#and then with the most grave expression he goes “i got on the wrong ship”
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people who say zoro became less funny post timeskip are weird and also wrong and are also reading another manga than the one piece I'm reading, probably
#just read the first volume post time skip and he's still the funniest mf alive#he still is in vol 106 actually but specifically for vol 61#his reintroduction is him getting on the wrong ship#cutting it in half#answering to the rage of the owners with “blame your adverse luck that brought misfortune on board for you” or some bullshit like that#and then with the most grave expression he goes “i got on the wrong ship”#HE'S SO FUNNY WHAT'S HE THAT FUNNY FOR#straight up i read that started wheezing from how hard i was laughing and then out loud said “zoro will forever be my favourite won't he”#that whole blame your adverse luck HE#SPENT TWO YEARS WITH MIHAWK#AND STARTED SPEAKING LIKE HIM#GOD#im so sad oda didn't keep that up for him on one side but on the other#the idea that he did that without noticing just because of constant exposure is so funny#what now is he gonna start talking posh again the moment he's once more talking to mihawk please that'd be so funny#he's hilarious whoever says otherwise ignores him when he speaks
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little things
Rating: Gen
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, SoftBoi!Rodrick, Insecure!Reader
Ship: Rodrick Heffley x Reader
Warnings: Body Image, Eating Disorders / Body Dysmorphia, Insecurity
A/N: this is. SO shmoopy and cheesy lmaoooo but this was an anon request and i live to please :) enjoy!
---
You dragged yourself through your front door, kicking off your shoes in the foyer. The house was dark - your parents were probably asleep already.
You had just spent the day with Rodrick at Six Flags, and you were exhausted from spending all day in the hot sun, running around with your boyfriend like children. You smiled to yourself thinking about the events of the day, the thrill of the rollercoasters you went on.
You clutched the teddy bear Rodrick had won you close to your chest as you slowly ascended the stairs, trying not to make too much noise.
You entered your room and tenderly placed the bear on the bed, giving it a little kiss on the head as you did so before starting your night routine. Change into pajamas, brush teeth, wash face. As you were putting on your final face cream, your phone vibrated on the bathroom counter. You knew who it was from the specific rhythm of the vibration - two short bursts, like a heartbeat.
Rodrick had sent pictures of you two from today - a lot of selfies, but also a couple of far away shots that Rodrick had harassed people into taking for you. People rarely were able to say no to Rodrick once he had gotten an idea into his head - even if that idea was wrapping himself around a street lamp like a stripper for a good picture.
You finally, blissfully laid down in bed, letting out a giant groan as you cracked your back. You browsed the photos, feeling your heart-rate pick up as you gazed at Rodrick in the pictures. He looked so cute today - he had been wearing cut off black jeans, black high-top vans, and a loose button down Hawaiian shirt, half-way unbuttoned to show off his tanned chest and the multiple layers of silver necklaces he was wearing. His nails were painted black, but his eyes were free of makeup, simply accented by his naturally long eye-lashes and the smile-lines around his eyes.
After admiring Rodrick, you turned your gaze to yourself in the pictures. You felt your heart sink into your stomach. When you had left the house this morning, you had felt pretty confident in your outfit - just ripped jean shorts and a crop-top with converse. But as you looked closer, you couldn’t stop thinking about how unsatisfied you felt with the way you looked in the pictures.
As you continued to scroll through, the more faults you found in your appearance. Your thighs being squeezed by your shorts, which didn’t feel too tight but apparently were not as flattering as you thought. In one picture, you were sitting down on a bench, your legs over Rodrick’s lap, but you couldn’t stop staring at the roll of your stomach that came over the waistband of your shorts. You felt tears pricking your eyes, but you stubbornly refused to cry. You spent a long time trying to feel confident in yourself - you weren’t going to let that hard work be ruined by a few unflattering photos.
However, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way your body looked in those pictures. You got up to stand in front of your full length mirror, looking at the reflection critically. You were craning your neck to look at your butt when you heard a soft tap-tap-tap at the window. You jumped about 2 feet in the air before you realized it was just Rodrick, grinning from outside the window and placing a wet kiss on the glass, making you laugh. He made a grossed-out expression when he realized the glass was not as clean as he thought it was, wiping his tongue on the back of his hand.
“I swear to God, you’re like a toddler. Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to lick random surfaces?” you asked as you opened the window to let him in. He folded himself gracefully through the window, all long limbs and messy hair. You felt both comforted and electrified in his presence.
“Since when have I ever listened to any authority figure?” Rodrick asked, grinning wolfishly and leaning down to kiss you softly, juxtaposing his rebellious tone. For someone with such a seemingly hard exterior, Rodrick was always very gentle and sweet with you. It was one of the things you loved most about him - he seemed to hate everyone but you. It made you feel special and appreciated.
As he pulled back from the kiss, he frowned, stroking his thumb over your cheek. “Have you been crying? Your eyes are red,” he said, making a pouty face. You shrugged, turning away and shaking your head.
“No, just allergies probably.”
Rodrick scoffed, “Sure, allergies. You’re a bad liar, you know that?”
You refused to look at him, instead going to your record player and flipping through the vinyls you had stacked in a black milk-crate. “I’m not a bad liar,” you said half-heartedly, not really able to come up with any other excuse.
“You totally are, you avoided eye contact and everything. Seriously, what's wrong? Do you not like the bear?” Rodrick asked. You felt his arms wrap around your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his nose tucked into the crook of your neck. You felt yourself smile despite your bad mood.
“No, I love the bear. I named him Sasha Bear-on Cohen. Get it?” you said, turning your head to place a kiss on his cheek.
“Ahh, a-very nice,” Rodrick replied in his best Borat impression. You giggled. He gave you a squeeze, hands warm on your waist, but the sensation made you self-conscious about your body again, and you wiggled away. You couldn’t understand how Rodrick could bear to touch you. You had no idea why he was attracted to you in the first place. It made tears spring to your eyes again, and you sniffled.
“Y/n”, Rodrick said softly, looking genuinely concerned. “I know you. You don’t get sad for no reason - unless you’re on your period, or you start thinking too much about the Mars Curiosity Rover.”
You sighed, but you knew he had a point. It took you a minute to get your thoughts into words before you spoke.
“I just... I know its silly. But those pictures - you look like a Hot Topic wet dream and I look... I don’t know. I just don’t like the way I look. And most of the time I don’t let it bother me - at least, I try - but I hate having my picture taken because whenever I see them, all I can see is the things I hate about myself. So. Yeah.”
You feel the tears making steady rivers down your cheeks, and your voice shakes as you speak. Rodrick listens attentively, sitting on the foot of your bed. He pats the space next to him, and you sit down. His hand rests on your leg - not constraining you or placating you with a hug, just letting you know he’s there.
“Y/n, I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding like a giant cheese-ball, but... holy fuck. You are so beautiful. I - every time I look at you all I can think is goddamn, I can’t believe she’s into a loser like me. And don’t argue, it’s just a fact,” he says quickly as you try to defend him from his own self-deprecation.
“I’m not good with words... I’m more of a man of action, y’know?” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You smack him on the arm, but his silly expression still makes you smile.
“But, I can still tell you - and don’t repeat this to anyone ever because I’ll never live it down - you give me butterflies. Every time. No matter if you’re in pajamas or a ballgown. You make me feel like a stack of pancakes with warm butter and syrup,” he pauses as you laugh, his warm brown eyes gazing into yours. “Just... I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point. You make my bones feel funny. That’s how beautiful you are.”
Rodrick finally wraps his arms around you. You let yourself be folded into the embrace, feeling content and more than a little overwhelmed by his confession.
“Thank you,” you murmur, unable to find any other words at the moment. You want to say all of that back to him, ten-fold. You want to tell him he makes you feel like flashing concert lights and Fourth of July fireworks. But your mouth can’t make the words, so you just wrap your arms around him tighter.
“Do you want me to spend the night?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple. You simply nod, already moving up the bed and pulling back the covers as Rodrick goes to turn out the lights.
In the dark of the room, only illuminated by the street-lamp outside your house, Rodrick looks very alien - all long lines and lean angles. It makes your heart-rate kick up again, and you feel a blush form on your cheeks. It’s not as though this is the first time you’ve slept in the same bed, or even been intimate, but this feels... different.
Rodrick tucks himself in next to you on your bed - it’s a queen size, so it fits both of you well enough that you could sleep together not touching if you wanted to. But Rodrick is a big cuddler at heart, even if he would deny it to his grave. He wraps his arms around your waist as you lay your head on his chest, already being lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You feel like it’s important to tell him before you both lose the tenderness of the moment, so you finally open your mouth to speak.
“I’m so lucky. I know you think you’re... a loser, or whatever but, Rodrick. You aren’t. You are so beyond cool, and brave, and courageous. Thinking about you makes my head spin. And whenever I see you... I’m home.” You trail off, feeling awkward, but Rodrick simply tightens his arms around you, stroking your back with his fingers.
“If I knew we were getting this sentimental I wouldn’t have brought lube... and maybe a few tissues,” he snickers, and you pinch his nipple, causing him to squeal.
“Jerk.”
“Bitch,” he teases back, and you sigh softly, feeling your body and mind relax. You had almost completely forgotten about the pictures - and at this point, you didn’t really care. The pictures didn’t speak. The only voice telling you that you weren’t beautiful was the one inside your head, and it could definitely be a bitch sometimes.
You could’ve imagined it, but as your brain was finally shutting down, you could’ve sworn you heard Rodrick start to sing, “you are my sunshine... my only sunshine...”
“you make me happy... when skies are gray...”
“you’ll never know, dear, how much i love you...”
“please don’t take my sunshine away...”
#devon bostick#rodrick heffley#rodrick heffley x reader#rodrick heffley fanfiction#rodrick heffley fanfic#fanfic#fanfiction#comfort fanfiction#comfort fanfic#hurt fanfiction#hurt fanfic#hurt/comfort fanfic#Diary of a Wimpy Kid
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KARLNAPITY FICLET
because i love these three + they deserve a happy ending :D i listened to agnes by the glass animals while writing this so if you wanna do that too go ahead !!
disclaimer: this is set in the smp and is about the characters ,, quackity doesn’t like being shipped with his friends irl so i would never do that, same goes for sapnap + karl !! :]
warnings: i don’t think there are any !!
“I’m in love,” Sapnap tells Karl excitedly one day, flopping down beside him on the couch and turning to him earnestly, “head over heels.”
Karl tries not to laugh. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sapnap nods gravely. “With the prettiest man on the planet.”
“Tell me about him,” Karl teases, kicking his legs up over Sapnap’s lap and ignoring his feigned grumbles, “what’s he like? He sounds awesome.”
“Oh, he is. You haven’t ever seen a guy like him, Karl, trust me. He’s got this cute face you just want to kiss and he has the prettiest eyes and he does this thing where he gets all excited about something and starts rambling about it. I could listen to him talk for hours about anything.”
It’s hard to fight back a blush. Karl knocks his knee against Sapnap’s leg, lost for words. “...He sounds like a pretty lucky guy,” he says softly, “to have someone as sweet as you caring for him.”
Sapnap smiles at him, simple, earnest. “I think we’re both lucky.”
“Quackity!” Quackity says dramatically as he emerges from the next room, looking incredibly affronted. “I’m in love with the fucking hottest guy ever.”
Before Karl or Sapnap can reply, Quackity answers himself, putting on a higher pitched voice.
“Oh my God, really? What’s he like, Quackity?” He drops his voice again, draping himself over the couch with a sigh. “Well, Quackity, I am so glad you asked. He’s so smart and intelligent and pretty. Way prettier than any other man in the world. He’s a fucking lawyer and he’s building a casino so he’s so cool too. And he has a hot piece of ass, too. Did I mention he was pretty?”
“I think you might have mentioned that,” Sapnap smirks, but Karl gasps, hands flying to his mouth.
“Wait! I think I know who you’re talking about, Q!”
Quackity looks delighted, smugly shooting him a grin. “Oh yeah? Describe how good looking he is on a scale from one to ten.”
“Hm..” Karl hums, feigning confusion. “I dunno. I’d say like a seven, but-”
“A what.”
“-I think his most defining trait is being really dumb.”
His fiancé stares at him, expression flat. “You take that back right now, Karl Jacobs.”
Karl giggles, nervously. “Or what?” He dares.
Sapnap bursts into laughter when Quackity bursts into loud, noisy tears, turning his face away dramatically and burying it in the couch.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Karl!” Quackity wails. “You’re so fucking mean to me every day, every single time I try to be romantic-”
“Romantic? You were talking about yourself, not me or Karl, you ass-”
“Every single time I try to be romantic, you fuck it up!”
Karl grins, scooping Quackity towards him and depositing him between Sapnap and himself on the couch. “You’re such a big baby,” he says fondly, “quit whining.”
Quackity stops his tears the moment he’s included, grinning smugly. “Go make me breakfast, Sapnap. Me and Karl are busy.”
Sapnap scowls. “I know damn well you didn’t just give me an order to make breakfast.”
“I want breakfast!” Quackity bats his eyelashes. “Don’t you loooove me?”
“Not with that fucking attitude-”
“Sapnap! You’re such an asshole, I hate you, I hate you, I’ll start crying-”
“I’ll start crying, then-”
Karl turns away to hide his laughter, tears in his eyes. “Look, look, I’ll go and make breakfast,” he grins, getting to his feet, “I’ll do it, if you’ll both stop complaining.”
“Karlos, el amor de mi vida-”
“Q, I swear to God…” Stifling the urge to swat him, Karl gets up with an amused sigh, heading into the kitchen and humming a tune he’d heard Sapnap sing last night. They’d had a karaoke session, impromptu, as was everything they did, with Quackity playing and Sapnap singing and Karl watching, so painfully in love with the two men in his house. Their house. His heart still skips a beat thinking about it. He’s not alone anymore - he’s not struggling to catch up with things, he’s not flitting between Manburg and Pogtopia in an attempt to find someone who cares - he’s at home, with people he loves and in a place he loves. He’s home.
The kitchen is cold and colder still on his bare feet. Shivering and wrapping his arms around him, Karl sticks toast in the toaster, jumping up to sit on the counter to wait—
—And stumbles, losing his balance in a dusty hall. His head spins, reeling from the sudden jump through time, and he has to steady himself against the wall, breathing heavy. Where is he?
More accurately, when is he?
Before he sets off down the hall to explore, he gets a vague sense of distress. He should be somewhere else right now, he thinks, with another person. With two people. Shutting his eyes and frowning, he does his best to conjure up a picture of what he’d been doing just before the time travel.
He gets nothing, and shrugs it off.
It had probably been nothing important anyway.
#> my writing !!#karlnapity#dream smp#dream smp fic#karlnapity fic#karl jacobs#tales from the smp#tales from the smp fic#quackity#sapnap#karlnap#karlity#sapity#angst#fluff#smp karl#smp sapnap#smp quackity
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Salvation, Damnation
My Masterlist
Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Heahmund&Reader (brother/sister relationship)
Summary: “Where the reader is Heahmund's sister (or some kind of close relative) and she ends up meeting Ivar, but while Heahmund's always seen her as quiet, shy and insecure, she finds Ivar attractive and starts hitting on him and openly flirting with him in front of any and everyone. Ivar notices that it bothers Heahmund, so he flirts with her back until they end up spending 1 on 1 time with each other (something cute and romantic) and he starts to genuinely like her.”
I am so sorry anon if I dissapointed you, this story got away from me.
Word Count: 3k
Warnings: Mentions of violence and death, nothing major. My awful attempt at masking my dislike for Heahmund. Horrible, horrible attempts at writing sexual tension. Subtle (and not so subtle) D/s dynamics. Implied sex. Implied bondage, and knife/blood kink. Nothing exactly explicit, but still.
A/N: I really need to put my foot down and write a meek reader character at some point, they always turn out being crazy or annoying little shits. Or both.
Also, alternate title to this: two switches try to out-dom one another for 3k words. Hope you enjoy!
Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss
Heahmund paces in front of you, head low and hand gripping tightly at his cross.
“You will be sent to Kent, I have friends there that can-…”
“No, I will not leave you.” You argue, to which your brother replies only with a sigh.
“I want you safe.”
“I will be safe with you, not surrounded by old men and priests somewhere in Engl-...”
“Can’t you see we are surrounded by enemies!?” Heahmund’s voice doesn’t rise, but it still makes you tremble, “We can’t afford to stay together.”
“Then why make that Viking take me from Lindsey? You put me in his grasp.”
“Lindsey won’t hold under English control for long,” He promises, voice almost a whisper though you can still hear the anger, the impotence, the fear bubbling beneath “It is too close to York. You’ve seen their army, they’ll…they’ll crush them all.”
“And yet you fight for them, for pagans.”
“I don’t have a choice,” His hands are warm on your arms, “But you do. I have to send you to Kent, I have to keep you alive.”
“Why would they kill me?”
“Punishment for a failure, maybe. Ivar knows he needs only to threaten your life to have me do his bidding.”
“And you think he’ll allow you to ship me away? The one thing that keeps you on a leash?” You shake your head, “Brother, this is madness.”
“I don’t care if he allows it,” Heahmund sentences, voice grave and certain. “Whatever punishment befalls on me, I shall endure.”
You shake your head again, and you want to fight back, argue, but you know that dead look in his eyes, you know that deadly stillness, that terrifying certainty.
And so you lower your eyes, and accept his words with a nod of your head.
He needn’t know you retrace each and every one of his steps, and undo his plans for sending you off to England. You will die before leaving your brother alone at the mercy of these heathens.
____
“Does your sister know how to play?” The Viking asks, moving a wooden piece on the board. Without missing a beat, he adds, “Or are nuns not allowed to learn chess?”
“She’s not a-…” Heahmund closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “She does.”
The Viking looks down at the board, and his expression twists into a mix of surprise and disapproval at your brother’s move.
“Hopefully better than you,” And it seems answering a question about you, acknowledging your presence, was a wrong move on your brother’s part. “Does she have a tongue?”
You keep your eyes on the pale ones of the youngest son of Ragnar.
“I do.” You reply slowly. The Viking only seems to grow more delighted with this little game of his.
“And you know who I am, don’t you, little dove?”
“There are more fun ways to make me say your name, you know.” You quip, and not even a thousand years of teachings of chastity and restraint could keep you from smiling when the Viking’s eyes widen, right before he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking…hungry.
The youngest son of Ragnar stands, using the table and then the crutch at his side to stand tall and walk towards you.
When your brother growls his name in warning, Ivar only laughs darkly, and continues approaching you until he towers over you, eyes dark and set on you.
“What would those ways be, little dove?” He reaches down, and hooks one finger on the rosary bracelet you wear, tugging on it and reminding you strikingly of bindings.
“Hands-on practice is much more…rewarding than lessons.”
“Hmm,” The Viking muses, eyes studying you with an intensity that should make you uncomfortable. He doesn’t release his hold on the rosary on your wrist, for a moment tugging on it harder and making it tighten on your skin like rope. He chuckles, “I like you. You are…interesting, for a Christian.”
“And you are…intriguing, for a Viking.”
Ivar the Boneless only huffs a laugh, but there’s still a spark of excitement in his gaze, of pride, of satisfaction.
He turns his head to the side, and addresses your brother, ordering him to leave.
Heahmund hesitates, of course he does, and his hand goes to the handle of his sword at his side. You hold your breath.
But after a moment, with the restrained anger of a dog brought to heel, the threat that he might take these Vikings and this kingdom down single-handedly if you are to come to harm written in his dark eyes; your brother takes his leave.
The Viking’s hand closes around your throat, and you only stare back at him with wide eyes as he corners you towards the wall. He is so close to you, with each breath you take you feel his armor against your own chest, you can discern every speck of blue in his eyes.
“What game are you playing?” He snarls, but you cannot find the words, your heart beating wildly in your chest and the blood in your veins singing with fear and something else. “Answer me!”
“I am not playing anything!”
“I don’t believe you,” He snarls without hesitation, lips curved into what looks like a beast threatening to attack. The hand on your neck moves up, cupping your jaw roughly and moving your head to the side. You feel his breath on your neck as he speaks again, quieter, “I don’t like being lied to.”
“I am not lying, you brute. Now get your hand off me.”
“Or what?”
Your eyes widen, but something in your blood sings at his defiance, something in his blue eyes as he dares you makes your heart quicken.
“What?”
“You heard me, little dove. What will you do, if I don’t do as you say?”
You are pushed against a wall in some Viking kingdom, with the most feared Viking alive holding you by the throat, and yet you smile at him.
You reach up with your hand, and, the same way he did earlier to you, you hook a finger on the metal arm-ring on his wrist, and tug, hard enough he feels the strain of the makeshift binding.
“Why don’t you do as I say?” You prompt sweetly, “I prefer rewarding to punishing, I have too soft a heart.”
Ivar’s lips part at your words, and naked want is written in his face. It is barely a moment, where the mask slips, the game grants you a victory, and you see him feeling the siren call of giving in.
Still, slowly his lips curve into a sinister smile, and he leans even closer.
“I don’t.” He promises by your ear, what you could swear is the scrap of teeth against the shell of your ear before he lets you go.
You stay there, back against the wall, trying to regain your breath, regain your control, as you watch him walk out of the room.
It is an easy, fun game to play, this push and pull you engage on with the Viking. Circling one another over and over, taunting one another, testing one another; waiting for the other to pounce or retreat.
You know on your end there’s more than pretense and empty words, and you dare think on his end it’s the same.
It is fun, and thrilling and liberating; and you soon find yourself enthralled by the Viking and his captivating voice, his depthless eyes that give so much away.
You know it is wrong, you know it is sinful and awful, you know no Christian would speak, wish, dream, of such things, much less with a heathen of all men.
But, at the end, you were never a very good Christian.
And so, much to your brother’s horror, you grow closer and closer to the Viking. In between the games you both play, in between the taunts and the defiance, grows what you dare call a comfortable intimacy, an understanding of one another.
It doesn’t hurt your cause that Heahmund cannot even dream of taking you right from under Ivar’s nose now, send you off to England so you can be safe, but alone.
____
A sharp tug on the rosary on your wrist draws your attention to Ivar, and you turn to him with questions written in your eyes.
“We will sail for Vestfold in two days,” He tells you, smiling slightly when you make a point of wrenching your wrist, your bracelet, from his grasp. “Will you be coming with us?”
“Are you asking me to?”
“If I were, what would you say?”
You offer only a smile, partly exasperated and partly enthralled.
Heahmund stands up from his place in the table in front of you, and with a grunt of your name stalks away, to a place of relative privacy. You notice Ivar’s eyes following your brother’s retreating back with what strikes you as suspicion, as disdain, and so you hurry to follow Heahmund.
He runs a hand through short dark hair, and shakes his head as if to try and dispel himself of his anger.
“What on God’s name are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything,” You reply innocently, before your eyes find those of the son of Ragnar across the room. A thrill runs through your spine when you find he was already looking at you. “He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”
“Are you mad!?” Heahmund says lowly, in that way of his of yelling at you with a whisper. His brows furrow, “My sweet sister wo-…”
“Your sweet sister refuses to be shipped off to England, Heahmund,” You finish for him, “I would have believed you knew better than to expect me to leave you behind.”
“You put yourself at the mercy of Ivar the Boneless! That monster has none!”
You hear the Viking call your name from across the room, and even if you didn’t have a point to prove, you know you’d answer the call.
“I bought us -you- time, if anything.” You tell your brother, before you go off to sit at Ivar’s side.
____
The Viking King he takes you to meet -Harald, you remind yourself- is a strange character. A man that makes a strange thrill of disgust and fear run down your spine.
You don’t miss the implication of Ivar’s display. While your brother is brought in chains and forced to kneel at Harald’s feet, you remain standing at the Viking’s side, Ivar’s hold on the rosary bracelet you wear for once not the promise of thrill, of lust, but a silent oath of protection.
You awaken in the dead of night to the soft sound of knuckles rasping against your door. You hold on tight to the dagger in your hand, even though you know if any of these men wanted you dead you would be so.
Ivar stands at the other side of it, and it steals the breath from your lungs, the words from your lips.
Still, you let him in, and watch with wide eyes as he takes a seat on a low settee near your bed.
“Doesn’t it scare you? To be all alone with a heathen?”
You shrug, and find your voice again,
“If I were to fear, it would be for being all alone with a murderer, with a warrior. Not a pagan.”
“And why is that?”
You study him in silence for a few moments, before offering, “I am not my brother, I don’t share his…conviction.”
“His faith.”
“His fervor,” You correct, before sighing, “Maybe it will damn me for eternity, but…I ought to fear you, to hate you, for the things you have done and the things you will do, not the Gods you follow.”
“And do you?” The Viking asks, and your eyes narrow at his question. After a breath, eyes searching yours, he presses, “Hate me.”
“You care about some nun’s scorn?”
“You definitely aren’t a nun,” He offers, the hint of an amused smile on his lips, “And you are…fascinating, I’d like to know if you despise me.”
“I don’t,” At his strange expression, you press, “You’re disappointed?”
Ivar shrugs, head moving side to side as his mouth curves downwards, indecisive.
“I don’t know. There is something to be said about a poor Christian nun at the hands of a Viking; fearing, fighting, resisting.”
His words, the images they conjure up in your head, make a thrill run down your spine, a rush of heat settle low on your stomach. You lick your lips, and because you cannot help yourself, you offer a counteroffer,
“There’s also something to be said about a Viking at the mercy of a wayward Christian. Makes one wonder what it takes to have him…cave, obey, beg.”
Ivar laughs, shaking his head, “I’d like to see you try, little dove.”
There’s no mistaking the darkening of his gaze, the quickened breaths, the hunger in his expression, though. He wants it as much as you do, he craves control as much as he craves surrendering it.
You cross your legs and try focusing on the matter at hand.
“But you didn’t come here to talk…hypotheticals, did you?”
Ivar sobers, and you could swear he grits his teeth as he toys with the crutch on his hand.
“Harald promised us support. We will march for Kattegat soon.”
“I don’t have my brother’s strategic mind, I’m afraid,” You offer when he stays quiet. “I fear I won’t be of much help.”
“Lagertha could be dead, in a matter of weeks. I could…I could finally kill her.” He confesses, eyes falling from yours, and there’s the clear tell of anger in his expression. Anger at what you are sure he considers weakness, anger at having you be a witness to it.
“That is what you want, is it not?”
“To you Christians…my people are monsters, are we not?”
“You honor your Gods with blood, you value death over life, you pillage and burn and conquer. Of course my countrymen think that, of course they fear you.”
“Do you think I’m a monster, little dove?” Ivar asks you, taking you aback. If you weren’t so used to him, if you weren’t so familiar with the tones of his voice, with the subtle tells in his expression; you’d think he’s daring you.
You wouldn’t have believed, months ago, when he barged into Lindsey with an army at his back trying to find Bishop Heahmund’s sister, that one day you’d be sitting on front of Ivar the Boneless and see his eyes shining with hesitation, with vulnerability, with fear.
The answer you can offer is a smile, and a shake of your head. The answer he demands is the bruising kiss he presses against your lips, is the breath he steals from your lungs.
____
For all the ruckus planning a battle implies, for all the chaos that comes before a siege, for all the months of war talks and battle plans; the battle for Kattegat sneaks up on you.
On your happiness. On your sin.
Ivar presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, eyeing the marks of rope on your skin with careful eyes. You only watch him, sated and tranquil and at peace; letting him make inventory of the marks, of the evidence of your surrender.
“Tomorrow we will march,” He tells you quietly, rough fingers still circling your wrist delicately. “Kattegat could be mine in days.”
You hum an agreement, and stretch. Because you cannot help it, you burrow into him, your face hidden at the crook of his neck, and trace your own marks on his skin, the evidence of his surrender.
The faint cuts of a knife are still visible in his chest, and when you trace your fingers over them, Ivar shudders. You smile.
“Ivar the Boneless,” You whisper against his skin, before you give in and press a soft kiss over a darkening bite mark on his shoulder. “King of Kattegat.”
He huffs a breath that could have been an amused chuckle.
“When it is all done, I…I will send your brother to York.”
Your heart drops to your stomach, and your breath shudders past your lips.
“York?”
“To defend us from some Danes that threaten it with capture. He won’t fight Christians, you have my word.
But that isn’t what made you freeze under his touch, and he knows it. Ivar swallows, and returns his gaze to the ceiling.
His hand tightens on your wrist, before he takes a deep breath.
“I want you to stay with me,” He confesses, not looking at you. “I want you at my side, I…I want to make you Queen of Kattegat.”
Your eyes widen, and you lean back, even though he doesn’t release your wrist.
“Ivar…”
“I’ll release Heahmund from his vow, he will be free, and safe. You…if you want, we can marry before your God after we marry before mine,” He promises, rushed and anxious. You realize he’s giving you reasons to say yes, as if you didn’t have enough of those written in his gaze, in his burning touch, in the marks that litter both your bodies. “I-…
You lean in, and kiss him. It has always been surprisingly useful in getting him to stop thinking, to stop talking; and you realize when he presses back against your lips with a soft sound, when his hand tangles in your hair and he brings you closer, that it continues to be so.
When you part, his eyes open slowly, and when they meet yours you see in them that emotion neither of you has been brave enough to admit yet.
“Marry me.” He whispers.
You press your brow to his with a breathed laugh, happy and mad and warm.
“Yes,” You reply, voice hushed, eyes shining. You steal a kiss from his lips, and another one when he continues to stare up at you, surprise and awe and hope written in his pale eyes. “I love you, Ivar.”
His eyes search yours, looking for the lie, for the mirage. When he finds none, Ivar smiles, wide and hopeful and happy.
“I love you, little dove.”
That night, he promises his love between fervent kisses, brands it against your skin in the mark of his fingers on your hips. That night, he demands your love with whispers of your name, steals it from your lungs in the air he robs you of with skillful fingers and tongue.
____
Soooooo, whaddya think?
Ik I need to write smut at some point, but I’m too much of a coward atm. At some point I will, and mark my words, I will return to this one shot.
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it!! Love you!
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Untethered
Mountains – Hans Zimmer
When he was young, Xie Lian despised being out at sea. He would often get seasick by the steady back-and-forth rocking of the ship. The saltiness of the air and feverish heat from the sun didn’t help, so young Xie Lian would stay cooped up in his cabin below deck, holding his nauseated stomach.
The royal family frequently traveled across the oceans to maintain strong relationships with allied kingdoms. Therefore, Xie Lian wasn’t spared from the dreadful sailing trips. He eventually got used to the long days on the water without worrying himself ill, though it took many restless days and nights distracting himself from the surrounding stretches of blue that went on for ages.
Now, Xie Lian barely notices the subtle bobbing of the ship’s movements, cradled by the natural currents passing through. It’s not exactly peaceful, per se, but a mere constant that he welcomes with a numb mind. Currently sat at the vanity inside his chamber, still on the lower deck, Xie Lian stares wordlessly into the mirror, the intricate embellishments around the frame creating an illusion of warped vines and limbs.
His reflection blinks back tiredly, mouth set into an unhappy frown.
If his mother and father were to see him now, their disapproval would twist Xie Lian’s insides until the corners of his lips lifted to resemble a perfect smile. After all, princes must be charming and cordial, self-assured and righteous. Being anything less than an utmost pleasure to the public’s eye was unacceptable.
Until the day he weds, that is. After that, his behavior is expected to change to best accommodate his wife and the promise of children, his kingdom’s prosperity, and a long, honorable life. This was Xie Lian’s pre-conceived future, one that he had accepted years ago, but which felt like lifetimes away.
Alas, time waits for no one. Only one month prior had Xie Lian’s father informed him of his arranged engagement to a princess from a faraway kingdom.
***
“Father, I’m not ready,” Xie Lian pled, kneeling in front of the king, who sat on his throne in the private hall.
“Nonsense! You are beyond ready,” his father declared resolutely. “We cannot put training above your marriage any longer. A twenty-five-year-old prince with no spouse is a disgrace itself.”
Before Xie Lian could respond, the queen jumped in with words of her own.
“Your father is right, honey. It’s time you get a wife and begin the next chapter of your life. Don’t you want that?” she asks, placing her hand atop her husband’s, giving it a small squeeze.
It’s an indirect question: “Don’t you want to make us proud?”
Xie Lian trained his eyes on their feet so they wouldn’t see the devastation brewing within his irises. Appealing to the Xianle people, he could do. Taking on various studies to become the top educated prince, he could do. Practicing gratitude, discipline, and heavenly worship, Xie Lian could do.
But to be in a loveless marriage...a part of Xie Lian would die through a union of duty. While Xie Lian could wed a wonderful princess with the kindest soul and most clever mind, he would never come to love her. Not like a husband should love a wife.
That’s what saddened him the most. Xie Lian would end up locking him and his wife in superficial wedlock with the responsibilities for both kingdoms weighing down on their shoulders. Despite that this was how most arranged marriages went, Xie Lian knew that he ultimately wouldn’t be able to give his wife what she needed.
But his parents would hear none of it.
“You will set sail to the South to retrieve your soon-to-be-wife, as it is not appropriate for a princess to travel the seas by herself. Do you understand, son?” The king questioned with a tone of finality.
Xie Lian didn’t hesitate in lowering his head in acceptance, a quiet “Yes, father,” slipping effortlessly from his lips.
In those fifteen minutes, Xie Lian had sealed his fate in a path he did not choose.
***
Long hair. Pale foundation. Gem-stoned earrings. Satin robes.
Xie Lian scrutinizes his image in the mirror, dissatisfied, even though this presentation was well-acknowledged among commoners, nobility, and royalty alike. Someone once told him what mattered is not the state of oneself, but simply living as oneself. To be true. To be real. The feelings of guilt and shame arise when an outsider judges one’s surface, and to directly quote this person, “Who gives them the right to determine your worth?”
Regardless, Xie Lian was born into this life. He lives per the demands of others, and in return, he receives their love. Craning his head around, Xie Lian observes his fully furnished cabin for the thousandth time. Clothes of the finest fabrics hang from inside his closet, vivid blues and rich purples a stark contrast to the plain, white robes Xie Lian currently wears. There are antiques and collectibles from around the world, offered as tributes from people of all places. Not that Xie Lian has any use for them other than admiring such detailed craftsmanship.
His gaze sweeps over the bundle of books crammed into a sturdy, bamboo bookshelf. The queen had insisted Xie Lian take them on his journey to pass time by while still being productive. On top of the shelf sits the basket of his favorite snacks a fellow friend, Shi Qingxuan, had sent him with. Finally, in a large glass case tucked next to his bed, a magnificent sword lies strapped on a velvet cushion. It was a gift from the king when Xie Lian turned ten years old–a weapon to be treasured until the prince could properly handle its size and weight.
With a detached sigh, Xie Lian turns back to his vanity, now taking in the numerous beauty products, calligraphy brushes, and jewelry. His fingers find a gold ring with a dozen diamond-encrusted ornaments in the middle. Holding it up to the mirror, Xie Lian carefully slides the ring onto his ring finger, flipping his palm away to gauge the visual of wearing the ring.
It looks stunning.
But it feels wrong.
Xie Lian quickly slips the ring off, shoving it back into the small box. Looking back into the spotless mirror, the prince practices smiling as if it were his wedding day. But the harder he tries, the tighter his teeth clench and the more his throat clogs up. Xie Lian shakily exhales, shaking his head as he gives up.
For now.
Unconsciously, Xie Lian touches his hair, his earrings, his neck leading down to the parted collar of his robes, getting more frantic as his fingers rub along each area. The frame of the mirror constricts his reflection, and the wealth Xie Lian adorns as a representation of his character feels awful. It’s suffocating, but for some reason, Xie Lian’s breath quickens, his heartbeat speeding up at an ungodly rate.
The ship suddenly jerks sideways, startling Xie Lian as he flinches in his seat. When the ship tips the other way, he knows something is wrong.
On cue, a series of hasty knocks sound on the prince’s cabin door. Xie Lian allows his features to relax into a dejected expression before he stands up and opens the door. Two royal guards greet him with panic-stricken faces.
“My prince, our ship is under attack,” one of them informs, bowing his head in respect. “We advise you do not come out of your chambers until we rid the ship of all threats.”
“I see,” Xie Lian mumbles softly, bowing his head in return, even though he’s of a much higher status than his guards. Nevertheless, they are the ones who dedicate their lives to ensure his well-being. “Who has invaded our ship?”
Both guards share a nervous look, then turn toward their prince with a newfound urgency.
“Crimson Rain,” the second guard says gravely. Xie Lian’s breath stutters at the title, and his hands ball into twin fists. He still feels the phantom pressure of the ring on his finger.
“Do not worry, Prince Xianle. We will take care of those scoundrels. For now, keep your door locked. Don’t come out until we say it’s safe,” the first guard rushes out.
They bow once more, but Xie Lian barely processes their words. He only manages a weak, “Please be careful,” before turning around and shutting the door.
Xie Lian goes back to his vanity but doesn’t sit down. Instead, he prepares himself for battle, switching his fancy robes for lighter, tighter-fitting attire suitable for fighting. Next, he ties his hair back, keeping his signature white ribbon by wrapping it around the top bun. Xie Lian finds the most worn-out pair of boots he has, lacing them up mindlessly.
When he stands in front of the mirror, Xie Lian looks like a completely different person. Though his face remains smooth and his complexion flawless, the rest of his appearance renders him aggressive and even lethal.
He relishes this image.
Xie Lian waits a few more minutes for extra measure, then takes out the sword he’s had since he was ten years old, now able to put it to good use once again. Xie Lian pushes his cabin door open and walks directly out into a morbid battlefield brewing with danger and destruction.
《II》
#tgcf#heaven offical's blessing#hualian#hualian au#xie lian#hua cheng#pirate & prince au#TBC#cerdrabbles#tian guan ci fu
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yak who this is 😘 So ani and reader are undercover on a mission, and there’s some mutual pining, and they have to play a couple for this and i’ll let you decide from there
I AM SO SORRY THAT THIS HAS SIT HERE FOR AS LONG AS IT HAS.
It’s also like 4000 words for which I offer up no apologies.
No warnings apply. @workitholland
“The two of you will be sent to Corellia,” Mace Windu said without room for argument.
“Spy on the locals, you shall. Learn about the secret ship trading, you must,” Master Yoda said gravely.
You cast a glimpse towards the Jedi Knight beside you. “If we are to spy, we cannot be seen as Jedi, I’m assuming.”
“No, you are not,” Mace replied, folding his arms.
“Undercover, you shall go. The cover story, up to you it is. Find the information, you must. Details, we need not ask for,” Master Yoda said.
The Council stared at you in silence for a moment.
“I know this goes without saying, but your mission is secret. Tell no one,” Mace said in a serious tone.
“Yes, Masters,” you replied, bowing politely before excusing yourself from the room along with your new partner.
You studied him as you exited the room, remembering how close you had been as padawans, having drifted since the war started and put you on different paths. That didn’t mean you hadn’t kept up with the man’s lucrative career. He was a Holonet star in his own right by now, a fact that was not lost on you.
“How are we going to go about this, Master Skywalker?” you asked, turning a keen eye on him.
He seemed to wither under your scrutiny for a moment before regaining his bravado, “You mean our cover stories?”
“We could be siblings,” you proffered.
“Or lovers,” he said with a sly smirk. “We could be on Corellia for our honeymoon.”
“It isn’t a very romantic destination,” you replied. “Pirates and thugs everywhere.”
“Romance can happen under any conditions,” he replied as he got to the transport that the Council had prepared for you.
“Very well,” you sighed, but you couldn’t help the slight tinge of blush on your cheeks.
The two of you made your way up into the craft, settling in to pilot it. In order to remove suspicion, you were to make a series of jumps instead of flying straight from Coruscant. While in hyperspace, you found civilian clothes and changed. It felt strange to be out of your robes. They were as much a part of you as your lightsaber in a way, an outward expression of your devotion to the order. Looking in the mirror, you turned this way and that trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness you felt.
“You don’t look as bad as you think you do,” Anakin said.
You jumped at the sound of his voice, turning to see him leaning against the doorway behind you. “That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t always wear the robes.”
“No, but I find that the robes sometimes strip us of our individuality,” he replied, coming over to stand behind you. Gently he turned you back towards the mirror, resting a hand on your shoulders, “It downplays beauty and handsomeness in order to safeguard against pride. There is nothing wrong with the way you look.”
Meeting his eyes in the mirror, the moment felt charged. His hands on your bare shoulders were hot, making you wish for the layers of your robes to protect you from the intimacy of it all. “How long before we land?”
“We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace soon,” he replied, dropping his hands from your shoulders. “From there it’ll just be a short while until we touch down in the capital.”
You nodded, “Aren’t I lucky to have a husband who is such a good pilot.”
A playful smirk flitted across his face at your teasing. “Listen, angel, your husband is not just good. He’s the best.”
“A change of clothes for you could never hide your pride,” you shot back with a chuckle.
Anakin shrugged, the smile dropping from his face at your remark as he thought about how many times he’d been chastised by Obi-Wan for saying such things, “Many have tried.”
You watched as he walked out of the room, taking one last look at yourself in the mirror before joining him just as the ship dropped out of hyperspace.
The space in front of the planet was cluttered with ships.
“It’s almost as if they have a battle of their own,” you murmured as Anakin guided the craft through shipping lanes.
“It’s one of the busier ports in the galaxy. The fact that it’s also responsible for building a lot of ships probably doesn’t help the clutter,” he explained as he took the ship into the atmosphere.
You’d never been to Corellia before, and therefore didn’t know what to expect. It was as if there were a little bit of everywhere in the galaxy on one planet, visually. Having spent most of your time on Coruscant while you were growing up, it still felt odd to see cities that sprawled out instead of up.
As if it were almost second nature to him, Anakin gracefully landed the ship in a busy space port.
“Are you sure its safe to leave the ship here?” you asked as you glanced around at some seedy people eyeing up your ship.
“Well, unless you have a better idea,” he shot back as he got out of his chair.
A grimace settled on your face. “Just.... lock the ship up after we leave.”
Anakin rolled his eyes as the two of you left the ship and went towards town.
Your senses were overwhelmed when you stepped out onto the busy street. There were so many sights, smells, and sounds, not to mention people bustling and jostling you every which way. Anakin reached out to take your hand when the crowd started to separate the two of you.
“Stay close,” he said. “I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
“R-right,” you stammered as you felt how warm and safe his hand felt around yours. “We should find lodgings.”
Anakin nodded and started to tug you down the street towards an inn. You were lucky enough that they had one room left. As you settled in for a meal, the two of you listened closely to the discussions around you.
“The group in the corner,” you murmured.
“What about them?” Anakin asked, tilting his eating utensil slightly to see the group in the silver.
“They’re pirates, talking about smuggling crafts. I heard them when I passed by earlier to use the refresher,” you murmured. “They also mentioned a race. It’s a front. The Hutt who sponsors the race takes possession of the winner. The fastest racer is then given a new ship and told to fly to a neighboring planet for a race that never happens. The pirates intercept the ship and sell it on the black market and the racers are never heard from again. The Hutt tells the people that they left Corellia to race in better places and were killed in a racing accident.”
Anakin’s eyes squinted as he studied them, “How often does this happen?”
“Once a year,” you replied, taking a sip of your soup. “If they did it any more often, they’d get suspicious.”
“And I’m assuming the ship the winner receives is whatever the latest model is from the shops,” Anakin murmured darkly.
“With the newest technology,” you replied. “Presumably it’s then sold to rival manufacturers who take the secrets and make their own versions. The Hutt is then sold the new ships at a cheaper price than what the Corellians would have charged, as well as given a bit of a bonus as a thank you for doing business.”
“Intellectual property theft isn’t exactly a crime we concern ourselves with,” he said thoughtfully.
“It is when the ships are currently being sold to the Separatists,” you shot back.
“When’s the race?” Anakin asked in amusement.
“Tomorrow,” you replied. “Why?”
“That should be enough time,” he said with a nod, getting up from the table.
“Enough time for what?” you asked incredulously.
He gave you a smile and a wink before leaving you alone at the table.
You sighed, “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”
After gulping down the rest of your soup, you rushed back to the room the two of you were sharing and gave your report to the council.
“Very good,” Mace said. “See if you can find out more information about this year’s model, that way we can hope to figure out what new advances the Separatists will have. Then come home.”
“Yes, Master,” you said, bowing as the call disconnected.
The early morning rays streamed in through the window. You’d missed your opportunity to sleep, and Anakin was still missing. You sat on the only bed in the room as you contemplated how you would go about finding that new information when Anakin returned.
“Why are you covered in grease?” you asked as he headed towards the refresher.
“I was working on a ship,” he shrugged.
“There’s nothing wrong with our ship,” you said, getting up to follow him.
“I said a ship, not our ship,” he replied as he started to strip in front of you.
You turned to the side to give him some privacy, your cheeks getting hot. “Anakin, what are you doing?”
“I can’t race without a ship,” he said as he stepped into the steamy column. “I can’t use ours in case it gets damaged.”
“You’re not racing, period,” you replied.
“I already paid the entrance fee,” he replied.
Your mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can win,” he shot back.
“That isn’t the point!” you replied with a groan before slamming the door shut and returning to your room.
Your feet were insistent as they paced back and forth along the room waiting for him to come back out. When he finally emerged, you were all roiled up.
“Anakin, you cannot race. I forbid it!” you said finally.
His eyes narrowed at you, “Oh, you forbid it? Well, then I guess I’ll just stay here!”
You scoffed. “It’s dangerous, not to mention it’s not part of the mission. You don’t have to do this.”
“It’s racing, of course I have to! I’ll be fine. I’m doing this,” he said, pointing at you, “and you... you’re not my actual spouse. You don’t get to decide this. ”
“Of course I’m not your actual spouse,” you shot back, “Like this farce of a relationship could actually work out in the real world. You’re too impulsive and you don’t think about any of the consequences of your actions. Or who you hurt.”
“I don’t care what you think,” Anakin looked as though you had stricken him. “The race is in an hour. I don’t expect you to come, and I don’t need you to,” he mumbled before walking past you and out the door.
As the door closed behind him, your knees gave out and you sat on the bed. That burst of outrage was so unlike you, and in truth, you weren’t actually angry. You were worried. You held your head in your hands, unsure why you were so worried. Anakin was a great pilot. He was more than capable of handling himself, and yet you didn’t want him to race. Was it because it went against your mission’s directive? Or was it out of concern for his safety? Or... perhaps... you wondered softly, if it was something much deeper.
What you did know was that you couldn’t just sit in this room and not know what was happening. With a sigh, you went to the races. At the very least, perhaps you’d find out more about this new ship while you were there.
The crowd was charged as they waited for the race to begin. You scanned the line of racers to find Anakin, eventually catching sight of him towards the middle of the pack. Taking a steadying breath, you let yourself fade into the background. You were just an innocent bystander. Nothing to see, but unbeknownst to all, listening to everything.
Anakin tightened his hands on the controls, feeling a bit of anger bubble in his chest. At the root of it all, though, was hurt. Hurt that the one person who’s opinion mattered the most didn’t support him, didn’t believe in him. He looked out towards the crowd, hopelessly looking for you. When he found you hidden between some Wookies, a smile came to his face.
They came, he thought. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he turned his attention back to the race. The track wasn’t large, at least, not by Tatooine’s standards, but it was still formidable. He flexed his fingers as he waited for the countdown, connecting with his machine like he used to with his pod racer. The lights flashed as engines revved before finally, it was showtime.
Now this is pod racing, he thought as he shot out from the starting line.
You heard the people around you talking about the new ships, having entrenched yourself in a group of shipbuilders if their uniforms were to be believed. Soon enough, you knew everything you needed for the council. Turning your attention back to the race, you saw Anakin weaving dangerously in and out of the crowd of racers.
It was as if your feet moved on their own accord, running towards the boundary until you pressed flush against it, your eyes tracking every movement he made. Your hands tightened on the rail in anticipation when one racer cut him off and sent him into a tail spin.
Anakin quickly recovered, muttering Huttese under his breath as he course-corrected. His eyes found you and saw your nervous face. He sighed, feeling guilty at how upset he made you. He wanted to be the hero, the winner, to prove he could do it. But... he also knew what was more important: you. He didn’t have to prove anything to these people about his flying skills. He had to prove to you that he didn’t mean what he said earlier. He did care what you thought. So, he did something that shocked you. He threw the race.
As he pulled into the finish line, you hopped the barricade and ran towards him. Your arms encircled him and held him close. He crushed you back.
“You’re an idiot!” you said as tears of relief stung your eyes.
Anakin let his shoulders relax as he held you close. “I’m sorry.”
“I got the information we need,” you sniffed. “Let’s just go back and get some rest. Neither of us got any sleep last night.”
He slowly released you and followed you back to the inn.
You kicked off your shoes next to your bag and disarmed yourself before getting into bed as he walked towards the bathroom to freshen up.
Slipping into the sheets, you buried yourself under the blankets hoping to find a false sense of security, or at least a rationalization for your feelings. When Anakin had almost gotten hurt earlier, it felt as though your heart had dropped into your stomach. You should unpack that, but you couldn’t. Not right now, at least. Instead, your mind drifted to all the late nights the two of you shared as younglings, talking about your hopes and dreams. You remembered talking about what kind of Jedi you wanted to be. With a wistful sigh, you realized it was nothing like the Jedi the two of you had actually become.
The bed shifted softly behind you as a warm body slipped into it.
“Credit for your thoughts?” he murmured.
“How’d you know I was still awake?” you asked.
“I could feel your uncertainty from across the room. Anyone feeling like that isn’t sleeping,” he replied, propping up on his elbow and turning towards you.
You turned back, pleasantly shocked to find yourself staring at his bare chest. “You’re not wearing a shirt.”
“I get hot when I sleep,” he shrugged.
You swallowed and nodded, trying to settle your gaze anywhere but on the set of abs in front of you. “Do you ever think about what we wanted to be when we were younger and how we turned out?”
Anakin’s brow furrowed, “I was a slave and I dreamed of seeing the galaxy. I got my wish.”
“Not that young,” you said with a slight smile, reaching outs to smooth his brow. “Remember when we were padawans and we talked about what we wanted to do?”
“I remember you talking about how badly you wanted to work in the library with Master Nu and me calling you boring for not wanting a life of adventure,” he teased.
“Well, I doubt I’ll ever cease having adventures at this point,” you sighed.
“War changes a person,” he said solemnly.
“I don’t know if I’d ever be content to hide in the library again,” you admitted, “Not when I know everything that’s out there. All the pain... cruelty... things we should be working towards getting rid of.”
“You can’t save the galaxy,” he said sadly. “Sometimes you can’t even save one person.”
“Never hurts to try,” you replied, laying back down on your back.
He looked at you then, dragged his eyes down your face. Gently, he reached over to caress your cheek. “Is that what was keeping you up?”
You leaned into his touch, shutting your eyes. “No.” Keeping them closed, you murmured, “You’ve turned out to be remarkable.”
“I’ll try not to let it go to my head,” he teased.
Your eyes opened, “I’m serious. I always admired you when we were younger. You were, are-” you corrected- “fearless. You were never afraid of doing what you wanted. I wish I had that same instinct.”
Anakin swallowed, looking down at the space between the two of you. “If you could do what you wanted, what would you do?”
Your eyes trailed his naked chest before making their way up to his face. You took in the slight stubble from the long day he had had. Then, your fingers reached up to touch. He looked up at you through his lashes, blue eyes like the endless sky that made you feel like you were soaring within them, falling up into the heavens. Gently, you traced your forefinger down the pink flesh of a scar long healed. He sucked in a breath as you let the hand trail down his face. Your thumb settled in the divot of his chin as the rest of your fingers reached up to settle on his cheek. Feeling bold, you let your thumb slide up to run across his bottom lip as your eyes settled on them.
“If I were fearless,” you said, softly, barely above a whisper, “I would kiss you.”
Hesitantly, you brought your eyes up to meet his to find his searing gaze holding you in place. There was a torment behind his eyes as you dangled a forbidden possibility in front of him. Your heart clenched at having done this to him, having burdened him with the knowledge of your affections. It wasn’t your fault that you felt this way, and it certainly wasn’t his.
“Good night, Ani,” you murmured before letting your hand fall from his face and turning away from him.
“No,” he said shakily, sliding his arm around you to turn you back towards him.
“N-no?” you stammered in confusion.
“You don’t get to just say that and then turn away as if nothing has happened,” he said, feeling impassioned. “You can’t tell me how you feel, touch me as tenderly as you have, and then give me a cold shoulder to calm your own conscience. Not...”he trailed off, licking his lips, “not without giving me the chance to respond.”
You felt frozen in place, fearful of the rejection you were sure would be coming. The chosen one, Anakin Skywalker, surely could never want someone like you, could he? His victories inspired hope. He was the face of the Republic while Master Kenobi was the face of the Order. You were a nobody in comparison.
“I used to always be so tired when we were younger,” he explained, “but, I was also homesick, too homesick to sleep. I always felt so far behind all the other padawans because I hadn’t grown up in the Order, going so far as to train every night. Yet, everyone always treated me like I was above them, like I was untouchable because of what I was, not who I was. Everyone except you. Do you remember when we first met?”
“You were going through the basic lightsaber forms and I told you that your footwork was wrong,” you replied.
“And then you taught me the actual way to do things,” he replied. “You trained with me when no one else would approach me. You were one of my first friends.”
Friends. Your heart sank into a sadness of knowing that this was how it should be, and that you were foolish to get your hopes up.
“And then we drifted and I realized how much I missed you,” he added. “More than I’ve ever missed a friend. I’d see you across the Temple when were both there and I couldn’t meet your eyes because I knew I’d lose myself in them. You always think you can just slip into the background and hide from even yourself, but you don’t with me. You are all I can think about when life gets dark. You’re my light. When I think a battle is hopeless, I remember that I’d rather have you read about my victory instead of reading my name on the list of those who have fallen.”
You swallowed, turning your head away to hide the emotion in your eyes.
He reached out with the metal hand he so despised and tenderly turned you back to him. “Thoughts of you consume.”
In that moment, you came to the realization that the star that was Anakin Skywalker not only burned ever so brightly as to illuminate the entire galaxy, but that he burned for you.
Your mouth went dry.
“I’m not a hero without fear,” he admitted, “I have so many fears, but my biggest fear is losing you.”
Your eyes softened as you reached up to cup his cheek, “You’ll never lose me, Ani.”
He leaned into your touch, slowly closing his eyes to savor the moment, “But... I’m not afraid to do this,” he said before pulling you close. His lips pressed firmly to yours and you felt like your bodies were in tune with each other. You molded yourself into him, feeling the force flow freely between the two of you. All were connected through the force, but this rivaled anything you’d ever felt before. Electricity danced over your skin as his touch sent sparks down your spine. Your hands explored the flat planes of his chest, as his hands slipped up your arms, just as warm as earlier. His heat enveloped you as you lost yourself in him until you didn’t know where Anakin ended and you began. In the back of your mind, you knew that this wasn’t something you should be doing. This wasn’t the type of Jedi you should be, but it was the type of Jedi you had become.
War changes people.
The thought echoed in your head.
War reminds us what’s really important. War shows us what we are afraid to lose. War shows us how far from our ideals we’re willing to fall in order to win.
War shows us where love can be found, because the opposite of war is not peace.
The opposite of war is creation.
The opposite of war is love.
The trip back to the Temple was easy. Living with the knowledge of what had transpired on Corellia was not.
As you walked down the ramp, his hand brushed yours, barely holding it. The Council would be waiting for you in the tower spire looming above you. You’d debrief and then you’d be sent on your separate ways.
A small smile settled on your face as Anakin beamed like a god of the sun. His warmth radiated through you and you knew.
Physical difference wouldn’t alter the emotional closeness you’d found on Corellia. You would always be with each other.
#Anakin Skywalker#Anakin Skywalker x Reader#anakin skywalker x gender neutral reader#Anakin Skywalker x you#star wars#anakin imagine
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So I've been thinking about some CQL crossover ships for Xie Wang, and one of them is XieWang/Lan Xichen. Long post with headcanons under the cut.
Also, like. I guess all of these take place within a xianxia/cultivation universe? More high fantasy than the universe of SHL. And none of this is based on novel universe for either fandom--both are strictly SHL and CQL universes.
Xie Wang/Lan Xichen (aka Zewu-jun can have a murder boyfriend, as a treat.)
The Dynamic.
First off . . . there’s no age gap. Both of them are adults. I’m not sure how old either of them are exactly in their respective canons, but. I just want to make that clear.
Both have been deceived/manipulated by people they care about. Interpret it how you want to interpret it, but they gravely misunderstood one of the most important people in their lives and paid the price for it.
The, "No matter what you've done, I can't kill you" one is dating the "But I can!" one.
Also, like? Pipa and xiao jam sessions? Matching outfits? Sign me tf up.
The early stages.
I’m not sure how they would meet. Perhaps Xie Wang is on an undercover mission in Gusu. Meanwhile, Lan Xichen has finally left seclusion so that his brother can go on a honeymoon with the Yiling Laozu.
When Lan Xichen and Xie Wang meet, I think it would be nice for there to be instant attraction. This can be on a physical level, but also on an intellectual level. They both have silver tongues, are intuitive, and are excellent communicators. I think these two kings would recognize that in one another just after one interaction.
However, they don’t trust each other. Xie Wang is probably operating under some kind of alias. Lan Xichen is more guarded now. I’m sure he still wants to believe the best of people, but life has scarred him. He feels like Xie Wang may be hiding something. Xie Wang, meanwhile, thinks Lan Xichen is just “too good to be true.” Someone with such a peerless reputation must be corrupt on the inside. I mean, just look at the Venerated Triad and how they ended up. Could the only surviving sworn brother really be THAT good?
But as time goes on, they see more sides of each other. It gets harder and harder to believe the worst about the other person. Xie Wang probably falls first, and falls hard. He likes Lan Xichen’s balanced outlook on life, his willingness to overlook rumor and reputation and make his own judgments on a person’s character. In an unguarded moment, Lan Xichen might imply that this has been one of his flaws or weaknesses in the past. Xie Wang just smiles at him and says it’s a strength. (Lan Xichen’s heart flutters, but so what? He doesn’t feel like he can trust his heart yet.)
Anyway, back to Xie Wang. He is impressed by Lan Xichen’s acceptance of Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian--particularly considering Wei Wuxian’s less than pristine background. I think there is a lot of good material here for some intimate conversations in which Xie Wang asks Lan Xichen about his opinion of Wei Wuxian, but he’s not actually talking abou Wei Wuxian--he’s really asking about himself.
The ordeal of being Known.
Nevertheless, Xie Wang doesn’t completely trust Lan Xichen yet, and he’s terrified of what will happen when Lan Xichen finds out who he is, but . . . Xie Wang still cares about him. He enjoys Lan Xichen’s company. He craves Lan Xichen’s praise and attention, and resents anyone who tries to steal it away. He wants their time together to last as long as possible. And inevitably, he wants to do whatever he can to help Lan Xichen succeed in his goals. Which, to Xie Wang’s surprise, have less to do with personal gain and more to do with making a positive impact on the cultivation world. As more time passes, it gets harder and harder for Xie Wang to play it cool and hold his cards to his chest.
Lan Xichen is touched by Xie Wang’s earnesty, enthusiasm and loyalty. It softens his heart. He finds himself growing fond of Xie Wang’s company, looking forward to his visits, indulging in conversations about music and art and calligraphy and politics. At the same time, he witnesses instances of violence and cruelty from Xie Wang that disturb him. It reminds him of Jin Guanyao--the red flags that in the past Lan Xichen either rationalized or ignored. It puts Lan Xichen in this awkward position of growing closer to Xie Wang, opening up to him, only to pull back suddenly. Rinse, wash, repeat.
Xie Wang, of course, doesn’t really know what’s going on in Lan Xichen’s head. Fortunately, he’s perceptive. As he does more digging into Lan Xichen’s past, he probably puts two and two together and realizes that Lan Xichen is trying to protect his own heart. However, he’ll also wonder if Lan Xichen knows more than he’s letting on--if he is perhaps aware of Xie Wang’s true identity, and that’s why he won’t open up to him. Or perhaps it’s just Xie Wang’s personal flaws. He’s always been too impulsive, too selfish, too distracting. Someone of Lan Xichen’s calibre may find these characteristics distasteful.
I actually think Lan Xichen may put the pieces together and begin to suspect Xie Wang’s true identity. If Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are around, they would probably do the same and accelerate this realization. However, I am not sure that Lan Xichen would act immediately on it. He may instead try to give Xie Wang opportunities to come forward with the truth on his own.
Xie Wang will dodge all of these opportunities like “lol nope.”
Cat’s out of the bag.
Anyway, after lots of like. Cute moments, and moments of camaraderie, and moments of yearning and angst, things finally come to a head. Perhaps Lan Xichen finds himself caught up in a scheme that involves the Scorpion and a rival group. Xie Wang ends up having to take Lan Xichen captive in order to protect him. In this moment, Lan Xichen is able to see another side of Xie Wang--one that he’s only caught glimpses of before. Xie Wang is cold, domineering, calculating, and cruel. It’s sexy but also terrifying. Lan Xichen hardens his own expression and is quite distant to Xie Wang, which of course just breaks Xie Wang’s heart. But Xie Wang can’t show it just yet, not while they are still surrounded by onlookers. It wouldn’t be wise to reveal any weaknesses to those who are constantly at the ready to take advantage of any vulnerable bits.
As soon as Xie Wang can find a moment to be alone with Lan Xichen (truly alone, with no spies or eavesdroppers), he would sit down and speak honestly with him. He tells Lan Xichen that he harbors no ill intentions towards him or the Lan sect (or perhaps he does, at least with concern to the latter--it’s up to how complicated you imagine this kind of AU). And against his better judgment, the more Lan Xichen hears . . . the more he finds himself believing Xie Wang. In fact, he’s relieved that they can finally reach this point of honesty with each other.
Lan Xichen is terrified he’s making a mistake, but . . . he wants to believe Xie Wang. He wants to believe him so, so badly. After some difficult conversations and lots of promises exchanged between them, Lan Xichen relents.
Xie Wang is just absolutely delighted to the point of tears. All of his softness and sweetness comes back.
From this point on, I think we can see a power couple at work. Both of them are intuitive, intelligent and nuanced. They can work together to solve whatever scheme is happening. Collaborating brings them closer, honestly.
Xie Wang is reluctant to let Lan Xichen go, but does so. (He’s mostly worried about Lan Xichen’s safety.)
(If you want to make things really painful, you could have Lan Xichen temporarily reject Xie Wang. This would probably be motivated by Lan Xichen’s past experiences, when he continued to support and defend Jin Guangyao despite all evidence to the contrary. Terrified of making the same mistake--of letting people he cares about become hurt because of a temporary lack of judgment--might actually lead him to betray Xie Wang and reveal his true identity to the Lan clan. This would lead to a temporary and very angsty “break up” arc. The irony could be that Lan Xichen actually regrets NOT trusting Xie Wang or supporting him down the road. I would like to see something like this culminate in Xie Wang being injured/narrowly escaping a dangerous confrontation with an enemy, and Lan Xichen rescuing him, holding him close, and whispering, “I’m sorry.” GOD Xie Wang would just fall apart. The hurt/comfort potential. My word.)
Hurt/comfort potential.
At some point, Xie Wang might be injured or suffer some kind of loss. Perhaps he went after someone who was a threat to Lan Xichen in some way, and got himself in a pickle. He makes it out, but is the worse for wear. Lan Xichen, who is normally so polite and intentional with his words, finds himself losing his temper. How could Xie Wang make such a rash decision? Isn’t he supposed to be the Scorpion King for a reason?
These words push Xie Wang over the edge. He snaps back that yes, he knows he’s reckless--that he’s too impulsive--too demanding--that he’s always letting his emotions get the best of him, again and again. But he was scared for Lan Xichen. What was he supposed to do, just sit back and bear it?
Lan Xichen’s anger dissipates. He consoles Xie Wang, tells him that he’s not any of those things. Xie Wang is shocked speechless. He’s even more shocked when Lan Xichen admits he was wrong for speaking harshly and asks for Xie Wang’s forgiveness. “It was only that seeing you in this state unnerved me. I would not want any harm to come to you on my account. I’m sorry.”
Xie Wang melts.
Xie Wang drinks vinegar.
Being together means that Xie Wang and Lan Xichen are more intimate. They are moving physically closer, becoming more familiar with one another’s spaces. Xie Wang is very greedy for this closeness, and probably starts to become a little possessive about the things in Lan Xichen’s room. Keeping things tidy, adding decorations, sorting through things, etc.
Anyway, one day he comes across Jin Guangya’s hat by accident.
“Gege :+) who’s hat is this? :+)”
He begins to engage in a recurring fantasy where he slices the hat to pieces.
It’s just that, well. Xie Wang is intensely jealous of Jin Guangyao’s hat. He is intensely jealous of Jin Guangyao’s memory. Just hearing his name is enough to make Xie Wang lose it a little on the inside, like, “Not this b**** again.” But on the outside he is very calm.
Most of the time.
Look. It’s already hard enough knowing that someone like Xie Wang, the leader of a shady group of assassins, will probably never be accepted as a suitable partner for Lan Xichen. And this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. He’s been used before by Zhao Jing, the person who was supposed to be his yifu, the person who kept Xie Wang in the dark and only brought him into the light when it was useful. So Xie Wang can’t help but feel nervous that Lan Xichen will just want to keep him in the dark, too. Like logically, he knows Lan Xichen wouldn’t do that. Lan Xichen is a better person than that, he wouldn’t take advantage of anyone in that way, especially not Xie Wang! Lan Xichen cares about Xie Wang! But Xie Wang also knows he’s miscalculated in the past. He can’t help the nugget of uncertainty that weasels its way in.
You can play this up as angsty if you want, or you can play it for comedy. Maybe Lan Xichen receives a gift from a potential suitor. Xie Wang sees it and asks who it’s from. On his best day, he smiles calmly and says something like, “How elegant and thoughtful. I know just the place to put this.” (That place is the trash.) On his worst day, he wines and says, “How tacky! Gege, why do you continue to even meet with that old cow?”
Lan Xichen is exceptionally understanding and patient, although he does need to set some firm boundaries from time to time.
Jin Guangyao causes drama from beyond the grave.
Eventually Xie Wang is going to have a very off-day. And on this off-day, he talks about a topic that he should definitely have avoided, which is Jin Guangyao.
Basically, Xie Wang is not going to understand why Lan Xichen feels guilty for what happened to Jin Guangyao. Or rather, he does not believe that Lan Xichen SHOULD feel guilty. And he tells Lan Xichen this, very insistently. Lan Xichen, who has been coping through the good ole Lan technique of Repress And Don’t Express, becomes frustrated. His frustration builds when Xie Wang basically says that no matter what Jin Guangyao may have suffered, he shouldn’t have betrayed Lan Xichen--that Jin Guangyao even deserves what happened to him (and perhaps Xie Wang believes this last part, or perhaps he’s just being petty--it’s up to you). Lan Xichen almost loses his temper--almost. But then he just. Shuts down, completely. Like very coldly and calmly says something to the effect of, “I expected you of all people to understand me. I see I was mistaken. Excuse me.” And just. Leaves.
Xie Wang is a MESS. Honestly he would have preferred being yelled at. This calm reaction is disconcerting and makes him worry that he’s lost Lan Xichen for good. He’s also shocked at himself for being so purposefully wilful and obstinate. He was trying to be good!!
Making up.
Instead of pulling away, Xie Wang waits an appropriate amount of time for things to settle (lmao like 12 hours), then shows right back up acting like nothing ever happened. He’s very talkative and sweet, chatting peacefully about unrelated topics. He probably flits about the room, straightening this and that, then perches beside Lan Xichen. His heart sinks when he sees Lan Xichen’s expression.
Xie Wangs cautiously begins speaking. “About yesterday . . . I shouldn’t have contradicted you. I was being difficult and impetuous. Gege, please forgive me.”
And like, what is Lan Xichen supposed to do with that? Say “no”? Lmao.
Fortunately, Lan Xichen has taken some time to self-reflect. He’s a bit dismayed that he continues to act out of character with Xie Wang. Normally, he is so good at maintaining his composure. With Xie Wang, however, he continues to get caught up in his own feelings until he fumbles.
Anyway, Lan Xichen actually takes this opportunity to reflect and open up to Xie Wang about his friendship with Jin Guangyao. He tells him about what happened between him and his sworn brothers, where he believes he made mistakes, how he wishes things would have worked out differently. He also says that he sees it as a weakness of his own that even now, he isn’t able to completely blame Jin Guangyao. It’s not like this is Xie Wang’s first time hearing about any of this, but it IS his first time hearing the information directly from Lan Xichen.
Xie Wang takes his hand and says that kind of loyalty and kindness is what makes Lan Xichen dear to him, and is its own type of wisdom. Lan Xichen doesn’t completely agree with this assessment, but he doesn’t argue against it, either. He merely asks Xie Wang if there is anything else he’d like to know.
Xie Wang is a bit hesitant. Without meeting Lan Xichen’s gaze, he observes that Jin Guangyao and Lan Xichen were very close. He wants to know what place Jin Guangyao still occupies in Lan Xichen’s heart.
To be continued . . .
(Lol I ran out of steam for a minute)
#xie wang#lan xichen#the untamed#word of honor#shl#woh#cql#shan he ling#chen qing ling#xie'er#implied past xiyao#sort of?
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Justifying The Aftermath
wordcount : 2.1k+
warning : mention of animal abuse, emeto
content : lashing out, electrocution, vomiting, whumper!caretaker, lady whump, lab whump, whumper pov, manhandling
This is it! The last day of Summer of Whump. It's been fun, writing and reading more whump from this event. Can't wait for next year! Tagging : @summer-of-whump
***
Previous Chapter
"Breathe deeply, Fenrir."
Her stare was full of contempt. There was still a sharp edge on her two fangs. Blue veins jutting out under her arms and legs. She was much older than John, late in her twenties. Prior affiliation indicated if she wasn't a murderer or an arsonist then she's an accomplice to one. He didn't dare to take a step further. Even when her left arm was tucked in a sling, the other connected to an IV, the general scrapes and bruises on her face, or the fact that she couldn't sit up so the infirmary nurse had to raise her bed to prevent her lungs collapsing in on itself.
Fenrir spat, and it hit him in the chest despite the distance.
John took out his napkin, "I mean it for your well-being. Your rib fracture wasn't severe, but your recovery will be greatly stalled if you manage to get yourself pneumonia."
"And then what? Brainwashing? I had to be Empire's hunting dog? I'd rather die."
"You're contributing to the public good. We're not lying."
"You think turning people into living weapons is for the greater good?" Fenrir grinned, covering the upper half of her face with her palm. "Rich kids are easy to brainwash."
"We were forced. If terrorist groups like those Heretics you love so much doesn't terrorize the managers then we wouldn't have to spend so much time on defense!"
John watched the rise of Fenrir's chest as she spoke. Her breath was fast and shallow.
"Heretics are a new thing. The humans living in the Orients and the Border Islands have existed long before the Ship fell into our grounds. The Empire wasn't reacting to them when they sent out the first Seed and they sure as hell does not need a living monster to weed out a bunch of poors with a handmade grenade. What the Empire doing is never defense, child. They're hungry for control."
Child. It filled him contempt. He might have been younger than her but look who had their life sorted out? An internship with the smartest minds of the earth, a girl waiting back home, and a few years worth of savings. John is more mature, educated in things other than the vulgarity of drink and merrymaking.
Forgetting his fear, John leaned on the side of Fenrir's bed. He loomed above her. "Your problem is that you're uneducated. You had a brilliant mind, but you didn't go to school or truly learn how to think the big picture. The facts you learned was baseless. The Radicals got to you first and I'm sorry for that."
The glare she gave sharpened, and for a second John believed she's going to lunge at him. Luckily she was only taking a deep breath.
"Uneducated? I've written essays, planned raids, and build gardens! I might not be an engineer, but I know more about the world than you."
"This is a waste of time. You're insulting instead of discussing."
"Explain how calling me uneducated isn't an insult."
John run his fingers through his hair, "I'm here only to look at your progress. Look, I think Heretics are too caught up in their pain. They experienced bad things and blame the Empire. But it's just the world. You need to struggle and work and-"
"Mind if I cut in?" Fenrir doesn't wait for John. "Since you want an argument, I want to acknowledge we both had a different view of reality. It's just our sources. But you need to think about what they taught you. I assume you're referring to the workhouses."
"Yes. That, and the jails. I know most of you are former convicts."
She ramped up in intensity. Fenrir raised her voice. "They might told you it's just a struggle, but have you even been there? Eat the rat-pissed grain and get yelled off for sitting? Have you ever questioned if the papers telling their story reflects reality? Managers owned the workhouses. They owned the papers. Of course they only said good things about it. They got away with untold evil because you trust them!"
The long histrionic rant left Fenrir with a coughing fit. John's answer were simple.
"Who's to say you didn't lie to me to sympathize with them?"
"Ask ten men working in the poor house. If anecdotes don't phase you then read some statistics my group works on."
"I'll do it." If John had the time, which was virtually nonexistent. If he had the guts because none of his friends including him know a guy like that, and approaching workhouse residents can get you robbed "Later. Wartimes are a bitch."
Fenrir chuckled, her mood has lightened up. "Aren't we all united under a single flag? Why is there still a war?"
A rhetorical question and a trap. Why is Fenrir likes to anger herself so much? Either way, he's not taking the bait. What a sad life, suspecting every thing you hear might be misinformation. The Empire could never lie about something so grave. They had principles. John had seen firsthand how his life have been easy because his family knows the rules and how go around the proceedings. It's imperfect, but it's definitely better than whatever the Heretics are going for.
For a week, John and Lisette have been adjusting. Visiting Fenrir separately, taking notes of trigger buttons and quirks. This Fenrir was different, and the way she was exposed to the substance made a different sort of Dog, besides the mutations. They need to re-do experiments, test new things, even change up their approach. Fenrir was always angry, and there's this restless energy around her. Avoiding certain topics and sneaking up sweets for her seem to calm her down a little, but that restless edge was still there.
Not a concern. Not since Fenrir's ribs and shoulder had mostly healed. Not after they've think up strategies to temper her prickly disposition and contain the emotional outburst after her first testing. Not when they drug her when she's already asleep before transporting her to the forest.
They were expecting a tantrum. The soldiers prepared stun guns, flash bangs, anything that could assault her heightened senses. Professor Clayton personally stitched the taser cuffs on her ankle. Something John had spent a great deal of time debating against. He was overruled. Lisette took their superior's side. In the end, the shock collar was necessary.
"I think she's getting through to you," Lisette teased.
"Oh shut up. I was trying to meet her halfway." The image in their cameras are somehow better. Some were blank, filled with static courtesy of Fenrir's rampage. But the few that left thrived, vivid contrasts and colours detailing her figure among the half-eaten animal. Alien techs are on another level. "She was taught to expect cruelty from us. We can't reform her if we proved her right."
"I think that's unfair. She'd done bad things, just because she was radicalized to do so doesn't mean she's exempt from punishment."
John leaned on his chair, "But we're not judges. We're scientists. We should refrain from any cruelty unless it's sanctioned by the State."
"Yeah, right." The speakers blared with a distorted buzz of a helicopter. They were silent as it lands at the edge of the forest. Lisette went on, "so you've already told the King you'll stitch Fenrir's wound without anesthetic?"
"You're missing the point."
"What is it then? Don't get me wrong, I think she deserves it. She was a terrorist. But I won't delude myself that they'll bring her to court. No, the way this goes is she'll work for us and be given an honorary medal when all of our testing eventually gives her brain damage."
Lisette leaned closer to the screen. Her expression unreadable. Professor and his soldiers had found Fenrir. She haven't moved from her position. Still kneeling, dirty blonde hair matted with blood. They practically jumped at her. Seizing the shoulders, heaving her up, and kicking her in the legs to disturb her balance. Two men at the side, another sticking a gun on the back of her head. Professor Clayton kept his distance, the switch for the taser cuffs firmly in his pocket.
She glanced at John. The silence of the room grows opressive. He leaned to his microphone, eyes still intently looking at the screen. Fenrir let her feet dragged against the ground. Her head hung low, eyes half-lidded. Not looking at anything at particular. Quiet.
That period of trepidation passes. Fenrir doesn't fight, doesn't even squirm as they put the earmuffs and blindfold on her. She arrives, her knees buckling and fall on the floor. The strength had gone out of her.
First test passed with flying colors. The trigger serum worked. They didn't have to kept her half-dead to maintain her beast form. But the devil is in the details, how much does she have to lose? It was John's assignment to figure it out.
On first glance, Fenrir seemed to have crossed that line. John could smell death from her. Her entire body is covered in dried blood, yet she didn't seem bothered. She stared at the desk, gripping the towel they gave and picking at the threads.
"Fenrir."
"My name is Avis."
John kneeled in front of her, taking the towel. She was shivering, and her fingers were shaking in a way that suggest it was more than the cold. He wrapped the bloodied cloth around her shoulders.
"You're supposed to cover yourself like this," John brings the ends of the towel to her two hands. He hold her clasped arms, gently pulling it so the fabric would cover more of her body.
"I know that," Fenrir absently murmured.
Looking closer, it was a grisly sight. Blood runs from her gums. Pieces of the camera were stuck under her long nails. Dust and dirt were sticking under the coat of dried blood. The shock bracelet was still there.
"I was going to give you a few test before we took you to the infirmary again but maybe you need medical help and a shower first. How's that?"
She looked at him. The hateful stare was still there. "Do you think this is justified?"
"We needed to test your power. Your blood could save millions, only if we know what to do with it."
Fenrir burst into a laugh, "Making me ate two dogs alive could save people?!"
"Fenrir—"
"Don't call me that!" She stood, still taller from the transformation. Her eyes were burning from tears she's desperately holding back. Her stomach hurts. The smell of her body made her sick. Even more disgusting when it reminds her of what she'd done. "I'm not fucking stupid. I'm going to be a warbeast and the only thing I'll save is the Empire's stolen property!"
"Sit down. Please. Let's get you a bath and we'll talk this out, alright?"
Fenrir took a step back. John wished they bother to bring in her handcuffs, if only for his piece of mind. "How could you see me out there and think this is okay?"
"You're right. It's not okay."
It's justified. But John was at lost for words. He nodded, "I know you're in distress. I hear you. Let me help."
"Then leave!" Fenrir yelled. "Acknowledge for once that this entire operation is senseless violence!"
John throw his testing papers on to the desk. His voice grew cold, "You're a hypocrite. You burned houses, destroyed machines, terrorize my friend's families. How could you do all of that and think this is bad?"
"You didn't know, no, you refuse to see the destruction and terror they've caused. And when it became too big for you to ignore, you're going to pretend they've hid it from you all this time or you've got no choice but to follow their orders."
Fenrir reached for the papers, and for the next thing they both now was that her screamed reverbrate through the room. She was on the floor. Seizing. Her limbs jerked, hitting the nearby table. Blood runs from her ankles, and John looked at the door to find his mentor leaning against the frame with the remote.
"Get her a bath, John."
He nodded. She was too weak to fight him off. Little aftershocks plagued her body even as he helped her sit.
"Come on, we should go."
"No, wait." Fenrir hold the leg of the desk in a vice grip. She kept her mouth tightly shut, and there's a bit a green around the outlines of her face. She felt her cheeks burning. Saliva pooling in her mouth. John shook her shoulders. The movement was a straw that broke the camel's back.
She gagged, heaving out a gush of acid and pre-digested flesh. The chunks of meat triggered another bout of vomiting. Each wave of nausea more stronger than the last.
"It's alright," John said, rubbing her back, "Let it out. You'll feel better."
Soon enough, her stomach was empty. She was nodding off, her eyes glassy with tears. John the only thing keeping her from slumping down on her own sick.
"You're a monster," Fenrir muttered.
Next Chapter
#summerofwhump30#summer of whump#lady whump#lashing out#lab whump#electrocution#emeto cw#animal abuse mention#whumper as caretaker#futuristic whump#manhandling
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But None, I Think, Do There Embrace (Part 2)
Part 1 ‖ Part 2
Summary: “The sight of Missy, conscious and walking, shakes loose a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding.” The conflict isn’t over when the gun goes off.
Warnings: None? Unresolved tension, mostly!
Word Count: 1815
NB: The promised continuation of “The Grave’s A Fine And Private Place”!
“Please, please work!”
The TARDIS hums softly in an inarticulate but clear expression of disagreement. The screen you clutch at with shaking hands remains a blurry mess of jumping pixels, the sound a warbled static hiss. You have no insight into what’s happening on the bridge.
Before you’d even glimpsed the creatures in the lifts, the ship had slammed her doors so hard that you were knocked backwards and off your feet, landing painfully on the metal floor. When you’d scrambled back up and tried to open them again, they wouldn’t budge. You still know precious little about how she functions, but it’s apparent that she’s determined to keep her human cargo safe from whatever wants to take them away.
“Siege mode,” Nardole points out unhelpfully, still fiddling with the console. “Hostile life forms detected on the bridge. No communications in or out. Your life signs are shielded, at least.”
White-knuckled on the handrail, you glance around desperately for inspiration. “We can’t just wait here!”
“I know,” Bill groans, head bowed and cradled in her hands. She sits on the stairs, catching her breath, steadying her racing heart. “I know, but what can we do? The TARDIS won’t let us outside and even if she would I don’t think we could help, I mean - we’re human! Whatever these things are, we can’t fight them.”
“I don’t think we need to.”
You scowl at Nardole. “What do you mean?”
“If they really are only interested in you two, then presumably, once they realise you’re no longer on the ship, they’ll just... wander off, I suppose.”
“Yeah.” Bill sounds quite convinced. “I mean, that blue guy was there for, what? Days?”
At the mention of the armed alien, you wince. You’ve been trying to distract yourself from the image of Missy’s limp body, slumped in the navigator’s chair. “Days,” you agree flatly.
“Exactly. Just try and keep calm, and I’m sure they’ll be back very-”
The doors tear open, flooding the room with the colony ship’s bright fluorescent lights.
“-soon.”
“Chair! Now!”
Any relief you might have felt is drained immediately by the sound of the Doctor’s voice, sharp and furious and full of pain. He has one arm around Missy, supporting her weight, half-dragging her alongside him as he staggers through the doors. Even from across the console you can see the smouldering burn mark on her coat. It’s bigger than your hand and still smoking.
The sight of her, astonishingly still conscious and walking, shakes loose a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding. You’ve grown to quite like Missy; her quick mind and deadpan black humour had endeared you to her when you visited the vault, and she’s proven herself a useful ally more than once with her effortless navigation of the TARDIS. In truth, despite Bill’s understandable trepidation, you’d been excited to see her at the helm of a new adventure.
Be careful what you wish for.
He drops her unceremoniously in the nearest seat and she lets out a heavy, pained noise at the impact. It makes you wince in sympathy. “Watch it! I’ve just been shot, or hadn’t you noticed?” She falls just short of her usual sardonic wit, too much strain seeping into the words.
“Shut up.” There’s no kindness in it. He works urgently at the buttons of her coat, pulling it open to expose her blouse and the wound left by the laser-barrelled weapon. He’s muttering angrily under his breath. “Missed all the vital organs.”
“Yes, well, if you want something done properly,” she mutters. Then, so sharply that you jump, “oi! What the hell are you doing, man?”
The Doctor has both hands poised over the injury on her side. At first you think it’s a trick of the light, an optical illusion triggered by stress and exhaustion, but as you watch they begin to glow in a vibrant, sickly shade of orange. Light pours from his palms and drenches her abdomen until the scene burns your eyes. It feels like staring into the sun.
“Be quiet,” he says calmly, ignoring her protests. “You’ll take weeks to heal on your own. You’re no use to anyone in this state. I’m just speeding things up a bit.”
You’ve heard of regeneration, of course, but this is the first time you’ve witnessed it. Despite the blinding intensity of it you can’t seem to look away. You move around the console as if in a trance, seeking out a better view. It is, at once, the most beautiful and most frightening thing you’ve ever seen, and you know with every fibre of your being that it is wrong, a violation of physical laws that you take for granted. What unfolds between the Time Lords in front of you spits in the face of everything you know about the universe.
Your normal Saturday has been resumed.
“Oh, for- get your hands off me!” She reaches down to knock him away but he’s already moving, stumbling slightly and bracing his hands on the back of the chair to steady himself. It’s clear that he’s expended some energy.
“Not quite good as new,” he observes. “You may actually have a scar.”
“I always fancied one of those.” She twists experimentally in her seat, testing the extent of her recovery. The only evidence of what should, by all rights, have been a mortal wound is a single low hiss through her teeth. “Consider it a touching memento of my full rehabilitation.”
“Rehabilitation?” He scoffs, cold and bitter. “Do you think this was a success?”
“I saved the humans, didn’t I? At tremendous personal cost, might I add.” She gestures to her side. “This is my favourite blouse, as well you know, and now it’s ruined.”
Provoked by her arch lack of repentance, he raises his voice. “You tried to kill a man! A frightened man, who asked us for help!”
“A stupid man, with a gun,” she bites back. Her hands are tight on the arms of the chair.
“I had the situation under control until you-”
“No you didn’t!”
You almost leap out of your skin when Bill interjects, her voice whip-thin and deafening even from across the room. All eyes turn to her. She’s a beacon of rage, practically vibrating, still fuelled by mortal peril and righteous fury.
“You had no idea what you were doing,” she seethes, pointing an accusatory finger at the Doctor. “You were just chatting away like an idiot, like you always do, thinking you’re so clever, and it nearly got us killed!”
He doesn’t take it well. “I was defusing the situation! It was a negotiation. I knew that-”
“Just shut up! You were negotiating for our lives!” At her side, one hand clenches into a tight fist. You can hear the angry tears making her voice waver as the adrenaline rush begins to fail. “D’you know what, Doctor? You made the wrong call. I never thought I’d say it but Missy was better than you today.”
She turns on her heels and heads deeper into the TARDIS, leaving her scathing words to hang heavily in the air. Shrinking in the face of conflict, you stand stock still, mouth agape, staring at the space she’s just vacated; Nardole makes an apologetic face and hurries after her. For a moment, you consider following, but think better of it. If it were you, you would want to be alone.
Face thunderous, the Doctor moves over to the console, manipulating switches and levers too forcefully until the ship dematerialises with a familiar mechanical screech.
“I think there was a compliment in there, somewhere.”
Missy stretches out in the chair, apparently unfazed, folding her arms behind her head. You don’t miss the slight flinch as the change in position tugs at her newly-healed wound. He ignores her, working his jaw in silent fury. “Oh, do try and cheer up, Doctor. I’m sorry that your softly-softly approach wasn’t up to scratch today but if you’re waiting for me to apologise for saving-”
“Don’t.” His voice is low and dangerous. “Don’t pretend to care about my friends.” His eyes dart over to you for a moment and you look away, removing your earpiece and inspecting it as if it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. “You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself. You haven’t changed at all.”
Not waiting for a response, he stalks out of the console room, brushing past you on the way. One hand skims lightly over your shoulder as if to make sure that you’re really there. You allow it. After the day’s events you’re drained, eager for peace and reconciliation that seems far out of reach. Even this gentle touch is almost enough to bring tears to your eyes.
“Well?” Missy fixes you with her gaze and you blush, setting down the earpiece you’ve been fidgeting with. “Aren’t you going to run off, too?”
“I can if you want.” You’re aiming for jovial, but the words come out small and you wince. She raises an expectant eyebrow and doesn’t speak. “Actually, I wanted to say thank you. For saving us.”
“No need. It was all part of my devious plan.” She adjusts a stray lock of hair. Despite the flippancy in her voice it’s clear that his words have wounded her. You frown.
“He’s an idiot. Time Lord or not, I know a man with a bruised ego when I see one.” She chuckles wryly, looking down at the ruins of her blouse. Her hand uselessly attempts to smooth the fabric out. You move closer. Your pulse races when you reach out to touch her; she doesn’t pull away, watching from the corner of her eye as you rest your palm gently on her forearm.
Something changes in her posture. You think of the Doctor, of Bill’s hand crushing yours as you both waited to die, of how every living thing needs to be touched sometimes and your fingers wrap around her slender arm, the slightest pressure, your thumb sweeping back and forth over the thin cotton of her sleeve. She draws a sharp breath and turns to look at you again and you see a thin mist of tears glistening in her bright eyes. For the first time it occurs to you that she must feel as weary as you do.
“Thank you,” you say again, heavy with sincerity. “I’m pretty sure we would have died if you weren’t there. He’ll come around.”
Her face hardens almost imperceptibly and she clears her throat, blinking away the vulnerability with surprising ease. “The Doctor can do what he likes. I didn’t do it for him.”
“You didn’t?” Surprised, your fingers fall still. Her free hand leaves the armrest, coming to cover your own, and she looks up at you with something so akin to hope that your throat tightens.
“No,” she says softly. “I didn’t.”
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can you do 58 for bradray pretty please 🥺
ahsjsk okay i've actually been really wanting to write another bradray fic but was scared because i feel like i get them so ooc? so thank you for making me do it regardless! i hope you like this 💜
things you were afraid to say
It's been a week since they returned to the states, five days since most of them parted ways to visit their families, three days since Brad arrived home.
It's quiet.
That's the first thing he noticed when he stepped through the threshold, too tired to do much more than dump his duffel bag by his laundry basket and collapse onto his bed. At least he'd put fresh covers on before shipping out.
The thought doesn't leave his mind as he settles back into his stateside routine (wake early, go for his daily run, shower, cook breakfast, clean up and spend the afternoon in his garage). After being surrounded by his platoon in Afghanistan, spending day in, day out crammed into his humvee with constant activity and chatter, the lull of having a whole house to himself is almost chilling.
On the second night, he finds himself tossing and turning in bed actually wishing for Ray's dumb rants about meaningless shit. He almost misses that messed up hick and how he'd squeeze himself into Brad's grave despite the tight fit, curling up into his side and snoring obnoxiously.
But Ray is miles away, off visiting his family. Brad needs to get over it.
It's not like this is the first time he's had to readjust to normal life, it just so happens that this is the first time he's actually missed someone.
On the third day, Brad doubles his running route, pushing his body to it's limit until he can feel that dull throbbing ache in all of his muscles. He spends the rest of the day passed out on his couch flicking through channels on the TV and purposefully not thinking about a particular brown-haired idiot with a smile brighter than the sun.
He must have dosed off because, before he knows it, the room is blanketed in shadows, the TV a glaringly bright intrusion that makes him wince. At first, he thinks that's what woke up but then the doorbell goes again.
He groans, stretching as he rolls off of the couch and pops his shoulders with the movement. It's gone 9pm, according to his phone, and he frowns wondering who on earth would be at his door at this time. He told his mother he'd see them next week and his sister would've called beforehand.
Ripping his door open, Brad's fully expecting a delivery driver to have just got the wrong number and to direct them to the right house. He's most definitely not expecting to find Ray stood on his doorstep, hair dishevelled, paler than ever, with a pillow tucked under his arm.
“Ray?”
Despite looking like death, Ray smiles up at him and almost – almost – looks back to his usual cheery self. “Brad!” He slaps Brad on the arm, playful pout on his face. “What sort of greeting is that for your old pal, Ray-Ray?”
Brad shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”
Ray doesn't meet his eyes, shifting the pillow in his arm. Brad glances behind him and sees his old truck parked in Brad's driveway. He wonders if he just drove back from his parents’.
“I-” Ray scoffs, shaking his head at his feet before blinking back up at Brad. His eyes linger on his chest and it's then that Brad realises he never bothered to throw a clean shirt on after his run. Not that Ray hasn't seen worse, they're marines for Christ's sake. “This sounds stupid, but...I haven't been able to sleep well for three days.”
“Didn't you go back home?” Brad frowns again, fingers raking through his hair.
“Yeah,” Ray sighs, “I didn't stay for long. It felt...weird?”
“So you've been driving for two days straight?” Brad balks, resisting the urge to shake Ray.
Ray smiles, but the exhaustion is evident on his face. It's in the sunken look of his eyes, the almost bruise coloured area of skin below them, the way his smile seems strained. “It's not like I haven't done that before, homes. C'mon, you know me.”
“Yeah,” Brad nods, “I do know you. And I know if you don't get sleep now you're gonna pass out.”
“Nah, I could keep going if I wanted to-”
“Ray, shut up.” Brad interrupts, trying not to overthink what he means by ‘if I wanted to’. “What are you doing here, at my door, in the middle of the night when you haven't actually rested since we got back.”
Ray's shoulders slump then, and he drags his eyes away from Brad. “I couldn't.”
“Couldn't what, Ray?”
Why did talking to him have to be like pulling teeth?
“I couldn't sleep!” Ray snaps, glaring at him with renewed fire in his eyes. “Not without you. Okay? I can't sleep without having your dumb oversized body next to mine because I'm a fucking disaster who managed to fall in love with your Viking ass in the middle of a damn warzone and now that we're home I don't know what to do!”
Brad froze, heart hammering too fast for his liking. His grip on the door tightens and all he can do is blink in surprise.
Ray groans, throwing his hands up in the air. “Great and now I broke you.” He runs his fingers shakily through his already messy hair. “Just, forget I said anything, okay? I-I'll see you when we have to go back to Pendleton.” Hugging his pillow to his chest, Ray spins on his heel and begins to walk away.
Whether it's the broken sound of his voice or watching him walk away, Brad isn't sure, but he snaps himself out of whatever trance he'd fallen into and takes two large steps forward. “Ray!” he calls out, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around Ray's bony wrist, tugging just harsh enough to get him to come to a halt.
Ray turns with a quizzical yet defeated expression, opening his mouth to no doubt tell him to fuck off. Brad doesn't give him the chance.
With another sharp tug, he sends Ray tumbling forward into his chest. The pillow falls to the floor and Ray whines in protest, moving to grab it back. Brad smiles, capturing Ray's hand in his own and lacing their fingers together. “I have plenty of pillows.” he says, voice lower than before. Ray looks confused for a split second before Brad takes his other hand to hook underneath his chin, gently coaxing him up into a kiss and, for once, not giving a damn if anybody was watching. It's night time, he's behind a truck in his own damn driveway and he's never felt more at peace as Ray sighs into his mouth and leans closer. Screw what his neighbours think.
Untangling their fingers, Ray stretches to wrap his arms tight around Brad's neck, toying with the growing locks at the nape of his neck and successfully drawing a moan from the back of his throat. He can feel Ray's smile against his own, especially as he snakes his arms around Ray's waist and pulls him impossibly close. Nipping at Ray's lower lip, he smirks as the younger man grants him access without hesitation, but soon melts as the kiss deepens.
Like everything else in life, Ray throws his whole self into the kiss; his passionate and dirty and possessive, all teeth and tongue and lewd moans swallowed by each other, It's feels like a claim, burning hot and unforgettable, and Brad loves every second of it. The nails digging into his bare back definitely add to that idea.
If he were to be claimed by anybody, though, Brad realises that it makes the most sense for it to be Ray.
He trusts Ray with his life.
They pull apart with a wet smack and Ray chuckles into his chest, sending a flurry of warmth through Brad. “Does this mean I can crash at your place for a bit?”
Brad laughs, fingers carding through Ray's hair before coming to cradle his face, pulling him back to meet his eyes. He smoothes his thumbs along his cheekbones, unable to wipe the smile off of his own face. “All you had to do was ask.”
Before he can think better of it, Brad dips down and presses a soft kiss to Ray's forehead. It must have been the right move because Ray lets out a breathy laugh, leaning into his touch and allowing his eyes to fall closed as a smile plays over his lips. They stay there for a moment longer before reluctantly pulling apart and heading inside.
That night, they both sleep better than they had since Afghanistan.
also on ao3 prompt list
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The Same Constellations
Word Count: 1922
Warnings: Some profanity, mentions of violence. They’re pirates.
Set between Parts 4 and 5 of @whenimaunicorn’s epic The Heart of Admiration series, we’ve got angsty Vane, voice of reason Jack, and firmly in denial Hope. Are these disaster pirates learning to talk to one another?
Jack Rackham shakes his head in disappointment at the fresh cuts and bruises on Charles Vane’s face. “At this rate, by week’s end it will be a minor miracle if you have any skin left at all. I suppose I should just be grateful you’re leaving the opium alone.”
Instead of answering verbally, or even sitting up, Vane lobs an empty rum bottle past his quartermaster’s head. Both men are well aware that he missed on purpose.
Unperturbed, Jack continues. “If you need to work off some, shall we say, frustration, the men have glowing things to say about the local brothels.”
Vane just glowers at Jack. He already tried that back in Nassau. Whores who bore any physical resemblance whatsoever to Hope. Whores who looked as dissimilar to Hope as possible. Somehow he felt even worse afterwards. Emptier.
“That motherfucker said Hope needs to be taken down a peg.”
“So you felt a need to take on him and several of his men all at once. Was she even present when he said whatever he said?”
Vane drags himself upright. “No.”
“Then maybe a better use of your energies would be spending time with her.”
Vane acts as though he didn’t hear a word of it.
Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Chaz, Hope isn’t Eleanor. She isn’t going to betray you because she wants to get ahead or because she’s bored or because it’s Thursday.”
“Fuck you, Jack.”
Jack throws up his hands. “By all means, continue to get in brawls with all of Tortuga. That is certainly more sensible than, oh, as a brief example, talking to her. I’m sure she’ll be very grateful that she lost her old crew only for you to get yourself killed in some idiotic fight.”
Vane’s chin juts out dangerously. Jack doesn’t know what it was like when he was a child and the overseers made sure to take away anything they even thought he and the other slaves wanted. How Eleanor did more of the same, used everything he even hinted at wanting against him, just to prove she could. But Vane has to begrudgingly admit that Jack, damn the man, is right about one thing: Hope isn’t at all like Eleanor. “Seems likely she’d be relieved.”
“I highly doubt that.” Jack pauses, and though Vane’s thin lips curl in a silent snarl, he’s listening. “The night we backed up Mackinaw on the beach, she stood with you.”
“She told me I was foolish.”
“Yet she stood with you anyway. You didn’t see her face when she lost sight of you in the scrum, or when she saw you were still standing. I did.”
And she caught him when he stumbled on his wounded leg. The memory of her body tucked warm under his arm as she steadied him, her hand over his heart, was something that kept him awake, made him restless. Her voice, telling him he had been foolish, but noble...“And?”
“And she’s currently at the Cat’s Head eating her supper and assisting me in hunting up leads. Perhaps you would like to clean yourself up and join her.”
----------
Tortuga hadn’t changed much while she was in Nassau, and Hope feels no small relief to be back in its familiar surroundings, where she isn’t a newcomer yet to learn the major players and where, she thinks dryly as she finishes her meal, she hasn’t made enemies of the tavern owner or fence. Out of the corner of her eye, Hope glimpses a blond man in the clothes of a working pirate strolling toward her. She turns her head to meet a pair of green eyes and a broad grin and oh, son of a bitch, what are the odds that Liam O'Malley would be here with some of his crew.
"Hope Wickham! I didn’t know you were back in Tortuga!”
"Temporarily. Are you still on the Shrike?"
"Aye, got elected Captain a couple of months ago. You don't happen to be looking for a position, by any chance?"
“I appreciate the offer, but I've got one."
"That's a shame. I could use a good navigator. You're not still with Fisher's crew?"
“No, Charles Vane’s.”
O’Malley lets out a low whistle. “Look at you, then. Well, if you change your mind, you know how to find me.” She gives him a friendly hug and promises to have a proper catch-up soon.
She turns around to see Vane standing several paces away, watching, body stiff and his face a thundercloud. He gives her a hard stare then turns on his heel and storms off.
Hope excuses herself to follow her captain, hurrying after his long strides, wondering what set him off. She’s relieved to see that he’s no longer favoring his injured leg; when she asked if he needed help getting the stitches out, he grumbled at her to stop fussing. She later learned that he made a temporary truce with Doctor Mills, the ship’s surgeon, to assist him with that task, though immediately thereafter the two men each returned to pretending that the other did not exist.
She catches up with him on the jetty, where he’s leaning his forearms on the railing and staring out to sea. Hope senses a kind of bleakness radiating from him. He turns his head at her approach, then goes back to watching the tide roll in.
Hope comes to a halt beside him and furrows her brows as she examines the new injuries to his face. “Who did this to you?”
He grunts. “Does it matter?”
She rolls her eyes heavenward, refusing to dignify that with a response. “If you were planning on getting in fights, you could have told me.”
“So you could try to talk me out of it?”
“And so I could have your back if that didn’t work.”
Vane turns toward her with guarded eyes and his jaw clenched tight. “The men I fought insulted you.”
“Captain Vane, I didn’t go to sea because I wanted an easy life or a safe one. I know there are men who will always resent me and talk shit about me because of my sex. If you try to fight them all, you’ll never have time to eat or piss.” She never considered Charles Vane the type to defend a woman’s honor like that, and she most certainly does not need him to defend hers, but she’s surprised by how touched she is that he felt a need to stand up for her when she wasn’t there.
“Are you going to sign your friend’s articles?”
Hope doesn’t try to hide her shock. He thought she accepted O’Malley’s offer? "I told him I’m not looking for another position."
“Do you think he’ll leave it at that?”
“It’s not at all up to him, but yes, he will. We go way back.”
Vane merely raises his scarred brow.
She takes a deep breath and attempts to summon her patience. "If you're wondering whether I used to be with O'Malley, the answer is no. He's a friend, and we used to sail together when we were both apprenticing, but things were never...like that between us." She isn’t sure why she needs Vane to know this. It’s none of his business that she has never been with O’Malley, or for that matter, with any other man, just as it would not be his business if she had bedded every man on Tortuga.
He looks at her coolly. “It isn’t that.”
Hope feels her heart jump, but she refuses to back down. "What then?" She meets his blue eyes squarely.
"I’m concerned for you."
It’s Hope’s turn to arch a brow.
"I know some of his men from Nassau. They're shits, and you would be a woman alone with them."
She lets out an exasperated sigh. "I can look after myself." How is the man so consistently irritating? And why does she feel a pang in her chest when she recalls the look of hurt that flickered across his face, fleeting as it was, when he saw her hugging O’Malley?
Vane's scowl lessens. "I know you can. But you shouldn't have to, not amongst your own."
"It's a moot point anyway. Unless you're firing me, I have no intention of leaving your crew."
She swears she sees some of the tension go out of his shoulders.
"You always have a place with me." His voice is quiet, as gentle as that scraping rasp allows.
Hope wasn’t worried that her position was in any danger to begin with, so why does she feel so...warmed by his words? It makes no sense. There is no calculation she can run or measurement she can take to solve this puzzle. The words tumble from her mouth before she can think to stop them. “Then that is exactly where I’ll be.”
A smile crosses his face, bright as a flash of sunlight on the water and just as brief, before his expression turns grave once more. “So long as you recall that you have a choice.” He needs her to know she isn’t trapped. He needs to know that she knows she isn’t trapped.
"That you give me the choice is exactly why I stay on with you." She pauses, trying to figure out how to explain. “The moment you realized you had not given me free choice to be on your crew, you made it right. You listened to me, and you made it right. That means a great deal.”
Vane nods. Exhales slowly. They stand side by side in companionable silence. After a time, she speaks again. "When I first went on the account, I sailed with a man from Timbuktu. He told wondrous stories about his homeland, of vast ever-shifting seas of burning sand where the only way to navigate is by the stars, same as we do at sea. He'd speak to me at night while I was working, because he had a daughter about my age who he missed terribly. We used the same stars to find the way, he and I, but we called them by different names. We used the same constellations but saw in them different creatures. Neither of us were wrong, and we got to the same answers, but if asked to explain how we did it, we would say very different things." Hope turns her head so she can look him in the eye, not in challenge, but trying to will him to understand.
“You think when we disagree, we’re sometimes looking at the same thing in different ways.”
“Just so.”
Vane’s hand reaches over to cover hers. He starts to step closer, ever so slightly, when a breathless, sweaty-faced Jack comes running down the jetty towards them. “I’ve got it, Charles! I’ve got the lead we were seeking. But there are people...” His eyes slide over to Vane’s hand, which is still wrapped firmly around Hope’s. He startles and nearly jumps backwards a pace when he realizes that he interrupted them.
“Then we’d best go talk to those people,” Vane growls. He glances down at Hope with the faintest shadow of a grin. “Luckily we’ve got a skilled negotiator who isn’t afraid to knife a man.”
Hope snorts and makes a wry face. He has never before mentioned the corpse she’d left in his cabin during the first raid she went on with him.
As she walks beside her captain, his words keep ringing in her ears. You always have a place with me.
#charles vane x hope wickham#charles vane x ofc#charles vane x oc#charles vane imagine#black sails fic#disaster pirates#the heart of admiration fic
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Star Wars: The High Republic #2 Review
Ultimately a 7.5 out of 10, this installment was slightly better because of how Cavan Scott decided to advance the plot. While there some are nice nuggets of good-story telling and character interactions, even worse than last time, it’s bogged down with cardinal errors that truly make me question Scott’s competency as a writer for this story.
The issue comes right off the back end of Keeve being promoted to a Master Jedi and chronicles her first mission in the position. She is still dealing with the growing pains of what it means to be a Jedi which is depicted with her ongoing internalized self-doubt as well as her difficulty expressing certain Jedi mantras, such as “May the Force be with you.” Arguably exacerbating this bottled up uncertainty are the Keeve-proclaimed legends of Jedi Masters Sskeer, and identical Kobati twins Terec and Ceret. These twins are Bond-twins and as so are able to share the same mind and experiences of each other.
As they exit “hyperspace” (more on that later), the four masters come across the leftover demise of a ship that has been attacked. The Jedi were tasked with responding to the scrambled distress call that the ship had sent out sometime ago but, it seems as if they arrived too late. Both Keeve and one of the twins, using the Force, are able to sense survivors within the ransacked ship. As so, they board and enter. Almost as soon as they are inside, they are met with poisonous Nihilian ovax gas and utilize a device called “rebreathers” to mitigate the effects. Fully aware that the Nihil have raided this ship, they continue their investigation and split up to cover more ground. Traversing in groups of two, Terec – who is accompanying Sskeer – can sense the Trandoshan experiencing extreme trauma which means that Ceret can feel it as well via their bond; specifically, Sskeer is having flashbacks to the exact moment he lost his arm in the Battle of Kur.
On Keeve’s side of things, she and Ceret come across the corpses of a Hutt and Gamorrean guards. Upon further examination, it seems the Hutt was killed via an amalgam of stab wounds, blaster bolts, and nagnol poisoning – the latter being a toxic natural gas, capable of disrupting starship sensors, poisoning beings based on dosage, and a key element in the Nihil smokescreen.
On Sskeer’s end, he comes across a barley crop and together the Jedi deduce that the Hutt was capitalizing on the grain shortage that has occurred thanks to the Great Disaster. As the twins work on trying to ascertain where exactly the crop came from, Ceret is attacked by a Nihil that has been left behind; this causes both twins to feel the pain but, the wounds are not fatal. Sskeer charges ahead and chases after the Nihil raider, who is already suffering from serious injuries previously sustained in the raid. While Sskeer is perturbed that he cannot sense the attacker he is able to fatally strike down the assailant; coming to gripes that he has just killed, Sskeer goes on a rampage and continually slashes the bifurcated carcass only be brought back to his senses when Keeve addresses him.
Afterward, the Masters relay their findings to Marshall Avar Kriss and with the analysis from Master Maru, come to the conclusion that the barley – specifically Vratixia Renanicus – is a key ingredient in bacta; moreover, the shipment likely came from the Sedri System – principally, Sedri Minor. With this in mind, Kriss assigns Sskeer and Ceret to got to Sedri while she and Jedi Master Rwoh convene with Keeve and Terec to collect the Hutt ship that is breaking trading sanctions. Keeve moves to go with Sskeer but, Sskeer stonewalls her to stay with Terec.
Arriving on the planet, Sskeer is met with unwecolmedness by a citizen, Kalo Sulman who makes it clear that the Jedi’s presence will interfere with the colony’s independence. As the two are discussing, Ceret sees a Rodian in the crops motioning him to come over – as Ceret goes deep into the brush he is attacked by Drengir.
Back on the ship, Kriss and Keeve are discussing the remains of the corpse that Sskeer has left; Kriss reprimands Keeve for not telling her sooner but, also admonishes herself for not looking deeper into the signs the Force were giving her – such as not being able to hear Sskeer’s “song”.
As this happens, Terec – who is being medically assessed by Rwoh – screams out in pain feeling his brother’s anguish and relays this to Kriss. Kriss immediately contacts Sskeer and asks if Ceret is with him; when Sskeer realizes that the twin is gone rushes into the fields only to find his lightsaber.
What I liked:
A growing plot pivoting off of the bacta manufacturing that was touched on by Jedi Grandmaster Veter; this is much welcomed world building within the parameters that is the High Republic.
A very competent and aptly written investigation, analysis, and deductive reasoning done by the Jedi as a whole. The way the Jedi got on the ship, looked for clues, relayed their information to the data analyst/forensic expert, and hash out a plan to go to the planet where the clue originated from was great and definitely resonated with the idea that these Jedi are analogous to Texas Rangers. They certainly seemed like proto-Jedi investigators, not unlike future Jedi Master Tera Sinube.
The continued delving into Jedi Master Sskeer. I like the balancing act that is being conducted with his character. He’s a virtuous being that is dealing with trauma but, that doesn’t, ultimately, stop him from being a Jedi – it just tests it. He is still a “knight” and applies that chivalry when it needs to shine. Witnessing his accident and how it is affecting his psyche, ability to use the Force, and his morality is the highlight of this issue. This is what should be focused on to establish WHY Keeve looks up to him – give her these thoughts in accordance with herself doubt.
The dynamics of Ceret and Terec as interconnected Force Twins (could be seen as “Dyad Force-bond” inspired). Their link is a double-edged sword that reminds me of the Tomax and Xamot Paoli from Cobra Command. The original Star Wars was centered around Force sensitive twins and it’s nice to see that element played with more here – haven’t really seen that since the Mikkian twin sisters – Tiplee and Tiplar – in Clone Wars.
The holster to the lightsabers – it’s a nice, subtle way to convey how the Jedi of this era are more in a time of peace and reservation. To have a weapon holstered means that they have to take the extra moment to consider brandishing it. This underlying detail syncs really well with the time period considering that most of their enemies would be lifeforms and could be reasoned with – “life is precious.”
This can be seen as succinct yet distinct dichotomy between this era Jedi and the Skywalker Saga Jedi, as their sabers were without a holster and normally fashioned around the hips allowing for both instant access and draw in an age encompassed by war with droids – “droids are replaceable.”
What I disliked:
The application of Keeve’s personality traits continues to feel like a mismatch for the particular time period and volk she supposedly has been training and studying with; Ezra Bridger – who by the High Republic’s standards would not even be a Jedi – acts more like a Jedi than Keeve does. If anything, the uncertainty, quirks, and misapplication of Jedi traditions would have fit Ezra WAY more than it does (or really doesn’t) with Keeve. The concept itself is fine but, the iteration is what is flawed. Keeve is fast feeling more like a Jedi from post revenge Revenge of the Sith – like Kanan Jarrus – that a High Republic Jedi.
The sloppy fan service – there is a scene not only of a Hutt but, the Hutt is dead with its tongue out, surrounded by dead Gamorrean guards. It would be one thing if we just had a dead Hutt, I can even look past the Gamorrean guards (even though it would be nice if we saw this race in more roles than guards – there are some but, it does seem like guards is niche as far as the universe is concerned) but, to also have the Hutt dead with its tongue out to me just screams “DO YOU REMEMBER THAT ONE SCENE IN RETURN OF THE JEDI WITH JABBA?!!!” Just, how much are you going to dilute a reference? Make the fan service substantive and or just not in your face – the Rodian luring Ceret is a good version of fan service; present, notable, but not impeding in terms of the narrative.
What I Marked Off:
The completely wrong depiction of hyperspace; Star Wars Hyperspace is blue and certainly not immersed in stars when one is traveling through it. This error is on the very first page of the issue. This shook me to my very core and yanked me out of the immersion. IT’S THE FIRST PAGE! HOW DOES ONE MESS UP ON THE FIRST PAGE?!!! To add grave insult to mortal injury, hyperspace is a FOCAL element of the High Republic Era – you CAN NOT mess this up. Ultimately, it’s a team mess up but, Scott gets the brunt of this reprimand because this is his story and arguably his script is the one that should be guiding the artist.
The fact that Scott continues to fail to make the necessary references about crucial dynamics, events, and positions within this era. I had to learn from a YouTube video (link below) that Sskeer is actually the “Steward” to Kriss’ Marshall role. As of issue #3, this position is still not established to be held by Sskeer which is a real shame as it adds more substance and weight to his plight as a perturbed Jedi.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPeRcyJE5dk&feature=emb_title
In summary, this issue was a 7.5 out of 10; slightly better than issue one because of how the writer decided to advance the plot and who he decided to advance the plot with. The genuinely good moments of story-telling are bogged down by ineptitude that can literally throw one out of the immersion. Nonetheless, if you can tolerate the faults there are elements to enjoy, especially when it comes to the characters. I hope those elements promptly become prominent.
#high republic#cavan scott#keeve trennis#sskeer#vernestra rwoh#kobati#ceret#terec#avar kriss#estala maru#ovax gas#battle of kur#hutt#gamorrean guard#nagnol poisoning#grand master#veter#great diaster#vratixia renanicus#bacta#sedri system#sedri minor#rodian#ezra bridger#kanan jarrus#tomax#xamot#jedi investigator#tera sinube#tomax and xamot
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Campaign 2 Wrap Up: Anna Potatoesandsunshine Edition
Seemed like it would be fun to go through all the fan content I made for this campaign and try to find at least one thing I like about each thing! Kind of like looking back through a photo album. Under the cut because as it turns out, I wrote kind of a lot! (As in, 21 fics and 3 playlists kind of a lot!)
the sea, once it casts its spell (fjord speculation, what’s up with all this ocean stuff?? the fic)
The first thing I wrote for c2, wayyy in the beginning of things. We had no idea about Uk’otoa or Avantika or anyone at this point, it was pure ocean vibes for my favorite warlock. I really like how hard I leaned in on the “the ocean follows Fjord to land” idea.
so many things will fill my life (but only one will do) (post-campaign cali/jester fluff, written the night of the cali episode and so sweet it could rot your teeth)
This one is just good. I just did good with this one. I’m one of those people who hates their own work the night of posting and then when looking back at it goes, “Wow, this is great.” My favorite thing is the little gifts sent along with the letters! Cali was so fun and cute :)
when the dust does roam (Beau study up to Episode 42, 2k words of Beau poking at the idea of grief)
Best thing I did in this fic was have Caleb-through-Frumpkin bugging Beau about getting some sleep. They really... they’re siblings, your honor.
“ “Fuck off, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Beau picks the bird up and sets him in the hood of her own cloak, out of reach of any weasels or startled monks in the morning. It’d suck to have to tell Caleb that his Frumpkin got eaten by Sprinkle.” C’mon guys, let’s do the sibling dance.
keep your swords out by your sides (the idea for this was, What If Fjord Has Nightmares From Uk’otoa Every Night and just doesn’t remember them)
Assigning everybody a word Uk’otoa had said for each nightmare in this was a challenge; I went into it knowing I wanted Caleb for Learn and Caduceus for Consume and had to guess the rest - for an angry eye snake Uk’otoa didn’t give us a ton of quotes.
“ He reaches over and runs a hand along the wall of the ship. From his touch, mushrooms begin sprouting.” Caduceus starting to decompose the Mistake in the middle of cooking was maybe the best moment in this story for me. Like, yeah. Yeah. Ok you funky little grave cleric.
strange but not a stranger (Caleb & Jester, in the immediate aftermath of Caleb’s charm in Episode 55)
the first of my “the Mighty Nein won’t have these conversations with each other in canon so they have to be had in fic” ideas that turned into a full-fledged story. I still had not discovered the em dash at this point, so the formatting of this makes me cringe a little bit, but this fic was really about The Emotions Of Being Out Of Control which turned out to be a very big Thing for the Mighty Nein.
now this story was when swords were humble (fake academia mixed with a Yasha study)
Honestly I’m still obsessed with the AU I made here where Yasha was just awakening every sword she used without knowing it?? Why did I use that here only?? That might come back. But the best part about this fic is the citations; me at my most in-joke and ridiculous.
through the teeth of this tempest (Written in the immediate aftermath of Episode 69, Yasha internally trying to break Obann’s control over the course of a month.)
The most “I wrote this to cope with canon” fic out of all of them. I was crying writing this, I was so upset that Yasha was gone ugh just remembering it. Still waiting for past me to discover the em dash, I genuinely don’t know why I didn’t know how to do it and I’ve thought about going back and editing all of these but I’m just Not Gonna Do All That. Anyway, I really like how Yasha catches lightning with her sword in this. We all really manifested that happening.
nothing more than what the losers settle for (Time travel, a series of oneshots where each member of the m9 sans Caduceus went back to a different point in the timeline and murdered Trent Ikithon)
This was my longest fic for c2, so I’m mostly just glad it got finished. This happened somewhere around the time Matt released that set of notes that mentioned Trent in more detail and I hated him so much I just had to write him dying six times. That speaks for itself.
Revolutionary!Fjord was also a good turn. He could pull it off, I think.
we’re gonna show ‘em a thing, or two, or three (Jester growing up fluff!)
I really like how I did Jester & Artagan in this, even though he barely appears. Someone better at songwriting than me please write the Dragon Song. Em dash makes an appearance here but the formatting is still wrong. I Am Once Again Asking For Proper Use Of The Em Dash.
the best things (happen while you’re dancing) (Mid-Episode 97 Divergence, Jester taking the reins at the party + hints of jester/beau/yasha bc i still love my girls so much)
Jester’s a little out of character in this, but not wildly so, and it was for the purposes of a Trapped By Societal Convention plot that I wanted her to mastermind so I think it was fine in the end. I’m still fascinated by the way she unbalanced Ludinus Da’leth in basically every interaction they had, and while their scene feels pretty cliche in this... the cliches are there for a reason. They’re so fun to write.
Em dash my beloved, there you are.
plus thirty-one varieties of sacramental wine (The Galavant crossover that truly nobody asked for, Beau + the monks)
Yeah, this one’s just fun. Not much more to say about it. Critical Role and Galavant are both fantasy, but they’re honestly pretty different in tone, and it was fun to write Beau dropped into a comedy musical.
oh we were sea-bound and aimless at best (Purely angst, a What If The Fjord & Orly Resurrections Didn’t Work fic)
Made myself care about Marius with this one, y’all. What more can I say? Beau having to go from first mate to captain was just... deliciously painful, because she would.
lost my shape trying to act casual (Beau & Yasha during travelercon, another mid-episode fic, this time of 104)
Yasha comforting Beau, who feels guilty for not feeling guilty... That Mighty Nein wasn’t lying, Mind Control and Autonomy can be themes. Another in the “the Mighty Nein won’t have these conversations with each other in canon so they have to be had in fic” tank. They really just... didn’t open up to each other for a long time, which made sense, but I wanted them to.
so long as you don’t mind a little dying (Beau & Caduceus, sometime in the peace talks arc)
Keeping with the Mighty Nein Please Talk To Each Other theme, I feel like I did a pretty good job with the late-night conversation energy of this fic. This was at a time when I was looking at Caduceus, can opener in hand, ready to make this firbolg open up about his feelings. Beau in this is prickly and confrontational but only in service of her friend’s well-being.
amber light, bending (Eiselcross speculation, Widofjord and all the messiness therein)
THE widofjord fic of my two widofjord fics. The blueprint. The better one. Finally I got the dynamic figured out. I maintain that the tower is an absolute expression of Caleb’s love for his friends. The way that neither of them have the braincell in this fic... yeah this one is just good.
and a blade between them (Widofjord happening... sometime.)
Okay so this is not as good as amber light and I will never be able to look at it and like it as much, but it was still fun to write. Anyway, the intimacy of shaving someone else. That is good. The tag “if they didn’t want me to think about the blood pact they shouldn’t have made the blood pact” is the most useful takeaway from this fic and is the driving force behind the Fjord/Jester/Caleb fic I’m working on now, so it wasn’t a waste of time or anything.
feel the ground beneath my feet turn into the sky (Post-Campaign Astrid-retires-to-Nicodranas, Astrid/Jester)
This is another one where I’m like “Yeah, this is just good.” Packed full of Wizard Fashion, Artagan making an appearance to rope Astrid into having a happier future, and the power of Going To The Seaside. Good for you, fic-Astrid.
spend your days biting your own neck (Role-reversal where Beau is the one mind-controlled this time and Yasha is the one chasing after her, set very early in the Tomb Takers arc)
So much of this fic is about not saying things aloud - Beau’s POV spends a good chunk on body language and Yasha writes multiple letters on paper and in her own head - but devotion bleeding through anyway because there’s nowhere else for it to go. The two of them go tumbling over a cliff together at the end but Yasha has wings, ugh. Yeah this was a good one.
and blow the dry leaves from the tree (Somewhere before the beauyasha date but otherwise timeline-nonspecific Nicodranas, Yasha & Yeza become friends)
Yasha & Yeza making pancakes together when neither of them know how to do so... is good. This fic is very much about grief sneaking in, but it’s even more about finding someone to share the moment with you. I think these two have more in common than we think.
oh, lend a mending hand (Caleb & Caduceus during Beau’s tombstone meditation in Episode 130)
I wrote this entire fic as an excuse for Caleb and Caduceus to hug and it does what it says on the tin. Got em.
it’s about the passing of measures (Beauyasha at the end of Episode 134, Aeor speculation)
This fic got extremely sidetracked because I rediscovered the marble machine during it and I do not apologize for that. I still really like the idea that Aeor as a whole, not just the Cognouza, is somewhat-alive. Too much magic and too much death for it to be anything else, in my mind. And I’m a sap for hurt/comfort.
the blumentrio playlist nobody asked for
If I think too much about how deep in each other these three people are I will cry. Made myself a soundtrack for those tears.
the caleb playlist nobody asked for
what if this angsty wizard had a playlist of songs that mostly just... make me want to dance? that question was answered here.
the caduceus playlist nobody asked for
songs about home, leaving home, dying, changing, becoming someone new, coming home and finding it’s changed... this to me is caduceus.
yeah... this campaign has been fun!! I probably won’t stop making things about it; I still write about Vox Machina, for crying out loud, but... it feels good to lay it all out like this. It’s been a long few years, and it’s wild to be seeing the end of it now.
#yes tumblr hates links yes here is an overlong post with 24 links#now THIS is why you make a blog. to look at your own work and say yeah several times.#critical role#i have some stuff i've been working on but i don't see any of it getting finished before the epilogue#looking back at everything is like... yeah! i had a lot of fun here!#anna's fic notes
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Oh man I just finished your Booker fic and it’s making me feel so many things, its so good!!! Also Booker having nightmares post-Quynh around the others after not having any for like a century? Oof
!!! That’s the good shit there, nonny! Top tier angst!! Sleep deprivation!!! All the things that make for the best stories!!!!
He startles awake, heart racing.
The details of the dream is already fading, but the after-effects are a fucking bitch and a half to manage: Booker’s wide awake, and jumpy enough to probably break the neck of the idiot that’s sneaking up behind him-
“It’s just me.”
“No just about it,” grumbles Booker, but his voice is thankfully low enough that the other three don’t wake. “Why’re you awake?”
“I don’t sleep well,” says Andy carelessly.
Booker swipes a hand over his eyes and gets up. Stumbles to the kitchen. He feels like such shit, and it’s almost beyond him not to dial into the shipping company and just… re-direct some of the downers to the shores of sunny Lima. Blitz out his locus coeruleus with enough norepinephrine that even his swift healing takes about four hours to fix it. Add another two hours of passing in and out of non-REM and Booker can claim to a proper six hours of sleep: it’s enough to survive. With the alcohol numbing him further, he can stretch that sleep out to eight hours on the really, really bad nights.
Absent the drugs, though, he needs other things to focus on. Their bodies can function on less sleep- the same way they can survive on less food- and Booker’s been experimenting with that for the past couple weeks.
It is not, as Joe’s told him multiple times, going well.
“Doesn’t mean you have to be the same.”
Booker pours out the coffee, mixes it with concentrate of yaupon holly, and then adds a shit-ton of sugar to the brew. Andy watches him with dark eyes, but he doesn’t offer it to her; the last thing they all need is a jumped-up six thousand year old warrior high on the strongest caffeine that Booker can, legally, get his hands on.
“What was the dream about?”
“Fuck if I know,” says Booker, and hisses out through his teeth as he drains half the cup. Christ but it tastes terrible, too bitter and too sweet in equal measure. Still, the trembling ache in his shoulders, tight about his ears, softens. “You know how it is. It’s not like I’ve got a paucity of nightmares. None of us do.”
“You’re the one waking up in the middle of the night.”
“And you’re the one not sleeping.”
“I’m used to it, though,” says Andy.
Booker rolls his eyes. “Dream diaries don’t work. Talking about them doesn’t help. I have tried to literally rewire my brain and it isn’t happening. Turns out that being depressed and missing your family when you die makes it impossible for you to feel anything else.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “Just because you automatically accept the most depressing possible theory doesn’t mean that it’s the correct one, Book.”
“If I could go back in time,” Booker tells her, “I would seduce Nile’s mother and ensure that she remained heartbroken over the handsome French baker who disappeared into the clouds and therefore could not marry Nile’s father.”
“I assume there’s a point to that,” says Andy dryly.
“I liked you a hell of a lot better when you weren’t this fucking optimistic is the point,” says Booker. “And I know that it’s all Nile’s fucking influence. So.”
“So,” says Nile, grinning at him from the bedroom she’s just walked out of, “if I don’t exist, you’d be happier?”
“Your mother doesn’t know what she missed out on,” says Booker, and drains the rest of the brew.
…
A bridge of gold and laughter. A bridge as silver as his wife’s grey hair. A bridge, shining as a gun in broad daylight-
Booker wakes, gasping.
Coffee. Holly. Bitterness down his gullet.
It’s not really new any longer, is it?
…
He takes a knife to the gut, and then sees another soldier sneaking up behind Andy. There’s no time; he’s still barely standing, much less able to voice a proper warning. Instead, Booker lets the intestines he’s clutching inside spill out in a dark, bloody slither. Stumbles. The soldier slips on the sudden viscera: Booker’s yanking his guts back into his own body, mouth open in a silent scream because it really, really hurts.
He wakes up, gasping.
…
He drowns, and drowns, and drowns.
He wakes up, gasping.
...
“Right,” says Nile. “You need help, Booker.”
“Fuck off,” says Booker.
He’s on mile twenty-one of a marathon-esque circuit, and his body’s pretty much hitting the wall; he does not want to talk about his issues right now. Joe and Nicky have gotten tired enough of his grumpiness to escape to the city for the day, and Andy’s off on one of her personal missions that nobody knows any details about.
Booker hasn’t slept in about forty-one hours, and it’s not getting better.
It’s why he left the house and went on this run! It’s why he’s trying to drive his body into- well, not an early grave, but a grave nevertheless!
Booker regrets many things in life. Introducing Copley to Nile ranks high among them, especially after the little shit went and learned how to hack phones from a fucking CIA agent.
“I’m telling you this because you aren’t going to listen to anyone else,” says Nile. “And this seemed like a good time to make sure you listened. Look, Booker, there are things out there- therapists- courses, if you aren’t going to talk to anyone. You really, really-”
Booker rips out his headphones, takes the little molten sun that feels rather like something has ruptured in his chest, and pushes the energy into his legs.
He sprints the rest of the way home.
He’s pretty sure he’s ripped one of the muscles in his thighs with it, and the agony of that is enough for him to focus on something else apart from Nile. Who does not look impressed.
“You need help,” she says quietly, when he finally stops clutching at his own thigh and drops back into the mud and mulch of the garden.
Booker laughs. He laughs, and keeps on laughing, and only manages to stop by rolling over and suffocating himself in the roots of a fucking- plant.
Probably a Cycus aculeata, which means that either Booker’s in the wrong hemisphere or Andy’s been introducing invasive species again because she misses her fucking girlfriend too much.
“Yeah,” he says, and sits up, already planning the lecture and the following plant-removal that he’ll have to do. Then he sees Nile’s face, and Booker pauses, reviewing what he’s just agreed to. “No,” he says. “I mean. Yes, I need help. That’s, like, the fucking- understatement of the century. Past two centuries. But. I’m not getting help from anyone else.”
Nile folds her arms over her chest. With the sun streaming right behind her, she looks like a goddess come to life: haloed, beautiful, the slightest bit unreal.
“That’s fine,” she says. “I’ll just ask Joe to become a therapist.”
“Sure,” snorts Booker. “And I’ll ask Andy to become a pacifist.”
Nile points a finger at him. “Don’t be mean.”
“Ask Nicky,” Booker advises her. “I mean, I don’t think you’ll get anywhere, but. You’re less likely to be laughed out of the room.” At her questioning look, he elaborates: “Idiot was a priest, back in the day. And, you know, all those people- well, priests were as close as you’d get to therapists before all of this psychology stuff came about.”
“Right,” says Nile warily. “So why do you think I’ll be laughed at? Nicky sounds like he’s good for the job.”
Booker stares at her. “What did the man do, the second he had a chance to leave?”
“Er. Leave?”
“He went on a fucking Crusade,” says Booker. “He killed people. He- well, you know, did the whole invader thing. Liked it, too. He only really stopped because he decided he liked Joe more, and Joe was, like, I’m not going to let you kill my people for fun anymore, and they worked out their excess energy by fucking in sand, because both of them are absolute idiots.”
Nile blinks at him. “So. Not a therapist.”
Booker grins at her, and knows it’s more of a baring of his teeth than anything comforting. “I guess your best bet is Andy, then.”
“I cannot believe I’m going to have to get a degree in fucking therapy because of you,” hisses Nile.
“I thank you for your sacrifice,” says Booker, and pats her on the shoulder gingerly.
He gets an armful of a furiously emotional Nile a moment later, hugging him so tight around the neck it feels like a throttling. Then she backs away, and goes into the house, leaving Booker in leaves and mulch and a burgeoning headache.
Fucking invasive species, he thinks, and wishes he’d never studied botany. Really. If he was just like Nicky and purposely uneducated in all the ecological implications, he could ignore it. But Booker had to go and study plants and try to synthesize his own compounds and get tangled up in ecology legislation in the 1980s, and so he knows, goddammit, and he’ll have to face Andy’s hangdog expression tonight when he serves up roasted cycad beside whatever Joe’s preparing for dinner.
Fuck my life, he thinks, but it isn’t half so sour as it might have been just a month earlier. Fuck my life, he thinks, and heads back into the house, whistling the whole goddamn way.
#i have so many feelings about this idiot and his idiocy#esp his belief that everyone else is the idiot in his family oml#the old guard#dialux answers questions#my writing#Anonymous
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BNHA Ship to Finish the Year
MangaGlue (Fukidashi Manga x Bondo Kojiro)
Canon
So, Manga and Bondo...
And I thought Honenuki and Kodai were a rare couple with rare characters.
At least, they had a personality.
Or content.
Man, this is going to be short.
I like the idea that they are so invisible that nobody notices they got together until they get married.
Like, out of the blue, the ex-students of class B get an invitation to the wedding and engagement party, and they all lose their shits.
"YOU ARE DATING!?" "Yeah..." "SINCE WHEN!?" "Well, we had our first date at the end of our first year at UA, but we became official a little later-" "YOU'VE BEEN GOING OUT SINCE HIGH SCHOOL!?"
"Wait! You never noticed?" "NO!" "We went on dates all the time, we studied together, we held hands all lunches," "Now that's unfair! You know nobody can bear the sight of seeing you eat, Manga!"
Okay, but seriously how does this kid eat? He doesn't have a mouth! His face is a bubble speech with an emoticon! And in his hero suit, he uses a mask! What the hell is that covering! Your face is a bubble speech, what do you think you are hiding? Your face is an emoticon!
This ship gives me so much anxiety!
I hate the design of these two characters, and the fact that I have to think about them doing couple stuff makes me mad.
How do they do stuff!? They can't kiss since I don't know if one has a mouth!
That means they can't go on coffee dates or dinner dates either! How are is Manga going to eat!?
And Bondo doesn't have eyes! I know he can see, because there is no source addressing the fact that he is blind, but from where? Are they the holes on top of his head? But that's where the glue comes from!
This is going to be the death of me...
I can't...
*leaves the room*
Family
*comes back into the room* Okay, I'm back and more calm now...
I imagine that Manga's family is a single-dad. His dad's face is a canvas, instead of a bubble speech.
His quirk is that he can spit paint.
I imagine him like a Bob Ross that instead of painting, spits in his paintings.
"We don't make mistakes. Just happy accidents," *spits in the painting*
why is that funny to me?
I feel like they would get along with Bondo alright.
However, they don't invite him to their home anymore. Bondo is gigantic, and he smashes his head against the ceiling.
Bondo is the tallest of class B, and Manga is the shortest.
Bondo lives with his grandparents. His parents are away a lot, since they are the CEO's of the most famous cement factory of Japan, so his mother's parents looked out for him.
When Manga comes, his parents are present, but Bondo doesn't care if they like his boyfriend or not. He is, however, interested in knowing if his grandparents like him.
To him, their opinion matters more than the one of two strangers that were never there.
His grandparents love him, of course, Grandma laughs with every different emoticon he uses to express himself and Grandpa gets help from Manga to do crossword puzzles.
I don't want to think about them having children.
I mean-
Just think-
I have enough with these two and their weird-ass physiology to worry about creating a mix between them.
I read Frankenstein. I learned the lesson Victor didn't.
It would be funny if they had children that looked human, but I don't see them as parents.
Maybe it's the anxiety they cause me that makes me want nobody to go through it. And that includes children.
But I do think they would have a pretty sick wedding. Something modern and contemporary.
AU - Frankenstein AU
You know what? We are going on a roll here. I figured why not?
So, Bondo and Manga are friends. Their parents are high society of England during the Dark Gothic ages.
Manga is a doctor scientist and Bondo, a military man. The two are inseparable, but one day, Bondo dies in a horrible accident.
Manga, blinded by grief and loss, forms a desperate idea in his head to bring him back.
He starts digging up graves, researching into cases of the dead, and throwing all of his time into this project.
Time passes and passes, and one day he does it.
"IT'S ALIVE!!"
Bondo, however, is not the same as before. He is much stronger and doesn't seem to be able to remember much or talk.
Slowly, Manga tries to make him remember, showing him pictures and telling him about memories of their childhood. He keeps Bondo locked away with the idea that he might get hurt again if he goes outside.
Bondo, however, is not stupid, and one day, finds a way out.
He comes across people, but they are all afraid of him.
The overwhelming sensations of being outside, drive him mad, but it also brings back his memories.
He returns to the Manga before he can launch a search party for him. But when he does, he ignores the other man.
Manga doesn't know what's wrong until two days later, he has to stop him from shooting his brain off.
They have a discussion and Bondo runs off, but this time, he comes across the wrong set of people.
The people he came across, start saying that they saw a monster and that he tried to attack them. The city starts a chase to either kill the monster, or drive him away.
Manga looks for him too, but to bring him back home and be able to save him from the angry hysterical people.
Bondo, meanwhile, hides in the woods, not knowing if it would be better to live and accept the unwarranted gift Manga gave him, or to die, and let nature run his course.
He doesn't have much time to think about it, since he is found by a hunter and barely makes it out.
He returns to Manga, but word travels fast, and is not long before an angry mob is at their door.
They burn the house down, and Bondo dies inside. Some people from the mob, who believed Bondo was a demon who was confusing Manga by wearing the face of his late friend, saved Manga from the fire and place him in a hospital.
However, some officials found some of the research made by Manga and put the pieces together.
They go to the hospital to arrest him, he hanged himself in his room before they arrived.
Manga didn't want to live in a world where Bondo was not with him.
Fanon Opinion
I can't even imagine them going on dates with their weird as hell anatomy. And you expect me to be able to write about them having sex?
I can't even picture them kissing! I can't picture them eating!
I don't know how they are even breathing!
I feel that through the days of doing this, you have put me challenges.
A know character with an unknown one, two background characters, but none of them come close to the level of stress this couple has given me.
This unimportant character x 'how the fuck is this' character.
And no! It's not a typo! I mean how!
And you know what sucks, you don't who I'm talking about.
However, I have to admit, this is a gem.
This is the rarest of ship that is possible, and at the same time correct.
#bnha#mha#MangaGlue#manga fukidashi#bondo kojiro#the nightmare couple#never again#bnha headcanons#bnha ships to finish the year#canon#family#frankenstein au#fanon opinion
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About a boy (Part-9)
Word count: 2.8K
Warning: Suspense, feels, physical abuse, child-trafficking and bullying
Characters: Dean, Cas, Gabriel, Benny, Michael, OCs and… Sam?
Summary: Dean Winchester has a secret. A secret that could really land him in trouble. He never expected to connect with anyone when he walked into the ‘Blue Stone Orphanage for Boys,’ but even then, the walls he has put up are slowly coming down. Now, a series of strange events are threatening to expose him. When everything starts falling apart around him, will he still be able to save the one person that matters the most?
A/N: I’m incredibly sorry that this took so long, guys! That too after a cliffhanger. Really, really sorry. Hope you like it nonetheless :)
Thanks to my lovelies @thing-you-do-with-that-thing and @deanssweetheart23 for beta reading this story <3
About a boy masterlist
Dean stood there stunned, as if someone had slapped the sense out of him.
“Don’t try to deny it,” Benny warned, his expression wary and almost threatening. “You’re not an orphan, so what the hell are you even doing here?”
“I-I am an orphan,” Dean said, surprised that his voice sounded steady when his insides were in a twist.
This was it. This was as far as Dean would go. Any moment now, Benny would go running to Andy and spill his guts about what he’d heard and there was nothing Dean could do about it.
Benny was still looking down at him with blatant distrust, hands crossed over his chest, waiting for an answer.
Maybe he saw the raw panic in Dean’s eyes, or realised that Dean was paralysed and wouldn’t answer because Benny eventually sighed and dropped his hands.
“Look,” he said, raising his chin slightly so Dean could see his eyes clearly under the hood of his cap. They were a startling dark blue. “I am not going to rat you out. I knew there was something up with you since the day you walked into our room.”
“H-How?” Dean asked, mostly to keep Benny talking. He wasn’t surprised that Benny had noticed all the unusual stuff.
“You disappear into the night, every night. You look like you have an agenda,” Benny shrugged. “I’ve spent most of my life in an orphanage, I know homelessness when I see it. You’ve never looked homeless. And then there’s that pager in your bag.”
Dean scowled. “You went through my stuff? You spied on me?”
“Like you aren’t spying on this place, yourself,” Benny shot back. “I knew you were sneaky. Finding out all I could about you was self preservation instinct.”
This was the most that Dean had ever heard Benny talk. His voice had a roughness that sounded out of place for a teenager and over that there was an odd graveness.
“I’ve had my reservations about you, especially since you and Castiel have gotten so close,” Benny paused, and Dean realised that all this while Benny had also been curious for Cas’s sake. Cas was a frigging saint when it came to looking out for people and it was natural to take a liking to him, to want to keep him out of harm’s way. It was why Gaberiel- who never bothered about anyone but himself- had gone out of his way to help Cas on that night of Dean’s initiation. Apparently, Benny wasn’t immune to Cas’s weird power over people. He had been worried about Cas getting mixed up with a bad person.
“Now, are you going to tell me what’s up?” Benny asked impatiently. “You’re involved with the police somehow so I can guess where this is going. Spill, Winchester!”
Dean started talking, his eyes trained on the second button of Benny’s coat. He talked and talked and talked till his throat felt dry, about his past, Bobby, Jody and… the Stynes. At that Benny drew in a sharp breath.
“What about the Stynes?” He asked.
Dean knew a bit about Benny’s past. How he used to be a friendly boy before his best friend was shifted, or to put it more correctly, before his best friend disappeared. This was why Dean had been completely honest with his story.
“We think that the Stynes are involved in child trafficking. That all these kids who suddenly get transferred or whatever, are being shipped off to God knows where and forced into begging rackets or maybe even prostitution.” Dean had never said the last part out loud. It disgusted him to his core, scared him that he might be actually right. And the last thing he wanted was to be right on that count.
Under his cap, Benny had gone completely white. His hands clenched and unclenched. Then, he looked hard at Dean and said, “You really think that’s the case, too, then? That whatever is happening here is not normal?”
“Look around!” Dean gestured, so relieved that Benny wasn’t going to turn him in, that his voice sounded exasperated. “Does any of this horse crap feel normal to you? Of course something is wrong!”
On an impulse Dean added, “But I am not doing this completely out of the goodness of my heart either. I have my own interest.”
Benny raised an eyebrow.
“My brother,” Dean said, “The one I told you about, who I was separated from…” Dean paused, checking his voice. Why was it always so hard to talk about Sam? He’d had years to accept the truth, then why was this still so hard? Would it always be like this?
Dean cleared his throat, then said, “I have reason to believe that he’s actually here. Jody figured that I could continue looking for my brother as long as I found real dirt on the Stynes. Two birds with one stone. I know you must think I’m selfish,” Dean added, “To do this just for my brother, but-”
“I get it,” Benny said, “If I could, I would do it all to get Jaime back.”
“Jaime?” Dean asked but he had an inkling of who he might actually be.
Benny’s eyes were far away as he said, “My buddy. They took him, too.” Then, he looked right at Dean. “Look, if you’re really going to find out what’s happening around here, then I want in. I’ve been here for a long time, not as long as others, but I’ve been suspicious for a longer time than most of these buffoons.”
Benny put a hand in his over large coat and drew out a bunch of keys. “This is the master key set,” he said. “I’ve had this for a while now; stole it off Garth once when he was distracted. It opens most of the doors in this place. I’m not sure Garth even tries going into the west wing, but if you’re gonna go scouting the place, this might be of help.”
Dean frowned. This was too good to be true. “If you’ve had the master key all this while, why didn’t you try to sneak out and use it yourself?”
“Use it and do what?” Benny hissed, “I see the look you’re giving me, Winchester, but I didn’t have the Police backing me. I shouted till my throat was sore when they took Jaime. But no one listened. Not a single soul came out to help me. And the punishment I got for it… Oh, the punishment.” Benny moved up the sleeve of his arm to show welts on the back of his wrist. They looked like thin vertical burn marks.
Dean’s eyes went wide.
“His name was Jacob. Jacob Styne. Didn’t even blink as he put the rod to my skin,” Benny murmured.
Dean suddenly felt too cold under his clothes. This was terrible. The Stynes were monsters… And Andy was a sick son of a bitch. He was supposed to be in-charge, he was supposed to protect the kids. Instead he just watched and let this happen. Dean wanted to punch him where it would hurt seven shades of Sunday. And boy, did he wanna put the Stynes behind the bars for they did. To Jaime and countless others.
“Why didn’t you run?” Dean asked, eyes cast down and away from Benny now.
“We don’t all have a father of sorts waiting for us,” Benny said, but not unkindly. “It was either this or another round of foster homes. Known evil is better than the unknown one, I suppose.” He jingled the keys in the space before them
Dean nodded, grabbed the masterkey and then limped back towards the dorms after Benny disappeared out back.
“Dean!” Cas exhaled, jumping out of his top bunk. “What took so long? I was worried about you.”
Cas looked harried. His black hair was plastered to the side of his face with sweat and the backs of his thumbs had nail marks in them. Cas did that when he was anxious.
“And you look… weird,” Cas said, giving Dean a once over. “Have you been crying?”
Yes he had been crying, but he wasn’t gonna admit to that. Instead, he pulled Cas outside and towards the far end of the corridor, away from the crowded area, then told him everything. From seeing Jody to Bobby and finally Benny.
“Whoa!” Cas looked dazed. “This means we don’t have to wait for Andy to sneak out to his weird dates. We can go to the record room whenever we want. We can have access to all those files.”
“Tonight,” Dean nodded, “After the lights out, we sneak into the west wing.”
-------------------------------------------------
Dean lay on his side, facing the wall that night. Waiting for the time to be right. Over him, Cas was very still in his bed, which was how Dean knew he was up, too. Usually Cas tossed and turned quite a lot and the old rickety frame of their twin bed shook with him. It was past 11 when Gabriel came to bed. He rolled over and fell asleep immediately. Dean gave it 15 more minutes, then quietly stepped out of bed, Cas following in a few seconds. Dean nodded to Benny on his way out. Whether or not Benny wanted anything to do with Dean’s epic nightly adventures, he was unfortunately at least a silent accomplice and audience now.
As sneakily as they could, he and Cas made their way towards the end of the corridor and the west wing door.
“Okay, here goes,” Dean huffed and inserted the most promising key into the lock. Did not work.
“Damn it!” he swore, then tired another one.
“Dean, I hear footsteps,” said Cas, edging closer. “Hurry.”
The third key clicked and Dean pushed the door open. He and Cas slipped inside and pushed the door shut, hoping against hope that the clang wasn’t a give away. They waited with their ears pressed against the cold metal till the faint footsteps faded and Cas breathed out in relief.
“I thought we were done for,” he said.
“Not yet,” Dean replied grimly, peering ahead of them.
The west wing was darker than it was possible to imagine and it smelled strongly of rust, damp salt… and like something had died and rotted here for ages.
Behind him, Cas gagged.
They moved cautiously in the general direction of where the staircase would be, reaching out with their hands, trying to feel the space around them.
There was a distant muted thud from ahead.
“Did you hear that?” Dean whispered.
“Hear what?”
“The noise… from the corridor ahead!” he said.
“There can’t be,” replied Cas. “This side is abandoned, remember?”
But Dean was almost sure he’d heard something from up ahead, like metal being scraped against something. However, Cas was right. Maybe it was Dean’s head getting creative in the dark.
“Here’s the staircase!” Cas exclaimed. “Right here.”
Dean was going to point out that there was no ‘right here’ in this doomed dead hellscape, but he let it go and followed Cas down the spiraling steps, all the way to the ground floor. The dim lights from the front driveway made it easier to find the way to the eastern side here, and within minutes they found themselves in the record room, the door safely shut behind them.
“We did it!” Cas grinned. Dean was about to fist bump him to celebrate the small victory when the shadow at the far end of the room moved and Will came into view.
“Will! What are you doing here?” Dean hissed, outraged. What in the name of holy mother!
Will gave no expression. “I could ask you the same,” he retaliated.
“God damn it, kid!”
“Hey don’t go swearing on me like you’re on some high horse here, okay?” Will pointed a finger at Dean. “You broke the rule, just like me, so stop acting all prissy.”
Dean was flummoxed. “How did you even get down here?”
“You two chuckleheads might have forgotten the incident of great fire, but I got you down here,” Will said angrily, pointing at Cas. “By picking the locks.”
Oh.
“And now,” he said, “You, Dean, are going to tell me exactly what’s going on. Don’t make some bullshit reason or excuse because I’ll know. I’m not stupid. You two act like you’re planning to overthrow a government with all your secret talk and you have me looking for some Sam, and never bothered to explain why!”
Boy, he really was angry, Dean thought to himself.
“Listen, Will…” Dean tried, “What we are doing here… it’s dangerous. Really dangerous. You don’t want to get involved in this.”
“The hell I don’t want to involve myself with this,” Will shot back. “I’ve been going out of my head trying to find your Sam for you. I don’t even know who he is. I almost committed arson for you, so don’t you ‘listen, Will…’ me, Dean. I deserve to know.”
Dean was taken aback with Will’s outburst. He didn’t know the boy was so invested, but he had to agree we Will.
He sighed. “You’re right, Will. You deserve the truth.”
It was like a recap of the morning, having to go through with the story again, but Dean did it just the same. Only, while Benny’s face had been impassive throughout, Will’s expression broke at the mention of the fire and how Sam was taken away. His hazel eyes looked watery and his brow furrowed with each word, to the point where Dean had to look away to be able to continue the story.
“So your brother, he’s here?” Will asked in a strangled voice.
“That’s right,” Dean said. “And Cas here has been helping me with the records, trying to find Sam’s file. Ain’t that right, Cas?”
Cas who had been standing silent all this while nodded his head, and Dean noticed him furtively rubbing his eyes against his sleeve. Dean’s heart gave a lurch.
“Alright,” he said hurriedly, trying to spare both Cas and Will the moment, “If you want to jump on to this train, pick a rack and start pulling out files.”
Will nodded vehemently, but the look in his eyes still had Dean’s stomach in a knot. It was tender and just so innocent. That kid deserved the world, and it sucked that he had grown up in a hell hole like this.
Cas had taken up a rack and was pointing to Will, showing him which of the shelves they had completed looking into. Will was as attentive as ever and quickly dove into the files. Dean watched them work. Cas squinting into the racks, the Torch they had left here last time balanced between his shoulder and neck, while Will flipped through the papers at an inhuman speed, his brown hair falling into his eyes.
Cas finally yawned, hours into the search “Hey check this out, I found Michael's file!”
Will scooted closer to Cas, peered over his elbow and read out loud. “It says he was found on the steps of the orphanage when he was about 3 weeks old. That’s horrible.”
Dean couldn’t fathom where Will got all his empathy from. He had been in the orphanage since as long as he could remember. Maybe his story was something like this, too. Dean was lucky in this regard, in the sense that he knew that his parents had loved him, and not left him on the steps like this.
“Well, that’s the 5th Angel-names Orphanage kid we’ve found,” Cas sighed.
Will laughed. “You know I always thought it was hilarious the names you guys got. I mean you got lucky, Cas. But the kids who got stuck with Balthazar and Uriel? I don’t envy them.”
“Yeah, right, William.” Cas made a face, but he did purse his lips like he was trying not to laugh.
“Don’t you think, Dean?” Will asked, looking up with his wide eyes. “Dean… Dean, are you okay?”
Dean had gone still. “How old does it say the others were when they got into that Angel-names Orphanage?” Dean asked, barely controlling his voice.
“It says that Raphael was 3 months old, Uriel was 8 months and Michael-”
“No… no no no no…” Dean chanted slowly getting up. “This can’t be happening. Fuck!”
“What happened?” Cas asked
But Dean was already backing into the wall, his heart sinking and spirits breaking. “Sam,” he whispered, breath leaving his lungs. “Sam was only 6 months. What if… what if they changed his name when they took him in?”
*******************************
A/N 2: Once again sorry for the delay. But I will post the next part asap cause it is already written! Please do tell me what you thought of the chapter? I live for comments!
If you wanna be tagged, please send me an ask
About a Boy taglist:
@sdavid09 @deanssweetheart23 @blacktithe7 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @cosicas-cuquis @chalicia @anathewierdo @mrswhozeewhatsis @protectteamfreewill @firefly124-writing @spnbaby-67 @hoboal87 @rizlow1 @donnaintx @starmission @gh0stgurl @tftumblin @emily-a-c11 @ericaprice2008 @jotink78 @charliebradbury1104 @ohgodwhybloggg @i-dont-get-cold @bobbie3939 @samsexualdeancurious @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @cookiechipdough @wildfirewinchester
#dean winchester fanfiction#spn fanfiction#weechesters#dean winchester fanfic#weechesters au#anawrites#anawritesspn#Ana writes aab#aab 9#q
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