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rambleonwaywardson · 24 days

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Lonely Traveler

Part 3 of the Home to You series now posted on AO3! Part 1 Part 2

I'll put a preview below. All 3 chapters of part 3 now posted!

Summary: "I thought I'd lost you." "I love you too much." War does its best to tear love apart, but that doesn’t mean love goes away. It just becomes something that can hurt you more.

Total Word Count: 10,101

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Preview:

War messes with your mind in a way that a civilian will never fully understand. It messes with your body, with your heart, and with your soul. It goes after love, even, grinding it down like another enemy, when all it is is collateral damage in the raging gunfire. People like to think of war as somehow romantic. Maybe some parts of it can be, in a way.

But war is not, never will be, kind to love. Especially not in a POW camp deep in the Reich, where if the guards don’t kill you, the cold or starvation just might.

And if none of that does you in, well… war sure does mess with your mind, doesn’t it?

–

Who knew the sound of bombs in the distance could carry so much hope. It’s a sick side effect of the human condition: one person’s suffering is another’s salvation. The world isn’t so black and white, though, and when you think about it, it could be said that a few bombs over Berlin isn’t nearly enough to make the Nazi’s pay for what they’ve done to this planet and its people. In a few years time, the human species will wonder how such violence can be natural, if this is just how people are meant to behave. How could this possibly be true? But then again, how could it not?

In a POW camp in 1944, the sounds of an air raid play like a symphony.

The gunshot outside, the man on the ground, the dog trying to tear him limb from limb, the shouting – those instead are the sounds of tyranny, of wielding power just because you can. Suffering for suffering. Death for death.

When the guards yell at the airmen to get back inside, Bucky tells Gale that the goddamn Nazi goons are gonna take them out one at a time. Gale says nothing. He can’t stand it here any more than anyone else, and he is well aware that a toe out of line could mean fade to black. But at least here, he knows that he and John are both alive. They��re alive. They have each other, and at least Gale isn’t alone. He clings desperately to these facts that he knows to be true. This could be worse.

Days pass, and hope is tangible in the barrack once again as the men gather around Gale, watching intently as he fiddles with the crystal radio that Bucky had spent days gathering the measly materials for. News from the front seems to be the only thing anyone really wants these days, short of being far, far away from here. It’s the only thing that carries any promise of an end. The only proof they can get that they aren’t stuck here for nothing, that their sacrifices are worth the pain they’ve endured.

When Gale slams the headphone down on the table, he can’t believe he’s failed. The bubble of hope pops like a sad balloon.

When Bucky asks him one day if, when the weather clears (will it ever?), they should make a move, Gale tells him all but no. Tells him to find a plan with better odds. Tells him “my plan is to get home in one piece.”

He remembers all too well the deadly state John was in when he stumbled into camp months ago. He remembers the sleepless nights spent trying to keep him alive. His own harrowing journey to the Stalag he barely lets himself think about. He has nightmares – about John dying on him, about hands and ropes around his own neck, about crashing through the sky in a tin can in flames, about being the only one left standing like a lost little kid in the street with no one to call home. Sometimes he feels like he’s holding on by a thread to the only sense of hope he has – the fact that they are both here and they are both still breathing. Beyond the fences of this camp, none of that would be guaranteed.

Bucky’s the opposite. Sure he has nightmares, just like everyone else in the sleepless night – about getting beaten to death in a burning town, about Buck’s plane going down, about hiding behind marsh grass with a gun just waiting to be killed, about everyone he loves getting taken out one by one until he’s alone with nowhere to go. This place, though, is not the answer. He’s damn sure of that. The Luftwaffe doesn’t care which of them lives and which of them dies, and Major John Egan is not about to stand by and let them use him – or, God forbid, Buck – as target practice. Why doesn’t Gale get it?

“You’ll die here in one piece,” Bucky tells him.

Gale stays quiet, and Bucky doesn’t even notice the way that he nervously grabs at the ring hanging on the chain around his neck. Gale clutches it for all it’s worth though. Why doesn’t Bucky get it? This could be worse.

They go on, living day to day but hardly living. They eat their rations and assemble for appel and try to sleep in rickety bunks and freezing cabins. Occasionally, Buck gets a letter from Marge: news from home, sending thoughts and prayers for him and John, telling trivial stories to make him smile. She’s even started including baseball stats and scores for Bucky to follow. Gale tries to get Bucky to read them, to maintain a connection with the outside world and understand that someone beyond these fences is thinking about him. John refuses, won’t even touch them. Gale writes Marge that he’s concerned about Bucky. Her heart breaks for them.

None of the men can seem to find a balance between thinking of home and trying not to let the thinking drown them.

They find ways to entertain themselves. Books, music, sports, the occasional play. Gale has started holding classes for some of the other POWs, teaching them about physics, mathematics, and astronomy. It feels good to learn just to learn, to understand something about the world that isn’t shrouded by the war. It’s Gale’s escape, his offering to the men who offered up there lives. Bucky used to love listening to Gale go on about these things, would look at Gale like he’d hung the stars himself, smile and kiss his nose and make him blush before insisting he keep talking. He could listen to Gale talk for hours, and Gale had rarely felt so loved.

Now Bucky leaves the room when Gale starts teaching about the beauty of their universe. He doesn’t want to hear it anymore. Somewhere deep within himself, it hurts too much. It doesn’t line up with the situation in which he’s found himself. He can’t stand the way he feels alone in a crowded room. He can’t stand accepting that this is who they are now, where they’re meant to stay.

Sometimes, Gale will find him, will try to hold Bucky’s hand. He’s getting worried, doesn’t know what to do. Bucky tells him he’s fine, just needs some air, just needs some space. He’s just cold, just hungry, just tired, just angry at the fucking world. He’s fine. Gale tells him he loves him. Bucky doesn’t say it back.

He doesn’t feel right anymore. He hasn’t in a long time. He can’t say why. Words like depression aren’t commonplace yet.

Gale thinks it’s his fault.

After Gale manages to sand down the copper wire of the radio, he’s thrilled to hear actual transmissions coming through the headphone. The BBC, news from the front, their saving grace. Suddenly, the fact that they’re all stuck in this camp means something again. They went down swinging for something far bigger than themselves, and the allies had filled in the gaps. They hadn’t narrowly defeated death for nothing. The men scramble to start copying down and disseminating information, and the bubble of hope starts to grow.

Something like that is awfully fragile, though. It ebbs and flows and hesitantly tries to fill the cold and musty corners of the barrack, wrap itself around these men like a blanket. It’s enough to keep them going, but never quite enough to keep them warm. To keep them sane.

After dozens of men are executed for trying to escape the camp, that bubble bursts again. Things are about to get worse around here, not better, and Gale wonders if they should’ve taken a chance when they had it. Maybe they’d die trying, but maybe they’d die anyway.

But Bucky tells Gale that he might’ve been right, they shouldn’t be so hasty with an escape after all. Gale has about two seconds to feel like maybe they’re on the same page again, maybe Bucky is finally coming back into himself. About two seconds of that hope he’s been trying to cling to. Then Bucky declares that he has nothing worth rushing home for anyways.

Gale’s heart drops. The hope flies away, fading tendrils swirling in the air that he can’t quite keep a grip on. He wants to scream, aren’t I enough?

How many days and nights had they spent dreaming about a future? About a life after the war? It’s enough for Gale to hold onto, but his gut twists as he wonders if the private vows they’d made to each other before they shipped out, the rings they’d had engraved and carefully gifted to one another, had been nothing but words and hunks of metal. What the hell had happened to I made it home to you? Did it all mean so little to Bucky, now? Did Gale mean so little?

Sometimes the words you don’t say hurt the most. He tells Bucky that it’s just this place getting to him, but he doesn’t know how much he believes it. For the first time since Bucky made it back to him, Gale starts to feel alone.

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Continue reading on AO3

#masters of the air #mota #john egan #gale cleven #clegan #bucky egan #buck cleven #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan #buck x bucky #clegan fic #bucky x buck

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mwolf0epsilon · 2 years

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The Light is Unforgiving, Seek Shelter in the Shade

Summary: Since returning to their collective senses, the being known as Torrent has come to learn that monsters don't hide from sunlight. In reality they walk freely and prey on those who seek the light as salvation.

[Short drabble alert. Force Wound/Eldritch Abomination Jesse hours are now! It's been a hot minute since I actually did anything with this part of the AU and that's honestly a crime. If I'm bringing Jesse (and the 332nd Division) back into the fray I might as well showcase the set of rules I set up for them!]

[THIS STORY IS NOW ON AO3]

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There isn't a definite guide for what they are. That much Jesse has gathered as he slowly gets the hang of being the brain of the collective mass of bodies and souls that is "The Torrent". Not even the Jedi fully knew how Force Wounds worked (not that there were many of those anymore that could even begin to explain the basics to them), and honestly this was a phenomenon that even the most knowledged of the defunct Order would have preferred to remain buried under the proverbial sands of time.

Nothing good ever came from being around Force Wounds...

Did that make them, Torrent, something inherently bad? An evil that needed to be eradicated from the face of the galaxy, for the good of everyone that resided in it? Rex hadn't seemed to think so. Neither had Dove nor Echo, who'd done everything in their power to reawaken their humanity. Fought to unchain it from the primeval rage that had overtaken them in due time. Born of pain and fear.

Jesse wasn't sure how exactly to explain it. He could recall everything that had transpired after their deaths but, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn't quite grasp how he'd been feeling at the time. It's like a blanket had been laid over his emotions, suffocated them, and all that was left was a strange itch in his throat that felt like the ghost of a feeling.

Impersonal in a sense. But it shouldn't be so.

Maybe that was just how it was when you were sharing a body with hundreds of others. All feelings were yours but also not. And your one consciousness that you were more intimately aware of just had to accept that like the others did. Maybe that was just the chips in their brains adding to the baffling confusion.

Whatever the case, if he could grasp the concept of being a uniform shape, no extra limbs or eyes or teeth, then he should be able to figure out this whole hundreds of emotions thing as well. Make his own guide, so to speak.

Easier said than done really...

Torrent as a whole learned quickly. They were hundreds of minds, even if Jesse was the one in primary control. On an IQ standpoint they were a genius in their own right.

The first thing they learned was, of course, to look as human as they should. A skill they hadn't even realised they'd forgotten when they'd been so consumed with a lust for revenge, and that worsened when they'd begun luring and hunting clones to add to their immeasurable mass. The first time they'd seen their reflection they'd reeled back in horror at the twisted smoke, fire, armour and molten flesh. In due time (once Rex had eased them into a calmer state) they'd begun to look like Jesse again, but that first instance of seeing themselves as something so abominable had been jarring.

Sure, even now there were times where the number of irises and teeth they possessed were off. And sometimes they let one or two extra arms slip out for the convenience of having more hands to work with. Sometimes tattoos that belonged to the myriad of brothers of the 332nd snaked across their flesh unsupervised. But mostly they just looked like the ARC Trooper with the defunct Republic cog marking his face.

It felt fitting that since Jesse was in control, people should speak to him rather than... Whatever they all were now. Did a Force Wound even have a physical description they could adhere to that wasn't absolutely unfathomable?

Who really knew? Not them that's for sure!

The second thing they learned was that sunlight hurt. Actually they already knew this before they understood how to not look like a walking clusterfuck of limbs and eyeballs. But clarity had a way of messing with learned behaviours. As soon as they'd stepped foot outside to follow their rescue party, they'd all screamed and backed away in terror at the burning sensation.

It had been Dove's quick thinking that got them to throw a cloak over the writhing mass of limbs and agonised faces so that the light didn't hurt them anymore, but them damage had been done. Jesse, Torrent, all of them, had been disheartened at the prospect of being some kind of beast that belonged in the darkness.

A feeling Jesse still struggled with now, as none of his brothers really dared to consider such an idea out of fear that some kind of confirmation would be given to them. But the ARC couldn't ever let well enough alone, and he still thought about it. Still tried to deal with the guilt of what they'd all done in their moment of weakness. What he had done.

Chips or not. Clouded judgement or not. It was all on him. All of the terrible things they'd done when they'd been the thing in the storm.

At least Rex still looked at him like he deserved to be loved. Their ori'vod loved them still, despite nearly having died at their hands more than once.

The third thing that Torrent as a whole had learned, was that monsters (real monsters) didn't hide from sunlight. In reality they walk freely and prey on those who seek the light as salvation.

It puts a wrench in Jesse's pity-party and sends a soothing wave through all the conscious minds that comprise the amalgam Force Wound trooper(s).

On one hand that means that, even though they can't bare the feel of the light and that sometimes they don't look quite human, that doesn't mean they themselves are monsters. Merely a being of special requirements. On the other hand it also means that danger lurks everywhere that the light actually reaches, and that millions if not hundreds of people are in mortal peril without even knowing it.

And this is a much worse thought in Jesse's, all of Torrent's, opinion. They never did like dishonesty, the clones. And being hundreds of them made Torrent's thousands of hackles raise with the urge to do something about it.

And well it isn't hard to hunt monsters. They may hide in plain sight and operate under the light, but even someone with insidious intentions needed a refuge of sorts. A hidden lair to return to. And Torrent was nothing if not a specialist at hiding in deep dark corners to stalk their prey...

What was a rebellion without a skilled tracker and assassin?

No matter how unforgiving the light might be, Torrent will always seek out shelter in the dark. Their souls are luminous and all consuming among the cold shadows.

#Eps Writes #Fanfic #star wars #the clone wars #forceful intervention au #arc trooper jesse #force wound Jesse au #eldritch abomination

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vintagemulti · 2 years

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champagne glasses

pairings: steven grant x reader , marc spector x reader

desc: visiting your ex-boyfriend is never pleasant. especially when he’s anton mogart, and you’re being hunted.

warnings: swearing, smoking, mentions of self harm and suicide, gun violence, reader is a killer, drug misuse/references, christian/catholic religious themes, reader isn’t religious, sex references

a/n: this is basically readers backstory chapter but pay attention.. there’s foreshadowing in here ;) cannon? who? we don’t know her.

series masterlist

masterlist

anton mogart was a man that no matter how much you wished to forget, the memory of him would linger in your brain until the day you died.

the circumstances under which you met him were far from ideal, but neither was you relationship with him, in all fairness.

you had taken a job to - in short terms - get people out of his way so he could steal an old artefact. for hours he had droned about how priceless it was, how valuable it would be to his collection - but you didn’t even pretend to listen.

all you had to know was that the job flew you out to italy, to a old catholic church in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. the artefact was apparently some centuries old painting, not that you gave two shits.

to make a long story short, things had went south. very south, very quickly. half of your team had been wiped out, the other half struggling to even find the painting. maybe it was protected by god, after all.

it had left you - not far past your nineteenth birthday - alone, up against two men, double your size. by some miracle, your almost perfect aim had saved you once again, but not before one of the men got a hit on you.

remember the scar marc reminisced about earlier, right above your bellybutton? welcome to the origin story.

getting shot for the first time was absolutely not what you had expected. you knew it would hurt, but nothing had prepared you for the hot, searing pain, completely shutting down your senses and overtaking your mind.

you had stumbled to the nearest place to sit, which just happened to be right in front of the alter. the huge cross towered over you, clay depiction of jesus christ looking down on you as wine coloured blood seeped onto the stone steps leading to the alter, like some deranged form of offering.

he must not have cared much for a sinner like you, because the bullet was still inside, tearing you up and turning the pain from unbearable to ‘i would rather die than wait for this to be over.’ what was that about repentance and salvation? you couldn’t hear the preachings over the ringing in your ears.

it had taken you a few minutes to weigh up your options. wait for this to run it’s course, bleed out and die slowly, possibly get infected so even if you didn’t actually die tonight you’d never walk again - or die by your own hand, painlessly. the only option that didn’t involve death was a miracle - something you thought highly unlikely.

that wasn’t the first time you’d considered suicide, though.

your teenage years were far from desirable, highschool being a form of torture that you were subjected to every single day, home life not being much better. your parents fought every day, but refused to get a divorce. perhaps that’s why you were hyper aware of your failing marriage with marc - like parent, like child. not that you and marc had ever been as bad as your parents, in all fairness. at least you had good times with your husband - but the same could not be said about your parents.

they hated each other, and by some extension, they hated you as well. never good enough, never smart enough, never strong enough. it wasn’t much surprise you’d ran away at sixteen, moving from place to place every few weeks before finally finding someone who offered you a job - that was your first experience in the mercenary world.

your first boss had trained you to use a gun, use a knife, use your fists - anything you could - to fight. did he care you weren’t even seventeen and had never held a gun prior to that? not really, no. you were desperate for money and he was desperate for someone to send like a lamb to the slaughter, getting a cut of the profit from every job they took.

talk about starting them young, eh?

but regardless of that, the thoughts running through your mind when you raised your gun to your temple were not of the screaming matches of your parents or future relationships.

they weren’t particularly of anything, actually. the pain of the bullet had still taken complete control of your thought process, so the only train of thought you were having was to stop the hurting - and unless jesus looked down on you from that cross and took pity, the stop-the-pain-train had one destination.

and a bullet through your skull was a one way stop, no doubts about that.

you had clicked the safety off, opening your eyes and looking at the cross above you once more. if there was a god, you hoped he would be considerate enough to let you away with this, after all, wasn’t all suffering for a reason? he had put this bullet inside of you, and you were only using the tools around you to fight against that. why give you a gun if you weren’t allowed to use it?

so this was it. this was the end of your short, sad life. nothing gained, nothing lost. this was it. perhaps hell would have air conditioning, you wondered.

“i wouldn’t, if i were you.” a voice came from the front row of pews.

your head had snapped to the source, landing on a man not much older than you - and you had recognised him as your current employer.

“help me,” you almost whispered, words strained with pain. maybe he was gods gift to you, a shitty excuse for a “sorry i put a bullet in you” card.

and he did help you - in fact he took you to the nearest hospital and stayed with you until you were in stable condition. anton had stayed for far longer, actually, quickly becoming one of your closest friends, then your lover.

more than that, he had been the one to introduce you to drugs for the first time - something you hated him for, even now. it never became an addiction, thankfully, but the white powder had well and truly fucked you up even more, rotting away your brain until you depended on him. it was an amazing manipulation technique, without a doubt.

get them hooked on a class A drug, not enough for an addiction, but enough for them to depend on you for the next hit.

so no, your relationship with him was not perfect. it was short lived - only lasting six months or so - before work had ripped you away from him. did you love him? maybe. or maybe you were in love with the idea of being loved.

a love that was provided by the man sitting in the seat next to you, hands on the wheel. a man who, funnily enough, had an almost identical experience less than a year later - just with a different kind of god. one who was, actually, willing to save him.

the drive through cairo was long, your travel sickness making you gag with every bump in the road and pothole you drove over.

layla, who was sitting behind you, was scanning through hundreds of documents, trying to find the right one.

“so, if i’m right,” she said. “what these guys are looking for is an ancient sacrificial knife that i helped mogart to steal. it was used in the vatican thousands of years ago to… sacrifice, i’d assume.”

“so it’s not egyptian?” you turned to look at her, seatbelt pulling against your chest.

“that’s where the debate comes in,” layla looked up at you. “wether it was made in egypt or not. if it was, then it belongs here, but if not - these guys might actually have a point for being here.”

“wait a second,” steven said, taking his eyes off the road to look at layla. “you stole this, without even knowing where it actually came from?”

“it came from egypt.” she stated. “so, it was already stolen.”

“but these guys don’t think it did,” you sighed, turning back around. “you’d better be right, layla.”

you looked at steven, and even though the sun was well and truly set, he was still illuminated in your view - his soft eyes focused on the road, fingers tapping against the wheel. you smiled at the sight.

“you alright?” you asked him.

he nodded, “driving on this side is weird, though.”

“i never got used to it,” you nodded. “left hand drive is so much easier. how’s marc?”

“tired,” steven mumbled. “hence why you have me.”

“is it not your body that’s tired?”

he shook his head. “not that kind of tired.”

“oh,” you breathed. “well, it’s not all bad. i get you, for now at least.”

steven smiled, taking his eyes off of the road to look at you for a few seconds. he was admittedly the better driver than marc, taking far less risks on the road.

maybe it was living on the run that had made marc’s driving so careless, always having to be his own getaway driver.

the three of you sat in silence for a few minutes more, watching out the window as the centre of cairo faded away, most of the shops and houses being scattered to a few every minute.

you saw steven look in the wing mirror out of the corner of your eye, knuckles tightening around the wheel as he swallowed.

“what?” you asked.

before he could say anything, layla tapped his shoulder. “pull over here, we can walk to the boat.”

“boat?” you raised your eyebrows, unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing the car door open.

“yeah, how else would we get there?” layla smiled.

“silly me, i forget,” you mumbled. “anton and his theatrics.”

turning to look for steven, you noticed he was still in the car, staring at the wing mirror. you could see he was talking, but you couldn’t tell was he was saying.

“give him a sec,” you said to layla.

“yeah, no worries,” she said. “i’ll go find a boat with enough room.”

nodding, you watched her walk away.

she looked older too, carrying herself less like a girl trying to walk in her fathers footsteps and more like a woman who knew how to pave her own way. you were proud of her, how far she’d come since her father’s death. it wasn’t easy, you knew that, but layla had made the best out of a bad situation. you’d missed her company - after all, it had been at least five years since you’d seen her last.

hearing the car door open and slam closed, you turned back and saw the black bag being lifted out of the back seat. it was full of essentials - guns, spare bullets, knives, first aid kit.

“where’s layla?” marc said, looking at you.

“finding a boat,” you answered. “and i here i thought i was being graced with steven for a while.”

marc hummed. “he asked me to take the body. i’m a far better fighter than him.”

“oh, i wouldn’t be so confident,” you teased. “did you even see the hit he got on that jackal the other week? you couldn’t have done that in your dreams, spector.”

“oh, be quiet.” he grunted, pulling the bag over his shoulder.

you laughed; “she went this way. come on.”

walking to where layla was, you felt marc take your hand.

“are you nervous to see him?” he asked.

“no,” you shook your head. “not really. i mean, we didn’t end on great terms, but it’s been a decade.”

he hummed in response as you approached layla. she was speaking in arabic, all you were able to understand being something about money. the person she was speaking to didn’t seem to keen on whatever she was suggesting, but after a few more harsh words of pleading, he nodded slowly.

“we can get on this one,” she faced you and marc. “come on.”

the travel sickness from before hadn’t quite left you yet, seeing the boat bob and sway on the water churning your stomach a little. you squeezed marc hand and swallowed, stepping onto the boat.

by the time you arrived at anton’s, there was a crowd on his front lawn - if you could even call it that. you rolled your eyes, watching the people around you drink and dance, but the centre of attention remained the brunette.

he was standing by a glass pyramid, speaking to some guests. everything he said made them laugh, but that could only be expected - he was just as much of a ladies man as when you met him.

as you approached him, feet still slightly shaky from the boat ride, a waiter walked past with a tray of champagne, stopping to offer each of you a glass.

“please,” you mumbled, lifting one off of the tray. marc took one as well, taking a sip as soon as he picked it up.

anton’s eyes flicked in your direction, and you met them. he excused himself from his company, walking over to the three of you.

“well, what a pleasant surprise.” he smiled, gesturing to your trio.

“anton,” layla greeted. “i’d introduce you, but…”

he smirked, eyes remaining firmly on you. “no need, i’d never forget a pretty face like yours.”

aiming to avoid the awkward silence, you moved your glass from the right hand to the left, you raised it to your mouth, taking the longest drink you possibly could.

his eyes moved to the ring on your finger, head tilting slightly as he stared at the rock. you lowered your glass, knowing you’d got the message across.

sticking your hand out, you smiled; “it’s been a while.”

anton took your hand as if to shake it, but instead he pulled it closer to his face, as if checking to see if the diamond was actually there.

“it certainly has,” he mumbled, letting your hand go. “and who would be the lucky man? or woman.”

marc cleared his throat. “that would be me.”

the men made eye contact, holding it for a beat too long before either of them spoke again.

“lovely to meet you.” anton said, smile finally snaking its way back onto his face. he stuck his hand out, marc shaking it with his empty hand.

“back at you.”

a moment of silence passed, but it felt like a million years that you were stood watching your husband and you ex stare at each other, handshake so tight you thought they might break each other’s bones.

layla cleared her throat next to you, and you silently thanked her for breaking the silence. “we’re hoping you could help us, actually.”

anton looked back at her, dropping marc’s hand. “certainly. come, somewhere a little more quiet.”

he lead the way out of the garden, taking you up the stairs to his house. well, if it qualified as a house, that was. it was more of a mansion, twelve bedrooms and fifteen bathrooms. so excessive for one man, you thought.

the house was far quieter than the outside, the music fading away the further you went. marc was walking next to you, both of you falling slightly behind layla and anton - who were discussing something else. something to do with a place called madripoor.

“so, first impressions?” you asked him, already half knowing what his response would be.

“he’s an ass,” marc grumbled, making you laugh. “complete and total ass.”

“hence why he’s my ex, marc. he wasn’t much better in the relationship.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you didn’t notice the way he looked at you?”

“oh, don’t worry,” you sighed. “i did.”

“yeah, he had to pretty much push his eyes back into his head. i swear, i’ll take them out and feed them to him if he looks at you like that again.”

“jealous much?”

“of course i am,” marc smirked. “you’re all mine.”

rolling your eyes, you felt his hand slap against your ass. “oi!”

“sorry, sorry. couldn’t help myself.”

layla and anton had stopped in an office-looking room, the glass of champagne that was in his hand being sat on a large desk, which sat between them. you walked into the room, taking the seat next to layla - which left marc standing. he leaned against the bookshelf next to you, glass still in his hand.

you noticed him look down into the liquid, raising his eyebrows and smirking into the reflection. you’d have to remember to ask what steven had said.

“so, what kind of help do you need?”

layla took a breath; “i believe you have an item in your collection that would be safer in other hands, for now.”

his eyebrows furrowed. “which item?”

“the one i helped you steal,” she said. “the old knife from the vatican.”

“ah,” anton breathed. “yes, that one. well - why do you want it?”

“it could be egyptian, but we need to find that out. there are other people that have come looking for it, they attacked us lot long ago. we think it has something to do with layla’s father as well, though.” you explained.

“yeah, we think the people that are looking for this also want something from me - well, from my father - but we don’t know what that is yet.”

anton hummed, you could almost see the wheels turning in his head. “and you want to take it, to verify it originated in egypt?”

layla nodded. “that way, these people have no claim to it. it would only take a few days to verify, and after that you can have it straight back.”

“and what’s the alternative to this?” he asked.

“we leave, you get killed, and the knife gets stolen. no matter where it came from.” you said bluntly.

there was another beat of silence, although it was far less awkward this time.

“miss el-faouly,” anton spoke. “someone will take you to view the item, to ensure it’s the same one we’re referring to.”

a man came into the room almost instantly after that, layla standing up and following him to wherever the knife was being kept.

“meanwhile, i’d like you to see something. follow me, please.”

you stood up, chair scraping the wooden floor below. nothing about this situation worried you - anton wasn’t stupid enough to kill any of you, not tonight.

he walked to the door, but turned when he heard marc following. “just y/n.”

sighing, you took marc’s hand in your own again, giving him a look as if to say; i’ll be fine, don’t worry. he won’t try anything.

marc didn’t seem all too happy about leaving you alone with your piece of shit ex, but if it would make it easier to strike this deal, so be it. he wasn’t concerned for you, no - you were a big girl, you could handle yourself - he was more giving into those protective husband instincts, letting the jealousy take control of his mind for a moment.

where anton was leading you, you had no idea. the floor plan of the massive house was still familiar to you - muscle memory leading you through the hallways - but most of the rooms had changed since the last time you’d set foot in this house.

“how long have you been married, then?” he asked, holding one of the doors open for you.

“thanks,” you mumbled. “it’ll be nine years, next wednesday, actually.”

“congratulations,” he said, although his tone didn’t match the sentiment. “it’s a beautiful ring.”

he led you into a room, darker than the one you had just been in. in the centre of the room was a single painting, illuminated by spotlights.

although you’d never seen the painting in your life, you knew exactly what it was.

“is that…?” you asked, hoping for clarification.

“indeed it is.”

nodding, the breath escaped your lungs. so this is what you had almost died for.

it was a beautiful piece of artwork, even you had to admit it. the paint had faded over the years, but even so the colours were vibrant against the darkness of the room, making the image stick out.

it took you a few minutes to recognise where you’d seen the painting before - from a distance you were sure you’d never seen it, but the closer it got, the more familiar it became. you’d seen it on pinterest, instagram, twitter - almost everywhere on the internet. had this really been the thing you’d helped steal?

“l’ange déchu, alexandre cabanel,” anton spoke from behind you. “also known as the fallen angel.”

you nodded. “one of the most famous depictions of lucifer.”

“famous, because it showed what he was truly like.”

taking your eyes off the painting, you noticed he was standing right next to you. “what do you mean?”

“the devil is often portrayed as a little man with ted skin and a pointy tail,” he explained. “but he isn’t. lucifer was an angel, he was beautiful.”

you hummed, looking back at the art. “bet the church didn’t like that, making the devil pretty.”

“the devil is pretty, dove,” he mumbled, moving closer to you. “he is astonishingly beautiful.”

he got closer, but you stepped back, away from him. “what’s the point of this, anton?”

“what’s the point of anything?” he smiled. “you and i both know that settling down was never you’re style. you are a mercenary, y/n. a little house with a picket fence is never going to do it for you.”

“no,” you shook your head, almost laughing. “you don’t even know me anymore.”

“but your husband does? knows the real you?”

“of course he fucking does!” you snapped. “he is my husband, for god’s sake.”

“does he know why things ended between us?” he raised his eyebrows.

you hesitated. “why? why do you care?”

“so he doesn’t know, then.” anton smirked. “i wonder why you wouldn’t tell him, little dove. i wonder why.”

the memory of that night flashed in your brain, almost making you cringe. it had haunted you for the last nine years, every time your hand had brushed over the scar on your stomach you had been served a painful reminder of the sins of your past.

“i wonder what he’d think of you,” anton came closer again, brushing a hair out of your face. “i wonder what he’d say.”

“don’t,” you swatted his hand away. “don’t you dare.”

he laughed lightly. “you don’t have to worry about me telling him, dove. but i would pay money to see you break the news to him.”

finally having enough, you walked away from him - back out of the room and towards the front door. your boots smacked against the hardwood floor with every step you took, making some of the ornaments rattle on their shelves as you passed.

reaching for the pack cigarettes in your pocket, your fingers twitched in need as they pulled one out, the front door coming closer into view.

marc’s eyebrow creased when anton walked back into the office, without you following behind him. he noticed, waving a hand to dismiss his worry.

“she’s out for a smoke, i’d assume,” he mumbled. “but this might give us a moment to get to know each other.”

marc had to stop himself from laughing. “y/n’s told me a few things about you.”

“oh yeah?” anton was stood in front of him. “like what?”

“like how you treated her like shit,” there was no point in holding back. “got her on drugs, cheated on her. all the good stuff, i’m sure.”

“she cheated on me, too, in all fairness.” he shrugged.

“fine then, but you’re still a son of a bitch for putting drugs in her.”

“no,” anton shook his head. “i never put them in her. she chose to do those drugs - i mean just ask her. the coke didn’t but itself.”

marc scoffed, looking away from him. “motherfucker.”

“why does it bother you so much?” he sneered. “why, is it because you can handle knowing another man has seen her the exact same way you have?”

“the fuck is that supposed to mean?” marc spat, looking directly at the man in front of him.

“oh, you know,” anton shrugged. “how fucking beautiful she looks when she comes, all out of breath and begging.”

marc felt his blood bubble under his skin. “you shut the fuck up, right now.”

“sorry, it’s not my fault your wife is a slut.”

his fist was already half way in the air, ready to make contact with anton’s jaw, when he heard it.

it cut through the air, past the noise from the party below and up the stairs, past the office doors and into his ears.

a scream - more specifically, your scream - made him drop his fist before it even made contact with flesh, turn out of the room and sprint down the stairs.

marc could see your footprints on the mud outside, even the still lit cigarette on the ground, the smell of your perfume still lingering in the air.

but where the hell were you?

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yesimwriting · 3 years

Text

Corridor Moments

A/n this is a request from @mariannagris for a fic with the Darkling x Sun Summoner! reader where they're having a cute moment and then Zoya walks in and sees that they're together and gets jealous.

I'm working on a longer fic that should be up this weekend!! I'm working through a bunch of requests/updates rn I promise lol

He's no longer guiding me, but he hasn't moved his hands away--one on my waist, one on my shoulder.

"Aleksander," I try to keep my tone casual, only hinting at a warning.

There's no way he misses it, but he still allows the hand on my shoulder to ghost across my collar before setting his palm on my cheek. "Yes, my sun?"

Before I can roll my eyes, he brushes his thumb across my cheek softly. His touch has started to become more casual, but I'm not sure the comfort it brings me will ever lose its novelty. I tilt my head slightly, leaning into his touch.

"We're not alone." The reminder is more for me than him. All of his actions are intentional, he knows the risks of his sudden bout of affection. "We may be in an empty hallway now, but we're not alone."

Aleksander leans forward slightly, forcing me to press my back into the wall to avoid melting into him. I don't miss his half-smile, a confident smirk breaking across his features. He knows what he's doing. "And what would we need to be alone for?"

The slightest hint of annoyance bubbles in my chest. For someone so determined, he enjoys playing coy more than he should. My lips part, prepared to call him out for his teasing, but Aleksander senses my hesitance like always. He leans forward again, this time pulling my chin up slightly so that our lips could brush together if I just inclined my head slightly.

The closer we get, the more I feel our distance. His eyes flicker downwards, focusing on the slight part of my lips. Aleksander angles his head downwards, allowing our lips to meet fully. Now that the barrier's been broken, I have no choice but to reciprocate with full force, my hands leaving his chest and finding their way into his hair. Aleksander's hands grab the collar of my kefta. He pulls me towards him sharply, as desperate as I am to eliminate space.

And then he pulls me away. I'm left pouting on instinct, lips slightly swollen and breathing a little uneven. "Easy," he chides, "We can't afford to get distracted."

I wrinkle my nose at him. He started this, pulling me out of the meeting under the ruse of important, private conversation. "And who's the one doing the distracting?"

Aleksander smiles fully. A real grin, the kind of grin that rivals any amount of sun I could ever produce. "You," he breathes, leaning in again and brushing his lips against my cheek, "Considering you won't leave my thoughts."

I let myself grin back, his unexpected softness an arrow that pierces through whatever's left of my composure. "You're awfully sentimental today."

He straightens slightly, expression still light. "Is that a bad thing?"

Squeezing the hand that he's placed on my waist, I beam at him. "Not bad at all--just different."

He's still looking at me with a fierceness that sometimes frightens me due to its wholeness, but something ancient and dark is settled behind his eyes. Something haunting that he won't let me help him with. I haven’t known him that long, but I’ve figured out that his affection is often a secret plea, a silent attempt to rid himself of darkness. What's the point of being able to summon the sun if you cannot banish the darkness that haunts those you care about? I raise his hand to my mouth, kissing each of his knuckles deliberately. He exhales at the contact, some sort of tension coiling in him at the chaste contact.

I like us better when we’re alone. When he lets things like this slip from him as he tries to let my light in him. I could stay in this corridor forever with him. I could hold him by his hand to make sure he can’t slip away from me.

Reality does not allow me to coddle my dreams. If I lose focus, he’ll be able to convince me to do anything--to forget my own name even. I drop my gaze to the hand I’m still holding, running my thumb along his knuckles. “We can’t--we can’t stay.” Not the truest sentiment--he can do whatever he wants. “I can’t stay.” The correction leaves me bitter. “Not for long.” The addition only softens the harsh edge of reality slightly. “People are already starting to think you’re extending favoritism towards me.”

Aleksander lifts the hand I’m holding, taking my hand with him. He turns my hand over before placing a kiss on my palm. The contact is warm and fleeting and I’m powerless against the sentiment it stirs. “And this isn’t favoritism?”

I roll my eyes, his warm breath is still against my skin. “That depends--am I your favorite?”

His hold on my hand tightens slightly. “You already know the answer.” I let the corner of my mouth twitch upwards. Aleksander has already offered me more than I expected today, but it’d still be nice to hear him say it. “You, my darling, my sun, will always be my favorite.”

I beam a little easier, warmth expanding in my chest. Still, the feeling isn’t enough to burn through all of my reluctance. His affection stems from the fact that he believes me to be his salvation. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me. How else could i have won his affections?

“It’s easy to favor a Sun Summoner,” the response is soft, a bit of forced teasing edging my words.

His eyebrows draw together as his hold on my hand tightens, turning from a gentle squeeze to a desperate grab. “Sun Summoner or not, no one else has ever held my favor the way you do.” Aleksander leans towards me again, the comforting heat of his breath on my cheek. “And no one ever will.”

I’m reduced to nothing more than happy neediness, letting him cup my face and pulling me towards him. His lips meet mine with a desperate understanding that’s both bruising and coddling. Aleksander’s teeth graze my bottom lip, testing waters that are unfamiliar between us. I reciprocate, pushing even closer to him. He pushes us backwards, pressing me against the wall as he moves his attention away from my lips and down my jaw, leaving a trail of hot skin wherever his lips brush.

“Aleksander,” I breathe, placing a hand on his chest, “Meeting--we need to--”

He pulls away just enough to let me feel his grin, “That can wait.”

“They’ll think things,” Despite my warning, Aleksander doesn’t pull away, his fingertips brushing against my collar. “They’re waiting,” he sighs against my hair, still careless, “Alina--she’s waiting...” He continues to touch me like I’m an illusion of the light. “And--” He smiles at my waning resolve, attempting to move forward to silence the last of my protests with a kiss.

I turn my head, suppressing a reluctant laugh at his carelessness. Aleksander is not discouraged, pressing a kiss against my cheek. Shifting my gaze while placing my hand on his chest to make it easier to push him off fo me, I freeze. He must feel my new stiffness, because Aleksander pauses against me.

Zoya. She’s standing at the entrance of the corridor, watching us--watching me--with such a sharp look of ill-defined displeasure I’m surprised I’m not physically withered by it. Awkwardness and something akin to guilt leave me blind as I try to create space between me and the unbudging General. Does he not see her?

“Yes?” His voice leaves goosebumps against my skin--not an ounce of shame, but not a drop of that easy-going softness either. He’s General Kirigan again--sharp and incapable of shame or regret. He’s in complete control, all the power in the world is at the fingertips that are still on my skin.

Zoya’s expression does not waver, eyes still locked on me. “Those in the meeting were beginning to worry, but I see that you’re occupied.” I was wrong. She’s not staring at me, she’s staring through me--like I’m nothing more than a thin curtain on a cloudless day during high noon. “I’ll inform the others.”

“You’ll inform them of nothing I don’t approve of.” He’s fierce, the threat of venom apparent in each syllable. “And it’d do you well to meet the Sun Summoner’s gaze with a little more respect.”

I’m quick to grab his forearm, desperate to articulate how much I’d rather him not pick this fight--not when most can barely stand me, not when the more I think of Zoya’s look I realize any bitterness towards me is something else. Not hatred, no--resentment. The kind of resentment that’s only ever a byproduct of something else. If I was bolder, I’d assume it a look of jealousy--maybe not over the man, but the attention and praise received for being nothing more than new and shiny. Her eyebrows knit together as Aleksander’s hold on me adjusts slightly. Okay, maybe the fact that I’m with Aleksander has something to do with it--but it has to be more than that. Her dislike of me, her constant myriad of comments and looks all points to a jealousy much more bitter than that of someone love sick.

If something in her has been broken over time here, time around Kirigan and his pension for manipulating that I am not blind to and my presence and joy is a reminder of that, than I can bear her hatred. “She was looking at me normally.” Before he can challenge me, I move his hands off of me gently and slip away from between him and the wall.

I guess that’s what it takes for him to understand that I mean it, Aleksander straightens and takes a step forward. His eyes linger on me as he walks forward. I stay a few steps behind him, a pathetic attempt to cling to any kind of properness I can manage.

“If I were you, I’d at least comb your hair with your fingers before entering that room again unless you’d like to announce yourself as a form of entertainment.”

Being a decent person is nauseating sometimes. “And take the fun out of it for you?”

I don’t wait for her reply, moving down the hall to catch up with Aleksander. Still, when I’m no longer next to Zoya I brush my fingers through my hair in hopes of correcting any damage she’s created. Maybe I should be more worried. Maybe I should care about the opinions of others more. But every reason to stay away from Aleksander entirely feels so small. I’m not naive enough to fall blindly, but the thing about being a Sun Summoner is that you can bring light with you, no matter how dark the path you chose is.

I watch Aleksander as he places a hand on the door to the room. He offers me one last, genuine smile. His path isn’t as dark as he wants it to seem, and even if it is, I don’t care.

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back2themax · 2 years

Text

The Future problem: A issue with the sequels

I mentioned this a while back when talking about any movie past T2 and espically when I was reviewing dark fate, but there’s a problem with the way the later movies portray the future. It’s inconsistant and unrealistic with what we know happened. Let me explain

Billions dead, small numbers- yet a huge army network?-

In The terminator Kyle makes it excruciatingly clear that the number of alive and able bodied human beings is incredibly slim. Humanity is on its last legs- hell- it’s crawling on it’s belly to stay alive. Those who are alive are forced underground, if not in camps, they don’t go out during the day. If they even know what day looks like anymore.

The resistance is a startling few of a already dwindling species! Even with the bigger Buget T2 makes it clear it’s really like 30 guys and a few old trucks up against the Death Star!

Yet every sequel since has made the resistance this HUGE globe spanning network of a super military with complex rankings, weponry, machines and so on! W H A T?! It makes even less sense knowing salvation is before the completely obliterated future Kyle comes from and that Dark fate says they have the ability to make actual cyborgs (which makes even less sense) ?? So humanity has barely survived except they have a huge and extremely strong military force? Unles every single able bodied person left

1. Even knew it existed

2. Would really quickly come to accept the leadership

It’s just not possible, Salvation is the biggest offender to all of my issues involving military power and their numbers as. Your telling me that all this equipment survived a Nucular holocaust AND wasn’t destroyed by skynet after to prevent any humans who survived from using it?! A submarine? What the fuck. But it’s the helicopters that get me the most… HOW.

Kyles account of people going into hiding, only being able to come out at night etc and the fact that so many roaming HK’s cover not only the ground but the sky? There’s no way in hell a helicopter or any man flown plane would last five seconds before getting shot down! I get they’re trying to give John this Maverick like storyline but it just- doesn’t work.

Salvation and Dark fate also yet on my nerves because- everything it too… intact? To perfect of rubble , to preseved dead trees etc. This may be a nitpick but even the sky is to light! Now future flashbacks may have been at night in the original two but I also think a large portion would be the amount of soot and ash from constant fire, explosions, factory pollution etc. It being dark and blue wash is not only a good aesthetic choice but it also drills in there’s nothing left. A whole lot more. It’s “post apocalypse” not “kids play mad max in Kansas scrap yard”

John Connor becomes Jesus

Let’s also be real in that no movie ever does John right after T2 as well- except maybe the beginning of Genysis when it actually is John before skynet corrupts him. Anyway-

Basically the further franchise treats John like this “ foretold savior” when really it was orignally more Kyle fanboying about his personal hero (and unknowingly his son). Technically he’s “foretold” in that someone from the future explains what’s going to happen and what he does for the world but he’s not this mythical being. He’s just a man.

No one else has this real reason to freak and treat John like a god. He doesn’t flick his wrist and end it all- that took YEARS. He’s just a good leader. In fact hes the fucking founder of the resistance- which salvation ignores for their Maverick storyline because he needs some rules and higher ups to piss off.

It was expressed John pulled together some forces, using his training from his mom and his experience with past Terminators - he’s able to start a resistance, to storm camps and free people etc etc. He’s - sort of a time loop built savior? But it’s one people don’t know, realize, or should treat him as such accept really his parents and skynet. It’s when the sequels try to act like he’s the chosen one™️ it gets sloppy. ( apparently James Cameron admitted skynet just chose this one guy and said “fuck you” to his existence).

I think the sequels also willingly ignore that the war was “won” in the first terminator. That they got the big victory and Skynet sending the T800 and technically the T1000, was a desperate last minute action to try and save its own ass before they took the finishing blow.

Dark fate falls hard on both problems, doubling down on the huge military power, flying, it’s bright outside, and tripling down on the savior complex /ignoring the source material stict.

This is all a nitpick

This is al technically one big nitpick. All of the sequels have something I can enjoy in them, like salvations Kyle or Genysis unironically despite some casting choices- (T3 and dark fate are debatable but I’ve already said enough about them…) im just harsh because there IS good in the sequels and they never quite reach that potential they show in some scenes. Also because the future established in the original and T2 is?? Really fucking interesting not only stylistically but also lore wise and world building wise but all the sequels went off the fucking rails instead of digging into a bunch of cool stuff directly at their disposal? Again Og older John is? Really interesting- like how’d he get the scar or what’s he like compared to when he was a kid? Etc (again I say maybe not the actor but the timeline cause edwards more than expressed wanting to come back)

This is getting long I’m gonna end it here, but I’d like to open it to a discussion?

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aminiatureworld · 3 years

Text

Burden

Characters: Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 2,261

Warnings: None

Premise: Xiao fell in love with your goodness, with your selflessness and generosity towards others. Perhaps, however, in doing so he had misunderstood your own complexities.

In which the reader feels they are a burden.

Author’s Note: I feel like I should note that there are going to be some relatively extreme emotions, mostly negative. I don’t feel like it’s enough or specific enough to be given a warning, but if anyone wants to tell me to tag it for something I will gladly. That being said I’m pretty proud of this one

Xiao

Ever since your first interaction you had been helping Xiao. It had seemed so natural, even then, even when nothing seemed natural about interacting with a human, those strange people from who Xiao must always be separated. Yet there you were, asking if this perfect stranger was alright. And there Xiao was, suddenly seeing his world opening up before him.

Perhaps it was for this reason that your relationship had developed in the way it had. To Xiao your selflessness, your never ending kindness, the fact that you would stop to help someone regardless of circumstance, all of that was normal. It was innate in your personality, and perhaps that was why Xiao never questioned what effect having that kind of personality might have on you. It is easy to assume that a kind and selfless person is also one with a short memory. After all, how could they stand it otherwise?

So when the first, barely noticeable, traces of that burden which Xiao saw so often began to swirl around you the yaksha’s initial reaction was that of utter panic. Was this not the exact reason that Xiao had chosen to disconnect himself from humanity? Was this not proof, right before him, that the chains he carried could not be contained. Though Xiao generally thought of humans as vaguely useless, deserving of protection because Rex Lapis proclaimed it be so, the idea of harming any one of them with the legacy of his own sins, it was something that he could never stomach, no matter how many times he feigned apathy. That you should be the person upon who his burdens should be transferred, how could he bear it?

Of course a small, more logical, part of him urged the adeptus to stop and think. The miasma that Xiao attracted in such high concentration was everywhere, and humans were not exempt from this burden by themselves. After all, did humanity not channel great evil as well as good? Did not the most ordinary human, dejected by their lot in life, become swarmed by little wisps of evil? Yet those were other, ordinary humans. Ordinary humans couldn’t understand the sheer capability to love that you seemed to possess. No, if Xiao could sense such a miasma around you then it was surely his fault.

Still the idea of leaving you was something quite painful to Xiao, to the adeptus who had so recently learned what it meant to love someone wholeheartedly. He told himself that it was best to leave immediately, best to disappear with the wind and never look back. Yet a part of him couldn’t seem to bear the idea; and that was the part that won out as Xiao approached you later in the day, as if in a desperate last attempt to prove himself wrong.

“Are you alright?”

“Xiao!” You jumped slightly, having evidently been lost in thought. Smiling widely you shook your head. “Of course I’m alright! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I…” Xiao paused for a moment as the idea of telling you what was going on flitted through his head. Almost immediately the thought was squashed. After all, would the knowledge not worry you more? “I was just asking.”

“Well thank you Xiao, it’s very kind of you to think of me.”

“It’s my duty.”

“Still,” your smile never faltered. “You deserve thanks for what you do nonetheless.”

Xiao tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, tried to block out the emotions that crashed over him like great waves as you leaned in to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. Was this not a good thing? After all, if Xiao was what cause this miasma to float around you, then was that not your salvation? Xiao knew how easy it was to drown in the burdens that one must shoulder. He knew how easy it was for humans to sink to the bottom of their despair and never once more emerge for water. Why should it not be a blessing that you would never have to fight to keep your head up, to keep yourself from a life full of burdens? Why, why did it hurt so much?

During the night, Xiao would leave during the night. After all, you deserved one last evening of happiness, if the yaksha could even believe that he brought you happiness. Or maybe it was for his sake that he refused to leave before the world was plunged into darkness. Maybe it was simply that Xiao could no longer imagine a world without you, and that such nightmares came out easier at night. Lying on top of the roof, eyes closed, ears focused on the familiar tread of your feet, Xiao willed himself not to think. He could regret when he was far away from you, when you were once more safe. For now he could only follow that ritual which had so long kept him sane, kept him from joining his brethren. For now he thought only of the contract he had once made.

The sound of your feet on the ground below came all too soon, as the sun finally began its descent across the heavens in earnest. Keeping his eyes closed, as if to stall the darkness for a little longer, Xiao took a deep breath in. He needed to steel himself for this evening; if not, well, Xiao had no wish to cry for the first time in a millennia.

Only once these thoughts finished flitting around in his head did the yaksha finally recognize the change in your footfall. Usually you were very light on your feet, dashing this way and that, stopping to ask Goldet or Yanxiao some mundane question, inquiring after the old lady who had basically set up permanent residence on the bottom floor of the Inn. This time, however, you seemed to drag, as if you were indeed carrying something very heavy. Alarm flashing through him, Xiao willed himself into perfect stillness. He wished to hear more, wished to understand what had caused such a change in you.

What he certainly hadn’t expected was the labored breathing of someone seconds away from tears.

The moment Xiao heard the door to your room close the sobbing began in earnest. Though you certainly seemed to be trying your hardest to hide your tears the sound of your muffled sobs rang through Xiao like a siren, flaring up every bit of alarm he had to offer. Jumping off of the roof Xiao catapulted his way through the hallways of the Inn, not bothering to hide his presence to the few, very confused, residents that were out. Reaching your room he didn’t allow himself a moment’s hesitation before grabbing the knob and opening the door.

Your head snapped up, eyes a mixture of dark emotions as you stared at him. For a moment you seemed ready to flee, to run and hide somewhere, or perhaps to throw him out. However almost immediately you seemed to sink back into yourself, and though Xiao could still sense your distress, at least the initial shock of his arrival seemed to have passed as quickly as it would otherwise.

“Xiao! I, I didn’t expect you. I, could, could you leave? I don’t, I don’t want, I don’t want to be seen right now.” It was all you could get out before another round of sobs wracked through your body.

Trying to remember what you had done for so many people, for himself, Xiao grabbed the pitcher that sat at one of the tables in the room. Pouring some water into a glass he crept towards you as softly as possible, hoping that he could convey his worries in these odd, brusque actions. He knew that he didn’t have the talent you had to comfort people, knew that all his gestures of kindness inevitably came out cramped and awkward. Nevertheless he shoved the glass into your hands, staring just past you as you tentatively downed the water. Taking the glass from you Xiao then reached out one of his palms to you. His relief when you placed your own palm on top of his was indescribable.

“I guess you probably would like an explanation,” you rasped out.

Xiao said nothing, waiting for you to act on your own. If he knew anything the yaksha knew that attempting to force the truth out of anyone would never worked. Hadn’t his own years as a pariah taught him that.

“It’s just,” you finally continued, taking in deep, labored breaths. “It’s just so hard. It’s so hard Xiao, I can’t stand it anymore!”

“Stand it?”

“Stand the… the hurt!”

Your eyes filled with tears, and you went to grab the handkerchief that you left on your nightstand. You always needed one with you, as your eyes stung terribly whenever you began to cry. Xiao said nothing as you sobbed once more, only moving to draw small circles on the back of your hand with his thumb.

“It hurts so much, to see other people. To hear their problems. Not that it’s their fault, or that I don’t want to help them. I do, I really do. I look at all the people suffering near me and I just want to take all their burdens and give it to myself, after all they don’t deserve all their sufferings. But it’s so hard Xiao, it’s so hard to take on people’s burdens, even a little bit. And I feel so selfish when I think that, so selfish and so worthless. How can I say that? But it’s true, it’s really, really true. And when I think about that, when I think about all the other people suffering worse than me, it just makes me feel so horribly selfish. Like, like all my problems are so stupid and selfish and telling others would only hurt them, and didn’t I want to take everyone else’s burdens away? I’m so stupid. And it just, it hurts.”

Xiao sat there quietly once more, waiting as you cried. At one point you seemed to collapse in on yourself, leaning against his shoulder as if to support yourself. Only then did Xiao allow himself to move. Carding his hands through your hair he said nothing, he merely waited.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. You already have enough burdens, I know. I shouldn’t be complaining to you of all people. I, if you want you can tell me if something is wrong. I mean, you always can, I, just. I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“My burdens are my own,” Xiao replied softly, finally letting the emotions swirling through him try to string together as words. “It has nothing to do with you. It never will. You, you should come to me when you feel burdened.”

“But then I’m only passing my problems onto you!”

“I told you, my chains are my own. They are the payment for my contract. They aren’t what you tell me or push on me. If you feel these burdens then give to me. That is my duty.”

“But Xiao, I, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be a problem.”

“How can you say something so stupid,” Xiao scoffed. Bringing his hand to your cheek he sighed softly. “You will never be a problem. You will always be dear to me. Let me help you. You help so many humans. I want to help you.”

“I, I don’t know,” you spoke, voice faltering.

Though Xiao could still feel the tension in the air, could still see the miasma which swirled around you, there was something fragile about it. It was as if Xiao could reach through the tangled threads and pull them away, if only he could find a way to do so. Stroking your cheek softly Xiao pressed his forehead to yours. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath in. After a few moments he heard you do the same.

The rest of the evening Xiao stayed vigilant by your side, listening as you finally let yourself say all the things that had been weighing down upon you. It was painful, listening to you. Xiao constantly had to fight the urge to tell you how wrong you were, how much you mattered and how far he would go to bring you all the happiness he could possible gather in his stained hands. Still he said nothing, for if you had taught him anything it was that simply listening could do infinitely more than promising to fight or trying to shoulder each burden as you lay them out in the daylight.

Eventually you grew exhausted, a combination of the crying and the talking and the reliving. As Xiao listened to your breath even out, softly shifting your head from leaning on his shoulder to resting in his lap, the yaksha thought about all that had happened.

Xiao had assumed that you were somehow above all the humans around you. Purer, gentler, kinder. He hadn’t stopped to think how that might have affected you. Now that he knew that wasn’t true, now that Xiao knew how deeply you felt, how sometimes your mind too chased after darkness or found itself struggling to keep above water, he couldn’t help but feel as if he’d missed something before. Perhaps you shouldered these burdens and perhaps you were just as human as the rest. You were still kind, kind and selfless and utterly beautiful. And Xiao still loved you in a way that continued to burn brightly through his soul.

#genshin impact #xiao x reader #xiao #alatus #genshin impact fanfiction #requested #oneshot #my writing

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mittensmorgul · 3 years

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Mittens, I know that some people are rejoicing over Castiel's vision in 12x19, but personally, I started crying when I realized that Cas gave up so much for love and faith in his family, and got teased with that vision of the future - a paradise he wanted for them, for himself - but never approximated that in the end. It's just so heartbreaking and I feel like I'm mourning him all over again and it just really sucks. Idk.

Hi hi!

The vision also hurts my heart, deeply, but maybe for slightly different reasons...

I have been suffering throughout the last few seasons over Cas's overall arc, and this vision, in that moment in 12.19, when Cas was literally (in text! from Dean's mouth!) desperate for a win, is just excruciating to me. And I'll tell you why.

in the mixtape scene, this was Cas's lament to Dean. He wanted to come back with a win FOR DEAN, and FOR HIMSELF. He wanted Dean to think of him as the "hero" or the "savior."

I will pause to ask here: since when has Dean ever wanted that? Ever since Cas gripped him tight and saved him from Hell, Cas has struggled to step out from that role of Protector. Shield.

This was the Big Mistake he made in s6, right? Everything that went wrong was framed around the fact that he was trying to "protect" Dean. This is why he bought into Crowley's plan, why he left Dean in the dark even after he got dragged back into the fight, and why everything ultimately ended with Cas's literal death. Like... the narrative judged him. In 6.20, all he was left with was Dean's disappointment, and a drive to prove that he was actually right (he was not actually right...).

Even in 12.19, he was "playing them" all along. He came back under the pretense of wanting to "rejoin the team" and work together with Sam and Dean again, but really he was only there to steal the Colt on behalf of Heaven. Cas was prepared to do whatever it took to keep Sam and Dean safe from Dagon, but also "safe" from having to kill an innocent woman to prevent the birth of the nephilim she carried.

Like in s6, Cas was desperate for that win. He was desperate to "earn" his place with the Winchesters, the family he chose. He even told Kelvin before they went in to confront Dagon that he wasn't doing this to redeem his "reputation" in Heaven, he only cared about "redeeming his reputation" with DEAN.

He has no idea that Dean does not give one flying fig about Cas's ability to "protect him," he just wants Cas to Be There With Him.

And later on, this is literally the lesson Cas attempts to impart to Jack. When Jack laments the loss of his power, and believes himself "useless," It's CAS who most effectively talks to him about the fact that nobody cares about his powers, that they don't care about what he can do FOR them. They just care about HIM. Like... even in 15.18. This is the conversation he has with Jack by the Impala while Sam and Dean are talking to Charlie:

Jack: I feel... strange. I don't know if that's because of what happened to me, if it means something, or if I just feel strange because... it's over. The plan. My destiny. I was ready to die and, I wanted to, for Sam, for Dean, for the world. I wanted to make things right, and now... I don't know why I'm even here.

Castiel: Jack. You never needed absolution from Sam, or Dean, or from me. We don't care about you because you're useful or you fit into some grand design. We care about you because you're you.

So like... for YEARS I've felt like this was what Dean needed to actually say TO CAS. That he doesn't want Cas to try to protect him. He doesn't need Cas to be his shield. He doesn't need Cas to be "powerful" or his savior. He just needs Cas.

So this vision... this "manipulation" that Jack showed Cas in that very moment in 12.19, that Cas believed was "paradise" at the time, was what Cas needed to hear in that moment. That he could be "powerful," with his wings healed and made "useful" again.

Dean thanking him.

Not Dean being happy that they're all safe, that they managed to finally "get a win," but specifically thanking HIM for actually winning.

He wanted to believe he could be useful again.

And to me that was a tragic, depressing lesson that he still never managed to understand for himself by the end of the series.

If Dean ever knew what the vision Cas had considered "paradise" in that moment of betrayal of his loved ones, I personally think Dean would've been horrified. I mean, he didn't even KNOW what the vision entailed, and was pre-horrified by his personal belief about how Cas had been manipulated into running away and leaving them all in the dark immediately after they'd all just gotten back on the same page again and recommitted to working together again.

So like... This is still DEEPLY in Cas's disturbing mindset of being 100% ready to sacrifice himself to "spare" Sam and especially Dean from having to do the hard things. This was nearly an identical mindset to when he'd said yes to Lucifer in the Cage in s11 because he believed he could spare Sam from having to do that himself. Like... he truly believed he was making Good Choices in these instances, and it ended up both times causing problems he'd never even considered. S11 had Lucifer using him and nearly killing Sam and Dean, and then going on a rampage that would last multiple seasons more which directly led to Jack in the first place. And then in the attempt to bring about Jack's birth, Cas cut off all communication with the Winchesters (theoretically to protect them) and therefore they had no way to warn him that Lucifer was still on the loose and closing in on reclaiming Jack himself. It literally ended up costing them Mary (pulled through the rift with Lucifer), Crowley sacrificed himself to stop it, and Lucifer killed Cas, all because Cas ran away and tried to fix everything on his own. He desperately wanted to be the winner, here.

So to me, I can't see him getting his wings back and being truly powerful and being "Dean's savior" and him basically thinking that Dean's acknowledgement of that salvation and Dean's gratitude was his idea of "paradise?" Yeah... it turns my stomach.

Dean... would hate it.

Dean's idea of paradise... is actual free will. Of them CHOOSING EACH OTHER, choosing family and standing shoulder to shoulder as a united front against the threats that come their way, instead of yet again making the same mistake of believing that they're sacrificing themselves to spare their loved ones from having to stand up and fight at all.

It NEVER works out that way. Never has. Never would.

I mean, this is why Cas made the deal with the Empty, trading away his own happiness for Jack, believing that Dean's happiness was in having JACK in the family. The tragic blind spot was his inability to see that Dean's happiness ALSO INVOLVED HAVING CAS THERE.

And the ultimate tragedy is that Dean never got a chance to actually say that to Cas.

Because if Cas had actually known that, he would never have made the choices he did.

Which is another reason I absolutely can't credit the end of 15.19 and Jack NOT bringing Cas back, knowing that he'd done it once before, and knowing WHY Cas sacrificed himself. Jack knew the conditions of Cas's deal, and I cannot believe that any version of JACK would have allowed that sacrifice to stand for HIM. Because it was the antithesis of everything Cas himself had ever taught to Jack.

Heck... I hope that makes sense...

basically, this should've been a jumping off point for Cas to ACTUALLY understand he was just as wanted, just as needed, just as cared for, and yes even LOVED, for who he was, and not the sacrifices he could make to protect Dean (and Sam, and Jack... but ultimately for Dean).

The fact he KNEW the moment he made that deal with the Empty that the knowledge of the details of that deal would be a "burden" to Dean, that it would be upsetting to Dean to know that Cas had literally traded away his own potential for true happiness because he thought that would be what Dean would prefer... he KNEW Dean would be upset about that. He knew Dean would NOT have wanted that, and swore Jack to secrecy about it. Like... he knew he had done the wrong thing here, or he wouldn't have hidden it from Dean.

So I have a really hard time thinking of this vision of Paradise (which is already a loaded word in itself in canon, and was literally what Dean spat out as an angry insult at Cas in 4.22 before his first true "tearing up the pages" and making it up as they go moment) as anything but a glaring warning sign.

And then oh look, Cas was literally killed for it four episodes later.

Then when he came back, he went right back to believing in his "purpose," wondering WHY he was brought back. Dean's "we needed you" wasn't really clear enough for Cas to understand that they didn't need him to "protect" them or to be "useful" to them. Dean just NEEDED him. Full stop.

It's a tragedy, folks.

#spn 12.19 #spn 12.23 #spn 11.10 #spn 14.08 #castiel winchester #heck it hurts so much he never actually got the chance to understand the lessons he taught to jack #and that once jack took on the god power apparently he forgot all those lessons too....#basically chuck won right? right #spn 15.18

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hoeforce-999 · 3 years

Text

Salvation

hunter x jedi-reader (female with she/her pronouns)

warnings: minor spoilers for bad batch season 1, angst, grief.

From a young age, you had been taught to handle anger with gentle hands and delicate words, steadily reeling it in so you did not unleash it on people who did not deserve it. As a child being taught the way of the Jedi, you had not understood the dangers of constant anger and fear, but you hadn’t even experienced much of that to begin with. You no longer had the innocent and naive mind of a child ready to take on the world, but rather the one of a war-stricken adult who no longer knew what she was fighting for. You found it harder to control your anger and easier to unleash it. But that was not how you were taught, so again and again, you meditated and focused on your breathing.

and

out

Your attempts to calm the sizzling anger running through your veins were in vain, it would not disappear or calm no matter how many breaths you took. With even more frustration than before you got up from the floor of your barrack and sat down on the little too hard bed. It groaned in response to your weight and even that made you want to rip the white linen apart. You missed the beds at the Jedi temple, they had been soft and welcoming after days of hard training. As you thought of the place you had once called home, the lightsaber hanging from your belt felt heavier than usual. Heavy with the knowledge that you had chosen to leave, heavy with the knowledge of what had transpired after, and heavy with the guilt that you had managed to survive. Of all great padawans and Jedi masters, the one who had left it all behind had been the one to make it out alive. A broken laugh escaped past your sealed lips and echoed through the room, reminding you of a time when that laugh had not been as broken. It felt like it had just been weeks ago since you had been sitting in this ship, surrounded by your unusual team, a group of misfits who somehow fit perfectly together, on your way to another mission. Sometimes those missions had not even felt like obligations, sometimes you had given in to that young Jedi still inside of you and regarded it as your big adventure to save the universe. As it turned out you had barely been able to save yourself, let alone the whole universe. The only way you had gotten out of that last mission with your life intact, had been thanks to your newfound family and their unrelenting wish to protect you. You closed your eyes as the memory of that horrid day engulfed you in a veil of darkness and sorrow. There would not come a day when you would forget how all those clone troopers around you, Depa Billaba and young padawan Caleb had turned their blasters towards you. You would not forget how you and Depa Billapa had fought to give the child a chance, a chance to survive as the universe turned against him. Then she had fallen, becoming an empty shell without the spirit of the warrior who had once been and now no longer was. The memory of her death was haunting and your whole body was shaking with the fury you had felt and still felt as if it had been engraved in your soul. Though your memory was the reminder of something from your past, the fear you had experienced was still palpable as you thought about how close you had been to meeting the same fate. There had been no doubt in your mind that you would fall next, join her in another life with the only regret that you did not get to bid your farewells to your squad. Almost as if they had heard that silent wish to see them again, they had appeared with their blasters raised and saved your life. One of them, in particular, had fought as if his life depended on it. His chestnut-colored hair had been all over his face as he finally got to you, that red bandana he always wore was in his hands as he carefully put it around one of your wounds. He had been so tender with you as if his touch would have been the last point for you to break. It might have been, had you not been so caught up in the fact that whatever had gotten over the other clones, had left your friends alone. You had been relieved for all of them, but most of all for him, the clone who somehow had managed to take up such a big place in your heart that it had become his.

Hunter, Hunter, Hunter

You escaped your memory and forced it into the darkest corner of your mind, wishing to never again experience it again. Instead, you tried to focus on his name, tried to busy your mind with thoughts of what he was doing or things he had said to you. He was usually enough to calm the distressed state you seemed to fall into more often now, but not today. It seemed as if all your tries to calm your anger and fear were hopeless, for you could only feel them rising as a force strong enough to drown you. When you felt how the darkness grew inside of you, you thought back to the words a certain Jedi master had repeated time after time, etching them into every young mind so they would not forget.

Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.

You had not forgotten and neither had the warning bells ringing in your mind, but for such a long time you had been fighting against that dark part of you and you were growing so damn tired. This was a battle you had been struggling to win for some time now, and you were on the brink of giving up. It felt as if you should, perhaps then you could become stronger and actually do something for this universe. Maybe you would be able to bring your other friend back, the brother who had left and when given the choice, had turned his back on you again. You had been so furious as he stayed on the platform in front of a destroyed Kamino, there had been so much rage towards a universe that seemed to take everyone away from you. The darkness inside of you relished in your anger and the guilt that gnawed at your soul, and then it started to soothe you with silent promises of what you could do, who you could become if you only gave in. You could have sworn that the darkness sighed in relief as you leaned further into its embrace, perhaps this would be for the best.

yes, you can have so much more and that was true, right? You would have more power than you had now, you would be able to save everyone you loved and never have to experience that heavy feeling of loss again.

yes, yes and so much more it chanted inside of you, drawing you further and further into it and you could almost have laughed because this was so much easier and not so horrid as those Jedi masters had preached to you. Somewhere in your head, those warning bells were still ringing, that young Jedi in you still fighting for dear life but you could do nothing else but savor how welcoming the darkness felt. It was becoming you, it became every breath you took, every beat of your heart, and every memory you had until they were all clouded by the same rage you had felt for weeks. This was not giving up, this was giving in to something else, something that would make your life more bearable. You were not even aware of your own body anymore, it felt as if you were floating away from it or perhaps sinking so deep into it, you would never escape.

This is the right choice, you will be one to fear and never again feel fear yourself. You will do so much for the universe that gave you so little. You will-.

The chants inside of your mind were interrupted by a buzzing sound, and as you tried to locate the interruption you realized that it was not a buzzing sound but rather a soft voice calling your name. Oh, and your name on his lips always sounded like the soft drizzle of syrup and so that darkness in you was momentarily interrupted by Hunter.

This is just a memory, he is not real. You hummed in response, the darkness was right, this was just a ploy played by your own mind. Once again you found yourself sinking deeper into those feelings of rage, grief, and despair. Though it was as if you could still hear his voice saying your name, and then his hands were on your shoulders, shaking you as if he somehow could wake you up from a nightmare you had chosen to dwell in. He must be able to sense the change in you, that was one of his enhancements after all, hypersensitive to everything around him. Your name on his lips and his hands on your body ignited a battle inside of you, for just as there was a wish to forget there was a desire to hear more words from him.

“Cyar'ika, I can’t lose you too.”

Right, if you succumbed to the darkness you would lose him. He who had saved you in so many different ways that it felt as if you had a hundred debts to pay him. Maybe he was enough, maybe you did not need all this power that the dark side promised you. Perhaps his hand in yours would be enough for you to keep on fighting and as if he could hear your thoughts, his grip on your shoulders tightened. You knew then, that he would always be enough for you and so you joined the young Jedi in you and started fighting, fought for the girl who had once believed she could save everyone, fought for the friends she had lost, and fought for the love she had gained. Your whole body shuddered as you tried to force that darkness out of your mind, it was backing away slowly, not really wanting to give up this battle. But it would, because when you finally gained control of yourself again and looked into Hunter’s eyes the love that shone in them would have been enough to shatter every ounce of darkness in the universe. The anger and fear you had felt had vanished, never gone but perhaps tamed, and you let out a gasp, almost as if you had been drowning underwater. His hands were on your face and a small smile formed on his lips as he saw that you were you again.

“Hi.” You could not help the small smile that tugged on your lips either, there was just so much relief that you had not given in and that this man once again had managed to drag you out of your inner despair. You lifted a hand to stroke some of his hair away, it was soft as velvet beneath your fingers. He leaned forward to rest his forehead on yours, his hard grip on your shoulders remained as if he was scared that you would vanish again if he let go. So he kept on holding you and you kept on twirling his hair, both relieved that the other was whole.

“Glad to have you back.” He whispered and you promised yourself to never again let yourself be so close to letting him go. The darkness had been wrong, you did not need anger or power to never feel fear again. The only thing you needed was to stay with the person who would make it all bearable. Sometimes a person finds pieces of their soul in another, and when that happens you need to cling to that someone with all you have, for they are your salvation. He was yours.

#the bad batch x reader #the bad batch #the bad batch hunter #hunter x reader #hunter x jedi-reader #hunter x you #hunter x y/n #bad batch hunter #star wars x reader #star wars imagines #bad batch imagines #the bad batch imagines #crosshair x reader #tech x reader #wrecker x reader #echo x reader

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jiminiesfavouritecolourisblue · 3 years

Text

Is there somewhere - BTS royal / bodyguard au Drabble part 4

So after this I was thinking of writing some prequels to the Drabble series before moving ahead with time and the challenges these lovely characters would face ongoing. Same with the CEO drabbles, as always let me know what you think {angst and fluff ahead}

Prev | Next

————————————————————————————————————————

You hadn’t seen them for a month. You told yourself you were glad, that it didn’t hurt you that they gave up. You asked them to leave, you would stick by that, and this proved you right.

These things happened for a reason, you tell yourself, and while life was still a dense cloud hanging over you, it didn’t rain. Since that night trouble stopped following you, no one approached you in the clubs, the paparazzi stopped following you, you felt safe again, by yourself without any bodyguards.

“I haven’t seen you in so long Y/n,” your childhood friend sat across from you at a little quaint cafe in the town closest to your castle. You would have invited her to your place but the mess increased tenfold, that being said, you think your father must be sending people to clean while you were out. He hadn’t said anything about it, you were grateful he hadn’t, you weren’t ready to have that conversation with the King. He was always too busy for you, so this gesture came as a shock.

“I’ve missed you Y/n,” Sana says taking your hand in hers and squeezing it earnestly. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“You don’t need to worry I’m okay,” you say reassuringly.

“Y/n it’s a cloudy day and you’re wearing sunglasses,” you take by her sarcasm she doesn’t sound convinced.

“I’ve got a headache that’s all,” you bury your head behind the brunch menu, pretending to look over the options as she hums in response. It had been years but she still knew you well, and this was nothing like you were.

“Who hurt my friend?” She asks reading through your behaviour like she read the newspaper articles about it online, hence the impromptu visit from half a world away despite her own busy schedule.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s in the past,” and yet it’s still so present. The wound might be healing but it was leaving a red swollen scar in its place.

She lets the subject drop noticing how your shield goes up.

“Your bodyguard is really hot, if you wanted to invite him in to join us I wouldn’t mind,” she wiggles her eyebrows playfully, trying to lighten the mood but her words have the opposite effect on you.

“My what?” You breathe, you don’t have bodyguards. You turn to face where her eyes are set behind you and sure enough, outside the glass windows trying to look conspicuous is a man in a suit you’d recognise anywhere. You hate how your heart starts to ache as it beats faster, how there’s a hum of electricity starting to burn under your skin.

“Is that not your bodyguard? You used to talk about them so much, that’s....” she squints her eyes at the male, who bows his head in panic realising he’s been caught. “Jin! Right?”

Every time you FaceTimed Sana one of the boys would be with you, not on the screen unless it was Jin or Jimin but professionally standing out of the cameras range staying with you trying not to smile as you gushed about them with her, begging one of them to say hello. Yoongi and Taehyung were the only ones to ever give in. They would say hello shyly before standing at their post, Jin and Jimin on the other hand would sit on the bed or sofa with you. Jimin would make you blush and tease you while talking to Sana, Jin would tell her all your bad habits and complain about you playfully. Namjoon and Hobi never gave in, you were close to breaking Jungkook’s resolve before he left.

“I’ll be right back,” you say to her, rising from your seat to walk to the guilty looking male who’s ears have turned red. He says something in his sleeve and you realise the others must be close by or at least contactable. It all suddenly makes sense, you hadn’t seen them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The house, your father was far too busy to burden himself with your mess, the sudden calm around you where normally there’d be a bustle of cameras and people.

“Princess,” he greets you bashfully, embarrassed for getting caught and complicating things. “Funny seeing you here, I was just waiting for a friend...”

“Liar,” you whisper, but it’s loud enough to shut him up.

“I can explain,” his cheeks are going red like his ears, you don’t know what you feel. There’s an emptiness that presents its self in his presence, like your body is trying to protect itself by going numb, even though your heart is begging you not to.

“I don’t want to hear it right now,” you close your eyes at the wave of sadness that overwhelms you. “I think you need to leave.”

You repeat your words from a month ago and it still cuts through him the same as it did then.

“I can’t...” he shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Jin you’re not my bodyguard anymore, this is harassment,” your cold eyes pierce through him but he stands strong against your onslaught.

“Actually...” he tries to chuckle but it dies as soon as it leaves his mouth. “Well you see, w-we- no your father... the king,” there’s a pause as he clears his throat and his hesitation irritates you.

“We’ve been reinstated as your bodyguards by order of the King,” a new voice behind you saves the stuttering man in front. You can’t help the fists form at your side as your mouth sets itself in a line. You turn to face Namjoon with a stern expression.

“No.” He knew you’d be stubborn, he knew it was a little underhanded of them, but after that day they couldn’t leave you like this. They would give you space, hope they could redeem themselves slowly, but they also had to keep you safe. They didn’t care you were next in line for the throne, they didn’t care their feelings for you were inappropriate in their line of work, you meant the world to them, you were their friend, and they couldn’t leave you again.

“I’m really sorry Princess, but the decisions been made,” he answers you sincerely. “We won’t get in your way, you won’t know we’re here, bu-”

“I said no,” your lips are tight, eyes enraged as you clench your jaw. He sighs, but he knows it would take time to heal the rift between you and the seven men.

You were right when you thought the rest of them were close behind, Yoongi and Jimin walk into your field of vision behind Namjoon, blazers buttoned, Jimin’s hair jelled back, Yoongi’s hand in his pocket. The sight takes you back and it knocks your confidence a little.

“Well that’s treason Princess,” Yoongi reasons with a small smirk forming on his face. “I guess that would get rid of us for you, being beheaded by the King.”

You shake your head is disbelief, a big sigh leaving your lips as you close your eyes to gather strength.

“I can’t do this right now,” you walk away back to your friend who’s eyes haven’t left the interaction. “I’ll deal with this later.”

——————————————————————————

You wonder what happened to their promise to stay out of sight and out of mind the following Saturday.

Maybe you walked through the bad part of town on purpose, maybe you wanted to piss them off or put yourself in danger, maybe you just wanted some control. A man that looks like trouble wolf whistles as you walk in his direction, and you smile like he’s your salvation. You don’t make it another two steps as a hand grabs your arm forcefully. You turn to find an angry Hoseok glaring at the man now cat calling you before turning his glare to you, nostrils flared like a bull about to charge.

You physically have to stop yourself from gulping at his aura, you know if pushed Hobi would cause harm to anyone that disrespected you. His grip on your arm tightens as the man doesn’t stop yelling profanities at you, he’s obviously intoxicated not that it excused his behaviour. Hobi hadn’t spoken a word, you can see him trying to ground himself and his anger, starting to lose his control, trying to regain his cool.

The guilt washes over you at his gaze, your smirk long gone as you struggle to keep eye contact. He hasn’t seen your face soften like this in so long, a glimpse of the old you coming back with concern.

“Hobi I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Let’s just go.”

His eyes are shut and he’s shaking with fury, at the man, at you, at himself.

“Hobi please,” you cup his cheek with your palm, stroking your thumb against his skin, feeling panic rising in yourself. The man is in front of you both now and you feel shame for making such a stupid decision. You press your forehead against his jaw as he stares daggers at the man.

“Your boyfriend giving you problems sexy?” He wears a shit eating grin as he speaks. “You looking for a bit of fun?”

Your touch calms your bodyguard enough to clear the haze of anger that threatens to attack the man where he stands. He releases a big breath before taking your wrist and walking you both away, pace unforgiving.

He still doesn’t say a word as you both get to the car, he pulls open the backseat door aggressively, looking at you expectedly. You don’t argue, you don’t scoff, you don’t walk away. Your eyes are round, looking up at him, begging for forgiveness. How the tables turn.

You get in without complaint, flinching as he slams the door shut. He gets into the drivers seat, putting his seat belt on before staring at you through the rear view mirror, jaw still clenched. You look lost, he hasn’t started the car and he hasn’t stopped staring at you.

“The seatbelt Y/n,” it’s a low growl and you quickly move to lock yours in place at his tone. Your heart is beating so fast you think it’s trying to escape. You don’t blame it, your hands are curled on your knees like a child ready to be scolded and you can’t look ahead as he pulls off.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t say a word the whole journey, scared a single sound would set him off. His grip was unrelenting on the wheel, you don’t think he cooled down at all even though he made sure he wasn’t driving recklessly with you in the car.

He doesn’t take you back to the castle, he takes you to their place. They rarely used to be at home when they worked for you, the castle was large enough for them to stay and they had no reason not to. You hesitate to leave the vehicle when Hobi opens the door for you, he’s patient even through his fury. He holds a hand out for you to take like they used to.

You want to ask him what you’re doing here, why he’s brought you, but you decide to take his hand and let him lead you indoors.

“Princess?” It’s odd to see Jungkook in his normal clothes, to see any of them in their casual wear, it looks homely. They all stare between you and Hobi, looking confused as you both walked into the living room.

You were staring at the floor as he explained where you were when he was on duty, the others now looked at you in shock and disappointment. It was hard for you to hear too, like he was talking about someone else, another girl, you wished the ground would swallow you whole.

“Princess this really has to stop,” it’s Jimin that breaks the silence after Hobi’s speech. His usual sweet disposition was wiped away with worry. “I get it, we messed up, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself Y/n.”

You don’t raise your head to meet his words, you stay with your eyes down and feet cemented where you stood. There’s a finger under your chin but you move your head to the side to avoid it bringing your face up.

“We’re really sorry,” Taehyung whispers beside you.

They blamed themselves for everything you had been through since the moment they left, but how could they undo it, how could they make this okay? His words don’t comfort you, they hurt you, they bring up the night they left all over again. But you feel the sincerity in his words, how hoarse it sounds, filled with every desire to turn the clock back. It brings tears to your eyes, it makes you choke on the emotion rising in your throat. You want it to be okay too, but you couldn’t erase the abandonment they left you with.

There’s a hand rubbing your back soothingly as your bottom lip trembles and your shoulders shake trying to keep the sobs down.

“It’s okay,” the hand on your back moves to your hair, and Taehyung rests his lips on your temple as he speaks. “We hurt you Princess, shout at us, let it out, cry, just stop holding it in.”

If you did as he said it would make you vulnerable again, you’d be letting them in and you don’t know if you’re ready for that. But he wasn’t wrong, holding all the pain down without a healthy form of release was making that gaping hole in your chest erode the rest of you away.

“I’m-m s-so a-angry-” you struggle to get your words out, having to take a shallow breathe with each word as they came out in a sob and it physically hurt you to speak. “At all o-of you.”

Tae’s crying too, Jungkook’s behind you but you can hear him sniffle. You lean into the Taehyung, pushing your face into his neck as you close your eyes and break down, he doesn’t hesitate to bring his arms around you when you think you’re about to fall.

“You had each other,” you wail, not caring at how deranged you sounded. “I had no one, you left me when I was injured!” Your head drops to his chest as you bang your fist against Taehyung’s chest finally letting it all out, and he takes it without bracing himself for each hit. “I needed you and you guys broke me.

Who was I supposed to talk to? Do you know how ridiculous it sounds to the people of my world. My bodyguards abandoned me, so fucking what? Get new ones.”

You grip his top that’s stained with your tears, you’re so angry, so heartbroken and the only people that would listen and help where the ones to cause you this pain.

“But you weren’t just my guards, you were my friends and I thought you all felt the same.”

There’s a whisper of “we do” but you ignore it.

They’ve never seen you like this, not when Taeyeon revealed her true colours, not when Sana moved away, you had said goodbye to people before, it was a part of life but nothing compared to when they left you, and you knew why, you just didn’t want to admit to it out loud. You didn’t want their pity, the pathetic Princess who had no friends who fell in love with her knights in shining armour, the people who were employed to ensure your safety. Misplaced feelings because you had no one else, you could hear Namjoon’s lecture already. They had never see you that way, if they had they wouldn’t have left.

If only you knew the thoughts running through the rest of their brains, how could they tell you they were compromised, that they broke your trust by falling for you, that every protocol dictated to them in their training stated they couldn’t keep a charge safe if they had feelings for them, they had to resign. Looking back it was the worst decision they ever made, but at the time it seemed like the most appropriate.

You scoff through your tears, “if you felt the same you would’ve at least come to see me, but you didn’t, you would’ve at least called or texted but you blocked my number, I tried to contact you everyday for the first two weeks and it was like you all didn’t exist anymore.”

There’s a grasp softly pulling you out of Taehyung’s hold and he whines as you’re taken away. Namjoon’s eyes are red, he looks like he’s on the brink of tears himself, but he holds it together.

“We’re so sorry Y/n,” he could never stop saying it, even if he did earn your forgiveness it could never assuage the guilt that weighed on them. “We honestly thought it was the right thing to do, if we kne-”

“On what planet was that ever the right thing to do Joon?” You cut him off, you didn’t want excuses.

“We made a mistake, leaving you was a mistake but we made one before that,” you frown at his words, what mistake? He contemplates his words but there’s no way mince them, no way to make what he’s about to say any easier. He’s not trying to make excuses, he’s not trying to justify his behaviour he just wanted to be honest. “We fell in love with our charge, the biggest offence we could commit, the biggest threat to your safety was us.”

He watches your eyes go wide as tears streamed down your face, he waited for your disgust, your displeasure.

“We are so in love with you Princess, it killed us to leave you but you have to believe me when I say we thought it was for the best.”

You can’t breathe. He wants you to say something, he needs you to say something, anything. You just stare at him in disbelief until you find the words to speak.

“Are you so stupid?” You gasp, gaze flickering to all their faces, theyre holding their breaths. “Are you all so blind that you couldn’t see that I was in love with you too?”

It was Namjoon’s turn to stare at you in disbelief, their jaws dropped.

“How stupid could you be Namjoon! Did you even think for a seco-” your voice is muffled by his chest as he pulls you into him, and he finally lets himself cry. You were right he was so stupid, he always prided himself on his intellect but look at the mess he made. He holds you like he’d never let you go, tight like you’d disappear in his arms.

“I’m so sorry Y/n, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers and it breaks your heart, you’ve never heard the leader sound like this. You sigh deeply in his arms, warmth finally starting to fill the hole.

“It’ll be alright Joonie,” you hug him back and he’s so grateful for you in that moment. “We’ll work through it.”

You have to believe that you will. More arms wrap around you both, tears of relief, tears of hope mixed with apologetic whispers, words of comfort. You feel the warmest you have in months.

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needleandhammer · 3 years

Text

Prism

Pairing: Robert Pronge x Reader; featuring Jake Jensen

Warnings: 18+ only, dark fic, non-con touch, kidnapping, it's Freezy so yeah

Notes: Happy spooky season! I cannot believe the writers I am following have led me onto the Freezy Train 😳

For a year, you worked alongside Jake. He came through your office suite to set up new computers one morning. Designated the unofficial tech responder, you reached out to him often, asked questions politely and endlessly until he resigned himself to visiting your office multiple times per week. Somehow, the two of you ended up having lunch together as he listened to you grumble about coworkers adverse to seeking technological solutions on their own. Then going to happy hour together. Then texting each other; Jake followed your lead until the two of you could speak in memes and emojis.

Your friend abruptly left his job a few months ago. With no response to your text messages, you swallowed down the disappointment of losing touch with a friend when adulting kept your circle so small already. You only hoped he was okay.

Now, after a late night at the office, your coworker Carter lies unconscious in your peripheral. The person responsible for knocking out Carter stalks toward you. You’re scrambling around your desk trying to keep distance between him and you, this stranger with scraggly hair hanging over a pair of thick spectacles.

You’re so startled, mind trying to salvage some kind of escape plan that you haven’t even tried yelling for help. You hurl a solid glass paperweight at him. Air rushes up your throat – a scream working its way out when you see him dodge and strike forward at you. His hands circle your wrist, you’re yanked against him and a painful blow to the base of your neck sends you sinking into blackness.

---

You wake with a start. Where are you?

Your hands roam, grasping lightly across your body in search of any new injuries while you breathe past the lingering pain at the back of your head. At least it wasn’t bleeding. Assured that you were able to stand and move with relative ease, you’re on your feet and tiptoeing to the door of the bedroom. Your shoes are gone, dammit.

You swallow hard, breathing deep against grogginess and the aching pulse at the base of your skull. That fucker isn’t here so you need to act.

Go out that door.

Wait. You need something. A weapon. Anything.

A shaky breath forces your stark fear at bay as you look around the room. You make it to the open closet door.

A pink color halts you physically and mentally. Pink. You collapse to your knees and grasp at the cotton fabric. The word printed on the pink shirt triggers a breathless sob that you can’t control.

Petunias

Oh gods, did this deranged man kidnap Jake too? What can he possibly want with you and your friend? Is Jake in some kind of trouble? Questions bombard your mind, tangling into nothing that makes sense. Your head aches. Your limbs feel weak. Has it been long enough that your body has weakened from lack of nourishment?

Beneath another shirt, you discover a scraggly object. It’s chestnut colored, wavy strands that sends a creeping shivering down your spine. You quickly drop the Petunias t-shirt over it, as if to hide some vile creature from sight, and peer around the room again.

Damn it. No light décor or metal objects you can arm yourself with. You’ll have to be quick.

The door gives a creak when you swing it open, revealing a small galley kitchen.

Your heart skips – dread douses you – you freeze when you see the figure standing opposite you at the far end of this small building. He turns, arms falling from the curtained window, to look at you.

You reel backward; your hands reach and claw for something, anything that might help you in this horrible circumstance.

Right back where you started. You made it barely a foot out of your prison.

Your captor descends upon you. You shriek, push and shove against him but his weight follows you, presses you down on the bed.

His palm stifles your cries while he easily restrains you.

“Awake are we?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to hear his voice. You close your eyes. You don’t want to look at him – afraid that your eyes are deceiving you.

He tsks. “Don’t be a brat. We can make this part quick.”

Growling, you shake his hand away and snap at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? Let me go.”

He scoffs at the additional impolite names you call him.

Panting, you glare at him. “What do you want?”

“You gonna play nice?”

You try to headbutt him.

He sighs in irritation.

Your wrists are snuggly wrapped and tied to one bed post. You lean away from him as much as possible where you sit on a corner of the mattress, cutting him with a glare.

He still hasn’t answered you. That cold dread weighs down in your gut as you force another question out.

“What did you do to Jake?”

“Jake?” His smile grows.

“Don’t play with me! That’s his shirt. He – he has a family. His sister and niece, they’re…” Your words die on your lips as he starts laughing.

“Oh, sugar,” he says with a fond look your way. “Time to break the bad news to you. Your buddy Jake is…Well, you wanna take a guess?”

“You hurt him?”

The cold smile does not waver. You swallow down the lump in your throat. You already know the answer.

“C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging,” he purrs at you, waiting for your next guess.

You’re not ready to accept it, despite the tangible evidence in front of you. Despite the bright t-shirt lying in the closet. Covering the brunette wig. It can’t be true.

This man’s face, his nose, his lips. You feel like you’re going mad as you keep being pulled back to those blue eyes. The glasses are gone; you can see his full brows, the aquamarine of his irises. That laugh that sounded wrong, even though the tenor flows through you in familiar waves.

His hair is now a natural deep brown. It's shorter, lacking the gel that previously held it up in blonde spikes. The wig must have just been a precaution for when he showed up at your office. And his facial hair is grown out more evenly and that alone could have transformed the man you thought you knew.

He disappeared months ago.

You study his eyes – you know their exact color – and recognize the mirth glinting beneath dark lashes. But your heart starts racing when his signature crooked smile doesn’t appear. Instead, a hard smirk twists his face into a stranger.

“Jake…” Maybe you hope invoking his name as you know it will make this all go away - will make the world make sense again. Maybe you want to cling to an impossible salvation.

He scoffs softly, a quiet murmur of your name on his lips, almost remorseful. Almost.

“The name’s Robert.”

Gone is the awkward, clumsy colleague you had grown close to. The man you formed a slow companionship with during late office hours sharing fast food while ranting about administration or complaining about the local asshole that stood at the corner of your block shouting right-wing rhetoric to people trying to get to work.

Gone is Jake Jensen, the cute nerd you called friend.

Robert Pronge closes in, looms before you. His fingers skim your jawline before he grips your face tight, deliberate.

“I couldn’t leave you behind,” he says, dipping even closer so his lips graze your cheek. You grow stiff at the gentle affection. His grip loosens enough that you can drop your gaze.

“I…d-don’t know you.” You don’t know this man. “I don’t.”

Robert watches as you press your forehead to your hands. He supposes it’s normal - you haven’t arrived at acceptance of reality yet. Your frame clenches with stress, the physiological response to danger. Robert has witnessed this countless times with countless hits.

A breathy chuckle tickles your skin. He knew you well enough at this point. “You’re a smart one, sugar.”

“No, no, no…”

“And you know now that ole Jake Jensen. Never existed.”

Faced with this man’s remorseless confession, you steel yourself for the inevitable.

“Are you – are you going to kill me?” You raise your eyes. You'll look at this man's face one last time, you won't be deceived in your final moments.

That dark chuckle returns.

“You think I risked showing up in town just for a quick kill?"

He cages you in, enclosing you between arms thick with muscle.

"No, sugar. Wouldn’t wanna waste a sweet thing like you.”

His mouth is on yours and for several seconds, the heated, hungry pressure stuns you. Confuses you. You squawk at the sensation of him probing for a deeper taste, and start twisting out of his hold.

Strong fingers tighten in your hair and make you whimper in pain, stilling enough for his tongue to delve into your mouth.

A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles through Robert when he accesses the hot taste of you for the first time.

Robert decided long ago. Once his mask is peeled back – that blonde, chirpy mask – he’s taking you as his. And he’ll make sure you get to know the real him intimately.

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

A/N: Hurrah! I have been wanting to write a Jekyll and Hyde inspired fic for a while. Tis the season and all, so I present to you all: "Jensen and Pronge." muahahaha. I am trying to plan this out as a multipart fic. 😏 I'm gonna try to make this soft!dark bc that's the kind of shit I'm into.

#robert pronge x reader #dark!fic #non con #tw noncon

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saphirered · 3 years

Text

I Don’t Hate You (Vagrant pt3.)

The lady at the front desk gives you a dirty look as you come straggling in, leaving a wet trail behind you, boots sopping with an equally disgruntled expression on your face. You toss her a coin, if only to be done with it all and go back up the stairs. There you see, Fjord is no longer sitting in the hallway and probably either has gotten himself a room of his own or Molly’s taken mercy upon the half-orc and let him sleep peacefully and undisturbed in their shared room. A sense of dread still lingers as you approach your door and you take a sip from the opened bottle in your hand, hoping to find some courage to push you over the edge and just get it over with. You can see the hint of orange light bleeding through the small gap.

When the door opens Caleb looks up from his book, or well, your book. You look like an absolute mess and he knows you know you do. It’s an unspoken agreement to not comment on this fact made in that brief moment of eye contact, for both of your sakes.

“Do not question my terrible life’s choices, Widogast.” You grumble as you let yourself fall backwards on your bed. You don’t even have the energy to magic away the remainders of the rain that kept you company from your soaked person. Well, that or the fact that the droplets rolling down your skin hid the tears from the panic attack and brief existential crisis you had on that rooftop before you came down.

Caleb puts down the book, gets up from the bed and slowly and carefully inches over to your side of the room. He hesitantly sits down on the edge. You have half the mind to kick him off just because but can’t find the energy to do so. Despite your distaste for magic users like him, being alone after your mental breakdown you just experienced, really sucks. Caleb pats your knee awkwardly in an attempt to comfort but not wanting to cross any boundaries. It’s pathetic, he knows because one can hardly fix a stab wound by slapping on a bandaid. His own past experiences have left him a tad bit at a loss when it comes to comforting a person in pain, especially one so stubborn and crass as you have been towards him.

Still, Caleb has figured out your hatred isn’t directed at him personally. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s people with abilities like him that have played a part in your past causing you pain and suffering and the wound is still very fresh, hence your trauma being reflected onto him, despite his complete lack of involvement in your before the moment you met. It may not have helped that your hostility towards him hasn’t exactly encouraged him to try and build a proper relationship with you. He hardly even knows you yet still he feels as if he knows your tells, the things you go through and why you act like you do. He may not know the details of your life but he feels safe to say he knows you better than any of the others.

It’s not his lack of knowledge and insight into your life beyond what’s surface and what he can read off you that holds him back. It’s the fear of what he might find within you that will tear open wounds of his own he’s worked so hard to cover up. It’s the fear you might be one step ahead of him in a similar story and there is no hope for people like you and him after all. It’s the fear those you run from are the same people he has tried so hard to escape. It’s the fear of you, that you might be each others’ salvation, or undoing because he knows what he has the capability to become, what you could become.

But here you lie, upon your bed curled up, traces of tears long since fallen, possibly even ran out, tightness in your throat, indents of your nails in your palms from clenching too much, frustration and anger in your eyes is still overwhelmed by pain and hopelessness and a wish the void would just come and claim you, where you no longer fear the consequences of running and will be able to obliterate those who caused you so much hurt, or die trying in the process. Caleb is reminded of himself in that cell of his own, for years, a broken mind piecing itself together from the shambles it was left in, barely a shell of what it used to be.

When he promised himself he would do anything and everything in his power to take down these tormentors and their accomplices so no one would ever have to suffer like he had, still is suffering, Caleb didn’t expect to find you. He still remembers himself begging, praying, screaming just to not be alone, to have someone tell him there is still hope and not all is lost. There’s still good in this wretched world and if the world turns bleak, it’s up to you to be that good despite everything. Those were the pretty words and empty promises of a dreamer but does that make them a lie?

“Don’t patronise me. I’m not some fragile broken child in need of mothering.” Caleb retreats his hand, clasping them together in his lap as he studies your face. Your eyes are cold, your expression matching. A mask, he knows. A way to protect yourself.

“Good. Because I have no intention of doing so. I want you to be blunt and truthful and I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to humour me and answer some questions.” You raise an eyebrow expecting there to be something behind Caleb’s request but his stare is unreadable, like a practiced mask of his own.

“You want me to be blunt and give you a peace of my mind?” You humour. You’ll tell the asshole okay. You’ll bicker and fight and quarrel if that’s what he wants no problem. Maybe a battle of wits and words will get you back into your groove.

Little do you know that is in fact not what Caleb is looking for. Not exactly. He isn’t looking for a fight. He’s looking for answers, how to help you despite your differences because no one deserves to go through this, especially not alone. So because of that, he will not humour you in turn with his usual reply to your attempts to push him. He doesn’t intend this to end in another futile empty argument. Not now. So he’ll drop the game and go straight for the jugular.

“Why do you hate me?” You freeze at the abrupt and sudden question. Caleb knows you don’t really hate him personally but coddling you won’t work and some things you’ll have to realise by yourself first. Finding the strength to lean up on your elbows you tilt your head at him as a half smirk creeps upon your lips.

“Because you’re an egotistical self-serving bastard who cares for nothing but himself and the people useful to him, until they outlive their usefulness.” The words are meant to cut like knives and usually you’d get a rise out of Caleb by such a statement but when you don’t see any response to your words, nothing but those blue eyes staring into yours so… unbothered, it feels as if those knives are turned onto you instead. You’re not quick enough to get rid of that tiny hint of guilt slithering across your features.

“Why do you hate me?” Caleb asks again, voice still calm like it’s the most unremarkable question ever. He could have asked you about the weather with that tone.

“Because you’re an asshole.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“Seriously? I already gave you an answer. Was I not clear the first time?” That guilt in your stomach starts growing, festering. There’s something in your mind pushing through but you try to fight it off, not liking the thought of being faced with those emotions. You’ve worked too hard to push them away.

“Just answer the question. Why do you hate me?” Caleb sees you struggle. Your first answers where in the blink of an eye, a defence mechanism slipping into place. That works, for a while, until it doesn’t, until you start questioning it and give yourself a moment to think.

“Because…” Because you’re a coward. Because you run from your problems. Because you leave other people to swipe up the mess for you. Because you’re a monster to blame for the pain of others. Because you’re to blame for your own pain. Because you couldn’t save them. Because. Because. Because. Those are not reasons you hate Caleb. You take in a sharp breath, clenching your jaw in anger, nose scrunching holding at bay the curses from passing your lips and the threat of all your emotions from spilling out like a breaking dam.

“Why do you hate me?” The words now, do not sound void of emotion, but instead are filled with a warmth and pity. Damn him! Damn him to the hells and abyss! When you don’t answer he repeats it again. Caleb gives you amicable time to answer, leaving a long silence to give your mind the time and space to think for itself, analyse and process and you hate every second of it because you can’t stop it. The cracks in the walls you’ve tried to hard to build become more apparent by the second. He asks again.

“I don’t bloody hate you!” You shout, pretty sure you may just have woken up the entire floor. The silence after the words leave your lips is deafening.

“Then what do you hate about me that causes you to act the way you do?” Your hands clench back into fists, your nails pressing down again in the still tender skin from but minutes ago. You don’t want to say it. You really don’t but that pain raging through your body wants to get out and you feel the floodgates opening inch by inch despite your efforts to fight it. Then there’s that voice in the back of your mind; maybe speaking the unspoken will give you some peace.

“I don’t hate you! I just hate what your remind me of. It’s like you’re here to personally torture me so please just leave me alone to suffer, get over it and move on.” You don’t want to remember the last time you pleaded for something, and had hoped to never plead for anything again yet here you are.

“I am going to give you a choice and I’ll only offer it once, so listen very carefully.” You’ve never seen Caleb look so intense, so genuine, and so determined. You can’t do anything but listen so you nod, signalling him to continue and that you’re paying attention to his every word and not to twist them for your own amusement for once. Whatever previous relation, or rather lack thereof you’ve had is gone now. There’s only you two, in a place of vulnerability and without judgement.

“You’ve got two options. One; you tell me to piss off, like you usually do. I’ll go back to bed, back to sleep and leave you alone. We will never speak of this again, never mention this and go our separate ways. We will remain cordial when interacting and won’t let our own grievances get in the way of the others.” You take in the words, nodding to confirm you understand.

“Or two; you and I are going to talk. You are going to tell me what you wish, and can tell me provided it’s the truth and I will listen. If you wish to tell me your life story I will listen. If you wish to tell me all your troubles I will listen. If you wish to share your pain, I will listen. And know that I will help you if you’ll allow me to. Because if you keep doing this on your own, let the guilt and grief and pain swallow you whole, I know exactly where it will lead. Do not allow it to be your undoing, or turn you into a person beyond your recognition.” Midway through his offer your eyes have closed and your brow furrows. You bit your lip and that combined with the movement of your eyes behind your eyelids are the only indication to Caleb you’re still listening to him.

Caleb gives you time. He doesn’t expect an answer right away. That’s not how this works but he does study you, attempting to get an inkling of what’s going through your mind. He feels warmth wrap around his wrist, glancing down to notice your fingers have wrapped around it and hold on tightly. You’re holding onto a lifeline and he knows it.

“Why?” Your, words a pained choke, you don’t dare open your eyes, don’t trust the look in Caleb’s eyes to tear down what last defences you had up and turning you into even more of a broken mess.

“Because despite what people might have you believe, there is still good in this world.” You’re unable to stifle a sob, feeling a tear slide down your cheek.

“I’ve not known much kindness in my life but I feel confident in saying this is the kindest thing anyone has ever offered me. It’s why my pervious actions and words towards you make me feel like an absolute ass even more. I hope you find it in yourself to forgive me.” You release Caleb’s wrist, feeling grounded once more despite the buzzing in your head and twiddle with your fingers awaiting a response, the tense air slowly lifting as you sit in peace and silence.

You nod, wiping at the corners of your eyes before you open them, a bit more red and puffy than they were before you entered the room. You finally look at the wizard and take in a deep breath before nodding again. If it were anyone else, any other moment you might have said no. You’d even have laughed at whoever tried this emotional shit on you. But it’s time. You’re not getting any better nor can you repress everything forever. It’s time to face some of these troubles head on. Luckily you won’t have to do it on your own. It will take time and effort and it’s going to hurt like hell but it has to be done. You have to move on and learn how to live. You owe it to yourself, if not the people you’ve left behind.

“Now this doesn’t mean we’re going to be best friends from now on. You’re still an asshole and so am I so don’t think I’ll let you off easy for your comments and the trouble you cause.” The corner of Caleb’s lips turns up slightly as he speaks and you mimic his expression.

“I don’t think anyone else could handle it, so I’m sorry to disappoint but you’re definitely stuck with me, Widogast.” You muster a smile, exhausted. It’s mutually understood the conversation as per your agreement won’t happen right here, right now but instead when you’re both ready. For now, at least you won’t pretend to hate each other anymore and start over.

“Hey, Caleb?” You ask.

“Yes?” He answers but before he knows it your arms wrap around him and pull him into your embrace. Caleb’s form goes rigid shocked by not only the gesture but by the physical touch itself. After a good few moments he finds himself ease just a little, enough to return the embrace lightly.

“Thank you.” You whisper.

#critical role x reader #critrole x reader #mighty nein x reader #caleb widogast x reader #caleb x reader

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cosmicjoke · 3 years

Text

Ah, and now onto one of the most depressing chapters in all of SnK, chapter 132.

You know, if anyone ever needed a reason to despise Floch any more, how about the fact that he’s literally the reason Hange died? If this bitch ass ho hadn’t shot the fuel tank of the plane full of holes, Hange wouldn’t have had to engage with the Titans to buy time for them to fix it, and they wouldn’t have died. So, fuck you Floch. I wish you’d suffered more before Mikasa finally ended your ass.

Well, anyway, what can I say about this chapter that hasn’t already been discussed? Probably nothing, but I’ll try my best to give my observations anyway.

This really is Hange’s chapter, and Levi’s, in terms of putting a spot light on the importance of their relationship to one another.

Hange’s sacrifice in this chapter is heartbreaking, it truly is, and such a major blow to everyone. But to Levi most of all, and for so many reasons.

First of all, what stands out to me is the exchange between them, after Pieck tells Hange to stop being “gross”. What I want to talk about here is when Hange asks Levi if he thinks their dead comrades are watching, and if he thinks they’ll be proud of what they do here today. Levi tells Hange to stop talking like “him”, meaning of course Erwin. This scene is just heart-wrenching, and part of that is, I think, because of Levi’s reaction to what Hange is saying. He has, once again, such a weary, resigned looked on his face, and it’s because, I think, of the parallels he sees with Erwin. I think Levi already knows, at this point, that Hange is going to die, in some way. He recognizes the same, fatalistic bent to Hange’s mindset as he saw in Erwin, that day in Shinganshina, the same burden of guilt. Just as Erwin began to bow and break under the weight of all the lives that had been lost under his command, Hange too is beginning to break, overcome by despair and hopelessness at what they perceive to be their failures. Hange expresses this outright in the scene with Yelena, when Yelena tries forcing everyone to admit that Zeke was right, and Hange just resignedly agrees, saying that it was because of their failure to come up with a plan, because of their loss of hope, that Eren’s done what he has. Of course, this isn’t true, just like Erwin blaming himself for the deaths of all those soldiers wasn’t based in any kind of truth. But the sense of guilt is the same. Hange blames themselves for what’s happening now, and they say this in front of everyone, including Levi. And then Hange says what they do to Levi, about their dead comrades, and I think this must have been like the worst kind of deja vu to Levi, this kind of guilt driving Hange towards despair and hopelessness. He tells Hange “Don’t you start talking like him, too...” because he can’t bear it. He can’t bear to see his last, true friend succumb to the same fate as Erwin.

And then the Rumbling shows up, and Hange refuses for anyone else to engage with the Titans but themselves. They tell everyone “I’m the one who led us here. I pressed on, even at the cost of so many lives. Time to face the music.”, and it’s Hange willingly taking on the role of martyr, the same one Levi had to help Erwin to accept for himself, in order to give their comrades a chance at victory. Hange’s selflessness here is the definition of heroic. True, unwavering conviction to what they believe is right.

But once again, similarly to Levi’s final push to help Erwin become the commander everyone believed him to be, Levi recognizes for Hange, in their final moment together, what it is they need. He doesn’t try to stop Hange, doesn’t try to convince them against their chosen course of action, doesn’t cry out after them. The same way Levi recognized in Erwin the way he was being crushed under the weight of his guilt, and understood how it would be a mercy and a salvation to make for him the decision to let go of his dream and die, Levi also recognizes in Hange that same burden and suffocating sense of guilt, and knows this is a decision Hange has made for themselves, their final absolution and ownership of their past choices, and that this is the thing Hange needs to relieve them of their burden. A way for them to bear the burden of their past choices without regret. Hange implores Levi to let them walk away and do this, and Levi does, because he understands, the same as he understood with Erwin.

But we finally see in full view the consequences for Levi in making these decisions, in letting his two, closest friends go to their deaths for the sake of their cause. Levi’s expression in the following three panels is one of such unfathomable heartbreak. He looks like a man utterly resigned to losing every good thing in his life, conscious and accepting of life’s bitter injustice and the grief of loss, but no less affected by it. Levi is in so much obvious pain here. Not physical (though obviously there’s that), but emotional and mental. Hange is it for him. They’re his last, real connection, his last, true friend, his last person. And he has to let them go here. Both for the sake of humanity, and for Hange’s own sake as well. It truly is the bitterest pill to swallow. And once again, it is a desperately heartbreaking display of Levi’s own selflessness, that he lets Hange go, that he lets Hange do this thing that needs to be done, without complaint, without protest, without influence from his own feelings, sacrificing once more what would be best for him for the sake of everyone else. Levi looks devastated as he lays his fist against Hange’s chest and tells them “dedicate your heart”. This final acceptance of his own, tragic loss, and Hange’s own choice to sacrifice their life.

And it continues when Hange flies away, at last, and we see Levi standing with the rest of their group. Everyone around Levi has expressions of shock, dismay, and disbelief. They haven’t yet accepted that this is happening, that Hange is flying to their death to buy them the time they need. They look astonished and horrified. But Levi is the lone exception. He doesn’t look shocked, or disbelieving, but only continues to carry that same expression of weary, despairing resignation and acceptance. And I think what we see in Levi, in this final arc is, in many ways, the culmination of a lifetime of loss and grief. Levi’s lost more than probably any other character in SnK. He’s experienced the most extreme forms of poverty and depravation from the time he was born, and with the death of Hange, has now lost every, single person that he ever formed any kind of close bond with. With Hange’s death, Levi is left finally, completely alone. And the look of defeat on Levi’s face throughout this entire arc is, I think, reflective of the affirmation he must feel, of the cruelty and injustice of life’s indifference to the suffering of everyone. Every experience in Levi’s life has driven home to him the lesson, again and again, of the unfairness and cruelty of existing in this world. And the events of this final arc, Eren’s betrayal, Zeke’s manipulations and cruelties, the deaths of so many comrades, the Rumbling, violence and destruction and allies turning against one another, and finally, Hange’s death, can only solidify for him the hopeless cynicism he’s fought against all his life, the awful comprehension of life’s brutality. With Hange’s death, Levi is made to face once more what he’s always, deep down, known, which is that to exist in this world is to suffer with no purpose.

And yet, still, Levi fights on. He accepts Hange’s death with all the pain the loss crushes him down with. He tells Hange goodbye, and asks them to “Just watch us.”. Because even with the affirmation of all of Levi’s greatest despairs, he still finds a reason to make the fight worth it. To realize the dream they all fought for, the salvation and future of humanity, and through the realization of that dream, to give meaning and importance to the lives of all those who have died in that dreams name, and meaning and importance to the lives of those yet still there. Levi refuses, still, to give up, refuses to accept the futility and insignificance of people’s lives, even as he’s so ruthlessly reminded again and again of it. And it’s in Hange, I think, that Levi finds that strength. Because Hange also refused to give up. Like they told Floch as he bled out, “We still can’t give up. Even if we fail here, now, maybe someday...” Maybe someday, life really will get better. Maybe someday, people won’t have to suffer so much. Maybe someday, there really will be a point to all of it. Even in the face of total despair, Hange and Levi both found reasons to keep fighting.

Also, just some smaller observations about Levi’s physical state, and what it also says about his determination to not give up, but also about his perception of himself.

Levi is doing BAD here. I didn’t notice this on my first read through, but when they’re all gearing up with their ODM gear, Levi is the only one sitting down on a crate, while everyone else is standing. We see earlier in the chapter, when he leaves his room on the boat, he can’t even stand without the support of a handrail on the upper deck, or Armin’s arm around his shoulders. And then when we see him testing his grip on the handle of his ODM’s blade, his hand is visibly shaking. Levi’s physically too weak to stand on his own at this point, too weak to even hold his blades steady. He must be in absolutely horrific pain. Probably dizzy and lightheaded, probably nauseas even. He’s FAILING physically. On the verge, it seems, of collapse. The fact that he’s even up and making the effort to move is something of a miracle, let alone that he’s prepared to engage in intense, physical combat, which just a short time later, he DOES. That’s remarkable, and such a testament to Levi’s incredible will and unwavering conviction to fight for humanity. He’s dying. I think literally, he’s extremely close to death, genuinely frail. But he still is ready and willing to give his all. I think, over the course of the few chapters before this one, it must have been horrifically hard for Levi to sit by and watch as everyone else risked their lives to fight. This isn’t something Levi is used to, being helpless and unable to fight for others. He isn’t used to letting others take the risk while he stays back. When Levi comes out of his cabin and Armin tries to convince him to go back to bed, Levi snaps with impatience that if he keeps resting, they’re all going to forget he even exists. This reveals a lot about Levi’s perception of himself as someone who needs to make himself useful in order to matter. As a tool to utilize. He feels useless and like dead weight if he isn’t able to fight, and so, even on deaths door, he pushes himself to do just that, to become a weapon to be used in the coming battle. It’s heartbreaking, to see Levi regard himself this way, even as it proves his incredible devotion and heart. Once again, his own well being takes a backseat to the cause of others. His health is secondary, in his mind. For someone who always shows so much compassion and kindness and understanding for others, it makes it doubly heartbreaking, to see that Levi can’t manage the same compassion for himself, can’t give himself a break, or a pass for his weakness. That he can’t allow himself that vulnerability, or for others to fight for him, even as all his life, he’s done nothing but fight for others.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #Levi Ackerman #hange zöe #snk 132 #meta #thoughts

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

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Crawl Home to Her

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem BAU Reader

Warnings: Religion is mentioned, slight mention of supposed homophobia, drug use, death and thoughts of dying, kidnapping (it’s Spencer’s POV of Revelations)

Author’s Note: I was listening to Work Song by Hozier and felt like it fits PERFECTLY for what Spencer was going through when he was kidnapped by Tobias. I took some creative liberties, but much of the plot lines up to the show’s episode. I linked the song if anyone wants to listen to it before they read or after, it’s such a beautiful song. Hozier is in my top three artists; his voice is just so beautiful and soulful.

Summary: The only thing that’s keeping Spencer alive is the memories of his Heaven. Maybe someone how a faithless man will escape Death’s grasp on faith alone.

Word Count: around 3.2K

Category: Angst

Crawl Home to Her

When Spencer comes to the first thing he notices is the smell of burning. The stench permeates the air around him, filling his nostrils. The second thing he notices is breathing. Breathing that is not his own. A man stands before him and it takes him a second to piece it all together. The throbbing in his head takes much of his energy. He can feel the blood drip down the back of his neck and cake onto the collar of his work shirt. Strangely, all he could think about is the time his father told him a respectable man never wore a spoiler shirt. Well dad, look at me now, Spencer thinks grimly. He hates that his father occupies his mind even when he’s about to die. He has much more beautiful things to think about than the man who called him a failure.

“They’re gone,” the shadowy figure tells him. Tobias, Spencer thinks. Tobias is the unsub.

“Who are they?,” Spencer asks, his voice must sound as cowardly as he feels. He hopes that Tobias didn’t get Y/N. He can’t live with himself if he let his partner, in more ways than one, get hurt.

“It’s just me know,” Tobias answers, in such a way that it’s almost obvious.

“Who...Who are you?” Spencer croaks. The lightbulb hanging above his head taunts him. He has the lightbulb, but where’s the ideas? Where are the answers? Where is the light of safety?

“I’m Raphael,” Tobias says, standing to his full height, towering over a trembling Spencer.

Raphael... The angel...Spencer’s mind turns but is halted by the horrible smell coming from his side. It invades his mind and nothing seems to make sense.

“What’s that smell?” he asks.

“They’re burning fish hearts and livers. Keeps away the devil,” Tobias or Raphael answers, Spencer is not too sure who he’s even talking to at this point.

“They say you can see inside men’s minds,”

“That’s not true, I-I study human behavior-” Spencer reasons, but is cut off by Tobias/Raphael’s passive shushing.

“I’m not interested in the arguments of men,” Raphael tells him. He turns around to rummage in his pocket for something that Spencer can’t make out in the dim light of the shed. Between the lightbulb blinding him and the stench of the liver burning, Spencer’s senses are overloading themselves. Focus, Spencer, focus, he begs of himself.

Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win.

Tobias pulls out a revolver and a bullet. He toys the bullet in Spencer’s face, asking him “Do you know what this is?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe.

“It’s God’s will,” Tobias says rationally.

The cocks the gun and aims it towards Spencer’s head. If he pulls the trigger he’d shoot him straight in his head. Staring down death, all Spencer can think about is him suggesting that they split up. He was the one who left Y/N, he’s the one that’s responsible.

“You don’t have to do this,” Spencer tries to reason.

“I’m just an instrument of God. This is your salvation, this is time to repent for your sins,” Tobias says, pulling a chair to sit next time. It’s strange, Spencer thinks, Tobias is not that much older than he is. This job has forced Spencer to think of the countless paths that he could have gone down. Part of him thinks that could have easily been on the other side, the angry part of him, the broken and sad part of him.

“Tell me your sins, and may God forgive you,” Tobias says, his voice almost as fearful as Spencer feels.

Spencer closes his eyes, trying to think of all the things he’s done wrong in his life. All the people he’s hurt or the mistakes that he’s made. But at this moment there’s nothing running through his mind by the thought of Y/N. The way she’d hold him after a case or the way that she’d listen to him with light in her eye’s. It’s nice to have someone who cares, Spencer thinks. Or at least it was.

“I’m a good man, Tobias, I’m a good man. Like you, we catch the bad guys, Tobias--we are the same. We catch the sinners.” Spencer professes, trying anything to get out of here alive. He’d do anything to get back to Y/N. To get back in her warm embrace.

“We all have our sins, including you. You just need sometime to sort them out,” Tobias says, and like that he’s gone with the wind.

***

It’s early morning when Spencer wakes up, the sun bleeds through the cracks of the wood panel door. His clothes are caked in his blood and dirt. His hair is stringy and the blood from his ear clogs his hearing. But he’s alive, he's still here, breathing the same air as Y/N. Somehow that’s enough to keep him hoping that she’d find him- save him.

The door opens with a sudden slam, Tobias walks in carrying a load of logs. There’s something different about him. Spencer thinks that there’s an air of arrogance, an air of superiority in his walk.

“What are you staring at, boy?” Tobias- or at least the man who looks like Tobias Hankel asks.

“You’re not Raphael?” Spencer reasons.

Tobias throws the pile of logs into the box on the floor of the shed. He stands up to his full height, but there’s something that’s taller about him than last night. There’s something more intimating about the man standing before Spencer.

“Do I look like Raphael to you?” Tobias asks, the sneer so apparent.

Spencer decides to ignore that, answering this person, whoever he is, is not in his best interest.

“Thank you for burning these, for keeping us safe,” Spencer says, trying to get on his good side for his sake, so he can go back to Y/N.

Y/N. If Spencer can just close off his mind and focus on her, he’d be okay. He’d get through this. If he can just close his eyes he can just feel her touch or taste her lips against his. If her kisses make him a sinner then crucify him. Least he’d die a happy man, with the promise of tomorrow with her endless love.

“Don’t try to trick me, you’re are filthy liar, you’re a disgusting sinner,”

God, Spencer thinks, waits until he hears that he’s from Vegas and fell in love with a man. Spencer focuses on breathing, not the itch from being dirty with his own blood or not the thought of impending death.

“It will be over if you confess, boy. Confess your sins!” Tobias yells.

“I’m not a sinner,” Spencer says, almost defiantly. There’s a surge of strength in Spencer, and he swears that the small memories of Y/N makes him a stronger person.

“We are all sinners”

“The Lord spoke unto Moses saying, ‘speak unto all the congregation of the children of the lord’ and say unto them, ye shall be holy, for I, the lord your god, am holy,” Spencer quotes, the fear somehow seeping back into his voice.

“You know Leviticus,” Tobias says, almost surprised. Yes, Spencer thinks, even heathens can quote the Bible.

“I know every word of the Bible, I can quote it for you?” Spencer pleads.

“Even the Devil can read,” Tobias tells him.

Spencer’s wound bleeds down his neck, the throbbing almost pounds to the beat of his heart.

“It’s time to confess, Spencer Reid,” Tobias whispers, leaning into Spencer.

“I’m a good man, Tobias. I finally found someone who puts back the pieces. I found someone who loves me, and I can’t leave her like this. I can’t do that to her.” Spencer confesses.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs,” Tobias quotes, and as he does his face seems to drift off. It’s like he's there with Spencer, but not there at the same time.

“First Corinthians, Verse 13,” Spencer recites.

“Hmm, so your parents did raise a believer,” Tobias reckons.

More or less, Spencer thinks. He might not believe in God the Almighty, some entity in the clouds watching over him, but he does believe in love and maybe even an afterlife. He has to believe in an afterlife, because if he doesn’t he’d fail to give Y/N forever.

“Yes,” Spencer says, settling on playing the part of a righteous believer.

“Yes, my parents read me the Bible. They are good people too,” Spencer tells him.

Spencer’s not really sure what happens next, but the blow to his head makes the world go black and the sweet memories of Y/N fade into the distance.

***

A cool rag presses against Spencer’s head, where he figures where “Tobias” hit him, or whoever was there with him.

Dissociative Identity Disorder. DID. DSM-5. 300.14 (F44.81). Tobias has three personalities, Spencer thinks. He remembers the day vidily. Reading about DID with Ethan, they sat on the lawn of the park near school. His memories are distrubed by a very confused looking Tobias, who hold bandages and a wet rag.

“What’s your name?” Spencer asks, hoping that whoever was there last night is gone.

“Tobias,” he says, almost meekly. Spencer recognizes something in that, somewhere deep inside him, he recognizes the fear that Tobias wears like a shield. The man here last night must have been his father...

“Who was here last night?”

“My father, Charles,” Tobias says. “I’m sorry if he hurt you.”

Tobias turns to reach in his bag, he brings out a vial of clear liquid, a needle and a long piece of cloth. He ties the long piece of cloth around Spencer’s arm, who with a sudden realization fights to get away from Tobias.

“NO! Please, NO!” Spencer yells, trying his hardest to fend off the inevitable.

“It helps, Spencer. I’m trying to save you from him! It’s gonna help, it helped me,” Tobias tells him, continuing to tie the fabric in a tight knot above Spencer’s elbow.

“Please! I don't want it!” Spencer pleads as the room folds in one him, the darkness is not welcoming, it's suffocating. It’s sucking the life out of him and he can’t escape it’s clutches.

***

There’s another person in this shed, Spencer thinks. He tries to strain his eyes to make out who it is. It’s not Tobias, the shadow is too short for him.

Y/N.

She’s wearing a dress, the blue dress that she wore on their first date. He loves that dress on her. He’s sure he’d love any dress or anything she’d put on to wear for their first date, because well, it’s their first date.

“Spencer,” her voice is even more comforting than usual. It’s syrupy sweet and he feels like he’d get a toothache just from listening.

“Sweet Spencer, you need to come home to me, okay? Come home to me baby.”

He tries to call out to her, but it’s futile. She's a ghost, but she looked so real. Maybe he’s the ghost and his eternal damnation is to haunt her. He’s able to see her, but never able to get close enough to feel the way her hands caress his checks or the way her eyes light up at his touches.

The spooky beauty of his girlfriend is whisked away with the familiar shoots of two tall, skinny figures. His parents. His father sits there on the table with a sneer on his face. His mother has this faraway look on her face. Spencer’s twelve again, listening to his father yell and slam the bedroom door as he rushes out the door, never looking back.

The shadowy figures are gone as soon as they came and are nothing but a reminder to Spencer that he’s not worthy of love. He feels guilty. He really does, but the needle going into his vein brings back Y/N and for now he wants nothing more, but to see her, even if it’s not real.

***

Spencer’s not sure if he craves the clear liquid in the vial because he gets to see Y/N or if he craves to see Y/N because gets to the liquid coursing through his veins, the slightest reminder that he’s alive.

He’s alone in the shed, but there’s a bright green light blinking. A computer, he wonders. Is this the way from the Ninth Circle of Hell? Is this his way home, his way to Y/N?

His thoughts of home and of their warm bed are interrupted by who he can only assume is Raphael, enough time has passed for him to be rising to the surface. Part of him misses Tobias, they’d probably would have been friends growing up. Two outcasts raised by a parent who meant well, but did do irreparable harm in the end.

“It’s time to choose,” Raphael announces. He points to the computer screen, which lights up. Spencer can only assume that his face is being streamed across the internet. Garcia, and probably the entire team are watching this, watching him at his lowest moment. He swore that he’d never show Y/N himself like this, even though he knows that she’ll love him still.

“Choose a member of your team to die. You are all sinners in the end, but it’s time for you to choose who dies.” Raphael tells him, his voice booming, a stark difference from the nervous murmurs of Tobias.

“No,” Spencer shouts. “Kill me, kill me instead!”

“Choose or they all die!” Raphael yells.

Think, Spencer. Think. He looks around at the shed, trying to think of an out. His eyes latch on to the shovel sitting in the corner of the room. That’s new, he realizes. A cemetery, a grave...

“I choose Y/N,” Spencer says, not truly believing what he’s saying, but praying that she gets the message.

“Why?” Raphael asks.

“She’s prideful and careless,” Spencer reasons, trying his hardest to appear nonchalant.

“Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before the fall,” Raphael quotes.

“Yes, John 14:27,” Spencer says. And with that his fate and Y/N is sealed. It’s funny in a twisted way, he always knows that his fate would be forever linked to hers, but not just in this way.

“Come on, boy. Get up,” Raphael orders him.

Spencer makes it to his feet and the pair make their way into the night.

***

Spencer’s not sure how far he’s walked, but his feet are numb and he can’t feel anything in his arm. The inside of his arm is littered with marks, a constant reminder of the cravings he’s feeling. No, he tells himself. What he craves is Y/N. He makes his way up the rocky terrain of the cemetery, hoping that she’s on her way to rescue him, hoping that she’s there to wash away the dirt and kiss his scars.

Raphael is at his side, pulling him along. It's a strange similarity to Dante and Virgil and their journey to the depths of Hell. Maybe in this scenario Spencer isn’t Dante, maybe he’s Beatrice waiting for his Dante to rescue him.

“Please, I need rest. I’m exhausted,” Spencer tries to argue, but it’s no use. Raphael’s grip on his arm only tightens.

“Keep moving,”

They arrive at the cemetery. Spencer is not ready to die. He’s not ready to die and leave Y/N. He wishes he really did believe in God because maybe, maybe he wouldn’t be as scared as he is right now.

“Dig,” Raphael tells him, tossing the shovel on the ground at Spencer’s feet.

As if he’s shaking Death’s hand, Spencer reaches down for the shovel and starts to dig. Each deposit in the mountain of dirt is a cry for help. Each time he cracks his neck in pain or rubs his hands in exhaustion is a goodbye kiss for Y/N.

Spencer stands to his full height. He’s nearly as tall as Tobias, somehow he still feels like a child.

He suspects that Tobias feels the same way. Maybe one day Spencer will come to regret his choice. Maybe one day Spencer will be grateful that he reached into the very depths of his strength to fight to the very end.

“Tell Tobias I’m sorry,” Spencer says, the tears flooding his eyes.

Spencer bangs the back of the shovel against Tobias’s head. His limp body falls to the ground and suddenly he’s terrified that Tobias is somehow still alive. Spencer scrambles for the gun and pulls the trigger. He’s not even sure how many shots he fires but the body is punctured with bloody holes. Spencer, clutches are Tobias’s lifeless body. As if he can squeeze him back to life.

He thinks he’s imagining it. He thinks that he’s on the brink of death. There’s a light, a soft yellow light beckoning him home. A voice calls out to him, clear and strong, it’s drawing him in and Spencer is crawling from his own grave to the voice that he could recognize anywhere. He’s teetering between Heaven and Hell. Y/N’s voice and light tether him home.

“Spencer!” she calls. Finally, he thinks. Finally, she’s close; he lets himself believe he’s safe.

“I’m here!” he shouts, surprised at the force of his voice.

“Oh Spencer,” she says, running to him.

She falls to the ground next to him. Spencer is scared that she’s not real, that it’s the drugs in his system again making him believe that she’s nothing but a cruel figment of his mind.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I knew you’d find me. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean it,” Spencer cries, his face tucked into the crook of her neck.

“Shhh, baby. I’d find you anywhere. Hmm, let’s get you out of here. You are safe now Spencer,” she tells him softly.

Spencer may not be a man who believes in God but he has to believe in Heaven, because Heaven is holding him in her arms.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader angst #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #mgg

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wrenhyperfixates · 3 years

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Loki Series Thoughts—Glorious Purpose

Ok, I’m always nervous about posting my thoughts, but here we go. Spoilers ahead of course!!! (Disclaimer: Any gifs or images are not mine.)

Let’s start out with the episode’s name: Glorious Purpose. I know some people were a bit miffed about the emphasis put on the line, but I actually thought it worked well. It’s not so much that Loki actually believes in this “purpose,” but rather he is clinging to what he’s been told his purpose is. And by the end of the episode, he’s finally working through some of the things he’s been hurt by, abandoning what he’s been forced into and ready to be who he wants. Granted, it’s still going to take some time for him to come to grips with all that has happened, but I’m excited to see the journey.

The TVA. They undeniably suck. Whether or not it will be addressed directly, they are the (or one of the) antagonists in the show. What they are doing is, frankly, tyrannical. Three “time keepers” have taken it upon themselves to force countless versions of time and people into one single stream. And you know what? They can’t control that timeline. Not like they want to. As much as Loki’s line about “the weak” applies to himself, it applies to the TVA, too. It’s a facade of control that they cling to; if they truly had the right, the ability, to control time, everyone would follow their path. There would be no variants. Now, I could write a whole separate analysis on the MCU’s explanation of time travel. It’s convoluted and in a large way doesn’t make sense.

I’d like to talk about Loki’s characterization. I am, in a word, relieved. From the trailers, Tom seemed to be over-acting, something rather strange for someone so good at conveying deep emotions through nuanced actions. Now I believe any exaggerated lines from the trailers are just Loki trying to separate himself from who he’s been told he is, and trying to reinvent himself. I don’t think that’s a bad thing either; they’re not rewriting Loki, he’s just growing in a new way. And though this way is “new” I think it will be similar to what we’ve seen before. From what we’ve seen so far, there is good continuity, and they are addressing things about Loki that should be addressed in canon.

Loki projects. Most notably in the Avengers, but also a bit in Thor 1 and The Dark World, a lot of Loki’s lines can be applied to himself, though he is talking generally or towards another group. What comes to mind is actually something he touches upon again in the series. The illusion of freedom. And though it is not said that line in particular is him thinking of himself, it can be inferred based on his admission that the line in the gifs above apply to him. Also that little gesture when he says “weak” breaks me. He’s hurting so much.

Loki is not a villain. He may think he’s one because everyone else is telling him that, yet we’re already seeing it brought up that it’s not true. I can only hope that we’ll see Loki state this himself later in the series. He was largely forced to do what he did. It is not his fault, so how can he be a villain?

Loki cares. Tom’s acting is just *chef’s kiss* Seeing his mother’s death hurts so much. I love that his first response is denial. Loki is thrown into something he’s never known about before, being shown things that, to his knowledge, have never happened. But then when he’s had a few seconds to wander around the TVA on his own terms, he’s more come to grips with all that’s going on. So, when he’s by himself and see’s Frigga lying there, dead, it gets to him. Then seeing Odin still call him his son, he feels the slightest glimmer of hope, but also regret; he already knows in the back of his mind that he’s not actually going to get that. Loki’s living from second to second, trying to hold on. He probably thinks this ends with his death. (I do have issues with that Odin scene in context of Ragnarok but that’s more a tangential aside, so I’ll gloss over it for now.) Then seeing Thor and himself acting like brothers again is heartwarming. So just when he’s feeling uplifted, Thanos comes into the picture. He realizes how much control the titan still had over his life; he never really escaped. And in the end, Thanos made good on his promise. And that is terrifying! And he laughs at it. It’s a sad sort of laugh, one that’s slightly crazed. Loki feels that no matter what he does, it ends in pain. By the end of seeing all that, he is a man broken. Rather, more broken than he already was.

Loki is struggling. That’s nothing profound; it’s obvious. But where it really stands out to me is actually in a part I originally thought to be out of character. I am referring to “What if I was a robot and I didn’t know it.” Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s actually that his perception of himself has been so thrown that he really isn’t sure about his own chemical makeup anymore. Odin and Frigga keeping from him that he’s a frost giant made him so unsure of himself, he thought he might not even be a living being.

Nervous tics. Was I the only one noticing his leg bouncing when he talked to Mobius? And what about that scene when he’s sitting on the steps? He begins to pick at his hands. Note, that’s something he did in T1 after finding out he was a frost giant and while confessing to the Warriors Four about how he was the one who told the guard of their trip to Jotunheim. Just a little detail I really appreciated. (If anyone has gifs of any of these things, feel free to share :)

Mobius. I’ll be honest, I’m a bit undecided. I’m hesitant to say he’s evil. After all, we haven’t seen that much of him yet. However, I will say he is unscrupulous and manipulative. His questions weren’t to help Loki work through his trauma. Mobius was trying to goad him into helping, and likely was trying to gauge how much this Loki is like the variant he’s tracking. When Loki makes any admission of his feelings, it’s something he already knew, not a conclusion Mobius helped him reach. Mobius mocks him a bit and pushes his buttons because he sees Loki as a means to an end, and wants to know how easily he can get him to work with him. And what strikes me is how similar Mobius’s deal is to Thor’s deal in TDW. Thor doesn’t offer Loki freedom, he offers revenge. Mobius’s deal is just another variation of this. He can’t offer “salvation” but he can offer something “better”. Working for the TVA really isn’t better, though. So what does he mean? Well, I think he means a chance for Loki to prove he’s a hero. I hope as the show progresses it’s addressed that Loki doesn’t have to prove himself to anyone. That’s what he’s been doing his whole life, but I want Loki to see for himself that he doesn’t have to.

Miss Minutes. Propaganda. Plain and simple, it’s propaganda. Besides the way it praises the “time keepers” as amazing saviors, necessary to keep the world in order, it’s essentially saying “don’t think for yourself.” The whole point of the video is “the time keepers are great. The TVA is flawless. Trust us to decide everything. You have no autonomy in the world we want, so surrender your free will. Submit to the system we’ve decided is perfect and everything will be just fine.” Of course, by “just fine” they mean the variant will be pruned and the timeline will keep going as the time keepers see fit. The animation style was great though! It really fit.

The infinity stones. I think their inclusion makes sense. If you remember from Endgame, the stones being in the right place in the right time keeps the timeline from branching, and thus prevents the multiverse from being created. Likely, the time keepers used the stones to make their “sacred timeline.” Naturally, any variant time stones would cause a problem. That’s why they have so many extras. But think about how pointless so much of what happened seems. Nat, Gamora, Vision, Tony, everyone who was snapped, everyone who was left. So, literally the entire universe was flipped upside down for paperweights. It really puts Thanos’s pursuit of the stones into perspective, doesn’t it?

The cloaked figure. I think there’s some misdirection going on here in one way or another. Mobius says he’s chasing a Loki variant, then immediately it cuts to a scene with the cloaked figure. Our minds are likely to assume that is the variant then. But they don’t actually say it’s Loki, so I’m inclined to believe it’s not. Though, I don’t have enough information to say who I do think it is, I could make a couple of educated guesses and say Mephisto (he certainly interacted with Loki in the comics, plus there’s the stained glass window) or Sylvie. Well, whoever Sophia Di Martino’s character is. I know she was previously listed as Sylvie on sources such as IMDb, but that has since disappeared. But why would you have a “young Sylvie” (Cailey Fleming) without an older version? There is speculation Di Martino’s character will be Lady Loki, but I hope this won’t happen. If they make Lady Loki her own character, I doubt we’ll see Variant Loki get to be fluid. Even if it’s confirmed on the record, it’d be nice to see actually happen beyond a piece of paper. And with twist villains being such a prominent force in modern media, I’m interested to see who our cloaked friend really is.

Time travel. Like I said earlier, this is a lot. But I can’t talk about the episode and not mention this aspect in at least a little more depth. I don’t like how the MCU deals with time travel. I think it’s an unnecessarily complicated mix of a number of different, already complicated theories. However, I think Loki will ultimately escape from the TVA and create a multiverse too difficult to prune (and maybe he’ll actually get to burn the place down too!) This will then tie directly into Doctor Strange 2. Do you guys know what that’s called? The Multiverse of Madness. Actually, in the Miss Minutes propaganda, they almost exactly say “will throw the multiverse into madness.” Will we get to (finally!) see a certain raven-haired god meeting Dr. Strange? And maybe even the Scarlet Witch herself? Well, I’m not sure, but right now I think it’s looking pretty good!

And some random things that didn’t really anywhere else:

Peggy is in the background?! My thought here is that Steve wasn’t supposed to stay with her. This made not only a Variant Steve, but also a Variant Peggy. We may not see Steve, but I bet he’s been taken care of too!! And who knows? Maybe there will be a cameo later. Otherwise, it might be something that was cut from the show, or just a fun easter egg of sorts.

The score was so good! It sets the mood perfectly.

Loki is a good fighter. Even if he’s overpowered, he finds a way.

Some of the humor didn’t land, but that might just be a personal thing.

So now my final thoughts. It’s their strongest pilot yet. So much emotion crammed into less than an hour. A lot of exposition, too, yet it didn’t feel tedious (Endgame I’m looking at you). And then we get to delve into Loki’s psyche, something that really appeals to me! Overall, 9/10. I hope the rest of the series is as good!

Did I miss anything? Was there something you were hoping I’d mention and didn’t? Or do you have something to add or (politely!) disagree with? I’d love to hear it all! Remember, fandom is a safe space to talk about, analyze, and debate about things you enjoy. My ask box is always open with anon on. Reblogs and comments are great too. Thanks!

Me after watching the episode:

#the loki show #the loki show spoilers #the loki series #loki series #loki analysis #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki friggason #the loki series spoilers #I know there’s nothing particularly profound here but here you go #*throws thoughts into the void*

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novelconcepts · 3 years

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Excuse you...😭 The first prompt being absolutely Older Jamie having a cat that bonds with her AND Dani... Sad hours in this house, damn

She never let them have pets. There isn't much Dani Clayton regrets--isn't much point, she's found, in the endless, boundless stretch of after--but sometimes, she does regret that much. Jamie always laughed it off, said she didn’t mind--What do I need pets for? Got more than enough to keep alive, thanks very much.--but Dani knew she’d never had animals growing up. Hadn’t stood still long enough for a cat, or a rabbit, or even fish. Maybe it’s true that you can’t miss what you never had, but she can’t help wondering if Jamie’s got some little puncture, deep down, that should have been filled with a big-hearted creature who would have put her first.

And Dani, to her eternal chagrin, hadn’t been able to fill that. Hadn’t been able to allow herself that. The beast, she was sure, would someday rise, and it was bad enough to think of Jamie going without. Bad enough to imagine Jamie staring hollowly at the door, wishing for Dani’s key in the lock. What would a dog have done? What would an animal who had only ever wanted love and to be loved have thought, the day Dani inevitably left and could not return home again?

How she’d thought of it in life, anyway. Now, she’s aware of so much. Aware of time in a slipstream around her, of the immediacy of the past, the present, the future all bound up with gold-edged ribbon. She is Dani Clayton, eight years old and watching her father waste to nothing, and she is Dani Clayton, twenty-nine and watching Eddie laugh at their engagement party, and she is Dani Clayton, thirty-one and watching Jamie nervously place a moonflower on a counter. Forever, she is Dani Clayton--the lost little girl, the stubborn young woman, the beloved wife.

And Jamie? Jamie does not yet understand forever. She isn’t yet a part of the slipstream. Jamie is silver-haired, twisting that ring: a gardener and a widow, a storyteller and a scarred heart. Jamie doesn’t get it yet. Dani wishes she could tell her. Wishes she could impart the wisdoms of after while Jamie can still make use of them.

She can’t. She’s tried. Her hand on Jamie’s shoulder, night after night, she’s tried to will the knowledge into the love of her life. I’m here. I’m always right here. You have to keep living, Jamie, you have to keep going, because I will always be right here.

For years, she’s worried it’ll never sink in. For years, which are moments, which are blinks, she watches Jamie stagger through the world. Jamie, making bargains with gods and ghosts. Jamie, unable to see her, unable to let her go. Jamie, desperate and grieving and miserable. It sets an ache in Dani’s chest she hadn’t thought she could feel anymore. All time is now. How is there still pain?

But watching Jamie--watching her run baths, button into Dani’s old blouses, prop that god-forsaken door open in dozens of hotels over the years--how could it not be painful? Watching Jamie hurt is the worst of the world. Watching Jamie in her recklessness, watching solid, grounded Jamie crack open one empty mirror at a time. How could it not dig at her?

You’ll understand, Dani thinks--and it is as much a wish as a certainty. Someday. Soon. Now. Always. You’ll understand. The gardener always learns. The gardener always listens. The gardener can’t not piece it together, given enough time.

But, for Jamie, it’s slow. It’s linear. It’s one day at a time, one year after another. For Jamie, it’s another Christmas alone. Another of Dani’s birthdays celebrated in silence: a lit candle, a photo, a woman bent over her own knees as her shoulders shudder. For Jamie, time plods. Time bleeds. Time is a wound she can’t stitch shut.

And then: the first one follows her home.

It’s an accident, Dani knows--would know, even if Jamie hadn’t in recent years taken to muttering to herself in the solace of an empty room. Jamie hadn’t even realized it was happening until the scruffy little mongrel followed her off the street, into the building. It sits--curly black fur, enormous brown eyes--at her side as if waiting. As if the invitation is implicit. As if it’s already home.

“No,” Jamie says. Dani can’t help smiling; there’s something to Jamie saying no that way that has always sounded an awful lot like a wall coming down. And, sure enough, the minute the door is open, the dog saunters inside as though it has never belonged anywhere else.

A bit, Dani thinks, like Jamie after Dani had taken her hand that night.

It’s an accident, but Jamie has never been much good at turfing out creatures in need of love once they’re inside. The dog stays. Jamie calls him Iowa--it seems to have been the first thing to slip out of her mouth, and the dog cocks his head and wags his nub of a tail, and that’s that. Jamie, for the first time in her life--fifty-seven years old, paying rent on her first flat in over a decade--has a pet.

Dani thinks it’ll be good for her. A dog begs routine. A dog needs walks, and feeding at reasonable hours, and doors that are shut at night. That Iowa seems older--relaxed and certain and just a bit bull-headed--is even better. He doesn’t run ragged around the flat, knocking into tables, shattering flower pots. He simply trots along at Jamie’s side as though he’s always been there.

It would be enough, Dani senses, if it were just the two of them. Jamie has always thrived in the caring for other living things. Jamie is happiest when given a task, a hands-on approach to the world. The dog, she may not have sought out--but the dog is hers, and she is his, and there is a kind of salvation in unexpected love.

The next one is even more of an accident, if that’s possible. A huge bear of a beast, shaggy and stained and wet-eyed. Jamie finds it limping through the streets of London with mud caked on its belly and head hung low. No tags. No marker of any kind. Iowa nudges her around the knees, looking at the mountainous creature, and Jamie sighs.

“No,” she tells him, but Dani--and Iowa--can tell it’s a lie even before the syllable is completely formed. Jamie is already reaching a cautious hand toward the trembling dog. It whimpers. It presses its nose to her outstretched fingers. Iowa’s tail wags.

London is, when given a proper bath and brushing, quite beautiful. Her limp is temporary; her attachment to Iowa in particular, eternal. The first night, with the dog resting her chin on Jamie’s knee, stretched across a threadbare couch, Jamie says, “Found it on the street. Wanted to save it” in a tone that suggests she’s speaking from a dream. Her jaw clenches. Her eyes close. Dani has never wanted so badly to break her own rules.

Neither dog seems to notice her. She’s relieved, in a way; Jamie’s nightly ritual never wavers, save for reluctantly closing the door--as with so many features of Jamie’s world, the safety of others precludes her own--and if the dogs began barking at shadows, it’s likely Jamie would never sleep again. Anyway, these aren’t her pets. Jamie has saved them--or they’ve saved her--and that bond is one Dani can’t muster envy for.

Two dogs and a home full of plants. It doesn’t bring the light back into Jamie’s eyes, not all the way, but she walks a bit taller these days. Fidgets a little less. Cries often enough, but now there are soft muzzles to press her face against when she does. It’s better, Dani can see. Nothing will ever be what it was, but better is sometimes the most you can ask for in life.

The third dog is less an accident, more a surprise. A two-for-one deal, to a degree; Jamie has wandered into the local shelter, where she’s taken to volunteering on weekends, and come across a sharp-toothed, snappish shepherd no one else seems able to touch. He’s been through the ringer, the other volunteers say, sage and exhausted by similar experiences. Abuse, probably. Neglect, probably. Only three or four, but with enough mistrust baked into his bones for three lifetimes.

“He doesn’t like men,” one weary-looking young man says. “Or people who move too fast. Or multiple people coming at him all at once.”

“Can relate,” Jamie says, her mouth quirking. Dani laughs. “What does he like?”

The volunteer points. There, in the back of the shepherd’s cage, is a lithe black shadow. It blinks lantern-gold eyes up at Jamie, tail twitching, and makes a rasping sound that might, in another animal, have been a proper meow.

“Came in same-day. Can’t separate ‘em. Not sure how we’re going to get them adopted.”

Jamie rubs her jaw, left hand hesitating on the way down. She touches the tip of a finger to her ring and heaves a sigh.

“Fuck.”

She calls the shepherd Paris, and though it takes time--several patient weeks, Jamie turning up at regular hours each day to coax the nervy animal into growing accustomed to her smell, her voice, her easy-slow method of moving--by the time the papers are signed, there’s no changing it. The flat is now overrun, dog hair clinging to every surface, water bowls standing sentry in the kitchen. The cat’s litterbox goes into the bathroom, Jamie frowning a little as she surveys the new landscape of her home.

“You,” she tells the cat. “Best behavior. Anything goes crash in the night, it’s your hide.”

The cat preens, rubbing around her ankles. Jamie sighs.

“Christ, if she could see me now.”

Something tugs deep in Dani’s chest--pride, and sorrow, and love of the most fervent kind. The dogs--proud Iowa, sweet London, Paris keeping a careful distance from both--are draped around the living room. Jamie’s home is theirs. Jamie is their home. Dani knows so well what that feels like. They’re lucky creatures.

The dogs are sleepy, warm, happy. The cat--

The cat is looking at her.

Dani frowns. She’s imagining things. Must be. She’s been drifting around Jamie--traveling the world at her side, resting a hand over her shoulder each night--for years and years. Nothing has ever looked at her. Nothing has ever seen her. Not Jamie. Not the dogs. Nothing.

But this cat. This cat, with its huge golden eyes, black ears twitching, is staring right at her.

“Huh,” says Dani.

“Mrow,” says the cat.

“C’mon,” says Jamie, oblivious to it all. “Supper.”

Days go by before Jamie properly names the cat. She strokes her fingers gently over the creature’s back, tracing the length of spine and tail, and frowns each night. “Who,” she says quietly, “are you?”

The cat butts against her palm, rumbling deep in its chest. Jamie makes a soft pensive sound.

“Vermont?” She shakes her head. “Nah. You’re different, mm? Somethin’ else.”

The cat chirps, turning its head, gazing into the corner where Dani is leaning. Dani raises a hand, wiggling her fingers experimentally. The cat makes the same noise a second time, as if in greeting. Jamie raises an eyebrow.

“Eerie little beast. Never thought I was much for cats, y’know. But here you are.”

Never thought you were much for people, either, Dani thinks with amusement. Didn’t stop you drawing us all close.

In the end, Jamie begins calling the cat Gremlin. A nickname, offered in warning, at first--any time she moved too near a plant, or experimentally sniffed at London’s paws while she slept, Jamie would quietly intone, “Oi. Gremlin. Back it up.” It is, in its own way, reminiscent of the way Poppins had clung to their first year--an accidental gift cherished by its recipient.

Dani can tell the cat--rumbling her pleasure each time the name is used--agrees. Plants are left to their devices. The dogs seem strangely hard-wired to accept the cat as their queen. Jamie shakes her head.

“So be it, suppose.”

It’s good, watching her build a routine around them. Dani hasn’t seen her stand this still since Vermont, but the dogs love the nearby park, and Gremlin sunbathes happily on the balcony, and Jamie seems, for the first time in years, to be fostering a simple sort of peace. The baths still fill, and her eyes are still too often far-away, but the door is shut. The dogs stretch out around the living room--which doubles, as all living spaces have for a decade, as Jamie’s bedroom--as if warding off intruders. The cat sets up shop on the back of the couch, peering down with regal bearing as Jamie slowly dozes off. And, when Dani inevitably presses a hand toward Jamie’s shoulder the first night--

“Hey,” she says, very quietly. “What’s this?”

Gremlin makes a raspy sort of sound, nudging toward her. She does not make contact, exactly; Dani hasn’t quite figured out touch, in all this time. She hasn’t had much cause. Touching Jamie is a dream, an ache she has carried since her death that reminds her forcefully of before, at Bly, when she hadn’t thought herself worthy or capable. Touching Jamie is the one part of all of this that still feels linear--I could touch her in life, and I can touch her when she gets here, but in between...in between...

In between, Dani can reach toward her. Can brush the space around her shoulder. Can be here, with her, in every way except directly, because some things are still unfair. Like Jamie feeling alone, even with Dani right here. Like Dani being able to always-someday-soon-now except for where it matters most.

She is in the kitchen at Bly, and she is in their bedroom in Vermont, and she is 1976, 1988, 1999, and she is--

Almost petting this cat. Almost. Her brows come sharply together, her heart thudding.

“How?” she asks Gremlin, who seems not to mind. The cat presses in a bit harder, as if to say, Keep trying. Dani sees no reason not to obey.

Each night, the animals spread around Jamie in a protective circle: Paris at the door, London beside the couch, Iowa nestled between Jamie’s knees. Each night, Gremlin sets up on the back of the couch, watching Jamie’s breath even out, and turns those enormous eyes on Dani.

And, little by little...

She can’t pick the cat up, or close her hands gently around her face. She can’t make the kind of contact she would as a living woman--matter pressing against matter, mass imposing upon mass. But her fingers are unequivocally brushing thick black fur. She can feel the cat’s breath on her skin. This is true, and real, and solid--and the cat, looking entirely too proud of herself, can plainly feel her in return.

Dani Clayton has been dead for over a decade, and Dani Clayton has been here all the same ever since, but for the first time, Dani Clayton is touching. Dani Clayton is feeling, not simply in the ether of memory, but now.

She holds a breath as Gremlin rubs against her fingers. She’s still holding it when, slowly, carefully, she reaches down to the couch.

Her fingers brush silver. Jamie’s brow knits, her lips parting. She’s always looked like this in sleep--as though some part of her just isn’t willing to shut down all the way. She’s always looked as though some part of her needs to be on guard.

Now, with Dani’s fingers threading through her hair, that tight, armored expression gives a little bit. Just a little.

In the morning, Dani wonders if Jamie’s eyes will flicker open and she will, finally, see her. There’s a breathless kind of terror to the idea--that she’s gone this long keeping Jamie safe from diving permanently into her own grief, only for a cat to undo all of that work. But, when the sun rises and Jamie rises with it, she gives no sign at all. No sign that she can see Dani, standing beside the couch, though Gremlin is staring right at her. No sign that anything has changed.

Except--except her hand, lingering at the crown of her head. Her fingers, sifting almost absently through her hair, tracing the same path Dani had been unable to pull away from. Her brow furrows. Her head shakes.

“Breakfast?” she asks the animals in various stages of waking around her. Gremlin stretches, back leg popped high, and hops down. Dani doesn’t think she’s imagining the cat’s easy swagger as she makes her way to the kitchen.

It isn’t the life she’d imagined for Jamie, laying awake and watching her sleep. Not the life she’d wanted for Jamie, hoping as hard as she could that the beast would remain always at bay. She’d never looked at Jamie and expected dogs to follow her home, hurt and lonely and in need of someone to show them the world can be kind. She hadn’t expected a cat with a swishing tail and a regal demeanor, standing sentinel. Jamie’s life has never quite veered in this direction before.

But: watching her now, as she slips a bit of apple to each dog, strokes the cat, leans her hip against the counter as she waits for the water to boil, Dani has to admit it suits her. Jamie has always been at her best giving love, even against her own better judgement.

In time, Dani’s sense of soon-someday-now-always will broaden to encompass Jamie, as well. The years will press on. There will come a time where the brush of Dani’s hand across her sleeping cheek--the phantom press of Dani soothing Jamie out of a particularly bad nightmare--will evolve into the intertwining of finally standing on the same plane again. It is the natural order of things. Organic. Dani, standing outside of time, is patient.

And Jamie: is slowly building herself a home again. Jamie is waking to take dogs out, and brushing down Gremlin’s ink-black fur, and looking more present in the world than she’s been in a decade. Jamie, staring into the mirror each night with Paris pressed resolutely against her legs, Iowa hovering in the doorway, almost smiles.

“Someday,” she murmurs, “I am going to have some stories for you.”

Dani smiles. She knows, of course--outside of time, it’s hard not to know--but she can’t wait to hear them, all the same. Stories always land a little differently, coming out of Jamie’s mouth.

Soon, she promises silently. Someday. Always. Now.

In the meantime, Jamie reaches for a bundle of leashes, giving Gremlin a brief scratch between the ears. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes drifting over Dani without notice. At her side, heading the pack, Iowa gives a small bark to confirm his readiness.

“Right,” says Jamie softly. “Back soon.”

It is the first time in too long Dani has been sure she will be okay.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #dani x jamie #damie #right. caveat: this was way harder to do than something this short should have been #so whether I'll do another immediately or not for weeks--can't say #but your message came in and I couldn't resist building out the headcanon #because frankly the original post made my wife cry and that gave me some feelings #also wow haven’t been like. painfully anxious posting a fic in a long-ass time #whew hi I’m suddenly 14 again

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