood runs cold through his veins because holy fuck, clearly the baseball bat rumours were true.

Peter swallows down his panic.

“We’re gonna go play baseball? I’m not exactly a great shot, and you might have to let me out of these first,” Peter rattles his wrists around in the metal chains and they clink together, echoing around the sparse room, “but sounds like fun.”

“We’re not playing baseball.”

“Shame, because I passed a park on my way here and I’m pretty sure that there’s only been like, six murders there this year so that could have been a fun spot.”

“I’m going to enjoy this, you fucked up little kid.”

“Hey, I’m not a little-” Peter starts, but he’s cut off by all the air being knocked out of his lungs as he sees the bat raised in front of him.

People - mostly Tony, really - have always told him that his big mouth in the worst situations will get him in trouble someday. Today’s the day, apparently. Tony will have a great time telling him ‘I told you so,’ over this one.

His thoughts are cut off when the baseball bat collides with his jaw and a searing, fiery pain consumes his entire being. He’s engulfed by it, bones crunching and splintering underneath the unforgiving wood of the bat as it returns, again and again and again. No matter how desperately Peter begs and pleads, his pride and smart quips surrendering to the raw agony, the bat doesn’t stop.

His mouth is awash with the metallic taste of his own blood, and he spits it out uselessly around the pulverised bones of his jaw. It only fills right back up, coating the inside of his mouth with red once more. A drop trickles down his chin.

His jaw radiates a throbbing pain that courses through his veins. Dark spots dance and blur in the edge of his vision as his consciousness ebbs. At least if he’s unconscious he won’t have to feel any of this.

“Finally, peace and quiet. Let’s see how easy it is for you to run that mouth of yours now.”

Peter tries to spit another lot of blood out of his mouth in one last show of defiance, but he can’t even open his mouth properly without feeling like the pain will quite literally tear his entire skull open, let alone get the muscles to function enough to propel the blood anywhere, anyway.

Everything hurts.

He tips his head back against the wall in defeat. His eyelids droop, feeling too heavy to keep open, but the pain is worse when he closes his eyes. It’s all he has to focus on.

There’s a thunk, something heavy landing on the floorboards in front of him. Heavy footsteps leave the room. When he chances cracking one eye open, the man is gone, but the baseball bat, decorated with smears of Peter’s own crimson blood, has been tossed onto the floor in front of him.

—

There’s a crash at the door and Peter flinches back into the wall behind him. He’s not sure how long he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness and his entire jaw screams at the sudden movement but he doesn’t care because the man is back and he can’t do it again, he can’t.

He screws his eyes shut in misery and tries to prepare himself to take it because this is his fault, after all, he was stupid and he didn’t listen to Tony.

Now he’s paying the price because maybe Tony’ll be mad, maybe he won’t even come to get Peter - or even worse, maybe no one will come at all, to teach him a lesson and he’ll be left curled up here forever, shackled to the wall, bleeding and broken with the constant threat of a bat to the face looming over him the second he steps out of line.

Footsteps stop in front of him.

His lungs burn as he holds his breath unsurely. He waits for the sound of the bat being picked up off the floor in front of him but it never comes. Instead, it sounds like it’s kicked away. Peter resists the urge to cringe away because god, that’s maybe that’s even worse. The man could be sick of the bat already, maybe it’s not enjoyable enough for him anymore - not that it was ever enjoyable for Peter but he thinks it was probably better than a knife to the chest or a bullet to the head.

Based on his research, Peter is pretty sure that this man hasn’t killed anyone yet, hasn’t gone quite that far, but there’s a first time for everything.

He can vaguely sense movement in front of him. Someone is getting closer and he doesn’t dare to move or breath, knowing that he’s completely unable to protect himself with his arms compromised behind him.

Then there’s a voice.

“Hey, kid. Wanna open those eyes for me?”

Tony.

He blinks his heavy eyes open, doing what the man asks because avoiding doing so was what got him in this whole mess in the first place. Sure enough, when he does, he finds Tony crouched in front of him. He’s in a three-piece suit, glasses hastily shoved down the front of his shirt, the Iron-Man armour standing sentry behind him.

He stares.

Tony came. He’s here. Even though he was stupid and he didn’t listen and he fucked things up. Tony only forgave him after the Vulture because he saved the day. He did what he was meant to do, as a superhero. Tonight he’s only managed to piss off a notorious serial-attacker and consequently screw up his jaw past even the best abilities of his healing.

He needs to apologise, he needs Tony to see how sorry he is for everything, because maybe if he does Tony might get him out of here. Try as he might, he can’t form proper words around his broken jaw. Instead, whines and mumbles slip past his lips incoherently, eyes blown wide with all the words he wants to say but can’t force out.

“Shh, no buddy, don’t strain yourself, it’s all okay, everything is okay.”

Tony is lowering himself onto the floor next to Peter, reaching up to undo his shackles from the wall with a small rusted key. Peter doesn’t know where he got it from, but he’d entirely forgotten about the ache in his arms from the restraints, anyway, too focused on his jaw. He shakes them out at his sides.

If Peter is being uncuffed, then surely that must mean that Tony is considering getting him out of here. Peter so desperately wants to get out of here. What if Tony won’t take him with him if he doesn’t know exactly how sorry Peter is?

“Pl’se. S…s-s’rry.”

“No, Pete, it’s okay.”

Peter shakes his head frantically, the movement irritating his jaw but he continues anyway. He needs to keep apologising. He doesn’t want Tony to leave him here, he’s already in an insurmountable amount of pain and he doesn’t think he can survive anymore if the man with the bat comes back.

He won’t argue with Tony ever again. He’d be willing to promise anything if he could form words around the stabbing pain and shattered bones of his jaw.

“W’nna go h’me. W’th you. Pl’se. Don’t l’ve me.”

“I’m taking you home, I promise,” Tony says, never taking his eyes away from Peter’s. He’s strong and steady in a way that Peter definitely isn’t right now. It’s reassuring. “I just don’t want to risk flying and irritating that nasty looking jaw of yours, buddy. You’re not bleeding out so we’re safe to just wait here, you’re fine. Brucie and the medics will be here soon and we’ll be home before you know it.”

“‘M’st’r St’rk.”

“I’m here. You’re okay,” Tony murmurs and Peter lets the gentle tone wash over him, settling over his ragged and aching body, soothing like a balm.

He reaches a hand out to tangle it in the stiff fabric of Tony’s suit jacket sleeve. It’s not the softened cotton of his lab outfits that Peter is so used to but it will do. It’s enough.

Tony leans over and as gently as he can, lowers Peter down so his head is resting in his lap. “Get comfy down there for a minute, Pete. Won’t be long ‘til we’re out of this dump.”

Peter nods weakly. Now that Tony’s here, this dump isn’t nearly half as bad as it was only half an hour ago. Home sounds good though. He’d kill for a warm bed and some painkillers. Maybe he can even bribe Tony to keep this from May for a day or two so he can avoid being violently chewed out for lying to her about his and Ned’s physics project - though, he’s sure there’s a very slim chance of convincing him of that. He and May are a formidable force when combined.

Hands find his shoulders and they rub slowly at the tenseness there and the back of his neck with the sort of tenderness that only comes out when Peter’s upset or in a considerable amount of pain. Right now probably counts as both.

Peter doesn’t want to talk anymore, doesn’t want to risk aggravating his broken bones further now that Tony’s comfort is giving him something to focus on rather than the never-ending pain. He just wants to lie here and listen to him talk until it’s time to go home.

“Gotta tell you, kid, you gave me a hell of a scare. Your vitals went all wonky. I couldn’t get the baby monitor footage without your mask on but I could still track you. I owe the Secretary of State another meeting since I crashed out of our last one. Maybe I’ll drag you out there with me to get you back for this little stunt, huh? It’ll bore you to death, that’s a promise,” Tony chuckles. There’s no malice to his words, and Peter lets himself relax further back against him.

He was stupid, but it’s okay because Tony is here and Tony is looking after him.

Tony won’t let anyone hurt him anymore.

—

When Peter can talk properly and form full sentences again two days later, after bone reconstruction surgery and lots of help from his accelerated healing, the first words out of his mouth, in true Peter Parker fashion, are, “I’m so, so sorry, Mister Stark.”

Tony shushes him almost immediately. “Nuh-uh, none of that. God, you’re a stupidly self-sacrificing kid, have I ever told you that?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“You’re lucky I love you then, huh, bud?”

“Mmm. Guess I am.”

“If you ever pull something like this again, I might have to reconsider.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. “Yeah, you got me there. I won’t.”

#ask #anon #irondad #irondad fic #my writing

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