#but those gloom hands are freaking terrifying | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dionysia-ta-astika · 3 years

Text

The Lady of the Labyrinth

For Dionysus.

Everything was lost. My brother was dead. My love was gone.

I was also stranded on a deserted island. I stared out at the vast, empty expanse of the sea. The sunlight on the waves winked at me with a thousand eyes, as though diamonds had been scattered across the surface of the water. Anyone would find this beach tranquil, I suppose, if they were here under different circumstances than mine.

My brother’s name was Asterion.

Most people didn’t know his name, or even that he had one. To most people, he was the Minotaur, a horrible monster with the body of a man and the head of a bull that eats people. Asterion was a monster, and he did eat people.

Beneath my father’s shining palace, he prowled the twists and turns of the Labyrinth that my father’s genius architect built. The Labyrinth was mine, once. Daedalus made it for me as a dancing path, when I was a little girl. But now it is a dark, disorienting maze of seemingly endless passageways, and I was still the only person who knew how to navigate it. When I could have time alone, I would go to the Labyrinth. I felt my way through its pitch-black corridors, memorizing the nicks and cracks in the rough stone, trying to calm my thoughts. I spoke to Asterion through the walls: “You have never seen the sun,” I said to him. “Do you ever wonder what it’s like in the outside world? Or do you like it down here?” I received no answer from the surrounding darkness. If I did hear something — a snort, or hooves on stone, I would have to run as fast as I could away from the sound. Even I couldn’t go too near Asterion — I wouldn’t want to run the risk that he might attack me.

“Why do you go down there?” My sister, Phaedra, asked me. “What could possibly be appealing about that dark, dismal place?”

“I like it down there,” I said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as I could. “It is peaceful. And I don’t mind the dark.”

She looked at me like I had suddenly sprouted bull’s horns myself. “You know you risk your life every time you enter the Labyrinth, right?”

“He’s our brother,” I said. I don’t know what I intended to explain by saying that. I felt like I had a responsibility to him that extended beyond simply being his sister. I tried to see a man in him, although he sniffed and bellowed and charged like a bull. He could gore me to death like a bull, but I did not fear him. “I can’t say I love him, but I feel something.”

“You shouldn’t feel any sympathy for him. He’s a freak of nature. The gods cursed us with him for our father’s arrogance. He is a shame upon our kingdom.”

She was right, of course. The gods gifted us a beautiful white bull that we were meant to sacrifice to Poseidon, but my father decided to keep it instead. And Poseidon cursed us… Asterion is the unholy offspring of my mother and the bull. And it gets worse. Every seven years, seven young men and seven young women from the city of Athens were brought to the Labyrinth to be fed to my brother. This was because my other brother, whom I was too young to remember, died while in Athens. Athens pays for this slight with the lives of other young people.

I suppose it’s no different than war, or at least, that’s what my father says. All cities send their youths to die for the polis. How was this any different? I could hardly bear the prisoners’ wails of desperation or their pleas for me to help them. When I heard they were coming, I begged my father to set them free, asserting that it was wrong to sacrifice humans to anything. If the gods had cast Tantalus into Tartarus for feeding them his son, then why should we knowingly feed humans to a monster? He laughed at me and asked why I had no pride in my family.

I hated the thought of the fourteen young people being fed to him, but I also couldn’t imagine killing my own brother, even if he was a monster.

I was too young to remember the last time the prisoners came to the Labyrinth. They had come, and my brother had gorged himself on their flesh, and I was none the wiser. This time, I knew, and the horror of it struck me silent as the tributes were paraded through the city like animal sacrifices to the gods, so that we could all see those who were doomed to die. I could hardly bear to look at them. Some of those girls were barely older than me. It felt wrong to sit by and watch as they were brought to the Labyrinth. But what could I do to save their lives? Supplicating my father would not work, and the only other option was helping them to escape, somehow. How could I do that?

In spite of myself, I caught sight of one of the young men. He was handsome, and he had a defiant, blazing look in his eye. He looked straight at my father on his throne. “I am Theseus of Athens!” he declared. “I have come to slay your monstrous son!”

My father had laughed at him, but he consumed my thoughts. That may be because he was absolutely gorgeous, but it was also because if he succeeded at killing Asterion, he would solve all my problems. I wouldn’t have to take my own brother’s life, but he would devour no more innocent lives. And, if this youth survived, he might take me away with him. I knew the Labyrinth better than anyone. Even if he did survive, he could never make it in and out without my help.

Forgive me, Asterion.

The prisoners were held in two dank cells near the entrance to the Labyrinth. The women were kept in one, and the men were kept in the other. Many of the prisoners were crying — not just the women, but the men, too. In my familiarity with the Labyrinth and its inhabitant, I had forgotten just how terrifying both would be to anyone else. The Labyrinth’s darkness and maddening complexity would intimidate anyone, and the prospect of being eaten by a monster within its depths was horrific.

Only Theseus seemed calm. His boldness in front of my father hadn’t been an act. His jaw was set, and he still had raw determination in his steely eyes. He was really going to do it, wasn’t he? He actually meant to kill Asterion. He shone like gold in the gloom of the dungeon — he could have been Apollo. If our circumstances were different, I might have wanted to stroke his chest. “Who are you?” he demanded when I approached the cell, as though I were the one behind bars, and had requested an audience with him.

“I am Ariadne,” I said, “daughter of Minos, princess of Crete.”

“I am Theseus, son of Aegeus, prince of Athens,” he returned.

Prince of Athens. That explained his noble bearing and proud mien, not to mention his handsome features… and yet… “There is no way the King of Athens would have sent his own son to be fed to the Minotaur,” I said. “Why are you really here?”

“I said, didn’t I? I’m here to slay the Minotaur. I volunteered as tribute.” He smirked. “I promised my father that I would return alive. No more of our people will be sacrificed to the monster!”

“You speak with a lot of confidence for someone who is currently in a prison cell,” I said. “What are you going to do, Theseus? Do you have a plan?”

“Of course I have a plan!” he said, a little defensively. “I am going to break out of this cell. And then I will conquer the Labyrinth—”

“How? You’ll be dead of starvation before you even reach the Minotaur, assuming he doesn’t find you first.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you taunting me?”

I leaned forward, looking directly into his eyes. “No. I was actually going to offer to help you. I know the Labyrinth. I go into it all the time.”

“No, you don’t. You’re trying to get me to sleep with you. Or trying to deceive me on behalf of Minos.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t find anything to say in response to that. For a moment I just stared at him. Was he always this self-assured, even in the worst of circumstances? If he wanted to sleep with me, I certainly wouldn’t complain, but why would he assume that I would deceive him? Well, perhaps it was his right to be suspicious, in a strange land where he was kept as a prisoner. “I… no,” I finally replied. “I’m being serious. I’m here to help you.”

“Why, then?”

“I think it is very noble of you to want to save the other Athenians, and I agree that no more innocent lives should be lost.”

He smiled slightly, but still looked suspicious. “You have no loyalty to your father?”

“My father is cruel and selfish. Why else do you think my mother gave birth to a monster, anyway?”

“The monster is your brother? What was his father, a bull?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to have stunned him into silence. I felt some satisfaction at that. “Listen to me. Without my help, you will not get through the Labyrinth. If you want to kill the Minotaur, you need me.”

“What’s the catch?” he asked. “You’re going to want something in return, aren’t you? What?”

“Take me off this accursed rock,” I said. “I am sick of Crete, I’m sick of my father, and I don’t want to have to put up with whatever punishment he might give me for helping you.”

“Well, you are a princess, and I suppose you would make a fine bride for me.”

My heart leapt at those words, and I felt myself blushing. Perhaps I should have known better. “Really? You would marry me?”

“If you help me to slay the Minotaur, then yes, I will marry you.”

“Deal.”

Theseus remained in my thoughts from that point onward. When I closed my eyes, I saw his face, and I imagined the feel of his skin. I’d never seen a man like him before, and oh, if I married him… would I be happy? Happier than I was here, at least? He seemed like the kind of man that Phaedra and I dreamed we would marry as young girls — strong, brave, handsome, and willing to put himself on the line for the sake of his people. All such admirable qualities.

I returned to Theseus when the prisoners were locked into the Labyrinth’s abyssal maw. “Everyone else, stay back!” he ordered, as though he were directing troops. “I will go into the Labyrinth and kill the Minotaur. Stay here, and you will be safe.” He suddenly turned to me. “What have you brought to help me?”

I held out a humble ball of yarn. “This.”

He took it from my hand and raised an eyebrow at it, looking as though he might throw it into the dark. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Daedalus gave it to me when I first started exploring the Labyrinth.”

“Daedalus? I’ve heard of Daedalus. He is supposed to be the most brilliant architect in the world, right?”

“He built this Labyrinth, and he gave me the yarn. All you have to do is tie the end here and carry it through the maze. Then you can follow it back out.”

Theseus looked impressed. “He must be a genius to have thought of something like that!”

He may have been a genius, but I was still intelligent enough to figure it out on my own. All Daedalus had done was hand me the ball of yarn, and I immediately understood what I was meant to do with it. But I didn’t bother correcting Theseus. “Do you have a weapon?”

“No,” said Theseus. “I’m not worried. I’ll kill the beast with my bare hands.”

I blinked at him, dumbfounded. I suppose if anyone could do it, he could; he was almost as musclebound as the bull-man. But still. Only an extremely impressive hero with divine lineage could hope to kill a monster bare-handed, that or a total idiot. “You are going to die.”

“Nonsense!” He smiled. “Haven’t died yet! And I have faced many deadly trials before.”

I smiled back. “I’m sure you have, but, well, it’s your funeral.”

“Do you want this monster dead, or not?” he demanded.

“Woah, I wasn’t being serious, I…” To be asked that question point-blank was unsettling. It threw my whole dilemma into focus. But seeing the terrified faces of the other tributes huddled naked in the entrance to the Labyrinth gave me my answer. “Yes.”

“I shall go then.” He tied the yarn to the gate and strode with it into the dark. I admired his confidence, even if the odds were against him. He turned the first corner, and was gone. I stared into the darkness for a moment.

One of the girls gripped the hem of my dress. “Please,” she whispered. “Please help us, my lady. We did nothing to be here. If he dies, will you help us escape?”

I didn’t look at her. I kept staring into the Labyrinth’s depths. “I will do what I can,” I said slowly. Then I followed Theseus. I heard her gasp behind me, as if her last hope had just walked away.

I overtook Theseus quickly. He was moving slowly, blindly hitting walls and getting disoriented by the serpentine turns. He jumped when he heard me behind him, turned on his heel and braced for attack, staring me down with the intensity of a bull about to charge. Then he softened. “Oh. It’s you. What are you doing here? I don’t need your help.”

“I know this place better than you do,” I said matter-of-factly.

He huffed in response. “Get back to the entrance. The Minotaur could arrive at any moment.”

I walked ahead of him. “I know. Every time I explore the Labyrinth, I risk death.”

“Why would you explore this place?” he asked, following me. “What could it possibly offer a girl like you?”

“Peace. Solitude. Time away from my father.”

“This Labyrinth is maddening!” His growing frustration echoed off the walls. “How are you not mad? Perhaps you are mad, with the things you say.”

“I’ve never considered that I might be mad.”

“Only if you were mad would you willingly choose to be in this dark prison.”

“You willingly chose to be here.”

He had no response. We walked in silence for a while, dragging the thread behind us. It was almost impossible to see the thread in the dark. I could tell that Theseus was starting to get agitated. The twining paths of the Labyrinth must be making him feel like we were making no progress. The grim silence and high stone walls made us feel completely cut off from the outside world, like there was no world at all beyond the Labyrinth. “Do you think this is what Hades is like?” he asked. “A deep cavern, under the earth, where there is nothing to do but walk endlessly?”

I couldn’t tell whether that was a sincere philosophical question, or whether he was asking indignantly. “I don’t know. The Fields of Asphodel are supposed to be open, and full of the white flowers… Not quite like this.”

“It makes no difference to me anyway. I will assuredly go to Elysium when I die, and it is the most agreeable part of Hades.”

If Hades is exactly like this, I thought, then perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. There are worse things than this.

Eventually, we passed the point where I usually turned back. I had never gotten this close to the center before. And then we heard it — the unmistakable sound of hooves. Cold terror gripped me. I did not expect to feel this afraid, especially not of my own brother, but the reality of the situation sank in. We were in a Labyrinth with a flesh-eating monster, and the exit was too far away for any chance of escape. Why did I follow him? Why did I think that was a good idea?

“Our quarry is upon us! You should leave,” said Theseus sternly. “The monster eats the maidens first, so I hear.”

The instinct to run left me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Suit yourself, but you will not be able to fight against the Minotaur.”

“You will protect me, will you?” Being with him felt safe, like he was a bodyguard.

“I will.” As soon as he said that, my fear was banished, and my confidence restored.

A few more turns, and we reached the center of the Labyrinth, a place I figured I’d never enter. In the gloom, I couldn’t actually see much, but I was able to see the hulking shape of my brother with his huge bull’s head and wicked-looking horns.

“There is the beast!” A light suddenly blazed to life beside me, and I cringed away from its brightness. It was a torch.

“Did you have that the whole time?”

“I was saving it!” He handed me the torch and the end of the yarn, and I took them, nonplussed. I saw the floor of the Labyrinth’s center, full of human bones. “Wait there, I will make swift work of this!” Theseus took a fighting stance, muscles tensed.

Asterion looked at me. I felt blind panic grip me, but he did not attack me. Perhaps he recognized me. He must have been familiar with my presence and voice by now, enough to know I wasn’t a threat. I stared into his black bull eyes. They were soft, not fiery and enraged. This was my brother. “Asterion… I’m so sorry, Asterion.”

“What are you doing? Get back!”

Theseus’ yell attracted Asterion’s attention. He roared and rushed forward with his powerful legs, horns lowered and ready to gore him to death. Theseus grabbed Asterion’s horns and hurled himself up onto the Minotaur’s back, holding him in a chokehold with both arms. “I shall send you to the pit of Tartarus, fiend!” Asterion thrashed and bucked and slammed Theseus against the wall, but soon enough, it was over. Theseus had strangled the Minotaur. Asterion lay dead.

Theseus picked himself up, looking exhausted but triumphant. “Victory! No Athenians will die today, or ever! This monster will never claim another human life!” He grinned at me. “See, I told you I could do it with my bare hands!”

I stared at the mass of Asterion’s body. “I killed my brother…”

“Nonsense!” Theseus took the torch back from me. The bones crunched under his feet as he walked. “It is hardly your fault that you are the sister of a beast. We have done a good and heroic thing today. Look, look at the bones! Why are you crying, Ariadne?”

I suddenly looked at him instead of the Minotaur’s corpse. I don’t think he’d said my name before. Even in the dim torchlight, he still looked bright, with clear eyes and golden hair and bronze skin slick with sweat. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Ariadne.” He smiled at me. “Thank you. Together we have saved many lives.”

He kissed me, and the torch went out.

The following events were a blur. After we had successfully followed the thread out of the Labyrinth, Theseus triumphantly announced to my father that the Minotaur was dead, and demanded me and my sister as prizes. My father was furious — of course he was. He had essentially just lost all of his children, and all because one had died in Athens before I was old enough to remember. I, however, was elated, and so was Phaedra. Phaedra was as eager to leave Crete as I was, and she seemed just as taken with Theseus’ handsomeness. She didn’t seem distressed that Asterion was dead, and why would she? The grateful Athenians went back to their ship, many of them sobbing with relief. I didn’t look at my father as I followed Theseus to the ship. I never wanted to look at him again. We passed by Talos, and I left Knossos and the Labyrinth behind me.

Crete faded into the horizon, and before me was sunshine and new possibilities. Theseus glowed with triumph and pride, smiling at me and kissing me when he announced to the other Athenians that he would marry me, and that I would become their queen. They fell to their knees and showered me and Theseus with gratitude for having saved their lives. I felt almost as if I were a goddess. Wine flowed freely in celebration, and I took more joy in it than I had in a long time.

It did not last long. Soon after the first few hours I was, if possible, even more miserable on Theseus’ ship than I had been in Knossos. I quickly became tired of his boasts about how he had strangled the beast, without crediting me at all, or so much as mentioning the ball of yarn, even though the other Athenians had seen me give it to him and seen me follow him into the Labyrinth. Every time he told the story, it got further from the truth, and emphasized his own heroism over mine. Is this how it would be when I was queen? No matter what I did, I’d be shunted to the side? Then, Theseus seemed to be doting on Phaedra. She usually attracted more attention. She was prettier than me. She had blond hair that shined in the sunlight and the bright eyes of our mother Pasiphae, the daughter of Helios. My hair and eyes were dark, like the Labyrinth.

I left the celebration, finding a quiet spot on deck. I sat by the edge of the ship, staring out into the open waves and trying not to think about Asterion, but the image of him lying dead in the torchlight haunted me. “Are you okay, Ariadne?” Phaedra asked me. “What is wrong? We are finally out of there, all thanks to you! No more Minotaur, no more tributes having to die, no more Father… We will have a new life in Athens.” I stayed silent. “You look despondent. Something’s wrong.”

I looked up into her eyes. “It’s like you said, Phaedra. Asterion is dead.”

“Do you… mourn him?”

“He was our brother, and I killed him!”

“Theseus killed him! You did nothing!” I knew that she meant to reassure me, but it touched a raw nerve.

“He would not have if I hadn’t led him straight to the center of the Labyrinth!”

“Ariadne…” Phaedra put her hand on my shoulder. “You… you’re… you’ll be okay. You are just a little bit disoriented.” She left me alone.

I looked at the Athenians, who laughed and danced and celebrated their lives. I didn’t feel like dancing. I already missed the Labyrinth. My guilt drew my thoughts back to Knossos. I wanted to hide in the Labyrinth forever, like Asterion had, or else throw myself into the sea for my guilt. The brightness of the waves was glaring compared to the soothing darkness of the Labyrinth.

Theseus approached me from behind. He had been ignoring me until now, maybe because I was so sorrowful. I could feel that he was angry at me, and my skin crawled, but I didn’t turn. “What cause do you have to weep, Ariadne? You should be happy!” he said.

“I am sorry, Theseus. Part of me still mourns for my brother.”

“What is the matter with you? All you have done is sit and stare at the water! If you loved that Labyrinth so much, perhaps you should have stayed there! Now please, put this sorrow behind you. You have no cause for it.” He sighed, softening. “When we arrive in Athens, we shall marry, and there will be much rejoicing.”

“Leave me alone.” The bitterness in my voice rang louder than I’d intended.

He scowled at me.“You are joyless, passionless, and thankless,” he spat, and stalked off. The word useless went unsaid; I could tell he was reconsidering making me his wife.

“Theseus, wait!” I yelled, suddenly sounding desperate.

I stood up, and he turned back to look at me, and I felt as if I were naked under his gaze and that of the others on the ship, which had all quieted and turned in my direction. His eyes were cold, and his nostrils flared just as Asterion’s had. “What, Ariadne? You have shown me neither gratitude nor pleasure, you have not acted like a princess. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Shamed, I said nothing. I sat back down. Then, as he was about to turn away again, I suddenly found my voice. “Why are you being cruel?”

“I am not being cruel. You are being difficult.”

By the time we reached Naxos, I was feeling heartbroken as well as grief-stricken. Theseus was giving me the silent treatment. I think he expected me to come running to him begging for forgiveness. We stopped on the island to rest, primarily because Theseus had dreamt that he would stop here during his homecoming.

I took off my sandals and walked along the edge of the surf to clear my thoughts. The beach was bright and wide and open, the exact opposite of the Labyrinth. Even in the sand, I felt his heavy footsteps approaching behind me. “Ariadne, we need to talk.”

I continued to face away from him. “What?”

“Ariadne, I find your attitude disagreeable.”

I turned on my heel to face him, planting myself in the sand. “I’ve found your attitude disagreeable! All you have done since we left Crete is boast about your heroics, and you’ve barely given me any credit—”

“Credit! You want credit for having slain it, when all you have done is cry over the hideous thing?”

The disdain in his voice stung me like arrows. “You don’t care at all for me or my feelings, do you?”

“If you were to become my queen, I would expect better behavior from you.” He sounded like he was lecturing a child.

“Well… I don’t want to be your queen! You are almost as bad as my father!”

“Good. I have already decided to take your sister Phaedra as my bride instead.” I didn’t reply. “You may still return with us to Athens, but we will have to make other arrangements for you.”

Forget Athens. I didn’t want Theseus to do anything for me. “Oh, forgive me for having been such a disappointment to you! Go ahead, go back to Athens and marry my sister! By Zeus! I’ve had enough of you!”

And I ran. I turned away from Theseus and ran down the beach until my legs gave out, falling in the sand to sulk and wonder where it all went wrong. I regretted having ever met Theseus, or helped him to kill my brother. If I could undo it all, I would. No. Then innocent people would have died. Oh, gods, why am I so wretched?

And then, as I was just beginning to calm down, I saw that the ship was sailing away over the waves. I was stranded on the island. Despair and panic crashed down upon me. Oh gods, gods, why? Had I somehow been forgotten about, or left behind on purpose? Had Theseus doomed me to die? “CURSE you, Theseus!” I screamed at the distant ship. I watched it go until it disappeared over the horizon. I could do nothing but hopelessly stare at the wine-dark sea as the sun set.

“Excuse me, why are you crying?”

I had been sitting with my head in my arms, weeping despondently, and I was startled by the sudden voice, soft though it was. I was certain the island was deserted, but now, a young man stood before me. He was silhouetted against the sky, the sun shining behind his head like a halo. Where had he come from? I hadn’t heard him come. It was though he’d simply stepped out of the sea.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and my voice sounded cracked from crying. “I thought I was alone.”

“May I sit with you?” the man asked. “You look like you could use a drink, something to soothe you, hm?”

“Yes… yes, thank you.”

He sat down in the sand next to me, languidly stretching his legs out in front of him like he was sitting on the plushest couch. With the sunlight on him, I could see him properly — he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life. He easily put Theseus to shame. His eyes were leafy green, warm and kind. He was lithe, and his skin looked as pale and smooth as a girl’s, and his lips looked so soft. I couldn’t place the color of his hair — it seemed to be dark brown, but it could have been as dark as the Styx, and when the sun caught it, it looked honey-gold. It fell over his shoulders in loose curls. He wore nothing but a fine purple cloak draped over one shoulder, a golden leopard skin around his waist, and a wreath of ivy on his head. His cheeks were flushed, and he had a bright, easy smile. He was so lovely, so breathtaking, it almost hurt to look at him. With delicate hands, he offered me a kylix brimming with wine. “Please, tell me what has made you so upset.”

I blinked at the kylix, and the leopard skin, and the ivy in his hair. “Are you… a Bacchant?” I’d heard of them. They worshipped a mad and savage god with drunken orgies in the woods, and were said to be able to rip animals or even people limb-from-limb in their frenzy. Not unlike Asterion, I suppose.

He flashed a devious smile. “Maaaaybe.”

I took the kylix and drank deeply. The wine was sweet, and somehow, I felt immediately calmer. Slowly, amid my lingering sobs, I told the story — about Asterion, and my father, and the tributes, how I’d decided to help Theseus, how we’d found our way through the Labyrinth, how Theseus had killed Asterion, how Theseus had been so heartless, and how he had apparently left me to die on a deserted island. By the time I finished talking, the kylix was empty.

“How do you feel now?” he asked me.

“Better… I think. But I’m still devastated, and… guilty. My brother’s death… it was really my fault, and I don’t know if I did the right thing or not. Do you think it’s wrong for me to grieve for my brother? I mean… he was a monster…”

“No. I don’t think it’s wrong. It is perfectly understandable that you would mourn your brother.”

“If I had let the Athenians die, I would have mourned for them, too.” I sighed.

“Yes. There must be blood; one sacrifice was traded for another, Asterion, the worthy bull. It is okay to grieve, for as long as you need to, but do not wallow in despair.”

“I tend to do that. I don’t remember the last time I was completely happy. I thought Theseus would make me happy, but… then… I wish I had my Labyrinth back! It was at least soothing down there.”

“It pains me to see people sad,” he said. He handed me the kylix again, and it was once again full of wine. I hadn’t seen him fill it. “Pleasure is a state of mind. The best way to rid yourself of sadness is to focus on things that make you happy. There is always something to take pleasure in! Like the beauty of the sunset, or the sound of the lapping waves. Or wine!”

“Not when you are abandoned to die, with no way off the island,” I said. “How did you get here, anyway? I don’t see a boat.”

“I have my ways,” he said cryptically, with that same mischievous smile. That smile and the teasing sparkle in his eyes were so adorable. His beauty is something to take pleasure in, I suddenly thought, and his company, and kindness…

I took another draught of the wine. “Why are the gods so cruel to me?” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

“The gods are not cruel to you.” He stated it with complete confidence, as though it were an undeniable fact, not as though he were trying to convince me.

“It certainly seems that way,” I replied.

“Life can often seem that way, but then, it gets better, and you will find that the gods favor you,” he said.

“Well… I suppose that must be true, if handsome strangers pop out of nowhere to comfort women.”

He beamed. “Exactly!” He took the kylix back from me, threw his head back, and drained about half of it in one gulp. “You know, I was stranded on a desert island like this one once.”

“Wait, what? You were?”

“Yes! It was a long time ago now, but I was just as pretty back then, and just as fond of wearing purple. Purple is the best color, you know.” He winked. “Anyway, so I was lying asleep on a beach and—” he took another swig of the wine, “a pirate ship rows by…”

“Are you drunk?”

“Always, darling!” That roguish grin of his was really starting to win me over. “Anyway, the pirates saw me sleeping on the beach, saw how pretty I was and saw my fine purple robes, and thought I was a prince. Well. They weren’t wrong… I technically am a prince of Thebes, on my mother’s side.” He laughed like he had just told the most hilarious joke and had another sip of the wine. The amount of wine in the kylix never seemed to get any lower.

“Does that mean… you’re a bastard?” I asked hesitantly.

“Yes, yes it does! I’m such a bastard. I mean… I was born out of wedlock. And my father’s wife, oooh, she hates me.” Another sip of the wine. “Never get on her bad side if you can help it.” He pointed at me as if this was the most important information I could ever learn, and I laughed. “She can’t touch me now, but she drove me mad when I was younger. Literally. Anyway, so these pirates kidnapped me. Thought I’d make a damn cute catamite, and I certainly would, but that’s beside the point. You don’t and kidnap boys no matter how pretty they are. I tried to tell my dad that, but it didn’t go over well.” Another sip of the wine.

“You are slender, but I bet you could take Theseus in a drinking contest.”

“Oh, I could take aaaaaanyone in a drinking contest! Never lost one yet!” His face was glowing, not just with blush from the wine but also with infectious joy. I slowly forgot about my misfortunes as I listened to his story. “So they tried to tie me to the ship’s mast, but found they couldn’t do it. I only tolerate bondage on my own terms. And then…” There was suddenly a mad gleam in his green eyes. “I covered their ship in grapevines, and ivy, and flowers, and the delicious smell of wine. I can’t imagine why such delightful things frightened them so. But I thought I’d scare them more, see, because it was funny. So I turned into a lion! And they flung themselves overboard in fear!” He laughed, and his laugh sounded as musical as flutes on a clear morning, but it had a maddened edge to it. “But I pitied them, y’know?” he continued. “Just as you pity your brother. So I changed them into dolphins. So they wouldn’t drown.”

“You changed… you turned into… did… did your god give you those powers? Or… are you just… really… drunk?” But I knew. I think that intuitively, I knew the whole time.

“Easy,” he said, once again raising the bottomless kylix to his lips with that knowing smile. “I’m really drunk.”

At this, I burst out laughing, and my laugh sounded almost unfamiliar to my own ears. I felt light, carefree, replenished. And then it sank in, that I was speaking to a god. I hastily knelt, and dropped my head before him, although he was still sitting next to me. “Lord Dionysus! Son of Zeus! Lord, lord, thank you for coming to me, for talking to me, for relieving me of my pain, for freeing me from my suffering…”

“You’re welcome, Ariadne.” He lifted my face, so that I was staring up into his eyes, which were now vivid reddish-purple, the color of ripe grapes. A richly purple aura surrounded him, proclaiming his divinity. In his hand was his staff, a fennel stalk topped with a pinecone that dripped with honey, twined with ivy and purple ribbons. And he had horns, bull’s horns just like my brother’s, magnificent and deadly sharp. They curved up above his brow, as much his crown as the wreath of ivy in his hair. The imposing horns created a striking contrast with his delicate features, but they looked right, somehow. Like this was how he was supposed to look.

I didn’t know what to say. My mind had gone suddenly blank. “I’ve never known great Dionysus to have horns,” I blurted.

“Not many get to see them,” he said, his voice suddenly slow and solemn. “Ariadne, will you dance with me?”

Whatever I had expected him to say, it was not that. “Wh—what?”

“Dance with me!” He stood up and twirled off across the beach. His hair floated around his shoulders, the ribbons on his thyrsus arced through the air like the rainbow, and his expression was one of elation. He screamed in ecstasy, and it was an inhuman sound, like the crowing of some unearthly bird. At that, the air filled with cacophonous music — flutes, drums, cymbals, rattles, castanets.

A command echoed inside my head. No, not a command — a compulsion: DANCE! DANCE!

So I danced with the bull-horned god. “Dancing” barely even begins to describe what I was doing. I was filled with an overwhelming, indescribable feeling, like I didn’t fit in my own skin. Like I was about to be lifted out of my own shoulders! I moved like my body was doing everything it could to express this ineffable thing inside me that was so much bigger than me. I spun, I leapt, I ran, I stamped my feet in the sand, I moved wherever the feeling took me. It burned like fire. And Dionysus was all I could perceive. I screamed with both intense rapture and pure, genuine worship: “EUOI! EUOI! EUOI!”

I met his eyes, and there I saw all the raw ferocity of a bull or a great cat, as well as chaos and lust and debauchery and pure mania. All the forces strong enough to tear a person apart! I desperately thirsted for something I could not name. It was more than wine, more than flesh, more than blood. Dionysus took me in his arms, and kissed me on the lips. Passion overtook me.

Maybe I fainted in exhilaration, or maybe I was simply too drunk to remember. All I know was that I was eventually awakened by the sunrise and the sound of lapping waves. And Dionysus… was still there. He hadn’t disappeared into the night, he was still sleeping there in the sand, looking blissful and alluring in his sleep. His tousled curls tumbled over the sand, his soft hand was upturned beside his head, and his lips were parted invitingly. He lay on his purple cloak, and was using the leopard pelt like a blanket, though it was only carelessly draped over his waist.

“Lord… thank you for not leaving me,” I whispered.

His long eyelashes fluttered, and then his eyes opened, once again appearing vine-green. “Mmmm… sleep well?”

“Yes.” I desperately wanted to kiss him, and the seductive look in his eyes tempted me. “May I… touch you?”

“Darling, you may touch me anywhere you like,” he purred. Ravenously, I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressed my chest to his, and our lips met. He still tasted like wine, and I drank him in the way I would wine. We lay there for a moment, entangled in each other’s arms like grape and ivy vines, idly caressing each other’s skin and hair.

“M’lord…” I whispered, “perhaps it might be impertinent to ask, but… what am I going to do now? I can’t go home. I don’t really want to go to Athens. And I still have no way off this island.”

“Why, Ariadne,” he gave me a teasing smile. “If I may be so bold, I hoped you would join me! In fact… I hope you might marry me.”

I was so taken aback by this that I immediately sat up. “You… you’re serious? Marry you?” I knew that gods frequently took mortal lovers, but this was unimaginable. “Actually marry you?”

“Yes, Ariadne. I love you.” He said it with the same sweetness and sincerity that he initially approached me with. Theseus had said no such thing. “You are not destined to become queen of Athens, but perhaps you might be my queen, if you are willing.”

I burst into tears, but they weren’t tears of sadness this time. They were tears of overwhelm, the same kind of overflowing sensation that I’d felt while dancing. “You love me?”

“I am absolutely besotted, my darling! I have had many lovers, but I had not fallen so madly in love since Ampelos, my first love, my darling vine.” A grapevine appeared between his fingers and twined up his arm. “Perhaps something in me is inclined towards mortals over gods, which is understandable, given my parentage. But, that should be no problem. I will bring you to Olympus, and love you for all of time.”

“How… why me?” I sputtered. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“Ariadne, you are letting your human mind interfere, and convince you that you are not worthy to be in my presence. Did you feel unworthy last night, while we were dancing?”

“No… I felt… there was no such thing.”

“Ariadne, do you love me?”

I struggled to find any word that could properly describe how I felt about him. “You are… utterly intoxicating.”

He giggled like a shy maiden. “I get that a lot. And, if you could be worthy of having me as a husband, would you have me?”

Yes. My body and soul ached and burned with wanting. And he made me extraordinarily happy! I’d never dared to believe a god would love me enough to marry me, but that disbelief was only getting in my way.

He looked me dead in the eyes. I nearly flinched away from the intensity of his gaze, and the shimmering madness behind it. “You are more than you realize, Ariadne, guide in the dark, guardian of the gates of initiation. You are intelligent and witty and brave, and you fear no darkness or madness or savagery, do you? You faced them all in the Labyrinth. You would make an excellent addition to my thiasus, even if you decide not to marry me. Ariadne, the most holy and pure, Lady of the Labyrinth.” His words reverberated deep in the labyrinthine pathways of my own mind and soul, like he had revealed an ancient truth that I had known once, but forgotten.

“The Labyrinth is a holy place, of contemplation and transformation. Isn’t it? Not of death.”

He smiled that gorgeous, winning smile again. “Yes! You understand! And even where there is death, it is not absolute.” His eyes shone with feverish excitement. “Oh, I have so much to teach you!”

“Lord Dionysus, I would be honored beyond imagining if I were to become your wife.”

“So is that a yes? You will marry me?”

Something about him felt right in a way that I could not put words to, like the Fates had done all they could to bring me to this moment. This god loved me, more than the other gods love their conquests, more than I could comprehend. “Yes! I will marry you!”

At that, a cool wind blew across the island, swirling his dark hair around his face and making all the vegetation appear to shimmer. It was like the island itself was affirming my decision. “Then, Ariadne, we shall rule the revel together! In honor of our engagement…” A magnificent diadem appeared in his hands, sparkling with seven gemstones like stars. He placed it on my head, and gave me a warm kiss on my lips. “Ariadne, my bride, may you never thirst. May your lusts never go unsatisfied. May your heart always be light and joyful.”

“Thank you. Thank you, m’lord!”

“You can stop calling me that. If we are to be married, you can simply call me by my name. Or, call me what pleases you. Now, come with me!” He stood, offering me his hand. “Unless you would rather spend some more alone time together, I should finally take you off this island! I will take you home to Nysa, or perhaps to Arcadia, and we will have to throw the most spectacular bacchanal in celebration of our marriage!”

“How will we travel?”

He led me down the beach like a child eager to show something to their parent, and gestured toward a golden chariot drawn by two gigantic panthers. The chariot itself was decorated in images of swirling grapevines and serpents and satyrs making love, and the cats’ pelts gleamed. “Oh, gods… I mean… wow. Does it move over water?”

“It flies, silly!” He stood inside it and beckoned to me. “These cats can run on the wind. Hermes gave them to me.”

I climbed into the chariot and held on for dear life as the panthers bounded into the air with great strides. Soon the chariot was blazing through the bright air, and Naxos was far behind us. Dionysus laughed into the wind, which blew his long hair back from his face. As radiant as he was, I was more than a little terrified of speeding through the air high above the sea in a chariot, and felt like I would fall off at any second, although not even my diadem was dislodged from my head.

“You look terror-stricken, Ariadne. Would you like me to tell you another amusing story? That seems to have cheered you up the last time!”

“That depends on whether you can drive a chariot and get incredibly drunk at the same time.”

He laughed uproariously. “Oh, I love you so much! I can do anything and get incredibly drunk, if you were wondering. So, anyway, the story… Mortals have mixed opinions of me. Most love my parties and stories and love my wine, but they seem a bit put off by the madness and violence and lust it brings out in them… Not sure why, it’s not as though all of that wasn’t there to begin with… Mortal kings do not like this, and some of them can be quite unkind to my worshippers, testing the limits of my mercy… but one of them allowed my mentor, Silenus, to sleep in his garden. So kind of him! So of course I offered him any reward he might wish for, and… he wished that everything he touched would turn to gold.”

“Ooh. Let me guess, it backfired?”

“Oh, did it backfire! His food turned to gold and he nearly starved, and even his daughter turned to gold! Hardly my fault, of course. I promised to give him what he asked for, and I did, he just happened to be an idiot. He had the chance to wish for anything in the world, and he chose something as shallow and pointless as gold. Not to mention, he clearly had never heard of inflation, which makes me worry about his kingdom’s economy. Oh, well. He learned, and I changed everything back. I always let humans indulge themselves, but I am not a god of excess. Either they are satisfied by their pleasures, or they learn their lesson fast. The moral of the story: Know your tolerance. Also, if you want to turn things to gold, you have to do it the hard way. Hermes and I were just discussing how to turn lead to gold, in fact…”

His soothing voice and hilarious tales put me at ease, until we were traveling over beautiful mountains and verdant valleys. I had never seen mainland Greece, but the view of it from the flying chariot was incredible. I was no longer afraid of falling. As we flew, I felt as if the wind stripped me of the cares and sorrows of my former life. Dionysus had set me free. I smiled at him, and he smiled at me as the chariot descended into the lush, hidden valley where a throng of Maenads and satyrs waited to welcome home their lord and his queen.

Dionysus helped me out of the chariot, and I stood before the thiasus, their maddened eyes all turned upon me. “I am the bride of Dionysus,” I proclaimed. “I am Ariadne of the Labyrinth.”

#retellings #submission #long post

123 notes · View notes

wildriot · 4 years

Text

Steter Week Day 5

It’s midday Saturday when Scott calls and begs Stiles for a favor. Stiles, two days into his pre-heat, is fully prepared to deny him, but those puppy eyes are lethal, even through a phone, and he ends up agreeing to swap patrol shifts with Scott. So he changes his clothes and heads out and is pleased when Peter joins him five minutes is.

It’s stupid, really, and irrational, but of all the alphas and betas in the pack, Peter is the one that gets his proverbial hackles up the least. Maybe because, unlike the rest, Peter doesn’t use his dynamic as an excuse to act like an asshole – instead relying on his own personal charm to earn the title.

Stiles thinks at some point, a tally of all the shifts he’s spent with Peter running through his mind, that this might not be so bad.

Forty minutes later, they’re running for their lives.

“Fucking hunters,” Stiles growls, slogging his way through the mud. “Always ruining everything.”

He’s out of breath, legs and lungs protesting the flat out sprint of the last who even knows how long. The adrenaline’s starting to fade, the tepid beginning’s of exhausting slowly rearing it’s head and, to be perfectly honest, he really doesn’t think he can go much further.

Ahead of him, leading the way and dragging him along, Peter snorts. “You have awfully low standards.”

Because focusing on Peter is better than thinking about what awaits them if they stop moving, Stiles takes offense. “Excuse you,” he says, grip tightening on Peter’s hand as something – probably a tree root (they are in the Preserve, after all) – snags his ankle and nearly takes him down. “I will have you know that my standards are reasonable. Very reasonable. So reasonable, in fact, that they spend their time reasoning with everyone else’s stupidly high expectations.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes!”

Peter just hums and Stiles silently flips him off. In his head, obviously, he’s way too tired to do it for real.

But Peter must sense his intentions anyway – all that werewolf-ism...ish? – and glances over his shoulder. His eyes are glowing, too-bright in the darkness, and momentarily leaves Stiles blinking away white spots in his vision, and yet he still catches the tightening of Peter’s mouth, the way he seems to look past Stiles, deeper into the spaces they’ve left behind.

“Can you hear anything?” Stiles asks, trying to ignore the way his heart starts to bleed ice through his veins, sticky and cold. He doesn’t think Peter can, over the rain and the noises they’re making, and Peter shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

“But…?”

“But we have no idea what that thing was. We can’t stop.”

Which is true. Very true. Hunters were one thing, but some sort of Lovecraftian hell-spawn was another thing entirely. Just those few seconds in it’s presence, when it had entered the clearing where Stiles and Peter had been ambushed by a group of hunters, before it turned it’s attention to them and given them the chance to run, had been terrifying. Stiles couldn’t even describe it. The monsters they’d faced, human and not so much, had always scared him, but it had been the sort of fear that he could push aside and largely ignore until the problem was dealt with.

This, whatever it’d been? It’d been fucking primal.

And he never wanted to feel that again.

So he shuts up, digs deep for the extra reserves he totally doesn’t have, and picks up the pace. He doesn’t drop Peter’s hand. He tries not to think about how, if Peter hadn’t been so quick to grab him, and Stiles had been left alone to race through the wet gloom of the Preserve, he’d most likely be dead right now.

They run for what could be another ten minutes, could be another hour. Stiles has no way of telling, phone dead and waterlogged in his pocket and he’s struggling. The wet clothes are weighing him down, feet slipping across the forest floor more than before, and it’s only getting darker.

He’ll be damned if he says anything, though. He cops enough shit from the pack as it is, being human and omega and thinking that he has what it takes to keep up with werewolves and alphas, because they’re jerks like that and he’s just stubborn enough to deny them the pleasure of being right even if it kills him.

Humans can do incredible things when their lives depend on it. He saw that youtube video about that women that stopped a car from hitting her kid, yes he did, and he swears to god that if she could do it then so can he--

“Just a little further,” Peter says.

“Thank fucking Christ,” Stiles gasps.

Forget it. He’s done. Absolutely done, no energy left, no sir-ee.

Another handful of minutes and then they break through the treeline, staggering out into long grass and open skies. The rain falls harder here, with no trees to act as a measly cover, which is just perfect, because it means Stiles can go longer than a couple of seconds without blinking the water out of his eyes and wishing his hair was still short, if only so that it didn’t stick to his face like cold seaweed.

Then Peter’s tugging him close, almost angling him so that Stiles is tucked into his side, and Stiles looks up, probably to ask him a flat why – they’re both soaked, the gesture is useless – when he sees what else is in the clearing, and instead ends up asking, “What?”

“We should be safe here,” Peter says, and starts forward, like he’s expecting Stiles to be okay camping out in some old house that looks, even in the dark, like it should’ve been torn down years ago for health violations.

Which, fine. He wouldn’t be wrong – Stiles has always been freakishly adaptable to most things, and running for their lives during a freak storm is definitely a Thing – but, and Stiles is just putting this out there, really?

“With our luck?” He half snorts, half splutters. “Doubt it.”

“So young,” Peter mutters, shaking his head. “So cynical.”

“So old,” Stiles parrots, delighting in the way Peter tenses – so predictably – then relaxes. “Such an asshole.”

Peter barks a laugh that’s drowned out by a sudden deluge.

By unspoken agreement they both leg it across the remaining bit of what was likely once the front lawn and huddle underneath the overhang.

Stiles hugs his arms around himself while Peter fiddles with the lock. Kicks the toe of his shoe against the ground, bites his lip.

He must zone out, he thinks, because he jumps when the door swings open with a rusty shriek and Peter doesn’t look amused, only concerned, and doesn’t say anything smarmy before ushering Stiles inside.

“It’s safe,” Peter insists again, like he wants Stiles to believe him, and Stiles kind of wonders what his scent must be broadcasting, to get that tone in Peter’s voice. “I promise.”

So Stiles looks over his shoulder at Peter strangely, a sort of ‘what gives?’ and sets off down the hallway.

The house is clearly old-fashioned. All narrow and tight instead of the open and spacious. It’s too dark to make out any detail, the little bit of diluted moonlight painted across the floor through the broken windows glinting dully off what Stiles assumes are bits of glass, maybe some metal fixings.

Peter is a steady presence at his back, a hand on his back. The alpha is tense, strung tight like he’s on high alert and that’s making Stiles stress out even more, which is not fun and he kind of wants to tell Peter to chill out, only… This is Beacon Hills. It’s the middle of the night. Some creepy monster thingy is haunting the Preserve, and they’ve just spent the evening running for their lives.

In a town like this, you relax and you’re dead.

In fact, a part of Stiles is actually, stupidly, rather pleased with the attention Peter’s giving him. He feels like a priority, something important and it’s been so long since he felt like that…he just knows that’s the omega in him speaking, and firmly tells himself to knock it off.

“What is this place, anyway?” Stiles asks., figuring that, having nearly a decade and a half on him, Peter probably knows. He doesn’t mean to be quiet, rarely ever is, yet something about this house reminds him of the Juniper Mausoleum he had to pass every time he went to visit his mom’s grave.

Peter is silent for long enough that Stiles labels it as hesitation, and opens his mouth to pester, when Peter finally talks.

“It’s my grandparent’s house.”

Stiles actually has to repeat the words back to himself before it sinks in.

“Wait what?”

Peter huffs a sigh. “Of all the things – yes Stiles. My grandparents lived here. Happy?”

“No. I’m wet and I’m cold – what the hell happened to this place?”

“…”

“Peter?”

“They died.”

Well, Stiles considered, wincing. Didn’t that just make him feel like a dick.

“Was it…?” He isn’t sure what he want’s to ask. Was it the fire? Hunters? What?

And it’s like Peter reads his mind. As the man maneuvers them up a flight of waterlogged stairs and into a room that Stiles is happy to see has all it’s window intact, Peter talks.

“It wasn’t the fire,” he begins. “Though my father, Talia and I were never completely convinced that Hunter’s weren’t involved. They died when I was twelve. Car accident, head on collision with a truck.” He pauses, falling silent, and Stiles stands still as Peter drops his hand and moves away, heading towards what Stiles thinks might be an armchair. “When they died… there are wards up around the clearing, still are. When they died, this place, the house, the garden, everything, vanished. Like it had never been here. We spent years looking. We could never find it.”

He watches Peter run his hands over the fabric and imagines the man must be trying to finds hints of familiar scents, doubts he’ll find anything after so long.

Stiles is lost for words. They’re friends now – inasmuch as they wind up beside each other at pack meetings, and have a joint order at an Italian place that Stiles loves but can’t afford regularly and eats whenever he joins Peter for research at his apartment – and Stiles has seen him with all manner of expressions and yet, this is maybe the most human Peter has ever been.

So he says, “I’m sorry,” and Peter waves his hand.

“It was a long time ago,” Peter says, voice light in a way that Stiles knows means the total opposite. Peter pauses, then adds, “My mother was with them, in the car.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters before he can stop himself. “You don’t have to, like, talk about it, or anything, not if you don’t want to.”

“Don’t you want to hear my story, Stiles?”

There’s an edge to his words, somethings Stiles can’t place, which makes him tip up his chin, makes him bristle like he’s been insulted. “Only if you want to tell it,” he says.

And maybe it was the right thing to say, because Peter seems to relax, shoulders no longer hunching forward, and he let’s out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh under different circumstances. “What’s a little more tragedy between us, right?”

Stiles snorts, and eases into the room, dropping his worry like yesterday’s laundry by the door. There’s still a part of him that’s tense, keyed into every sound, every creak, but he’s not alone; he’s got Peter and, honestly? That’s kind of reassuring.

“I wouldn’t call us tragic.”

“Then what would you call us?”

Stiles shrugs, and blinks and wonders at how everything is full of color, suddenly. “Misplaced, I guess.”

The colors makes his eyes hurt. His head starts throbbing and he misses whatever Peter says when his blood starts rushing loudly through his ears and his fingertips go numb.

It reminds him of coming down from a sugar high as a child.

“Peter,” he says, or thinks he says, thinks he hears himself say, but he’s shaking so hard now he might not have said anything at all.

And then Peter is right there, filling his vision. He’s so close Stiles can feel his breath against his cheek but he’s blurry around the edges. Sort of wobbly.

He swallows, focuses on not throwing up, whines, maybe, and lists forward. “I don’t feel so good.”

“No,” Peter says. “I imagine you don’t. You’ve never Dropped before, have you.”

It’s not a question. Stiles treats it as one, anyway. “Almost once,” he says, and grabs onto Peter’s jacket because that is the only thing not spinning right now

He thinks of a funeral and the wreak of alcohol and the smell of a furious alpha.

Thinks of cold tiles and ambulance sirens and the fuzziness of medication. Thinks of being too young to understand what was happening.

“Oh god,” he groans, doesn’t fully register Peter grabbing him and holding him when he starts to sink down, legs folding beneath him. “Is that what this? This can’t be happening.”

“It’s not ideal,” Peter agrees. The world lurches, sways, making Stiles bury his face in Peter’s jacket, and the next time he resurfaces, it’s to find Peter has taken a seat in the armchair, and arranged Stiles so that he’s curled up his lap, feet free of his shoes, cold toes tucked between Peter’s thigh and the cushions, back pressed against the armrest.

“Just try and relax, sweetheart.”

And something just… slumps, inside him, goes warm and soft.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Peter hums and Stiles kind of likes how it echoes through his own body, but then Peter is moving, jostling him around, and Stiles latches on, suddenly unbelievably terrified that he’s about to be displaced.

But Peter’s only awkwardly shrugging out of his jacket, which makes a certain amount of sense, being soaked through and all, and deftly flicking open the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest.

Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to appreciate the view before Peter is doing the same to him, shoving off his hoodie, sliding up his t-shirt. The chill is immediate but Peter must’ve found a blanket somewhere and now covers him with it.

Stiles is certain he knows what Peter’s doing, positive he’s read about it, at least, and yet his brain isn’t making sense. His throat is hot, bonding glands feeling swollen and puffy and his limbs basically useless.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Peter says into his ear and Stiles huffs a whine and falls forward into the alpha’s warmth, into his strong grip.

He shoves his nose into alpha’s neck and inhales rapidly. It’s maple syrup and warm blankets, sun-warmed soil with the bitter undertone of expensive coffee and something Stiles can’t name but craves anyway.

He probably isn’t under for longer than an hour. Time passes and his mind… drifts, overcome by instinct and the overwhelming need to feel safe.

It feels like falling asleep, almost, stuck in that in-between where nothing feels real.

Wakefulness returns slowly, seeping in at the edges. He is conscious of Peter’s hands running up his back, of his own hands curled into Peter’s chest. The hint purr building in his chest tickles his throat and makes him blush, knowing how intimate that sort of reaction is, how intimate their position is; an unmated omega alone with an unmated alpha.

His dad would lose his mind if he ever heard of this, which he was never going to if Stiles had anything to do with it.

Aside from their position though, Stiles feels… good. Not better, still a little unsteady, but it isn’t as bad as before.

His fingers don’t feel like little ice-blocks, for one. And he’s no longer shaking like some preteen that accidentally wondered into the horror showing in a cinema, which is wonderful, truly wonderful.

Of course, there is the small matter – very small, certainly not a big deal at all – that he just Dropped for Peter.

Psycho Peter, whom the rest of the pack can’t stand and don’t trust.

Crazy Uncle Peter that pokes and needles until he’s got Derek looking ready to start throwing him through walls again, and drives everybody else insane.

Peter, who…

“Back with me, sweetheart?”

Peter who does things like that. Calls him sweetheart and touches him like he’s something precious, something cared for, instead of a nuisance that’s too loud or too blunt or just too much.

Peter, who’s never mocked him for his dynamic, or put him down for instincts he can’t help. Who always buys him his favorite coffee and orders in Italian food for him and never minds when Stiles just happens to fall asleep on his couch during a research binge because the house is empty and he’s so goddamn tired of being alone.

Peter, whom Stiles is just realizing he might be a little bit in love with, while sitting in his lap.

Talk about inopportune moments.

“… this is so embarrassing,” he mutters, feeling stiff and awkward.

Movement, then Peter’s fingers are tangling through his hair and tugging gently, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

Peter is quiet for awhile.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he says at last, quietly, like if he says it any louder, the meaning won’t be the same, will transform from something that makes Stiles’s heart stutter and race into something shallow and flippant.

Stiles swallows. “You – you. I, uh.” He was not equipped to handle this kind of conversation. “I am not equipped to handle this kind of conversation.”

“And what conversation would that be?”

Multitudes of snark appeared on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Breaths. Tries to get his thoughts in order.

“...you know very well what kind,” he settles on saying.

Peter doesn’t say anything in response to that. He just sighs, turns his head so his nose is in Stiles’s hair, and somehow pulls Stiles closer.

It’s nice. It’s so nice. It’s the kind of nice that should be illegal and after the shitty night he’s had, Stiles is weak for it.

An illicit thrill runs through him when he thinks of what this would be like if Peter was his mate rather than just an alpha that his omega was sweet on… thinks of a soft bed and pillows that smell of both of them… thinks of purring, something he’s never done in front of anybody else before, ever.

“You are very young,” Peter says, sounding pained.

Stiles worries his bottom lip. “I’m eighteen in two weeks,” he whispers, voice hitching. He clears his throat, adds, “Besides. After everything that’s happened, am I really still that young? Are any of us?”

“The pack will never accept it. Derek won’t accept it.”

“So? It’s none of their business. I can do what I want. Just because they don’t personally agree with what I do, doesn’t mean their opinion suddenly matters.”

“And Scott?”

“Scott,” Stiles starts, so sure of what he was going to say only to falter, because… because what if Scott didn’t understand? Derek and the pack were one thing. Stiles felt semi-responsible for them, mostly because he’d helped save all of their lives at some point, and that meant something, you know? But Scott was his brother, they’d grown up together, and Scott still looked at Peter like he was never going to be anything but a spree-killing monster.

He made a helpless sound, frustrated and confused.

Peter soothed him, humming unintelligibly into his hair.

“Let’s not talk about this now. You’re e--”

“If you say I’m emotional, I swear to god I will hurt you.”

“-exhausted. Don’t lie to yourself, you’re running on fumes right now, and I am not a good enough man to let you regret anything else you might say tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

“Just because you’re being reasonable.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Now, why don’t you try and get some sleep? The wards won’t let anything through.”

“...why’d it let us through, then?”

“They were once keyed to Hales. You were with me.”

“So… what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been with you?”

“Likely something suitably horrible.”

“Wow, great.”

****

They don’t ever really talk about it. The next day, when the storm’s passed and everything is yellow-wet and sweet, Peter steers them through the Preserve, back to town. They come out two streets over from Stiles’s house.

After… nothing really changes. They spend time together, do things together. Nobody notices. Or, if they do, they don’t say anything. The Sheriff isn’t home enough to notice how often his son is out, and when he is home, Stiles is careful to not make it so blatantly obvious that he’s spending at least three nights a week in a bed that isn’t his. It’s not like he’s trying to hide anything, exactly. Just, he knows his dad, okay? Knows exactly how much he would freak out if he knew what was going on and… well, sue him but he likes what he has now, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

Outside of that, being with Peter and researching and hanging out with the pack, Stiles graduates, and seriously thinks about what he wants to do with the rest of his life, which leads to him hunting down a mage that’s willing to be his mentor in return for free labor and a research assistant and moving halfway across the country.

Peter is with him every step of the way and officially begins courting him on his twentieth birthday.

By his twenty second, they’re mated and back in Beacon Hills and Stiles is incandescently happy with the way his life is going and Peter is leading him through the Preserve after making him promise to keep his eyes closed.

Stiles does, reluctantly.

It’s spring, the day warm and the woods seemingly come to life with bird song and the quick scamper of small animals across the ground.

Peter’s hand is a familiar weight in his, fingers laced together in a way that should be awkward but isn’t and Stiles is busy cursing how no amount of training will ever make him the kind of graceful that means he isn’t always tripping over himself and--

Peter slows them to a stop, and Stiles has the sense that they’ve come to a clearing, sunlight warm on his face.

The air is filled with the subtle scent of flowers and fresh grass and there’s a sort of hush that’s fallen over the place, like even the birds have gone quiet in anticipation.

Peter steps up behind him, presses against his back, arms going around his waist. Stiles relaxes against him, not bothering to hide his smile, or the way his scent goes mellow-sweet.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Peter tells him, and Stiles does.

His breath catches.

“Oh my god,” he says, staring. He can’t help it. He’s thought of the house often, wondered what it looked like in the daylight. In the months after, he’d even thought of asking Peter to take him out again, show him around, but Peter had never mentioned it, not once, and Stiles had figured that it was one of those things that had too many bad memories to outweigh the good but…

“Peter,” he says. “You…”

“I bought it,” Peter responds. “Fixed it up.” Then, while Stiles is still staring and speechless because the house is beautiful and equal parts Peter’s taste in architecture and Stiles’s taste in color, Peter shifts so he can press a kiss to the bondmark on his neck and says, “Consider this my mating gift to you.”

And Stiles breathes in, trying, and probably failing to contain his excitement, and says, “It’s perfect.”

And you know what? It kind of really is.

#steterweek2020 #Steter Week 2020 #Stiles Stilinski #Peter Hale #steter #omega-verse #A/B/O dynamics #omega stiles #alpha peter #sort of friends to lovers #fluff #unrepentant fluff #idek #it just happened #slave to my impulses #Steter Week Day 5 #visual theme

251 notes · View notes

eddiesnapback · 4 years

Text

if you’re all alone, pick up the phone || streddie

a gift for @darkwingdukat for the @itfandomprompts secret santa! i hope you like it!

Summary: Stan is in love with his best friends. It's a problem. Or is it? Ship: Streddie Warnings: light angst in the middle, something sort of along the lines of a panic attack, but everything turns out okay

also on AO3

Stan wasn’t entirely sure how he’d found himself tucked between Richie and Eddie on Richie’s tiny twin bed, a stack of VHS tapes balanced precariously on said boy’s bedside table, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. There was no reason to complain at all, in his opinion, despite the fact that Richie’s bony elbow was digging into his ribcage and Eddie’s head was heavy on Stan’s left shoulder.

Eddie flipped the page in the comic book he was reading, rolling his eyes. “Can you just pick a fucking movie, Richie?” he asked, lifting his head from Stan’s shoulder to glare over at Richie.

“I’m workin’ on it, Spaghetti,” Richie said, shooting Eddie a bright grin. He shoved his glasses further up his nose with the back of his hand. “But no one is giving me any opinions.”

Stan heaved a theatrically large sigh and leaned away, letting Eddie flop against the pillows. “Let me see,” he said, tugging a trio of tapes out of Richie’s hands. He flipped through them, eyes skimming the back covers, as Eddie scrambled upright. From the corner of his eye, he could see Eddie sprawling over Richie’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

Stan’s stomach flipped with jealousy. “Ghostbusters,” he said, glancing away from the boys. He tossed said movie towards the foot of the bed. “We’re watching Ghostbusters.”

“Again?” Richie asked, gently disentangling himself from Eddie to put the movie into the VCR. “Fuck, I know you’ve got the hots for the Stay Puft guy, Stan the Man, but jeez.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Beep fucking beep, Richie,” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

He could feel Eddie’s eyes on him, staring at the side of his head, but resolutely stared forward. He didn’t want to see those stupid brown puppy dog eyes full of concern, staring into his soul the way that Eddie always did. He hated it.

Richie turned to look at him, a frown settling across his face, and Stan had to look away from him too. The light reflected off of his glasses to cut some of the worry on his face, but it wasn’t enough to hide it completely. And Stan hated that too.

They shouldn’t be worried about him, was the thing. There was no reason. They should be throwing him out of this room in disgust, actually.

Because what kind of messed up best friend was Stan to be in love with his best friends who were dating each other? Just the thought made Stan’s stomach roll, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Are you okay, Stan?” Eddie asked quietly, his voice small in the dim light cast by Richie’s lamp.

Stan bit his lip, staring resolutely at the wall above the television. There was a picture tacked onto the wall there, one that he could just barely make out. Richie, with his arms thrown over Stan and Eddie’s shoulders, grinning cheesily at the camera. They were maybe fourteen at the time. Stan knew that because Richie had still braces, and the thick frames of his glasses were taped together in at least three places; Eddie was wearing a crisp blue polo shirt from back when his mother still choose what clothes he wore; and Stan himself had a tight-lipped smile that was hiding braces of his own. He was turned towards Richie and Eddie, rather than the camera, and the look of complete adoration in his own eyes was enough to make Stan flush red even four years later.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, wincing at the sharp way the words slipped from his tongue. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to not be in that room anymore. He stumbled clumsily to his feet, following that desire. “I’m going to get popcorn.”

With that he hurried across Richie’s room, barely slow enough to pick his way around the maze of discarded clothing and comic books that littered his floor. His left big toe narrowly missed one of Richie’s school notebooks, which had papers filled with equations spilling onto the wood floor.

He closed the door tightly behind him with slightly more force than necessary and squeezed his eyes shut. “Pull yourself together, Stanley,” he mumbled to himself, before setting off downstairs.

As a kid, Stan had always liked coming over to the Tozier’s house. It was bigger than his own, and messier, but in a lived in way that didn’t make his hands shake as much as it should have. Richie’s older sister, Rebecca, had never seemed annoyed when Stan had slipped away from the noise of his friends on occasion, and had always been willing to let him revel in the quiet of her room. She’d said on occasion that Stanley was like the little brother she’d never had. (Richie had always sputtered indignantly at that, but his eyes gave away his smile.) Stan been just a little devastated when she went away to school when they were twelve.

And if Bex Tozier was a surrogate sister to Stan, the Toziers were a second set of parents. Went and Maggie were busy, but they were always willing to open their home to Stan and the rest of Richie’s friends. Maggie, especially, was always willing to lend an ear to him if he needed it.

Stan padded into the kitchen on autopilot, easily locating the popcorn (second cabinet from the fridge) and sticking it into the microwave. While he waited, he slid into one of the stools at the breakfast bar and crossed his arms in front of him. He lay his head in his arms and closed his eyes, only keeping half an ear out for the popcorn to slow in its popping.

“Something on your mind, Stanley?” Maggie Tozier’s voice cut through the gloom fogging up Stan’s brain, and he jerked upright.

Richie’s mother stood on the other side of the breakfast bar holding the bag of popcorn between her thumb and forefinger. She had one eyebrow raised, and her glasses low on her nose so that she could peer over them. “You almost burned the popcorn,” she added, raising the bag as if to illustrate the point.

“Sorry, Mrs. Tozier,” Stan said sheepishly, sliding off of the stool and moving to take it from her. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

She hummed knowingly. “About Richie and Eddie?” she asked, pursing her lips.

Stan flinched, taking an involuntary step backwards. “What?” he asked, his jaw falling open just a little bit.

Maggie smiled softly. “I don’t know anything,” she said, voice light. She was lying - Stan knew it. He just didn’t know what about. “You know, my son cares about you an awful lot, Stanley.”

“He’s my best friend, Mrs. Tozier - both of them are,” Stan replied. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he felt distinctly like he was being dissected. Those dark eyes were so much like her son’s, and between the slight head tilt and the narrow look, she reminds him startlingly of the way that Richie stares right through him sometimes, like they were trying to read his mind. Whatever she was looking for she must have found, because suddenly Maggie smiled softly and nodded.

“I know that, Stanley,” she said, moving to pass him. She pats him on the shoulder, a gesture he’s seen her do to Richie a thousand times. Something half-recognized and motherly, comforting in a way that almost overwhelms Stan in a way that he didn’t expect. It was then that he remembered this woman had known him for fourteen years, since he was just four years old and scrambling after Richie on the playground. “Do what makes you happy, honey.”

With that cryptic message, she was gone. He could hear her footsteps down the hallway, headed towards the study that she shares with her husband.

Stan shook his head to clear it. With a glance at the stove’s clock, he realized that he’d been gone for nearly seven minutes, much longer than it should take to make popcorn. If he didn’t hurry, Richie and Eddie would come looking for him. He didn’t want that.

He hurried to make a second bag and dump both of them into a large bowl that is reserved just for movie night snacks, carefully picking it up and beginning to ascend the stairs. For a terrifying moment, he nearly tripped over one of Richie’s discard sneakers. The pile of popcorn wiggled in place precariously, but he managed to make it to Richie’s door without spilling a single kernel.

The door was open now. The television was paused on the opening to Ghostbusters. Eddie sat in the middle of the bed, staring hard at the picture above the TV with his eyebrows furrowed. There was no sign of Richie.

Stan carefully picked his way across the room, far slower and more carefully than when he had left. “Where’s Rich?” he asked, the nickname slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it. Eddie looked up, looking surprised to see Stan, but didn’t comment.

“Bathroom,” he said simply. “What took you so long?”

“Maggie stopped me,” Stan explained, his cheeks turning inexplicably red. If Richie were here, maybe he’d make a joke about it, but Eddie did nothing but frown a little.

His eyes drifted back over to the picture on the wall. “Do you remember?” Eddie asked, nodding towards it. “That day, I mean? It was, like, Mike’s birthday, right?”

Stan nodded, carefully placing the bowl of popcorn in the small sliver of space left on the bedside table. He frowned at it’s precarious perch, and set about rearranging the junk on the table, happy for something to occupy his hands. “His fifteenth, I think,” he agreed. “Because we all would have been fourteen at the time.”

Eddie glanced back at him. “How do you know?”

Stan sent a cursory glance back up to the picture. “You stopped wearing that shirt in sophomore year,” he said. “And Richie’s braces are that horrible neon green.” He paused, wincing. What kind of friend would remember that stuff? Eddie probably thought he was some sort of freak, now.

To his surprise, Eddie didn’t comment, simply turning back to that picture and staring for a long time. It was weirdly silent in the room, quiet in a way that Richie Tozier’s bedroom should never be. Stan almost thought that they were done with that line of questioning, when Eddie spoke again.

“I’m gonna ask you a weird question, and I don’t want you to freak out,” he said.

Stan stiffened, every muscle in his body tensing up. “You can’t just start a sentence like that and expect me to not freak out, Eddie,” he said, forcing his tone to stay light. Casual. Don’t let Eddie know that he felt like he was about to have an asthma attack, and he didn’t even have asthma.

“Did you have a crush on Richie?” he asked. Stan’s heart felt like it stuttered to a halt in his chest.

He laughed uncomfortably, taking a step back from the now-neatened sidetable. “Where did you get that idea?” he asked, still staring at the table. He won’t look at Eddie. He refused. His cheeks were hot and probably bright pink. The walls felt like they were pressing in on him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, Stan, wait,” Eddie said, and then his voice got closer. Fingers encircled Stan’s wrist, gently pulling him back against a small chest that was so much shorter than him. “Breathe. It’s okay, I was just asking.”

“I don’t like Richie.” Stan knew he was the one saying it, knew that was his voice, but he had no control over them as they left his mouth. “I don’t like you either. Not like that. It would be weird, wouldn’t it? You’re my best friends and you’re together and-”

“Jay-sus Christ, Spaghetti, what did ya say to th’ poor bastard?” Richie’s shitty Irish Cop voice cut through the room. Stan refused to look up at him, curling his hands into tight fists at his sides. There were footsteps, and then Richie whispered furiously to Eddie. One of his hands, calloused in weird places from so many long hours spent playing SNES games instead of doing homework, gently came to rest on Stan’s elbow.

Stan hated the way that he couldn’t help leaning into the touch.

“You okay, Stan the Man?” Richie asked cautiously, voice far too gentle to someone who’d gotten the nickname ‘Trashmouth’ at eleven years old. “Eddie just wanted to know.”

So Richie knew, had maybe even put Eddie up to it. That maybe made it worse. It was like they making fun of him. Maybe they were making fun of him - he wouldn’t put it past Richie, but he thought Eddie was nicer than that.

“Why?” Stan managed to gasp out, biting hard enough on his lower lip that it brought tears to his eyes directly after.

Eddie’s soft fingers, the ones that weren’t still circling his wrist, carefully pried Stan’s lip from his teeth. They came to rest on his chin, gently cradling his face. “Breathe,” he whispered again, and Stan squeezed his eyes tight as he tried to follow the instruction.

He could feel Richie and Eddie staring at each other around him, could almost feel the words they were exchanging silently, even if he didn’t know what they were. A sob escaped his throat that he didn’t even realize had been building. “Fuck, Stan, calm down,” Richie said a little desperately. “I can’t explain if you don’t came down.”

With great effort, Stan managed to force his breathing back to something almost considered normal. Eddie carefully pulled him towards the bed, and Stan’s knees bent to sit down without his acknowledgement. He felt the bed dip on either side of him as they sat down, but still refused to look up from a spot on the floor that he had deemed safe.

“Okay now?” Eddie asked carefully, one hand coming to rest on Stan’s back. He didn’t know why they kept touching him, but he wasn’t going to be the one who made the stop. He managed a shaky nod. “Good.”

“Why?” he asked again, licking at his dry lips. Stan didn’t trust himself to say anything else, for fear that he would start sobbing again. He was humiliated enough as it was.

“God, isn’t it fucking obvious?” Richie said, his voice louder than Stan expected. “We’re fucking in love with you, you idiot.”

Stan flinched. “That’s not funny,” he snapped, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that were suddenly pricking at the back of them. “Beep fucking beep, Tozier.”

Richie let out a huff and his voice lowered again. “It’s not a joke, Stan. I wouldn’t joke about that,” he said. His voice was a little pained, like he was genuinely hurt that Stan would think such a thing.

Eddie’s however hummed a little. “Well, actually, you definitely have before. Not… not like that, but I think I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve proposed to Bev or Bill. Or Mike. Or… any of us, really.” He paused, seeming to consider the next thing he had to say. When he next spoke, he was back to sounding gentle, carefully reaching out to thread his fingers with Stan’s. “It’s not a joke, though, Stan. We… We really like you. I think I’ve probably had a crush on you since we were kids.”

Richie cleared his throat. “Mike’s fifteenth,” he said. “I realized then. I made a stupid joke and you just kind of looked at me like I’d grown another head, and I was like ‘oh fuck, I’m in love with this stoic motherfucker.’”

Stan felt a little like his head was spinning. Like he’d just gotten off the Tilt-A-Whirl at the summer festival - which he always rode with Richie because Eddie didn’t trust the festival rides and all the others got nauseous, but Richie was too chicken to ride alone. “But… you guys…” he said, forcing back the bile that was rising in his throat. This was too much. He felt sick.

“Love each other, yeah,” Richie said. Eddie squeaked a little, and Stan could almost hear the fond way that Richie would roll his eyes in response. “Oh, like you didn’t spend half of last night-”

“Beep beep, Chee,” Eddie snapped. Stan knew that if he looked up, Eddie’s cheeks would be almost as red as his own.

“I thought I was just a creep,” Stan admitted quietly. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“What does that mean?” That was Richie, his hand gently squeezing one of Stan’s.

“I have to spell it out?” Stan asked, his cheeks impossibly red. He was met with only silence as his answer, and huffed out a frustrated sigh. He wanted to wipe at his teary eyes but with one hand caught in Richie’s and one entangled with Eddie’s it was impossible. “I’ve had crushes on both of you for years.”

Stan’s admission was met with silence, and he almost thought that maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this was all an elaborate joke, and Richie and Eddie hadn’t expected him to go along with it. He opened his mouth to stammer out an apology, to say something that could recall the words and their meanings, but then Richie was gasping and threw himself at Stan, knocking both of them sideways into Eddie.

Richie wiggled against him, working himself halfway into Stan’s lap as he lay across him.Eddie was laughing underneath them, shoving at Stan’s shoulders in an attempt to force them upright. “Chee, give him some room,” he was saying, giggling in the way that Stan knew made his nose crinkle up. Richie sat up immediately, dark eyes scanning Stan’s face, but there was a huge, ridiculous grin crossing his face.

“Do you want to be our boyfriend, Stanley the Manley?” Richie asked, letting go of Stan to fold his hands together pleadingly. There was a red flush creeping up his neck, the only sign that he was embarrassed or concerned about the response.

Stan glanced at Eddie, who shrugged sheepishly. “Only if you want to, Stan,” Eddie agreed, but there was hope in his eyes as well.

Stan bit his lip and forced the anxiety coiling in his stomach away. Maggie Tozier’s words echoed in his ears. Do what makes you happy, honey. “Yes, please,” he said after a long moment of silence.

Eddie’s smile could have given Richie’s a run for it’s money. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, and Stan had barely managed a nod before the other boy was surging forward, pressing his lips against Stan’s. It felt right - like warmth and like home. Like they were made for each other.

And then Richie was pushing Eddie out of the way, staring deep into Stan’s eyes - dissecting, just like Maggie had - before he too leaned forward. If kissing Eddie felt like home, kissing Richie felt like safety.

When he finally pulled away, Stan’s cheeks had faded from brilliantly red to a far more subtle pink, and he couldn’t stop the smile that slowly slid across his face. There was a moment of silence where the three of them just stared at each other, smiling like losers in the dim light of Richie’s room. The buzz of the television caught Stan’s attention, and he poked both of them in the knees until they stopped looking so much like a pair of lovesick puppies. (To say nothing of the fact that Stan, too, had the same lovesick, starstruck look on his face.)

“Ghostbusters?” he reminded them gently. “I love you guys, but the Stay Puft guy is my dream man.”

“Stan the Man gets off a good one!” Richie crowed, cackling far louder than the mediocre joke deserved. Eddie and Stan locked eyes and shared a fond smile, shaking their heads in amusement at their boyfriend’s - boyfriend, the word felt like a dream to think in conjunction with them - antics.

The trio curled around each other on the bed, Stan tucked safely in the middle of Richie and Eddie with the popcorn in his lap. Richie took a piece of popcorn and kissed him on the side of the head. Eddie pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder.

As the Ghostbusters battled ghosts, Stan curled against his boys, content and warm and happy.

#secret santa #ham speaks #it fanfiction #streddie #richie tozier #stanley uris #eddie kaspbrak #i hope you like it!#itfandomprompts #fic rec #ham writes fics

78 notes · View notes

carryonmywaywardwriters · 5 years

Text

Taphophobia - Dean x Reader (One Shot)

A/N: Okay, this is going a little slow. But, seems to be going still. I have this edited piece, and then at least one drabble to post before I crash. As usual, feedback is always incredible. I hope you all enjoy <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse. Phobias. Being buried alive. Reader death. Nothing but angst.

Word Count: Roughly 2,700

“What's your biggest fear?” The air chilled around you and Dean. Fogging up the breath you let out into the night. Sixteen years old, and too many cares in the world.

Hunting did that to a person. Aged them young. You both felt as if you were forty. Weighed down by the weight of others' lives.

“My biggest fear?” He passed over the whiskey, and leaned back against the tree behind him. Humming a bit as he thought. Looking up at the moon as you rolled up the sleeves to his jacket over your own arms. “I don't know...I guess...” The Winchester inhaled deeply, trying to settle on one as you took a swig. “I guess being alone.” His lips tightened as he dwelled on it for a moment. “Yeah, I think that's it. Sammy...he's already talkin' college. And being left with dad...”

“Being alone sounds less scary than being left alone with John,” You shuddered at the very idea. Thinking of the bruises that had been known to line Dean's body.

He told everyone it was monsters. Always had. Yet, you knew better. A drunk, angry John Winchester was a force to be reckoned with. Dean rarely came out on top. But, he took it so you and Sam never had to. Always had been, and always would be, your hero.

“At least he's familiar,” The green eyes turned towards you. Trying to see the positive.

However, he must not have been able to. They widened as he imagined life alone with his father. Silently asking that you didn't leave him to face the reality. Didn't force him to make the choice between facing the emptiness he was so scared of, and the harsh life he'd live with only John by his side.

“Yeah...I get that.” The words seemed to relax him a little more. Letting a deep, heavy sigh leave the boy that carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Your own parents had been killed six years prior. You'd just been a kid. So had Dean. The only reason John had allowed you to join the crew was so that Sam was never left on his own. Unfair? Perhaps, but that's how things were.

The Winchesters were all you had. If it came down to choosing John over nothing? You'd choose the abuse. As sad and lonely as it would be. Anything to be close to the memories of Sam and Dean.

“Now, what about you?” Dean's brow rose. Asking you to dig deep. You took another large swig in response. Letting the burn down your throat give you strength. “That bad?”

“It just freaks me out,” You shuddered, passing over the bottle for Dean to finish. Wincing a bit at the after taste. “You know I don't like small spaces?” An easy nod was his answer.

It was no secret. Hiding away, in the back of a closet was the first thing you were able to remember. Listening to the screams of your family. Hearing the roar of the wolf that had tore their beating hearts from their bodies. That kind of thing left scars.

Maybe even more than holding a baby brother while everything burned had impacted Dean. At least he hadn't been able to see Mary on the ceiling. You could see the flash of blood through the panel's cracks. See the bodies being thrown.

John had tossed you in a coat closet, once. His version of a fitting punishment. For simply grabbing his fist before it could hit the squared jaw of the oldest boy.

While you were in there, you could hear John raving. Words slurring as he tore Dean a new one verbally. Not even caring that Sam would be witness for once. Too deep in the drink and grief to care, anymore.

When Dean had opened up the door, the damage had been done. Eleven years old, and mentally broken. Tears trailed down your face as the heavy panting left your parted lips. Too trapped in the memories to move.

The older brother had to crawl in next to you. Drained and all, he'd helped you ground yourself enough to walk away. To plaster a smile on your face to tell the youngest that everything would be okay.

“Just small spaces?” His brow furrowed at that. Remembering it all. Wondering, not for the first time, just how damaged his father had left you.

“Almost,” You shrugged, tugging Dean's leather jacket closer around your body. Needing that sense of security as you faced what haunted your dreams. “Being buried alive.” His head tilted a bit as you explained. “There's the small space, for one. The lack of control that comes with it. You can't escape...it isn't slow, either. You have time to panic. To try and claw your way to safety...but, in the end? There's not a thing you can do.”

Every nightmare you'd ever had stared back at you. There wasn't a thing you hadn't imagined. The terror that came with it sank into your bones.

“Come here,” Dean tugged you closer, holding you under his strong grasp. His chin rested along your scalp. “Let's think about something more positive, alright? I'm kinda sick of all the doom and gloom.” Sick of seeing your unease. He wanted you happy. Safe.

As you nodded, his lips dropped to press against your temple. Telling you how much you meant to him without words. A gentle squeeze pulled some of the tension from your body. Trusting him to keep you secure. After all, he always had.

–

“Where is she?” Dean growled out, stalking forward with fury in his green eyes. The male witch was shoved backwards by his throat.

There was no fear present in his face. No remorse. Simply amusement. As if he got off on causing pain.

“You aren't going to make it in time,” The being bit out gleefully. Looking up at the hunter with a smug grin. It didn't fade when the solid fist slammed into his head. If anything, it only grew stronger despite the blood dripping down his chin. “She had six hours...if she's lucky.”

“You better hope you're wrong.” Magic stalling cuffs held him captive. Leaving Dean time to play. Time he didn't have.

Every minute ticked by faster and faster. Making the Winchester more desperate with each click from the clock. Torture was a trick he'd learned to keep under wraps. However, he had no problem placing each cut into the unmarred skin of the witch. Ensuring that his pain would be too much to bear. Sure enough, it worked. “She's buried,” The bloodied being hissed out, arching against his restraints. “But, that's all you're getting from me, Winchester.”

“You did what?” The hunter roared, grabbing the man by his collar. His stomach twisting at the thought. He could hear your voice from all those years ago. Echoing in his head as his fist slammed into the smug face. Over and over again. Not caring if the witch was dead, or just unconscious. It was only the thought of time running low that pulled him away. “Sammy?” Dean was on the move as he called his brother. “We need to get some shovels. Start looking for any disturbed ground.”

“Why?” The younger man's voice cracked in fear. He had reason to be terrified. There was only minutes left. If you were lucky.

“The bastard threw her in the dirt,” Dean bit out, already on the prowl. Needing to fix everything. To save you. “We've got two acres to cover. He figured six hours, Sam...”

“Dean...what if-”

“Don't say it.” The biting tone ended the thought before it could escape. Terror squeezed at his heart. It was if he was feeling what you were. Suddenly his lungs burned. “We're going to make it in time. We have to, Sammy.”

“I'll meet you around back,” Sam stated softly. Almost as though he felt it was hopeless. Dean ended the call with a slam. Refusing to buy into the negativity.

It would be okay. You would be fine. You had to be.

Ten minutes. Twenty. By thirty, Dean was coated in sweat. His heart raced as he desperately searched over the ground.

Then, he saw it. The disturbed dirt was nestled beside a tree. At the very end of the property.

“Sam!” He shouted, already on the move. By the time his brother made it to his side, the flannel had been discarded. A large dent in the top started.

“Holy shit,” Sam muttered, taking in the size of the hole. There was little mistaking what rested underneath the dirt.

Neither brother said a word from that point on. Too afraid to do more than shovel. And pray that everything would be fine. Miracles happened every day. If anyone was due for one, it was you. Holding onto that thought, the dug until their muscles ached.

They'd ripped open a million graves in their life time. But this time? They were digging up yours. And it made all of the difference. What would usually take hours, and breaks only took them a fraction of the time.

You were down to seconds as Dean threw the final layer of dirt out with his bare hands. Exposing the shiny coffin that had been reported missing eight hours before. The witch had planned on nabbing one of them. You'd just happened to be in the way.

“Y/N!” He yelled out, yanking it open. There was no sound outside of their harsh breathing. You didn't move- didn't react- as the light hit your face. The color was leeched from your skin. “Y/N?” The broken crack left Dean as he stared. Trying to see movement. Anything to tell him you were okay. There was no fluttering of your eyelashes. No twitch in your limbs. Not even the rise and fall of your chest. “No,” He whispered; his eyes filling with the water he'd been fighting so hard to repress. “No...god, please...no.” He was lunging at you, then. Checking for your pulse. Even knowing that there would be none. “Damn it, Y/N...” Dean bit out, moving his hands to yours to begin chest compressions. “You can't leave me, okay? Not like this.” You didn't answer as he slammed his hands over your sternum rapidly. He bent over, pinching your nose before breathing into your parted lips.

Sam watched as his brother lost it. The tears slipped down the dirt covered skin only to land on your body. Cracking filled the air as the force of his will broke your ribs. But, there was no in drawn breath.

Fifteen minutes passed before the younger brother couldn't take anymore, “Dean...” Yet, the older brother didn't stop. Begging you quietly through gritted teeth to open those E/C eyes inside that coffin. “I...I think she's gone.” Sam's voice cracked, watching the scene unfold helplessly.

“She can't be,” Dean hissed out, starting to slow. His arms burned. The breath leaving his lips was ragged. Sweat trailed lines across his grey t-shirt and dirt coated skin. But, none of that mattered. Not so long as your chest didn't rise on its own.

“Dean-”

“No!” He shouted back. Voice hard and filled with threats of violence if anything got between him and you. “She's alive, damn it. She has to be...I have...I have to save her.” But that time, his movements ceased. It was beginning to sink in. “I...” His words ended as he looked down at the blue tint to your skin. There was no coming back. Your nails were ripped to shreds. Hands raw and bloody from your attempts to dig the coffin open. The material above your head was shredded. You'd fought til the end, he was sure. “Y/N?” The finality of it sunk in when you didn't respond. He lost it in earnest, then. “I...I...I'm...I'm so...so s...sorry, sweetheart.” His fingers ran through your hair, gently. Shaking as a broken sob left him. Sam could only sit back and watch as his brother mourned the love of his life.

It was daylight by the time he managed to pull himself away to begin building a pyre. The younger brother had it over half done. Preparing to give you a hunter's funeral. It felt more right. You had never been scared of fire.

Dean carried your body to the pile; kissing the cold forehead as he'd set you up on the wooden stand. When he'd pulled away, he willed you to move. Anything to tell him it was all a bad dream. That he was making a mistake.

There was nothing. With a defeated sigh, he stepped back. A small crack sounded, making him jerk down to the noise. Your phone rested on the ground, underneath his boot.

You'd never felt the need for that kind of privacy a password offered. He swiped the screen. Preparing to shut it off. Only, the sight of a sending message caught his attention.

An audio file glared up at him. Daring him to listen. Slowly, he pressed play. Raising it to his ear.

“Dean...I don't know if I have much time left,” Your voice shook into the phone's speaker. Dean looked over to the pile your covered body rested in. Forcing himself to remember that he wasn't hearing you in that moment. “I shouldn't be talking... It uses the air faster...I...I know that.” The broken edge that followed let him know that you were crying. “But, I'm getting tired...” He swallowed tightly; his eyes beginning to water at the anguish he was hearing. Dean had thought he'd been out of tears. He'd never been more wrong. “And I'm scared...” He'd known you would have been. But, hearing the words tore through him even more. “So...so scared.” A sniffle followed, “It's okay, though...” You swallowed tightly, trying to compose yourself. “Because...I know...I know this means...means that you're safe. He didn't get to you, first.” A weak laugh left your lips. As if that made everything alright, again. “And I know you won't be alone.” A thud sounded as your elbow hit the lid. He could picture you trying to wipe away the tears. His heart squeezed at the message. “Sammy's home, now.” The shakiness as you fought to remain strong was apparent. Not for yourself. But, for him. “He'll stay with you...If...If he doesn't, I'll haunt him. Burned body be damned.” You coughed, then. The air thickening the more you talked. There must have been some fight left in you. The beating of your fists could be heard before another sob, and a broken cry escaped. He hated the sound of it, but clung to the fact that you hadn't been completely resigned to your fate. You had been strong. If only it had been enough. “I just...I love you, okay?” You came back to your senses, for a moment. Remembering your mission. “I know...I know I say it a lot...but, I needed you to hear it right...right now.” Another sniff left you as you repressed the tears for a moment longer. “This isn't your fault, Dean...this...I'm...I'm okay with...with this being it...if..if it is.” Your final, gasping words that he'd ever hear had him dropping to his knees, “You're not alone, Dean...You're not...not gonna be all alone. I promise...That's what matters, alright? You're...you're not alone.”

The message ended, then. Leaving him to realize that your biggest fear hadn't truly been being buried alive, after all. You'd been trapped in that coffin. Facing the thing that you had claimed to be the one thing you couldn't handle. But, in the end? It had been something much deeper.

Your biggest fear had been that Dean would be, or feel, all alone. And have to face what you'd both been terrified of with it. The thing that he hadn't realized? His biggest fear hadn't truly been being alone. It had simply been being without you...

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon @supernaturalginger

167 notes · View notes

quasarlasar · 4 years

Text

Sam awakened in a pile of crushed rock and shifted sediment. Ptoo! Not again…he thought to himself as he sat up out of the dirt and spat powdery soil from his mouth. I hope I didn’t get caught in a collapsing building…

He leaned his back onto the wall of rock behind him, and gasped for breath. It was dark, but not as pitch black as it had been when he had been trapped under the parking structure at Long Beach. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he began to make out the patterns: sedimentary layers, speckled flecks of minerals…and an enormous crystalline crimson eye, staring down at him with its slit pupil.

He screamed and edged his back further into the wall behind him, but more eyes glinted towards him, embedded like clasts in breccia. Jagged offset fangs gleamed from within thousands of tiny cracks in the rock, slowly shifting as the rocks adjusted and re-adjusted ever so slowly. The eyes tracked him with their slit pupils as he painfully shuffled down the length of the crevasse, tears streaming down his face as he tried his best not to scream.

Breathing. The ground was breathing. He could feel its heartbeat: a heavy, echoing thump that reverberated through the ground and into the soles of his feat, twitching his legs and shivering his spine. He could hear its voice, pained, labored groaning that undulated along the crevasse walls and resonated in his chest, a sobering, haunting feeling. Molten rock dripped down like blood from the walls, oozing out from where friction had glassed over the interior of the Earth itself.

Alive. This place was alive…part of the body of a living, breathing force that ran its way through the entire state of California. An ancient elder god that shaped the landscape solely according to its own unknowable schedule.

Sam felt terrified. Powerless. Forced to bow down to the Earth itself. What was dropping, covering, and holding on if not an admission of your own insignificance, prostrate and groveling before the inviscid ground?

He placed his hand on the walls, feeling every curve and bump in the damaged rock. More molten rock drizzled down from above, hissing before solidifying into pseudotachylite as it hit the rubble.

“You’re in pain…aren’t you?” Sam said.

The eyes closed, and the rocks released something almost like a sigh.

“I HAVE SUFFERED WORSE. A BETTER QUESTION IS: ARE YOU?”

“I don’t know…I guess I am…mostly just feeling pretty shaken?”

Sam grinned at his lame pun before suddenly panicking and covering his mouth. Crap! What happens if he actually laughs? Could he rip open again?

Fortunately for him, San Andreas seemed too worn out from his battle with Cascadia to do anything more.

“…JUST…NEXT TIME…TRY NOT TO PISS OFF A SUBDUCTION ZONE, OKAY KID?”

===========================================================

Sorry for the lack of comics again...I’ve been busy with my thesis and getting sick for a while didn’t exactly help either.

I’ve been spending what creative time I have working on the second draft of my sci-fi novel as well as outlines and rough drafts of other stories I hope to potentially publish someday.

Those of you who are earlier followers of mine might remember a little something called the “San Andreas Campaign”...I sort of fell off the wagon on this one, not adding any new comics to it since the end of 2018.

To be quite frank after the Ridgecrest earthquakes happened last year I got too freaked out to do anything with my fault characters for a long time.

I’m finally starting to feel comfortable enough to actually get back to using them...though so far this has only taken the form of me writing the story of how the spirit of the San Andreas Fault actually got around to becoming sorta-friends with a human in the first place.

...For whatever reason in the past few years I have been getting less and less ideas for jokes or comic strips, and more ideas for long form stories that I pretty much only have time to put down in writing.

#updates #geology #geophysics #seismology #san andreas fault #writing #science #earth science #earthquake

6 notes · View notes

laulink · 5 years

Text

Another piece on Momo and Yuko because I want to and you can’t stop me

A.N : And also because I am shipping trash and this latest chapter gave me way too many feels. So the first part of this is how I think the next chapter might start and the second part is just me shipping the shit out of those two because they are cute and they are SOULMATES, ok ? Ok.

Ah, and if you hadn’t realised yet, SPOILERS FOR THE LATEST CHAPTER OF THE MACHIKADO MAZOKU MANGA

“Phew, finally back ! sighed Yuko. Thanks for getting me out of there, Momo !”

She smiled brightly at the magical girl who returned a small, but genuine, smile.

“I’m glad you’re ok, Shamiko.

- Me too. I was kinda worried there, cornered by all those bad memories… But now we’re out and you can explain ! What was that about being my dependant ? And this Darkness Peach stuff ! You looked so cool, Momo !”

Momo’s cheeks turned pink at the praise as Yuko was bouncing around her with questions. Putting her hand up to ask for some silence and the chance to explain, Momo started :

“Lilith-san and I figured out a way to forge a temporary contract so I could rescue you while still maintaining my power and connection with the Light clan. The costume was the result of that and the… code name was a temporary one Lilith-san insisted upon.”

Yuko deflated at that, her tail going slack and winding around her in disappointment. And here she thought she had finally managed to get Momo on her side ! … Well, she didn’t do anything, but seeing Momo come to her rescue in her Demon form had given her hope nonetheless.

Momo continued, seemingly unaware of Yuko’s thoughts.

“Like I said last time, truly becoming your dependant would make me way weaker than I am now, so we can’t have that. Not until we’ve found my sister, at least.”

At that, Yuko perked up.

“Ah, by the way Momo ! I met Sakura-san in my dream !

- You what ?! exclaimed Momo, but also Mikan and Lilith, who Yuko had almost forgotten were still there”

Yuko proceeded to explain everything about her dream and what Sakura-san had told her. After she had finished, Mikan sported a worried expression while Momo and the Ancestor seemed to be in deep thought.

“If Sakura-san is trapped inside Shamiko, supporting her life… that means if we force her out, Shamiko will die !

- Mikan-san, calm down, calm down ! cried Yuko as she started feeling spiders falling on her and the floor cracking under her weight. I’m not going to die ! Sakura-san said she would stay with me until I become strong enough to be healthy without her support !

- But just how strong is that ? asked Momo. More importantly, considering how weak you are, how much training will it take to get you there ?”

Yuko gulped and backed away.

“Trai-Training ?

- Yes, training. You have to get strong, right ? Especially if you want me to really become your dependant. I still stand by what I said before : if you want that to happen, you’ll have to beat me, fair and square.

- Beat… Beat Momo, said Yuko, paling. And I can’t even use my powers… Ah ! But I have the magic staff now !”

Yuko took it out, showing its most powerful form !

“… You want to fight me with a fork ?

- It’s, it’s a big fork !”

Momo let out a sigh, then approached Yuko. Thinking she wanted a fight right then and there, Yuko raised her fork, prepared to fight for her life :

“So you want to fight it out right now, magical girl ?! Come at me, I’ll show you the power of my-”

Not paying her speech any mind, Momo simply pushed the fork aside and wrapped her arms around Yuko, hugging her close. Mikan gasped behind her, surprised at the display of affection, while the Ancestor hummed, interested by the turn of events.

“I’m so relieved you’re fine, Shamiko… I don’t know what I would have done if you had to spend days lost in this nightmare.”

Just the thought made Momo tighten her hold on Yuko, a slight shiver running down her spine. But no matter how small it was, with how close Momo was holding her, Yuko noticed it.

“Momo… She was so worried about me ? Even though we’re supposed to be enemies…”

Yuko’s gaze softened at the realisation and, dropping her fork, she wrapped her arms around Momo in turn, hugging her gently and resting her head on Momo’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Momo… Thank you for coming to save me. Thank you for caring.

- Of course I care about you, Shamiko. I…”

Momo seemed like she wanted to add more, but couldn’t find the words, burying her face in Yuko’s hair instead. Yuko didn’t care though : the hug was pretty comfy. She could just enjoy it while Momo gathered her thoughts and tried to find her words.

“She’s so warm…”

Yuko closed her eyes and nestled her face further in Momo’s shoulder. She could hear the girl’s heartbeat, strong and steady, a relaxing sound lulling her to sleep…

Momo felt Yuko putting more and more of her weight on her, to the point where Momo thought she was half the reason the girl was still standing. Moving her arms to get a better grip on the girl, she called her name, worry etched in her voice :

“Shamiko ? Hey, are you ok ?”

Yuko mumbled something back, but Momo couldn’t make out any real word. As panic rose in her heart, she heard Yuko’s Ancestor from behind her.

“Ah, looks like the events of the day caught up to her. Using magic to get in someone else’s dreams is not really resting, but diving in her own memories and fighting her own monsters must have tired her out, especially if Chiyoda Sakura made her use her powers. She must be getting sleepy. Mikan, lay out the futon so she can rest a bit.

- Got it !”

Momo sighed in relief, happy that it wasn’t anything dangerous. Feeling Yuko lean even more against her, she decided to pick her up so she wouldn’t have to worry about the girl falling down. With some careful manoeuvres, Momo managed to get Yuko’s arms wrapped around her neck, her own hands under Yuko’s thighs and lift her in the air. Even half-asleep, Yuko instinctively wrapped her legs around Momo’s waist and clung to her like a koala. Momo smiled at the thought, a pink hue overtaking her cheeks at the intimate position.

“Enjoying the situation, are you, magical girl ?”

Startled, Momo turned to see Yuko’s Ancestor smirking at her. Momo’s blush deepened : she had totally forgotten about the ancient spirit’s presence. Looking the moving doll in her eyes to put more strength in her words, she tried to defend herself :

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.

- Yes you do. Your feelings for that child go way beyond those of simple friends, do they not ?”

Momo averted her gaze, unable to deny. She knew it was ridiculous, especially since Yuko considered her an enemy because of her status as a magical girl, but… she had hoped…

Realising the girls’ thoughts were getting gloom, Lilith hurried to say :

“Hey, don’t get all depressed ! I never said it was a bad thing ! Or that you didn’t have a chance ! On the contrary, that girl seems to care deeply about you, much more than she is supposed to care about her enemy or a business partner !”

At that, Momo visibly perked up. Turning back to the Ancestor, she asked :

“… Are you sure about that ?

- Yes, I am, sighed Lilith. Honestly, do you really think she would go to such lengths to ensure you’re healthy and happy if she didn’t care ? She may be a nice kid, but she doesn’t go that far or pay that much attention when it comes to her other friends. That Mikan girl doesn’t get nearly the same treatment either. She might be a bit thick-headed and clueless about this stuff, but that kid’s feelings for you are obviously unique. If she was a bit more self-aware, I’m sure she would have accidentally confessed to you by now. That would be quite the sight, honestly !”

As Lilith dissolved into laughter at the thought, Momo took a second to take it all in. Yuko might like her back. Yuko might return her feelings… They could have something together…

Heat rushing to her face, Momo shook her head to rid herself of those thoughts. Getting all excited when Yuko herself hadn’t made her feelings for Momo clear would get her nowhere. She needed to calm down and focus on the priorities. Namely, getting Yuko to bed and figuring out a way to make her stronger. Everything else could wait, at least until the first objective had been completed.

As if summoned, Mikan came back.

“The futon is laid ! You can go tuck her in- Wait, why are you holding her like that ?!

- Don’t start freaking out, it was just the easiest way to pick her up ! defended Momo, red coming back to her face.”

Deciding to ignore her friend, Momo went to the other room and carefully, delicately laid Yuko down, making sure she was in a comfortable position. But when Momo tried to get Yuko to let go of her, she was met with far more resistance than expected. She struggled a bit to get the girl’s legs to let go of her waist without waking her, but she was still trying to get Yuko’s arms to loosen up when Mikan and Lilith peeked their head around the door.

“Something wrong ?

- She doesn’t seem to want to let go… Even though she’s still sleeping…

- Well then, it can’t be helped, sighed Lilith. Just give up and sleep with her.”

Momo looked back to the moving doll, face painted a dark red and embarrassment making her voice waver :

“Wha-What ?!

- Don’t look at me like that. It will be a bit crowded, but the futon is big enough for you two. If you don’t want to wake her up trying to get her to let go, you don’t really have a choice.”

After sending the spirit a dark look as though this was all one of her schemes, Momo gave up and laid down beside Yuko. The girl was quick to snuggle close to her and Mikan cooed over them :

“Awww, you two are so cute ! I’ll go get my camera-

- Mikan. Don’t you dare.”

Momo’s terrifying tone and dark glare made Mikan go pale.

“O-Ok, no camera. We-Well then, good night !”

She scurried off, closing the door and taking Lilith with her. Sighing, Momo tried to relax so she could take the opportunity and actually get some rest. The day had been quite packed with emotions after all…

As if she had just waited for this moment, Yuko let go of Momo’s neck and dropped her hands down, wrapping an arm around the girl’s waist instead. Some incoherent mumbling followed as she shuffled around, trying to get comfortable and ending up with her face buried in Momo’s shoulder, their bodies pressed close under the covers. A few seconds after she stopped moving, Yuko’s breathing evened out and she fell back asleep.

Momo let go of a shaky breath. She could feel her cheeks burning from a mix of feelings she couldn’t quite identify, but she still knew one thing : if Yuko truly put her mind to it, she might have the potential to render Momo absolutely helpless, and that without even touching a single weapon.

Wrapping her own arms around the clueless girl, Momo tried to relax and get to sleep. All this, she could worry about tomorrow. For now… She just wanted to enjoy this moment.

#like I said : I am shipping trash #but I know I'm not the only one so hopefully someone liked reading this #machikado mazoku #machikado mazoku spoilers #chiyoda momo #yoshida yuko #mikan #lilith #momo x yuko #momo x shamiko #momoshami #my writing

23 notes · View notes

e350tb · 5 years

Text

Steven Universe: Marooned Together - Chapter Forty-Two

(special thanks to @real-fakedoors for proofreading!)

It didn’t take long for the forge to be established - a month, give or take.

And then, just as quickly, the Home Guard was being issued new weapons, straight from Bismuth’s hearth to their armouries. Bismuth wasn’t entirely on board with ‘guns’ - “They’re just not the same, y’know?” - but she was perfectly capable of making them and making them well. And for those Guards that preferred them, she soon had swords and spears and maces aplenty. One in particular took priority.

“Thought you could use this,” Bismuth had said, presenting Stevonnie with the new sword. It was slightly shorter than Rose’s, with a gold plated, star-shaped hilt.

“It’s perfect!” Stevonnie replied, stars in their eyes as they pulled the blacksmith into a hug.

Months went by, and there were no additional arrivals of drones on New Earth. Despite this, paranoia and unease ran rampant. Jeff was particularly concerned about how Homeworld had known where to send the first drone - was it sent by some regional commander? Or did Homeworld know of them? And if so, why not simply destroy them? Their defenses, even after the foundation of the Home Guard, were a joke and would make one hell of a punchline against Homeworld’s might, were they to attack. Homeworld technology could slice right through the repurposed vessels of the Human Resistance and crush them like ants.

This very real, but very terrifying, insecurity in New Earth’s approach of defense left them unacceptably vulnerable. There must be a contingency plan, Jeff had decided.

Weapons weren’t enough. They needed ships, and they needed them now. The bismuths and peridots were gathered, and Bismuth, Lenny, C and X were put in charge of designing and producing new warships to defend New Earth. Even Captain Franks was dragged out of obscurity to help. A permanent Council of War was set up to plan strategy.

It never sat easy with Jeff.

“It feels like I’m forming an army,” he lamented to Peedee.

“Well yeah,” nodded Peedee, “You kind of are? But that doesn’t mean you’re not doing the right thing.”

A year passed. And then another, and another.

Shortly before the first new ship was finished, Captain Franks died, lonely and bitter. Doctor West retired as head doctor, replaced by a Ruby who went by Ceara. People born immediately after the destruction of Earth were now in their twenties. It was a time of change, where the new filled leadership roles as the old began to fade away.

Despite it all, Stevonnie held out hope that some echoes of their past may still be out there, somewhere in the vast cosmos.

They’d forgotten the old maxim - ‘be careful what you wish for.’

“We’ve found a hulk, and it belongs to Pink Diamond.”

The words hung over Jeff’s Penthouse, and for a few minutes there was dead silence.

“So… a wrecked ship?” asked Amethyst.

“No, a giant green man,” replied Jeff testily, “Yes, it’s a wrecked ship!”

Amethyst raised her eyebrows, and Jeff sighed.

“Sorry,” he sighed, “My leg’s acting up today.”

“Did you break it?” asked Stevonnie, concerned.

“Nah, it’s just… something that happens,” Jeff shrugged, “Think it’s just a ‘getting old’ thing.”

“How old are you again?” asked Lapis.

“Lapis, you’re not supposed to ask humans how old they are! It reminds them of the inevitability of death!” Peridot scolded.

Jeff smiled.

“It’s okay,” he replied, “I’m fifty-one.”

“Fifty-one?”

Stevonnie clutched their head.

“Oh my gosh, I completely lost track of… did I miss your birthday?” they exclaimed, “Do I need to…”

“Stevonnie, it’s fine,” interrupted Peedee, “It’s all good. We don’t really do birthdays anymore, anyway. They, uh, lose their charm after forty.”

“Can we get back to the hulk, Petey?” asked Lapis.

Peedee raised an eyebrow.

“Huh, that was actually pretty close,” he said, “Anyway, some kind of Pink Diamond ship is just floating around a few star systems from here. We want to see if there’s anything salvageable on it, but there could be security systems or gem-operated tech, so we need you guys to escort our salvage team.”

“Who’s on the team?” asked Amethyst.

“Jenny,” replied Jeff, “And a couple of Home Guards. It’ll be one of their first missions off New Earth, so don’t go too hard on them.”

“So I take it the inflight movie can’t be Alien, then…”

“Well, it can, but you’ve gotta cut out all the bits with the Alien,” Jeff shrugged.

He turned to Stevonnie.

“You gonna be okay with this?” he asked, “I mean, it did belong to your mom…”

Stevonnie swallowed and nodded.

“Yeah,” they said, “I’ll be fine.”

It was an odd-looking ship - a giant pink pyramid with smooth sides and a flat top, not unlike the prism where Steven had gone on one of his first missions long, long ago. For a derelict, the hull was in surprisingly good shape. The paint was still perfect, there was no dust - the only sign of anything amiss was the giant hole in one of the sides. According to Zircon, most of the ship still had oxygen.

Inside was a very different story.

Stevonnie trudged through the dark corridor, flashlight in their hand - Jenny and Lapis were right behind them, with the Home Guards, Amethyst and Peridot taking the rear. It was cold and nearly pitch black, the sides smooth and lifeless, the only sound the echoing of their footsteps. The boots of the three Home Guards clacked on the hard floor, and the inexperienced soldiers exchanged nervous glances. Even Amethyst and Peridot looked unsettled.

“I’ve seen creepy wrecks before,” whispered Amethyst, “But this might be the worst.”

“Then you gotta go on scavenging missions more,” replied Jenny, “This isn’t even in the top five scariest places I’ve been.”

“Or I could, y’know, not scavenge,” said Amethyst, “‘Cause, you know, I’d rather take on Homeworld then some monster with eighty legs and a thousand butts…”

“Lapis,” whispered Stevonnie, “Is there any water here?”

Lapis shook her head.

“I can’t sense any,” she replied.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” nodded Stevonnie.

“Well, it’s a hulk, right?” shrugged Lapis, “So there’s probably nothing-”

CLANG!

Lapis jumped, clutching Stevonnie’s arm as they swung around to the source of the sudden sound. There was a long, long silence.

“Uh… I tripped,” said one of the Home Guards (an orange Pearl) sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“Bloody hell, Orange, I nearly shat meself!” snapped another, “I’m on edge enough as it is without havin’ to worry about some kind a’ fuckin’ facehugger…”

“Alright, that’s enough Johnson,” the third Home Guard said, “Everybody stay focused.”

They walked in silence for some time. There was no change in scenery - Stevonnie would have been afraid of getting lost if the corridor hadn’t been perfectly straight. It seemed to lead somewhere, somewhere in the deepest, darkest depths of the ship - they wondered if they wanted to know what it was.

“See anything worth taking?” whispered Jenny.

“Nothing,” replied Peridot, “This design is wrong. The hull looks like a standard Type-72 Colony Ship, but this… I’ve never seen anything like this. It… it’s just a hallway. It doesn’t make sense. What would Pink Diamond do with a ship like this?”

“Don’t know,” replied Stevonnie.

They bit their lip.

“Don’t wanna know…”

What Stevonnie didn’t know was that they were by no means alone on the ship. On the other side of the vessel, in another corridor, another team was making their way to the centre of the ship.

“Captain Lars?” asked Left-Rutile, “How much further do you think we need to walk?”

“I dunno,” shrugged Lars, shining the flashlight ahead, “But there’s gotta be good salvage here, right?”

“How did Fluorite get out of this?” muttered Right-Rutile.

“She couldn’t fit in the hallway,” replied Lars.

“Keep quiet,” hissed Jasper, “We might not be alone.”

“Who else is gonna be on this wreck?” grunted Lars.

Before long, they found themselves approaching a door. Only half of it was closed - the other half was twisted and mangled, sparks raining down from the roof. The Rutiles nervously glanced at each other, and Lars swallowed.

“Good thing this ship has been wrecked for eons,” he said, “Or I’d be pretty freaked right now.”

Lars, the Rutiles and Padparadscha slipped through the doorway, Jasper taking up the rear. She halted, studying the warped door closely, hand on her chin.

“Hmm…”

Beyond the door was a small chamber, about the size of a modest house - at the centre of the room was a floating sphere that shone a marble white under Lars’ flashlight. It was completely dormant, perfectly, eerily still, and Lars found himself swallowing again.

“Hmm,” said Left-Rutile.

“Odd,” added Right-Rutile.

“What is it, twins?” asked Lars.

“It looks like an observation orb,” explained Left-Rutile.

“...but why would they build an entire ship just for this?” added Right-Rutile.

“I predict we’ll find an observation orb!” exclaimed Padparadscha.

“Yeah, thanks Paddy,” nodded Lars, “I…”

There was a metallic scraping, and Lars jumped. Swinging to the right, his eyes widened as he saw a door slowly being forced open.

“Shit, company,” he whispered, drawing his blaster, “Stay behind me, guys, I…”

What remained of the door was torn open.

“Shit! Contact!” somebody screamed.

“Hold it! It’s human! It’s just Lars!”

Lars raised an eyebrow as Jenny, Stevonnie and Lapis stepped out of the gloom.

“What do you mean, it’s just Lars?” he demanded, “I could take you guys!”

“Sure, whatever,” said Jenny flatly, “What’re you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for salvage,” replied Lars, “Never know what you might need. You?”

“Same,” replied Stevonnie.

They smiled.

“It’s good to see you again, Lars.”

“I… yeah, sure,” nodded Lars, “You too. So, did you find anything?”

Behind the trio, Amethyst, Peridot and the Home Guards emerged through the door. Amethyst looked up, shooting a skeptical look towards the giant orb.

“Nope,” replied Lapis, “Just a big hallway.”

“Captain.”

All eyes fell on Jasper.

“The dent in the door,” she said, “It’s new. Someone got here before us.”

“What?” demanded Lars, “I… how new?!”

“Captain!”

Padparadscha spoke up, her voice underlined with panic.

“What is it, Paddy?” asked Stevonnie.

“I’ve had a terrible prediction!” exclaimed Padparadscha, “We cannot go aboard this ship!”

“Uh… and why would that be?” asked Lars nervously. He noted his throat seemed to be somewhat dry.

“Because it’s not a Pink Diamond ship,” said Padparadscha, “It’s not a ship at all. It’s a trap.”

Zircon looked up from her seat on the bridge - her book was pretty interesting (she’d probably never own a ‘Camaro’, but it was a nice read) but she felt the need to check on the derelict every now and then. Just in case something happened.

Her jaw dropped.

The pink hull of the ship was changing colour; the paint seemed to bleach, getting brighter and brighter, until suddenly Zircon was staring at a great white pyramid.

...a great white pyramid.

Frantically, she reached for the communicator on her console.

“Captain Amethyst! You have to get out of there, now!”

There was a sudden crash above them, as if something were moving in a vent.

They had little time to consider this, however, as the orb suddenly lit up and bright light poured into the room. With a quick flicker of illusionary light as it poured into the surrounding walls, the room in which they stood seemed to coalesce into a blind plane, now little more than a large, grey chamber, the walls and floors almost totally featureless.

“It’s showing us something,” whispered Peridot.

“Yeah, no kiddin’, ‘Dot,” said Amethyst.

Lapis turned to Stevonnie, only to find them staring up, their face a deathly pale. Slowly, she followed their gaze up - the moment she saw it, she felt her proverbial stomach drop straight through the floor.

“Hello, Starlight.”

White Diamond towered above them, her arms outstretched, her face set into an easy smile. Lapis couldn’t help but shudder - she’d seen her in a dream, many, many years ago, but to see her in person… it was like inhaling poison instead of steady atmosphere, a raw, cataclysmic sense of bone-chilling terror clamped down hard on the column of her throat. It was a noose pulled taut, and she was standing on the edge, prepared to fall forward.

“Are you enjoying our little game?” asked White Diamond, “I hear you’re having so much fun. Oh, and I’ve heard about your little… shall we say association with the Lapis Lazuli?”

Lapis felt her cheeks burn.

“Completely out of line, of course, we’ll have to fix that at some point,” White continued, “Oh, and all the heartbreak you’ve caused Blue and Yellow - they still think you were shattered!”

“What do you want?”

Stevonnie’s voice was uncharacteristically harsh.

“From you? Nothing,” replied White, “I was hoping to gather some of your little scavengers and pirates - getting you is just a nice bonus. And in any case, fighting a diamond will be an excellent shakedown for my new weapon.”

“New weapon?” demanded Amethyst, “What, another of your corpse drones?!”

White didn’t even seem to have heard her, instead keeping her focus on Stevonnie.

“Now, Starlight, I’d like you to give a warm welcome to Chrysalis.”

There was a reverberating clang, the shrill cry of metal on metal, and a vent subsequently tumbled down from the roof. A figure immediately leapt down, landing with a hollow clank on the hard floor.

The figure’s metal body was luminous beneath the harsh white light. It was short and humanoid - it had two legs; white thighs and feet and black shins. A yellow diamond was emblazoned on it’s white-painted chest, contrasted against a black torso. It had two arms, resembling limb enhancers; these too were black and white, black on top and white at the bottom, but the left arm, just below the shoulder, was broken by what appeared to be pale human flesh. A pair of black poles, almost like antenna, emerged from light blonde hair.

It lifted it’s head, and Lapis saw its face. Glowing eyes shone behind a yellow tinted visor, the only hint of artificiality to what was otherwise an entirely human face. She heard Stevonnie and Jenny gasp.

“Oh no,” whispered Stevonnie.

“What did you do to her?” demanded Jenny.

Lars stepped forward, visibly shaking. All of the bravado he affected in his captain’s persona had faded - he looked deeply vulnerable. Quietly, with a croaking voice, he finally spoke up.

“S… Suh… Sadie?”

Sadie narrowed her eyes.

“There is no Sadie,” she replied, her voice underlined by a mechanical reverb, “I am Project Chrysalis.”

#steven universe #marooned together #stevonnie #lapis lazuli #amethyst #peridot #bismuth #jeff #peedee fryman #lars barriga #rutile twins #padparadscha #jasper #blue zircon #jeffdee #amedot #lapvonnie

16 notes · View notes

vagrantblvrd · 5 years

Text

As Far As You and Me (1/1)

Summary: There really should be some kind of orientation for new crew members when they make the cut. A pamphlet, maybe, just a little something something about what to do when shit goes wrong and all the crew’s meticulous plans fall apart.

Notes: For @miss-ingno who asked for this bit inspired by the G.T.Aliens video: Ryan: Why do people run away from me screaming!? - Michael: Oh, I dunno, might be the reputation. *gestures at his face to indicate the skull facepaint, deadpan*

(Read on AO3)

There really should be some kind of orientation for new crew members when they make the cut. A pamphlet, maybe, just a little something something about what to do when shit goes wrong and all the crew’s meticulous plans fall apart.

God knows it would have been nice to have a head’s up about that kind of shit when Geoff conned him into signing up. Given him a better idea of what to expect and all, considering he’s never known shit to go so spectacularly wrong the way it tends to for the Fake AH Crew

Just saying.

Another brilliant heist of theirs going sideways on them in the escape stage of things. Gavin and the others going one way while Michael and Ryan crawled into the bones of an old apartment building gutted by a fire a few months back.

“So,” Michael says, ducking back into cover as a spray of bullets comes his way to pepper the wall inches above his head. “This isn’t great.”

Fucking Merryweather.

Better shots than the usual crop of security guards, and meaner too. More likely to play with their food, drag things out for shits and giggles.

The Merryweather goons split Michael and Ryan up soon after they’d made their way into the building, forcing Michael up a few floors, nipping at his heels the whole way.

He’s managed to pick a few of them off but there are still a lot of the fuckers left, and they’re all wearying serious body armor. Not ideal when he’s down to a handgun and a few knives. A shotgun better used as a club with no ammo for it.

Grenades would be fantastic, but he used his last one as the distraction that let them get away from the first batch of Merryweather goons.

There’s a thoughtful little hum over the comms, muffled sound of gunfire and screaming. The usual sort of mayhem that seems to happen wherever Ryan goes.

“I dunno,” Ryan says, just as one of those terrified screams suddenly cuts off. “It’s not so bad.”

Michael squeezes between an overturned shelving unit and the wall as the Merryweather goons spread out to search the room for him. Eases past one struggling with inner demons or whatever the fuck because he is kicking the shit out of an access panel along the wall like he thinks anything remotely human-sized could fit through it. (Well, Jeremy maybe.)

A few harrowing moments later and he’s put of the room and creeping along a dark hallway, doing his best not to let his footsteps give him away.

“Yeah, but you’re a psychopath,” Michael mutters, little bit of hope filtering through the gloom and doom of his situation because there’s less screaming on Ryan’s end. “You love this shit.”

Ryan chuckles because he likes it when they point out he’s a fucking freak, not exactly bloodthirsty the way the rumors make him out to be, just...very, very Ryan.

“You need a hand?” he asks, like he’s not working his way towards Michael’s position as they speak, dealing with whatever – whoever – has the bad luck to cross his path with ruthless efficiency.

Michael snorts, cocking his head when he hears a door creak open somewhere down the hall behind him, catches sound of voices.

“Nah,” he says, smirking a little.”I’m good.”

Merryweather is known for hiring vicious fuckers, lean and mean, and while they’re better than most rent-a-cops, they’re still real dumb. Love their guns a little too much, go for the brute force method every goddamned time.

Easy to run rings around if you’re smart and can keep a level head in a shitty position like theirs, and predictable as hell.

Michael spots a stairwell ahead of him, security door in sad shape from the fire that gutted this building a few months back. Slips from the shadows he’s using as cover through the gap there and checks to make sure none of the goons have gotten clever, are waiting for him before he starts down them.

“I’m good.”

Ryan doesn’t answer, but Michael’s betting he’s more focused on whatever he’s doing – it seems to involve Ryan shooting people, more of those choked off yells and bodies hitting the floor.

Michael rolls his eyes and stops when fallen debris blocks his way and backtracks to the landing above him. Checks to make sure it’s clear before he opens the door, and winces as the fucking thing shrieks.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, because there’s nowhere else for him to go.

The goons have to realize he’s gone back down by now, and the stairwell below him is blocked, so.

Michael psyches himself up and yanks the door open, tortured metal screaming, and throws himself through the doorway, leading with his handgun. Quickly scans the hallway for enemies before darting down the hallway to slip through an open doorway, and presses up against the wall inside, heart pounding.

“Michael?”

Michael swears at Ryan’s voice in his ear after that display of bad times all around for his heart and breathes out, long and slow. Moves his gun to his left hand to shake out his right and back again.

“Ryan?” he mimics, grins at the long-suffering sigh it causes as he pushes off from the wall to examine the room he’s in.

Probably used to be a cute little apartment before the fire, and further investigation shows a window connected to a – mostly – intact fire escape. Damaged in the fire or shitty maintenance, who knows.

Possible way out, although he’s going to need a Tetanus shot when it’s over.

“What’s your situation?”

Michael moves back from the window, listening for trouble as he fills Ryan in on the latest with him. Gets a quick picture of Ryan’s own thrilling adventures to this point.

He’s on the floor below Michael and looking at an equally dodgy escape route.

Not the greatest options, but a hell of a lot better than playing cat and mouse with a bunch of Merryweather bastards.

Odds are good someone’s noticed all the gunshots by now, and the cops will show up eventually. (Not too soon though, because this isn’t a great part of Los Santos, but definitely before any news crews think any possible risk outweighs the potential gains for them.

There’s thoughtful silence when Ryan stops talking, Michael circling back the window and the world’s shittiest fire escape.

“Meet you downstairs?” he asks, already moving because he knows Ryan.

“Okay,” Ryan says, unnervingly cheerfully.

Michael snorts, and climbs out the window to make his way down the fire escape. Heart in his throat as it groans and shudders under his weight. Freezes when the whole damn thing shifts when he hops from one end of the broken section to the next. Half expects the whole thing coming away from the building and taking him down with it with perfect clarity until it finally settles.

Eventually his feet hit the ground, cracked concrete and scraggly weeds. Bits of trash and debris scattered about.

“I’m outside,” Michael says, straightening from his crouch as he double-times it away from the building.

Angles for street he can see at the end of the alley, cars and other traffic passing with the kind of frequency that indicates a busy street and better chance of losing the Merryweather goons. Remembers to tuck his gun out of sight before he hits the sidewalk and pauses to orient himself.

No signs of Merryweather goons yet, and he wants to keep it that way, keep moving until he’s sure they’ve lost them.

“Ditto,” Ryan says, and Michael breathes a little easier when he gets a faint stereo effect through the comms, glances to the side to see Ryan coming out of a nearby alley, head turned in his direction.

Michael watches him start his way, takes in the people instinctively shifting aside to make room for him before they realize he’s not just another pedestrian. Finally fucking noticing the bogeyman in their midst who remembered to take his stupid mask off and forgotten about the face paint under it everyone in the city knows.

The screaming starts up just after Ryan falls into step with Michael, both of them on the lookout for a car they can borrow to get the fuck out of here.

It’s all high-pitched and honestly kind of overkill considering the fact Ryan isn’t giving any of them the time of day, focused on getting the hell away.

“Oh, look at that,” Michael says flashing him a little grin. “Your adoring public.”

Ryan sighs, stepping aside as some guy in a shitty suit pelts by yelling about his begonias needing him and something about being too young to die? Something like that, anyway.

“Why do people run away from me screaming!?” he asks, like he honestly has no idea why anyone would be scared of a guy his size running around with a skull painted on his face and blood spatter on his person even if they didn’t know who he is.

“Oh, I dunno, might be the reputation?” Michael muses, gesturing at the damn face paint that isn’t quite in pristine condition at the moment.

The lines of the skull are smeared, blood and dust and God knows what caking it, and the rest of Ryan’s in shitty shape as well. Slight limp he’s trying to hide and this tightness to his words despite the light tone he’s going for.

Ryan snorts, sliding Michael a sidelong glance as they move to an intersection crossing a few streets away to wait for the light. There’s a small group of panicked pedestrians with them who aren’t quite rebellious enough to flee from the presence of the goddamned Vagabond to risk jaywalking.

“Rude,” Ryan says, bumping his shoulder against Michael’s as the crosswalk sign changes and the crowd rolls forward.\

Michael drops behind him a half step, just enough for his elbow to – accidentally, of course – make contact with Ryan’s ribs, pull a grunt from him along with an annoyed look.

“Sorry,” Michael apologizes, not meaning it one goddamn bit. “You know what a clumsy bastard I can be.”

Ryan actually stops, turns to scowl down at him ignore the terrified bleating of people streaming past them.

“Michael.”

Michael grins up at him.

“Ryan.”

Their little stare down goes on for a few moments, long enough for the lights to turn and for impatient drivers to start honking their horns in the split-second immediately afterwards.

Ryan growls, and Michael laughs as he wraps a hand around his arm to get him moving again.

Probably real fucking stupid of them to be this dumb so close to the Merryweather goons, but no one ever said they were bright.

Ryan shakes Michael's hand off after few feet, but he sticks close until they finally find a car worth stealing, soft curl to his mouth as he gestures for Michael to do the honors. Laughs like a goddamned idiot when they pull into traffic and pass a couple of Merryweather vans cruising past them in the opposite direction looking for them in all the wrong places, police sirens in the distance.

Michael cuts a glance at Ryan as they pass a slow-moving bus.

Feels his own lips pull up into a grin at the look on Ryan’s face, the sound of his laughter as he leans back in his seat, wind through his open window playing the hair that’s come loose from the ponytail he has it in. Trusting Michael to get them home safely.

Bright and open and so fucking delighted at puling off yet another daring escape to ride off into the sunset once again and trusting Michael to get them home safely, because yeah.

This is the kind of thing they should warn the newbies about.

Give them a head’s up, let them know what they’re in for, because goddamn is it a beautiful thing.

#myan #ragehappy #miss-ingno #Prompt Fills #Kings of Nowhere #vagrant fic

27 notes · View notes

salansar · 6 years

Text

To preface this I started writing this last night between exhaustion fueled hallucinations and putting my toddler back to bed.

____________________________

Slipping back into reality the voices begin to fade. Their words disappear almost instantly, but the intent remains. What was it they said? What was my subconscious trying to make me recognize?

That thought too faded as I look around in the grey twilight that is my home. The fog of almost sleep begins to clear from my mind as I notice a face peering around the entry to my kitchen. When I tried to focus on it my new friend faded from view. I pondered the idea that maybe it wasn’t an exhaustion fueled hallucination, but the fact that something was actually lurking in my kitchen. If I were less tired I would gladly have let my imagination run wild with that and lead me to into the land of crushing, irrational fear. To my luck though, I was entirely too tired to care.

The reason for my re-awakening looked at me from her spot on the couch. My little girl rubbed her eyes which made her golden brown curls bounce around her head. She was having a night where I couldn’t get her to sleep for more than an hour at a time without waking up. So to make it easier on everyone in my household I took her into the living room and let her sleep on the couch while I dozed in my arm chair. She looked around the gloom in much the same way I did before focusing on me, “Morning Dada.”

I let out a sigh, “Honey, it isn’t morning yet. I need you to go back to sleep.” She blinked at me a couple times before lifting up her sippy cup and asking, “Dada, juice please?”

How am I to argue with good manners? I got to my feet and walk into the kitchen. No one was waiting for me, sweet. I opened the fridge and pull out the apple juice and water and filled her cup. When I came back into the living room she is looking into the front entryway. I followed her line of site and for just a moment I catch something out of the corner of my vision. When I look at the shape directly I see nothing but the reflection of the cat’s eyes peering back at me. Whatever, as long as he wasn’t attacking my feet while I walked we are fine.

I perch on the edge of the couch next to her and give her the cup. “Techu (thank you) Dada.” She says in a sleepy little voice and starts to lay down, but poped back up and points to the entryway. “Oh no Dada, Mon’ter has Shoofus!” I immediatelylooked back to see the cat, “Toothless”, had moved up to the edge of the carpet in the living room and was staring at us. I didn’t see anything out of place, but he obviously was focused on us. A little tickle of fear crawled up my spine and I did my best to quash it before it could take hold. It wasn’t too difficult to rationalize it, after all, my daughter and I chased “monsters” all the time when she played pretend. The fact that she talks about them at random times, and will often look around as if she is watching them moving was purely her imagination. Yeah, that makes sense. Just to be on the safe side I slid a little farther onto the couch and stretched out between her and the cat.

“It’s ok Honey, Toothless is fine.” I reassured her and myself. “Now lay down and go back to sleep.”

She yawned sleepily and finally lays back down. While she drank from her cup and slowly faded back off into dream land I watched the cat intently. He never blinks, or moves from his position while I look back. The fear had faded and the fog of sleepiness begins to coat my mind again. I don’t exactly remember when I fell back asleep but when I did the voices came back with a vengeance. I can’t recall what they were saying but the message was clearer this time. My brain screamed for me to wake up. When my body finally obliged me I was looking up at it.

The formless mass of shadow stretched to something near eight feet tall and had two lidless, milky-white, eyes looking over me at my daughter. One limb was stretched over my chest and had almost reached my daughters face. Any fear thatmay have tried to blossom was burned away by a white hot rage. I reacted with primal instinct, wanting to inflict the most pain I possibly could by biting down into the limb. That is what I wanted, but my body refused to respond to any command I gave it. I couldn’t even scream.

At this realization I also noticed that the thing was no longer focused on my daughter, but on me. The thing moved its limb to my head and as it grew closer I felt a pressure begin to build on the sensitive tissue of my sinuses and my eyes. I felt my consciousness start to fade, but as it did I remembered something. When I was younger I had dreams like this all the time, except in the dreams I couldn’t actually see what was pushing down on me. It was terrifying, but I remembered how I got rid of it before.

I focused all my rage, newly budding fear, and will to protect my little girl into a single purpose. I forced my lungs and mouth to speak, “Let… me… go.” It came out as barely a whisper, each word requiring a breath of its own. Even with those tiny syllables I felt the weight begin to lift from my body.

“Let me go!” I said again, in one breath at around my speaking voice level. I put an arm over my daughter and began forcing myself to sit up. The thing let out an audible hissing noise and began to recoil from me.

“LET ME GO NOW!” I roared out at the top of my lungs, in my ears it didn’t even sound like my voice at all. I made it to my feet and reached out for the thing that was now moving across the room. I grabbed hold of what felt like Jell-O, but more solid to hold, yet fluid to the touch. I rode the thing to the ground and began tearing at it with hands, and teeth. It struggled under me but I refused to let up. I ripped and gouged and bit at the thing until it stopped hissing and seemed to melt away.

On the floor next to the couch behind me I heard something stir. I snapped my head around to see what was there but all I saw was the cat pick its head up and look around bewildered. He sat there for a moment before doing what he is known for, flicking his ears back, freaking out about nothing, and rushing under my chair to hide.

A moment later my wife and sister come out of their respective bedrooms and ask what happened. My daughter sees them and says, “Morning Mama! Morning Rebel!” With all the energy I previously had leaving my body I stand up shakily and tell them, “It was the wind. You guys are on baby duty now.” I stagger back to my bedroom and climb into bed. I reached the peaceful oblivion of sleep before my head ever hit the pillow.

#dark fiction #fiction #monster #nightmare #i need sleep

24 notes · View notes

kuso-otaku · 6 years

Link

Aizawa Week, Day One: Rest

Title: Long Night

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa|Eraserhead/Original Female Character

Rating: Teen And Up Audience

Word count: 2680

Categories: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Guilt, Insomnia, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sleepy Cuddles, School Trip Arc Spoilers (My Hero Academia), Season 3 Spoilers (My Hero Academia), Aizawa Week

Summary: Guilt consumes Aizawa Shouta and renders his nights sleepless.

Excerpt: Whenever he was hurt or despaired, Shouta's first impulse was, to Shia’s frustration, to push everybody away. To push her away. It was gently done and with the utmost consideration for her feelings, still, his closed-off demeanor and his complete silence sent a message clear as day.

Read it on Ao3

Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7

Shia tried as best she could to get Shouta to forget the world around him and just have some joy as nourishment for his starved soul, so it would support him in the next day’s ordeal. Shouta's eyes were on her phone's screen supposedly watching the cat video she had playing for him, but the faraway look on his face told a different story. Despite Shouta's seemingly blunt nature, he was always kind and tried his best, in his own way, to make sure people around him were comfortable.

His eyes were on the screen, but the warm smile that softened his features whenever he watched cat videos or saw cats, in general, was not there. The soft man was watching out of pure politeness and kindness. Shia's heart gave a pained squeeze. The sole purpose of playing the video was to get his mind off of things, and he ended up being considerate of her when he clearly was the one who needed support just then. The kindest thing to do for him was to relieve him of pretending, Shia resigned, putting her phone on the bed next to her.

Perhaps it was insensitive of her to try to lighten the mood at a time like that. When students had been attacked, twenty-six injured, and one kidnapped, the latter's whereabouts unknown to the world. When Shouta was dealing with the crushing guilt of "letting", his words not hers, that happen. When Shouta had a press conference with media vultures the next day. It was her desperate attempt at cheering him up. Maybe it was all just selfish of her as if his pain was making her uncomfortable. As if it was all about her.

Seeing the blank look on his face, Shia’s heart gave another squeeze. She longed to mend his broken heart, his wounded soul. But, how?

Accepting that her hands were empty and that the only thing she could do for him was to be there by his side was a hard pill to swallow. In her low days, when she would hold Shouta for safety and comfort, just having him there was all she needed even if he couldn’t provide her with all the answers. However, being the one sought for safety and comfort, holding him to her heart was never enough. Helplessness weighed her soul down. It consumed her, ate away at her. What she was feeling must have been but a fraction of what Shouta was suffering with one of his students missing.

Whenever he was hurt or despaired, Shouta's first impulse was, to Shia’s frustration, to push everybody away. To push her away. It was gently done and with the utmost consideration for her feelings, still, his closed-off demeanor and his complete silence sent a message clear as day.

However, if she stood her ground, unwavering, and pushed a little bit more, just a little bit past his continued rejections, if she relentlessly chipped away at the walls he trapped himself in, at the right time and with the right means, she could finally slip in.

Once inside his walls, inside his emotional bubble, all his defenses would crumble, and he would melt into her. All former composer thrown out of the window and forgotten. There, he would spend the long, dark night holding her tight as if he was holding on for dear life. Seeking shelter in her arms from the terrors of the long night. As though he were too afraid to let go lest he’d slip down to the bottom of his guilt pit.

Only then did she see him cry. Hot tears, left hot trails on his cheeks as they dripped on her chest, his shoulders shaking. Shia's fingers would wipe them away, messing the neat trails his tears made on his cheeks. No matter how many times she wiped them away, more would always come. Holding him just as tightly, Shia would fight back her own tears, as a gaping hole would open in her heart.

This was by no means a regular occurrence; Shouta was a stubborn individual who never sought help. With all the recent events, however, it had become a tad bit more frequent than before. The horrors that had befallen this year’s first-year students, his students, had filled him with fear and guilt to the brim.

He would always act a bit awkwardly the day after, probably feeling ashamed that a mighty, pro hero such as himself crumbled under the weight of pressure and fear like that. He probably thought it was embarrassing, pathetic even. But, dammit hero or no, Shouta was a human first. Heroes don’t get to quit their humanity when they get their licenses, and they were more than entitled, much like anyone else, to feeling weak, afraid, or helpless.

Shouta's arms tightened, he had shifted to wrap his arms around her, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. From where she lay on the bed her head propped up a bit on one of the pillows with Shouta’s right cheek resting on her left shoulder, she couldn’t see his eyes scrunch up against her neck. Thoughts of doom and gloom must have teasingly danced around in his mind. Shia wished scrunching up his eyes would banish all the ugly thoughts away, or some of them at the very least, but from her experience, that did little.

"Shou-chan,” She whispered.

“Everything is gonna be alright," Shia reassured.

"They probably kidnapped him because they thought they could recruit him. They wouldn't hurt him; they want him to turn into a villain to get back at the heroes. They'll soon know how sorely mistaken they were. That kid is tough."

Trying to inject some humor in her voice, she continued, "They must be dealing with a very pissed off Bakugou right now, and I kinda feel like I should be sorry for them." Her jest fell flat with not even a snort in response.

She deserved that. She bit the inside of her cheek.

Too soon. It was too soon.

Shia fell silent.

The room was dark other than a sliver of moonlight that shyly peeked through the space between the curtains. Illuminating a neat line of silvery light across the room as it climbed its way to reach the top of the dresser opposite the bed.

Shouta was a quiet man. Most of the time, he didn't feel the need to fill the silence with words. Sometimes, when it was a full moon, he enjoyed spending time in bed with the curtains fully drawn so the moonlight spilled in to fill the entire room with its brilliant, glittery light. Soon, Shia started accompanying him. Staying there snuggled up against each other in silence, they would take in the sight of the full moon in all its glory. On those nights, uttering words was almost irreverent in the presence of the magnificent moon.

Although Tokyo didn't allow them the pleasure of gazing at a sky littered with sparkly speckles, the moon in its mystic full bloom was more than enough. There, they would fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms. Sure, it was horrible waking up to the sun rays bursting through the windows, but Shouta's insomnia usually solved that problem. Whenever it woke him, he’d shut the curtains and make himself a cup of tea, and, if he was lucky, go back to sleep.

If only I could get him to sleep right now.

It was late, very late and Shouta had already been too strung up the previous night to get any sleep. Just then, Shia wished she had Nemuri’s quirk, she would have used it on him if it meant he'd get some freaking rest. Her fingers brushed the long, black locks of her lover’s hair back then left them to tumble back to their rightful place on his forehead.

Once, he told her that he had shared his first apartment with Hizashi during their first year of being pros. It was the worst year for Shouta's insomnia. Whenever it got especially bad, he would drag his blanket to Hizashi's room, gently nudging him, so he'd make room for him on the bed. On those nights, he would sleep to the sound of Hizashi's sleepy voice singing or humming the tune to a song Shouta didn't know.

A hum filled the room, shy at first but steady. In her arms, Shouta shifted to give her more room. The meaning of the gentle pull he gave her was clear. Obliging, Shia shifted to lay down next to him on her left side. He shuffled back to nestle himself in her embrace. The humming resumed.

"You remembered," He softly murmured, his breath tickling her throat. "Hizashi did that for me, in our first year. Back then, we thought we were big shots, but in truth, we didn't know anything. Not that fifteen years of doing this have made any difference. I'm still the same stupid boy from back then."

That wasn't exactly wrong, people grow up and they look like they should have their shit together, but deep inside they're terrified little kids playing at being adults, and as the years pass, they only get better at acting like they’re adults.

"I would have loved to have seen you back then. I wonder what little Shouta looked like." Shia smiled, though he couldn't see it.

"Mostly the same, but with shorter hair."

"You've never shown me any of your old pictures. I bet Hizashi has some good ones of you." Her smile extended into a grin.

He let out a helpless groan, and Shia just laughed.

The hum filled the room again as her hand went up to caress his head.

Soon, Shouta's chest rose and fell in a deep, rhythmic pattern and Shia's heart was finally set at ease that he was finally getting the rest he deserved.

---------

Shia gingerly disentangled herself from Shouta, slipped on her house slippers and tiptoed her way to the bathroom, gently closing the door behind her and releasing the door handle slowly, so its click won’t disturb Shouta's sleep. A warm shower was what she needed to start a day bound to be a long one.

Her shower didn’t take long. Quietly, Shia padded out of the bathroom in the direction of the closet to get dressed. A big portion of her closet was occupied by black T-shirts, pairs of black pants, and pink cat-ear hoodies, all identical. It was a convenient way of always having a fresh, clean costume without having to do laundry after a long day of hero work and teaching. Shia put on her pants, a T-shirt, and socks, not bothering with the hoodie just yet and headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Despite Shouta deserving a breakfast in bed, the chance of him eating something before the conference were higher if she told him about it after he had fully woken up. Thus, she placed the food on the breakfast table and went to wake him up.

As soon as Shouta’s shoulder was shaken, he was awake. His deep, rhythmic breathing ceasing for a moment, before it resumed, and his eyes blinked open.

“Shou-chan, it’s time.” She murmured.

He clearly knew that, judging by how the corners of his mouth had drooped a little before she said her sentence. Nonetheless, Shouta got up, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, running his hand in his disheveled hair. Then, he stood up and went to the bathroom.

The sound of the shower’s rushing water reached her ears as Shia used the dresser’s mirror to style her bangs that covered her right eye up in her usual hero-hairstyle. From the top right drawer of the said dresser, Shia grabbed her cat-eye eyepatch and tied it at the back of her head. An influx of people’s emotions rushing through her head, and the accompanying migraines caused by her secondary quirk were the last things she needed on that day. Lastly, she grabbed one of her many Cheshire cat grin masks from the same drawer and tucked it in her pocket.

Although Shouta’s hair was long, he didn’t take much time in the shower. The sound of the water had stopped, replaced by the hum of the hair dryer. It was a surprise that he actually used the thing as he shared her passionate dislike for the device. That too didn’t last long, and he was soon out of the bathroom, letting his still damp locks tumble on his forehead and shoulders.

The look on Shouta’s face as he came out from the bathroom was different from the one he wore as he entered. It was of one who was ready to face the day with his head held high. Pro hero Eraserhead was back, his posture seemed to say. He walked over to where she stood in front of the dresser to grab a T-shirt from the middle left drawer. The small smile she greeted him with, wasn’t returned, but he returned the gesture with a pat on her shoulder.

“Breakfast is ready,” Shia called over her shoulder, and she returned to the kitchen.

Shouta followed her, and a sigh she didn’t know she was holding escaped her lips. It was a small victory, a positive sign. Their breakfast wasn’t grand, and they ate it in silence. Shouta finished first and placed his dishes in the sink. Mumbling a ‘thank you’ as he returned to the bedroom to get ready.

As much as Shia hated doing the dishes, it was a good way to preoccupy herself. While doing it, she focused on channeling energy to him in a slow trickle; as she couldn't have him finding out what she was doing otherwise he would’ve refused it completely. Controlling the flow of the energy and making sure it found him was a bit tricky due to the distance that separated the bedroom and the kitchen, but she’d gotten a lot of practice doing that.

By the time Shia was done with the dishes, feeding the cats, and putting on her hoodie, Shouta stepped out of the bedroom. At another time, Shia might've winked at him savoring the sight of him in a black suit his hair neatly slicked back, but not this time.

"Thought you hated brushing your hair back. Made you look like... a pompous jerk I believe you said." Shia feigned trying to remember, her index finger tapping her chin, while she pretended to think. As she uttered the last part of her sentence, a small smirk played on her lips.

Shouta exaggerated rolling his eyes, sighing as his hand went up undoubtedly to run through his hair, but dropped down at the remembrance that he had just styled it.

"Well, apparently the pompous jerk look is preferred by society to the haggard hobo one."

Shia snorted. Reaching up to touch his newly shaved cheeks.

“I like your so-called 'haggard hobo' look." She replied fondly.

The light pressure on her lips was more than what she could have asked for at that moment, and she gently leaned on his chest to deepen the kiss.

Shouta broke the kiss first, his eyes darting to the side not meeting hers, a pale shade of pink dusting his smooth cheeks.

“I…Thanks…er…for last night. For everything.” He mumbled, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Shia’s heart clenched. To flee the expectation of responding to that, Shia simply hooked her finger behind one of his suit’s buttons pulling her lover to her. She’d missed kissing him, but that kiss was solely to hide the tears that built up in her eyes, and she only broke the kiss when it was safe for her to do so.

“Good luck.” Meeting his eyes, she smiled. “You don’t need it, but still.”

Shouta returned her smile with a small one of his own. “Thanks.”

With that, they were out of the door with Shouta being as ready as he could ever be to face the censure of the world.

#aizawa week #aizawa shouta #eraserhead #bnha #mha #bnha original character #bnha fic #kuso fics #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #long night #bnha oc #shia #shita #aizawa week 2018

9 notes · View notes

freedom-shamrock · 6 years

Text

All I Want for Solstice is You

Happy solstice to all and to all some tasty wassail. also on AO3

Adrien smiled, warmed by the energy of the holiday market wrapping around him. He caught a whiff of cinnamon as he passed one stall, and he closed his eyes, thinking of cider and Mari's apple tarts. The squeals of children caught his ears, still sensitive though he no longer donned a magical suit to protect the city on a regular basis.

He adjusted his course to head for the ice rink. He leaned on the boards and looked around. He saw Marinette on the other side of the rink, hunched over, her fluffy pink mittens fully enveloping the tiny hands of the stocky little boy she was helping glide across the scuffed sheet of ice. Ivan's son looked so much like their long-time friend, though he was clearly quicker to smile. A toothy grin was plastered over his face as his little legs frantically shuffled in an ineffective effort to go faster.

"Adrien," a deep voice said, just as a hand came down on his shoulder. "We didn't think you were going to make it."

Though he'd topped out at six two, Adrien had to look up to meet Ivan's gray eyes. "Sorry I'm late," he apologized. "The board was being pig-headed and stupid." He'd actually had to haul out a slideshow to push the point.

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Ugh. Stuffy businessmen. Don't know how you stand working with them."

Adrien shrugged. "Fortunately it's only a quarterly pain in the ass, and then I can go back to ignoring the company again." When his father had been sentenced to prison for his side gig as a magical terrorist, Adrien found himself saddled with company he had no interest in. Much of his father's financial wealth went into a fund for restitution to those who had suffered at the hands Hawk Moth's akuma. Going from supermodel to son of a super villain had been quite the trip, and Adrien was keen to distance himself from his emotionally cold father. At Alya and Nino's suggestion, he'd embraced his role as Gabriel's primary stockholder, forcing the company to change its name to Agreste and donate heavily to emergency and mental health services in Paris.

"I'm surprised you're not on the ice," Adrien said.

Ivan let out a little huff. "Mylène doesn't let me do open skates anymore."

Adrien raised one eyebrow, sensing a story.

Ivan shrugged. "I sometimes forget I'm not playing hockey, and I terrify people."

"Ivan, do you go knocking down grandmothers and children?" Adrien demanded, grinning.

"Hardly," Ivan said. "I have much better control of myself on ice than that. I just look like I'm going to mow them over when I cruise by at my usual speed."

"Hello beautiful," Marinette called as she approached their side of the rink. Her cheeks were pink with cold and her whole being radiated with happiness.

"You stole my line," Adrien protested, pouting a little. "You always steal my line."

Marinette shrugged, entirely unrepentant. "Can't fault me for speaking the truth." She looked at Ivan. "Michel's getting pretty tired. We were thinking it might be time for cocoa."

The little boy giggled, stomping his skates on the ice.

Adrien grinned down at him. "Do you like cocoa, too Michel?" He reached out and lightly ruffled the hat, clearly a Marinette creation, on his head.

Michel nodded. "She said we can have marshmallooooos."

Marinette glanced at Ivan. "Mylène went to take off her skates so she'd be ready to help us. You guys stay right there, and we'll grab you before we head over to the vendor."

Adrien leaned over the barrier to press his warm lips to her cool cheek. "Sounds purrfect, mi'love." He and Ivan watched for a moment as Marinette pushed off the ice, taking the little boy toward the exit.

"Michel is going through a really shy phase," Ivan noted idly. "But I swear you and Mari have kid magic. He's happy being alone with her, and he talked to you." He shook his head. "That's impressive, dude."

Unsure what to say, Adrien just shrugged. Marinette was the lucky one. And while he'd spent time with kids as Chat Noir doing holiday and fundraiser things, he had no real experience caring for them.

"When are you guys thinking of having your own?" Ivan asked.

"Our own?" Adrien asked, confused. As realization hit him, he felt like snow had been dumped down the back of his coat, and a heavy dread settled into his stomach. Him and Mari have kids? Was that the expectation? Did she want that? They'd never discussed it, and he had a sudden fear that this was something important to her. He had no idea how to be a father; his own had been an abusive asshole.

A huge hand gently patted his shoulder. "Adrien? Are you okay?"

Adrien shook his head. "Uh. Sorry. Uh."

Ivan's eyebrows bunched as he looked at his friend in concern. "You need to sit down or anything?" he asked. "You looked like you were having a panic attack or something."

"It was something, all right," Adrien agreed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the light rumble of Plagg purring in his shirt pocket, right over his heart. "I'll be okay. I just… maybe need a minute."

Ivan wrapped an arm around Adrien's shoulders. "Come on. We'll go find you a seat, and I'll text the ladies so they don't freak out."

Adrien pulled the strap of his small gym bag over his shoulder. "I'm going to hit the dojo a little early tonight," he said, offering the love of his life a small smile when she looked up from her sketchbook. She was so talented.

She held his eyes for a moment before setting aside her pencil and getting up. "Are you okay?" she asked, her face pinched with concern.

He quickly nodded, then looked away as he realized he should have played stupid or acted surprised. His fast response was a tell she'd figured out before they'd shared identities.

One of her hands came up to rest on his cheek. "Hey," she said softly. "Look at me, Kitty."

With a sigh, he met her eyes again. Why did his eyes feel so dry all of a sudden?

"It's okay if you're not all right, you know," she said. "And I'm here if you want to talk about it."

He nodded. "My head's kind of a mess right now."

Her thumb caressed his cheek. "I know this time of year is hard for you, but I thought it was going a little better this year."

"It has," he agreed. His memories of fun and joy at Christmas were so old and faded, like a photo left on display too long. The more recent string of holidays spent alone in his father's mansion had apparently conditioned him to avoid and resent the trimmings so pervasive in December. "I guess the… uh, awfulness kind of snuck up on me." It definitely didn't help that his revelation about their future and his current aversion to having children coincided with his usually gloomy season.

"Can I do anything for you?" She tilted her head in the way he found so adorable.

"Not yet." He needed to figure out how he felt before he could bring it up.

"Are you ready to tell me what's wrong?" Tom asked, settling himself across from Adrien, coffee and mini custard and fruit pavlova between them.

Adrien glanced up at the big man who'd been a steady source of support since Adrien first showed up at their house in the middle of the night. It had been months before discovering Hawkmoth's identity but only a few weeks after Ladybug let the cat out of the bag. He returned his gaze to his mug, wrapping his chilly fingers around it.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" Tom asked.

Adrien nodded. This was going to suck. Tom probably wanted grandkids. Why would he want his daughter saddled with a broken man terrified of having children? He heard the soft clink of Tom's mug on the table, then a groan of his chair as the big man got up. Adrien rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hands.

"I'm worried about you, son," Tom said gently, sitting down next to Adrien.

Adrien sucked in a sharp gasp. His own father didn't address him with such love or kindness.

"I don't think this is just your usual holiday glooms, is it?"

Adrien shook his head, his throat too tight to speak.

"Whatever it is, it's eating you up, Adrien." Tom's voice continued to be soft and concerned. "It's not healthy. We're all worried." His hand settled lightly on Adrien's head, but instead of touseling it with a tease, as he normally would, he offered a hesitant caress. "And whatever it is, we'll work through it, okay?"

Adrien nodded.

"Can you try to talk to me about it, then?" Tom suggested. "You've told me I'm a good listener."

Closing his eyes, Adrien focused on relaxing his throat. "I don't want Mari to hate me," he blurted. "Or you and Sabine."

There was a moment of surprised silence before Tom responded. "Have you done something that makes you think we'll feel this way?"

Adrien shook his head. "No, but…"

"But?" Tom encouraged.

"I don't want kids," Adrien finally forced out. "I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that." He shook his head. "I know I'm not my father, but… I don't know anything about raising kids. I'm terrified that I'd fuck it all up. That I'd hurt them." Instead of being chastised and ordered out of the house as he expected, he found himself wrapped in a warm hug.

"Oh, Adrien." Tom sighed. "None of us could hate you for feeling this way."

"B-but I want to be with Mari," he mumbled, pressing his face into Tom's blue sweater. "I've been thinking about p-proposing."

"And that would be lovely," Tom assured him, rubbing his back.

"But she probably wants kids," Adrien countered. "She's so good with them. And I can't promise her that."

Tom held him, his patience seemingly endless. Once Adrien's breathing was regular again, he asked, "Have you talked to her about this?"

Adrien straightened up and shook his head. "I'm a coward. I'm afraid that conversation will be the beginning of the end for us."

Tom let out a little laugh. "Chat Noir is no coward."

"What?" Adrien looked up startled and vaguely fearful.

"We've known for years, son." Shaking his head, Tom smiled. "Between the dumpster fire you call "father" and the conditions you put up with Chat Noir, it's clear you're not a coward. You're too hard on yourself." He patted Adrien's shoulder. "Talk to my daughter about this. She's a very understanding little bug." He winked before turning serious again. "How long has it been since you left therapy?"

Adrien shrugged. "Couple years." After the nightmares stopped and he was able to let go of the guilt by association that he felt, he'd figured he was done.

Tom rubbed his chin contemplatively. "Maybe it's time to revisit that."

"You think they'll be able to help me want to have kids?" Adrien asked, surprised, but willing to give it a try.

Tom shook his head. "No. That's only something that will change with time, if at all. I think this all just highlights that maybe you still have some healing to do."

"Oh." Adrien took a deep breath. "You're probably right."

Tom gestured to the mini pavlova, heaped with custard and Adrien's favorite fruit. "Now eat up. We have an hour before we head back to your place."

"You're coming too?" Adrien asked. These coffee visits with Marinette's father started shortly after he moved in with her family, and they'd kept them up through university and three apartments. Normally Adrien headed back home alone.

"Sabine's over there, scheming with my daughter, if I'm any judge," Tom said happily. "We're going to go out to dinner, so I may as well head back with you."

Later, as he and Tom approached the door, he was assailed by the scent of cloves and apples. "Mmmmm. I wonder if Mari's experimenting."

"Probably," Tom agreed.

Adrien opened the door to find the apartment lit with candles, evergreen swatches festooning the walls, and a clove and ribbon bedecked lemon hanging off center in the doorway.

"Happy solstice, Adrien!" Sabine said, rushing forward to give him a hug.

"Oh, hey dude, Tom," Nino called. "Blessed be." His greeting was accompanied by finger guns.

"Ah… what?"

"It's a solstice gathering," Tom said, clipping him on the shoulder.

Marinette appeared then and took his hand drawing him through the apartment and to their bedroom. In passing the balcony, he noticed that someone had put out a copper fire bowl and it currently held a log adorned with cranberries. Their bedroom was lit with candles, and it was quiet once the door was shut.

"Hi," Marinette said, sounding uncertain. "Is this okay?"

He stared at her for a moment. "I'm just a little confused."

She smiled sheepishly. "You've been so down, Kitty. We've all seen it. And we know we can't fix the past, but we all want to help." She shrugged. "I thought maybe if we made our own traditions, something completely new and different, it would be a good start." She reached up to run her fingers through his hair over his ear.

"I love you," he said, giving her a small smile. "You're amazing."

"So are you."

"Can I tell you what's been freaking me out?" he asked. Maybe this wasn't the right time, but her father was right. She deserved to know.

She nodded. "I'd like that."

He took a deep breath, comforted by the weight of Plagg suddenly settling in between his collar and his neck. "You're amazing with kids Mari. And… people have started to ask me when we're going to have our own." He watched her vibrant eyes go wide. "And… I'm not sure I'm ever going to be ready for kids. The very idea terrifies me." He swallowed. "And…" A finger lightly covered his lips.

"Can I interrupt for a teeny moment?" she asked. "If you have more to say, I want to hear it, but… I think I have something relevant to add here."

He nodded.

"I have thought about having a family with you," she admitted. "You're the only person I would consider that with. But it's… not a deal breaker. I'm fine with us not having kids. I'm fine with revisiting the topic someday if you want to. But really, all I want is you."

He pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her neck. "Thank you."

"Love you," she replied.

When they stepped back from each other, he could feel the difference in his smile. "Okay, so what's this solstice thing we have going on?"

She giggled. "It's just our family, the family we've chosen, having a nice candle-lit evening together. Mama and I made wassail and treats."

"And this is our new tradition?" he asked. It was a nice idea.

"I hope so."

"I like it."

She beamed at him. "I have one more thing I want to do before we go back out there." She walked over to her dresser and rummaged around for a moment. He heard a dull snap and then she came back to him with something closed in her hand. "I was going to do this in January, but…" She tilted her head from side to side. "I think now is better."

"I don't know what you're doing, but you're adorable." He kissed her on the nose.

"Do you really believe I love you?"

"Yes," he said with a chuckle. "Though sometimes I wonder why."

She beeped his nose lightly with her index finger. "Do you believe that you're really important to me, and that I can be happy with just you?"

He nodded. That was still too new and too tender for him to joke about.

"Can I prove it?" she asked, her eyes wide and hopeful. Without looking away she raised his right hand to kiss the ring he wore. She let go and took his left hand. "Adrien, will you marry me?" She gently placed a metal band on his palm. "Will you be my best friend and dearest love forever?"

He stared at her for a moment, completely stunned. Then he looked at the ring in his hand, silver with two small stones, blue and green, embedded side by side. "Wha… Really?"

"Really," she insisted, plucking the ring and holding it up.

Grinning so big his face hurt, he held out his hand, fingers splayed. "Yes. Very yes. All the yes."

She giggled while she pushed the ring on. "Now come on." She grabbed his hand. "I want to show everyone what I got for solstice."

#Miraculous Ladybug #fanfic #my writing #solstice #holiday #Adrienette

109 notes · View notes

setmeatopthepyre · 6 years

Note

19 drummerwolf

Prompt: “There’s so much blood”. Read it on AO3.

“YEAH! Lots of SHIT to smash to BITS!” Vogel cackled, throwing open the doors and jumping down. He caught the golfclub that came flying at him from somewhere inside the van and then twirled it around him, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce but waiting for the others to join him in a rare show of patience.

Gripps hummed in agreement while he and the rest of the Rowdy 3 piled out of the van. All four of the former Blackwing subjects were nearly fizzing with energy and their rainbow-haired Beast seemed energized just from being around them. The only one of them not itching to get out and smash things to bits was Amanda, though her little family’s enthusiasm made up for at least a bit of her fatigue. She’d had an attack that day. A bad one, and though her Rowdy boys had taken away the pain it still left her feeling drained and shaky.

At least they had a distraction now, she thought as she followed them towards the abandoned gas station. It was a perfect place for them all to blow off some steam, far enough on the outskirts of town that they didn’t have to worry about anyone bothering them, lots of old junk laying around and even a roof to shelter them from the rain that was beginning to fall.

“You good, drummer?” Martin had stopped a little ways ahead of her and turned around to eye her up carefully. He was full of energy too, constantly turning his bat over and over in his hands. His eyes were clear and bright and wild behind his glasses.

“Yeah,” she sighed, catching up to him. "Tired. You know.“

He nodded. There was worry in his expression that Amanda couldn’t deal with at that moment. She was tired and pissed off at her disease and she couldn’t also have someone throwing her a pity party. She couldn’t handle feeling weak right now.

Martin held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded again. “Alright. Wanna break shit?”

She mulled it over for a moment as they walked. On the one hand she was about ready to sit down and close her eyes. On the other hand the welling anger and irritation inside of her could use an outlet.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah.”

The others had made it to the pile of old rusted parts near the pumps and were going through it, searching for anything new and exciting that could be destroyed or used to destroy other things with. By the time Amanda and Martin joined them there was already a pile of potential weaponry and Vogel was trying to decide if he was going to stick with his golf club or if he wanted to use a rusty wrench instead. He finally decided on both and went to town on the empty ice chest outside the building.

As soon as Vogel exploded into his own brand of manic violence the others joined him. Gripps, Cross and Martin surged forward with their weapons, howling and whooping as they bounced off the pumps, each other and whatever else got in their way. Glass shattered, metal dented and objects flew through the air while Beast cheered and shouted encouragement. Amanda watched for a moment, lips curling into a smile, then pulled her wrench from the loop in her belt and joined Vogel.

When not an inch of the ice chest was left undented Amanda stepped back to breathe and admire their work. She was sweating even in the cool air, the rain that was now steadily falling only adding to the humidity. She was definitely exhausted now but the others showed no signs of slowing down and Vogel had left her side to tackle Martin.

A flash of movement caught her eye through the gas station door. She moved closer to the door and peered in but could only see empty displays in the gloom. Brandishing the wrench in one hand, just in case, she pushed open the door and took a step forward.

At that moment Martin growled a low warning behind her and she turned to see him, Gripps, Cross and Vogel moving closer, frowning. Beast followed close behind.

“Don’t move!”

Amanda spun back around as two figures jumped up inside the building. They were two young men, she saw as they moved into the light. They looked nervous and angry. She froze when she saw that one of them was pointing a gun at her.

“Don’t fucking move! Get.. get back!” The man with the gun yelled, voice wavering.

“Fucking relax with the gun,” the other one snapped before addressing Amanda. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I.. I don’t..” She searched for words as she slowly inched back, trying to at least get back out the door.

“Don’t fucking move!”

“You told me to -”

“Shut up! Shut up! ” The man with the gun turned to the other. “Shit man, shit. If they know-”

“They don’t fucking know, man. Just be cool.”

“Be cool? We need to do something. If they tell-”

“What the fuck did I just say, man? Be fucking cool.”

The man with the gun was definitely freaking out, his hand trembling as he continued to point the gun at Amanda. She could feel the panic rising in her too. This was not a good time for an attack, not at all, but she didn’t dare breathe to calm herself down.

“Listen, okay? I was just-”

Too many things happened at the same time.

A chorus of shouts and growls exploded behind her. She could hear her blood rushing in her ears and a high, sharp whine. Something red-hot punched her in her side.

Then the world fell silent, as if everyone had collectively decided at that moment to hold their breath, only to release it a moment later when the store erupted into noise.

She was being pulled back out the door and three shapes rushed past her in a blur. Her boys.

But where was Martin?

Oh, there he was.

She couldn’t help but smile when his face hovered over her as she was lowered slowly to the ground. He wasn’t smiling back.

“Martin-” her breath caught in her throat as the pain in her side announced itself. It was like someone had taken a hot poker to her flesh.

Acknowledge the pain, she told herself, trying to settle into the calm state of mind she needed to get rid of the attack.

Make it your own- No, wait. That was a bad idea, wasn’t it? She glanced down. No objects. Nothing that she could manifest and get rid of to make the pain go away. Dragging this.. bloody fucking mess into reality was not a smart plan. It was okay, though. She had her boys. Martin was here. Martin was kneeling right beside her. He could eat the pain, could fix this.

She unclenched her teeth and took in a shallow breath. “Martin? Martin, you have to..” She grabbed his hand, squeezing it a little too tightly. “Take it, come on. Do the.. the energy thing.”

Why was he looking at her like that?

“Martin?”

“Drummer,” his voice was rough and there was something completely out of place in his eyes. It was panic, she realized. Martin was panicking. “‘Manda. It’s not an attack.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then slowly brought her hand to the wound.

“But..” She swallowed hard, bringing her hand back up to her face to see it glistening red. “It’s.. It’s got to be,” she muttered weakly, turning pale at the sight. “There’s so much blood.”

Martin shook his head slowly, eyes darting to the wound and back up to her face. He looked like he was about to say something when Beast came up behind him carrying an armful of what looked to be clothing, which she dumped next to him. He went to work immediately, moving Amanda as gently as possible to slide a shirt between her and the ground. She winced as he moved her and peeled her bloody shirt up and away from the wound.

When he rinsed the wound clean and pressed cloth against it she had to screw her eyes shut and clench her jaw so as not to scream. She didn’t open her eyes again until she felt calloused fingers gently stroke the hair out of her face.

“You’re okay, ‘Manda,” Martin murmured. “It’s a graze. You’re gonna be okay.” The relief in his eyes was clear as day.

The door swung open and Amanda found herself immediately surrounded by the rest of her little family, all three of them radiating rage in a way Amanda had never seen before. If she hadn’t known them she’d have been terrified.

“I’m okay,” she mumbled, trying to smile reassuringly. Even just talking had drained her. “Martin.. he.. hesaysso.”

Three pairs of dark eyes and one pair of rainbow-colored ones sought out Martin immediately for confirmation and he nodded. Only then did Gripps, Cross and Vogel relax a little. Martin met the eyes of the tallest of his brothers and inclined his head towards where the van was parked. Understanding immediately, Cross left them and moments later the familiar growl of the engine moved closer.

Vogel and Martin helped her up slowly. The change in position made her dizzy and she dared not look back at how much blood she’d lost, but she made it those few feet into the van without fainting though she hissed through her teeth whenever a jolt of pain hit her.

Martin didn’t take his usual spot in the driver’s seat, instead opting to sit with her so that she could lay down with her head in his lap. Gripps sat at her feet after draping a blanket over her, holding her steady so that the van’s movements wouldn’t hurt her more. She drifted in and out of consciousness as they drove and it wasn’t until they were parking at a motel after having apparently stopped at a pharmacy for real first aid supplies that she woke up again fully.

A good hour later, after Cross had treated her wound properly and she’d been helped into clean, dry clothes, she finally dared to ask the question that had been on her mind.

“Did.. did you kill them?”

The pile of Rowdies surrounding her on the bed fell silent for a moment. Then Gripps shook his head slowly. “Stopped when they tasted sorry.”

“Tied them up good though,” Vogel offered reassuringly.

“Should probably let someone know,” Cross mused before untangling himself from the pile and digging Amanda’s phone out of her jacket pocket.

Amanda vaguely heard the person on the other end of the line asking what the emergency was.

Cross kept it short, only mentioning criminal activity at the gas station and ignoring further questions.

“No rush,” he grinned before hanging up.

#so this was fun #writing #my writing #rowdy 3 #dghda #dghda fic #rowdy 3 fanfic #rowdy 3 fic #amanda brotzman #drummerwolf #blood

20 notes · View notes

flightofaqrow · 4 years

Text

sticks and stones

qrow + Jackson Rosenthal ( @thehopefulones )

[ tw: bullying/abuse mentions ]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Jackson couldn’t even look Qrow in the eyes by that point.

now qrow sits up as well. he looks him over, rubs his face in his hands and sighs. when his face finally uncovers, eyes narrow, anger directed more at the situation than the child, “what. happened.”

Jackson sniffled and then winced at how much it still stung. “Kids at the shop. They were bigger than me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He wished he shut that door quieter. And he wished he tip toed quieter. But Jackson still hoped he could sneak into his bed and get under the covers before he was seen in the gloom. Go, go, go!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

noises matter not when adults remain awake for the sole purpose of catching someone coming back far too late.

“hey,” qrow rolls toward the side of the other bed, but doesn’t jump. he speaks calmly, “what kept ya, kiddo?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Why did he think Qrow would be asleep before he was? Silly. Jackson kept his hood up as he climbed under the blanket and laid down heavily with his back facing his mentor. Deliberately keeping his face down and hard to see, but he couldn’t hide a few brown spots on his hoody front. “Exploring,” he mumbled shortly.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“oh yeah? i get that way too.” he props himself up on an elbow, watching the dimly lit lump settle into the other bed, “whatcha find?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Jackson felt him shift and pulled the blanket over his head, muffling his voice further. “Art store…Some other kids were there, too. Aren’t you tired?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“i’m always tired. s’fine. m’sure ya are too, so maybe don’t stay out so late next time, and we can catch up before bedtime,” ah there it was, just the most minor of scolding. the setting of expectations. “so didja get anything? meet anyone?”

oh that’s right. Jackson may know qrow as a huntsman, but has no idea about his days as a spy. trying to hide information from him will eventually only be futile.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“It’s not my fault I’m late.” Jackson grouses, which was quite unlike him. He was normally quick to apologize and amend; he rarely, almost never made excuses.

He peeked out from the blanket just enough to look over the side of the bed, searching for his pack and more importantly, his stuffed toy. Couldn’t sleep without it. “I did but I lost it on the way back. It’s not a big deal.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“mhmm.” qrow is getting to know him, more than he’d ever planned or wanted to, but doesn’t know him in and out yet. but he knows he can keep him talking if nothing else, and he knows all about comfort items and what makes people reach for them. his flask had been one for far too long.

“so if it’s not your fault, then what happened?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Jackson finds Pastel just under the bed but within reach, so he picks it up and looks at its reassuring face. And then the ears. His face hurt, his ears hurt and his heart hurt. He slowly sat up to answer Qrow’s question, tugging his hood down at the same time and then wrapping his arms around his bunny tight.

He couldn’t even look Qrow in the eyes by that point.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

and now qrow sits up as well. he looks him over, rubs his face in his hands and sighs. when his face finally uncovers, eyes narrow, anger directed more at the situation than the child, “what. happened.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He sniffled and then winced at how much it still stung. “Kids at the shop. They were bigger than me.”

Jackson sat his toy up on his lap and ran his fingers over the soft ears, before slowly reaching up to touch his own. His eyes welled up too quick for him to stop them. “They called me a freak and a mutt…pulled on my ears and hit me. I–I know I should’ve stood up for myself but I just dropped everything and ran. They hated me so much and I got scared.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

ugh. as if there weren’t enough horrors in this world already. little kids and grown ups alike turning on each other over the stupidest things. humanity worries him by the day. but at least this kid is one of the good ones.

“hey,” qrow says calmly, even as the ends of ribs pinch at his insides to contain his anger. he’s not about to go hunt down a pack of wily little rascals, though. he gently reaches out to place his hand between Jackson’s ears, not moving, not trying to irritate any of the pain there, only offering reassuring weight and warmth.

“it’s okay, Jack. …i mean, no it’s not okay - how they treated ya. but you’ll be okay. it’s okay t’be scared. …an’ takin’ on a buncha jerks bigger’n you ain’t a solo job. i’m glad you made it back here in one piece.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Jackson always hated that saying sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me. It was a blatant lie and he knew it the first time it reached his ears. He remembered thinking well, that isn’t true at all. How old was he? Seven? A faded time from a life he felt disconnected from, when a different hand would rest on his head to console him. Qrow was different than his father, not in bad ways. Where Haru had been patient and soft, Qrow had jagged edges and an iron fist when they didn’t do the job. But they did share one thing; the same tiredness, that stained their being towards the very start and grew until it was just a part of it. Until it was accepted. Like his father, there was a compassionate, soft core deep under the layers of weariness that he had carried as a heavy but precious weight. Was that why he was here? To help this tired soul, because he failed the last one? Jackson slowly closed his eyes, feeling warm tears roll down his cheeks as he leaned his head towards the touch. It all bubbled up faster than he could think to stop it. “I’m already a freak on the inside,” he had to whisper, he was so choked up trying to keep it together a little. “I don’t want to be one on the outside, too. I didn’t do anything to them, they just hated me because– because of how I look? I don’t understand it.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

no amount of aura in all Remnant can protect from the wounds of words. they may not break bones, not a few, but they play the long game. they worm beneath the skin and entangle as they meet each other. they make tiny cuts until someone’s own movement burns and they have to slog through every day just to get through, wondering if each step might be a wrong one which finally causes someone to snap and cast one more stone atop the pile of torture, one more name, and you crumble beneath the pressure of someone else’s enforced reality.

it’s tiring. so tiring. to carry the responsibilities of others thrust upon your own shoulders.

qrow seeks freedom for his own soul, to make his own choices. to do what he believes is right and worthy.

it takes bravery. and maybe a tiny bite of spite.

he had to learn that on his own. make those decisions all alone. the kids, they always get to him. qrow’s face falls, brows lift and corners of his mouth turn down; he doesn’t hide his own hurt from Jackson, doesn’t tell him to stop. he keeps his hand right there on his head, warm in his hair, and lets him cry. because it’s okay to cry, and that’s one of the many things he’d wish had been accepted about himself at that age instead of beaten out of him with words.

these kids don’t have to be alone, they don’t have to figure it out on their own. misfortune may follow him, but even so, qrow can tell himself one thing - any presence and encouragement is better than the nothing he had.

“you’re not a freak, Jack. inside or outside. some people are just filled with hate, so they’ll find somethin’ to hate about you. your looks. your clothes. your beliefs. where ya come from. doesn’t matter. i don’t understand it either.”

he finally moves his hand away, habit having him gesture out his next point with a pointed finger, “but what i do understand is people like that? they ain’t got opinions worth listenin’ to. so you listen to me instead. don’t let ‘em get in your head and drag ya down to their level, you hear?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He wanted his dad. And his mom. He wanted his bed with his star patterned covers, all of his toys stacked up in the foot just right, his desk in the corner full of works in progress and the trees painted on the walls full of little birds and deer and such other fairy tale creatures that grew as he did, as he was able to reach more space with his brush. He missed his home, so far away, his piano and the kitchen where his mother could heal anything through food made with love.

Jackson squeezed his rabbit tight and sobbed into its fabric, suddenly drowning in the terrifying thought that he might never go home and he wasn’t ready for that. He might never stop being in strange places with cruel and unpredictable strangers, the only comforting constant his newfound teacher. But would Qrow leave him someday, too?

He dared to open his eyes, shivering and looking at Qrow but not truly seeing him through blurry eyes until there was a finger pointing at his nose. And that got his attention enough to hear him. Slowly, he started silently nodding, trying to find words but he couldn’t right now. He’d listen. He promised it in his mind, as he let go of his bunny long enough to reach out to Qrow. Instinct drove it. “Are you gonna leave me?” He blurted it out, devoid of any rational reason for it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

qrow grew up without walls. the trees and animals lived and breathed just as he did, the food gathered and made in part by his own hands. places, objects, people changed. he had no concept of home until STRQ made one of their own. and even then it had been more like ‘home base.’ he could play house with his found family, but he never did feel comfortable in one place for too long.

he’s used to changes. some are easier than others.

he may not know what exactly Jackson’s experiencing, but he can tell there is pain in his eyes that dove deeper than any words could attack or even explain. if he’s brave enough to put down his bunny, then qrow can let down his walls, too. he settles onto his knees next to the bed, leaning into Jackson’s outstretched arms and wrapping his own around the boy.

and then he pulls the trigger on a question that shoots straight for qrow’s heart, the tone of it a dagger twisted even further. memories of the past wash over him - being left behind and unwanted too; fears for the future flood out - when next misfortune makes him be the one to leave. energy must spike with sadness against his best efforts. he can only repress so much on his own.

he chokes before he speaks, but he gets there. he’s never been one for false promises, no matter how much someone wants to hear them, no matter who it is. hopefully the tight hold he has for now softens the blow, “well. yeah. you have to go home sometime, Jack. we’ll meet again sometimes, though. i’m sure of it.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It digs into the soft spaces between his young armor, like the first cut of a dagger. Stinging and burning with the fresh flow of pain and alarm, seizing Jackson by the heart and paralyzing his thoughts into circulating the same panicked, repetitive questions. What if he didn’t go home? What if they didn’t meet again? What if Qrow fell victim to the same cursed shadow of death that seemed to stem from Jackson’s feet behind him, in place of a shadow cast by the simple absence of light and that was all it was.

The boy hugs him tighter. His fingers dig in and he curls up as small as he can, feeling like the shadow was trying to pry him out of Qrow’s arms and swallow him whole but if he just held on, it couldn’t. If he held on, it would be okay. If Qrow didn’t let it take him—

Whatever his last coherent thought was, it was lost in the tangent that never made it into a voice spoken aloud. Jackson never said anything else that night. He was quite finished talking about these things or anything and more than quite unable to listen anymore to whatever comforting or soothing words Qrow might have. He dissolved into pitiful tears and whimpers, crying his little heart out over his grief, his homesickness and his recently wounded heart. His frustration and denial of catharsis. Over everything.

He cried until he just couldn’t and then he was limp, exhausted through and through as he blinked slowly with heavy lashes stricken by tears. His whole body felt drained and still sore from the solid thrashing he was given before he escaped. Jackson closed his eyes. He would stay there. He didn’t fight the sleep that came.

#* the bravest thing you can ever be is kind = thehopefulones ** jackson *#* still got a long way to go = future volumes *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#abuse tw

0 notes

thomcoldman-blog · 6 years

Text

My 10 Favourite Games Of 2017

This list was originally posted on the forum Resetera, but I felt like putting it up here too, with a little more insight into why I liked these games so much, and so they don’t get lost in the muddle of forum posts. Enjoy!

10. Snake Pass (Sumo Digital; Nintendo Switch, PS4, Xbox One, PC)

Sumo Digital has been a developer I've admired for years, particularly for their work on the Nintendo-tier kart racer Sonic & All-Stars Racing Transformed. Snake Pass is their first independently-produced title, and it has a great hook - the player controls a snake in much the same manner as a real snake might move. There's no jump button, no Earthworm Jim spacesuit, just the power to raise one's head and the strength to grip tightly to any object you've coiled around. There's no timer or enemies; Snake Pass is content to let you explore its levels at your own pace, letting you getting used to its unique feeling and take in the calming David Wise soundtrack. It's a game that feels like learning to ride a bike again, and the progression in ability over time is such a pleasing sensation that it earns it its place on this list by itself. The good use of collectables and generous helping of levels is icing on the cake.

9. Wolfenstein 2: The New Colossus (MachineGames; PS4, Xbox One, PC)

B.J. Blazkowicz returns and he's lost all meaning of subtlety whilst he's been out of action. Wolfenstein 2 shoots all of its shots - the action is bloody, explosive carnage, and the subject matter isn't satisfied with just skewering Nazi idiocy and narcissism, taking time to shine a light on White America's love affair with sitting back and reaping the rewards of compliance under fascist rule. Whether it's exploring B.J.'s broken psyche, giving Wyatt a crash course on hallucinogenics or putting you under the spotlight in a terrifying audition, MachineGames refuse to pull their punches, each great moment coming swinging like B.J.'s Nazi-reprimanding fireaxe. The combat encounters are far from polished, with stealth being heavily nerfed from The New Order and the half-way shift in tone from borderline-satirical diatribe on mortality and American race relations to comic-book capers is incredibly stodgy, but Wolfenstein 2 leaves a hell of an impression all the same. Shame about that credits music.

8. Gorogoa (Jason Roberts; PC, iOS, Nintendo Switch)

A good puzzle game can make a really strong impression, guiding you subtly by the hand to make you feel like a member of MENSA just for pressing a few buttons or prodding at a screen. With Gorogoa, I can't even begin to describe how the puzzles actually work. Imagine a window segmented with 4 panes of glass, and now imagine you can drag elements out of those panes and into other panes, or over where there isn't a pane to create a new pane... See, it’s hard! In as simple terms as I can muster, it’s a game about taking the world apart and putting it back together again to create paths and progress for your anonymous young hero. It’s intensely abstract, yet the South Asian aesthetic feels like a living locale, an exploration of a boy's days-to-come. It's a short experience, but with each puzzle solved making me feeling smarter than Albert god damn Einstein, it's one that will stick with me for a long time.

7. Splatoon 2 (Nintendo EPD; Nintendo Switch)

Like pretty much everyone, I didn't own a Wii U, but the sting of that decision never really happened until the arrival of Splatoon - Nintendo's first proper new "core" universe since what felt like Pikmin. It instantly looked like sheer fun - and as a big fan of both Jet Set Radio and The World Ends With You, it was clear as day Nintendo's younger designers were picking up the Shibuya fashion torch those games dropped behind them. Put simply, it's totally my shit. Splatoon 2 confirms my suspicions and then some, being the first multiplayer title I've enjoyed online in forever. I can't get enough of the soundtrack, the sound effects, the amazingly catty banter between Pearl and Marina, and just the feeling of dropping into ink, strafing around a sucker and blasting them straight between the eyeballs with my N-ZAP '85. 20% of Switch owners in the US can't be wrong.

6. Yakuza 0 (SEGA; PS4)

The only games I've played previously by SEGA's Toshihiro Nagoshi are the brilliant arcade/Gamecube bangers F-Zero GX and Super Monkey Ball 2, plus his one-off PS3 sci-fi shooter Binary Domain. Loving those 3 wacky games, I always felt a little put-off by his regular gig nowadays being a series about Japan's most decorated crime organisation, and a bare-knuckle brawler at that. Yakuza 0, the 80s-set series prequel that serves as a perfect entry point for series newcomers, proved my suspicions ill-founded. It's a game which instantly casts the majority of the yakuza as control freaks and bullies, pits its protagonists Kiryu and Majima as their unfounded targets and pawns... and then lets you fight your way out of hell via brutal finishing moves, bizarrely complex business management sidequests and, if you're so inclined, a gun shaped like a giant fish. It's that kind of game that always keeps you guessing whether or not you should take it seriously, and so it wins you over with its best-in-class action choreography, astonishingly good direction and a never-ending deluge of sidequests, minigames and challenges. Don't sleep on Kamurocho.

5. Sonic Mania (SEGA/Christian Whitehead/Headcannon/PagodaWest Games; Nintendo Switch, PS4, Xbox One, PC)

If you’re reading this, you probably know I'm a Sonic apologist. I don't really stand by the 3D entries - bar Sonic Generations, which I genuinely love - but the narrative that "Sonic was never good" is some ridiculous meme that I can't stand. They were genuinely fun games, albeit far from perfect; every game can use some improvement. Sonic Mania is that improvement, spinning the level themes and gimmicks from the original Mega Drive (and Mega CD) games into vast new forms, with myraid routes, tons of secrets, an astonishing sense of speed from beginning to end and fairer, more agreeable, more exciting level design. Old locales, new levels - oh, and some new locales as well, one of which (Studiopolis Zone) is an instant classic. 16:9 presentation, all new animations and crazy levels of animation detail, and a mind-blowing soundtrack by Tee Lopes - Sonic Mania is the perfect Sonic game.

4. NieR: Automata (Square Enix/PlatinumGames; PS4, PC)

For my first foray into the sunken mind of Yoko Taro, he couldn't have left a better impression. NieR: Automata uses Platinum's engaging-at-worst, thrilling-at-best melee combat as the language to tell his new story of how pointless it is for anyone to even bother throwing themselves after ideals of society or humanity, and why it's worth trying all the same. Every inch of this game feels crusted in Taro’s sensibilities, with the no-bullshit 2B and her curious whiny partner 9S running into robots waving white flags, avenging fallen comrades, establishing monarchies, throwing themselves to their deaths, and coming to terms with their crumbling existence in apocalypse. It's crushing, it's raw, it's often dull, but its uniquely bleak vision of AIs breaking free of their programming has a grip as powerful as a Terminator's. And when it’s ready to let you go, it has you send it off with the most memorable credits sequence in history. Glory to Yoko Taro, glory to PlatinumGames - glory to mankind.

3. The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (Nintendo EPD; Nintendo Switch, Wii U)

Standing in the centre of a bridge connecting Hyrule’s broad, emerald green fields to the desert mountain approach, a bridge overlooking the still Lake Hylia, I fire an arrow into a lizard bastard’s head, or at least I try to. He dodges it and rushes me, forcing me to jump away and retaliate with my claymore. Out for the count, I resume looking for the lost Zora wife I’ve been asked to seek out, who apparently washed all the way downstream in a recent downpour. I can’t see any wife - my entire view is dominated by the giant green dragon snaking across the night sky above me. The wind picks up, but I am too awestruck by its presence to take note that I could glide up to it and shoot off a valuable scale. Instead, I just stand and stare, this utterly unexpected moment happening before my eyes. Friend or foe? A boss monster, perhaps? A vital story element later on? The answer ended up being none of the above: in The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, there be dragons, and that fact in and of itself speaks volumes about what this game is about. After 30 years, Hyrule finally feels alive.

2. Night in the Woods (Infinite Fall; PS4, Xbox One, PC, Mac, Linux, Android, iOS)

Very few games instil a genuine emotional response within me, but the story of Mae Borowski's no-fanfare return from college to suburban gloom resonates hard with me. It's an expert at the little touches - the needless-yet-fun triple jump, the not-so-starcrossed rooftop musicians, the impulsive reaction to poke a severed arm with a stick - and woefully precise with its big swings, like an upsetting cross-town party, a wave of violent frustration amongst the townspeople, and the inability to just lay it all on the table with friends and family when you need to most. In the cosmic dreams of shitty teens, Night in the Woods finds an ugly beauty in depression.

1. Super Mario Odyssey (Nintendo EPD; Nintendo Switch)

It’s impossible to deny 2017 has been the year of Nintendo. There’s plenty of celebrate elsewhere, but the Switch’s rise to prominence as the machine to be playing ideally everything on, and the amount of absolute smash hits Nintendo has producing this year makes it hard for the narrative to focus elsewhere. The epitome of all this is their final killer game of 2017: Super Mario Odyssey, the grand return of a more open-ended style of Mario platformer. A true blue achievement in joyous freedom, it brings together everything from Mario's history of 3D platforming - 64's freedom, Sunshine's other-worldliness and sky-high skill ceiling, Galaxy's spectacle, 3D World's razor-sharp platforming challenge - and throws into one big pot, creating a Mario where both the journey and the destination are one and the same, and exciting to the very end. In a year of amazing games that hit upon horrid, upsetting themes with delicate, pinpoint accuracy for tremendous success, I’m not sure whether it’s a shame or an inevitability that such an unapologetically surprising, happy game made the biggest mark on me this year, but either way, I’m welcome to have Mario be truly Super once more.

#goty #2017 #splatoon2 #super mario odyssey #zelda breath of the wild #yakuza 0 #night in the woods #snake pass #sonic mania #gorogoa #wolfenstein #nier automata

6 notes · View notes