Tumgik
#cannot explain the feeling i have looking at these. whatever it is it's Unbridled.
tapedeck-archive · 3 years
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
jean paul gaultier / yohji yamamoto / alexander wang
10K notes · View notes
chicgeekgirl89 · 3 years
Text
Home is Us
Fandom: 911 Lone Star
Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Owen Strand, Judd Ryder, Tommy Vega, Mateo Chavez
Summary: In the aftermath of the condo fire, Carlos and T.K. seek comfort in one another. Post ep for 2x12 "The Big Heat."
A/N: This is my rather belated post ep for 2x12. And it would not have happened without @bluenet13. Literally. I agonized over this SO MUCH and she listened to all my whining and didn't let me cut the part about Marlon Blendo so I owe her everything.
AO3
The night air was cool and still, the stars sparkling brightly in the sky, but the stench of smoke obliterated any sense of peace or calm. T.K. could feel Carlos’ hand gripping his shoulder with bruising force as they burst out the front doors and onto the lawn, both of them gasping and coughing.
Tommy came running toward them. “Are you all right?” she asked urgently, eyes and hands searching for damage. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m, I’m okay,” T.K. choked out. “Carlos?”
He shook his head, coughing violently. “I’m fine too.”
“T.K.!”
His dad came charging toward him, wrapping him up a fierce hug. “Oh my god,” he breathed into T.K.’s hair and then his other arm was pulling Carlos in too, squeezing them both with every bit of strength he had. “Are you boys all right?”
“We’re good, Dad,” T.K. said, even though he was shaking violently, adrenaline coursing through his veins so fast he felt lightheaded. “What the hell? How did you guys even know we were in trouble?”
“Raymond said something earlier today and I just put the pieces together,” Owen said. “I’m so sorry, I should have figured it out sooner.”
There were sirens screaming up now, ambulances and firetrucks, and Tommy put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Okay, there will be time to talk about this later. Right now all of you need to get checked out by the paramedics. No objections,” she said quickly when several mouths opened to protest. “A little oxygen never hurt anybody. Come on now.”
T.K. moved follow her and then realized Carlos wasn’t behind him. He turned to find his boyfriend still rooted to the spot, staring straight ahead at the burning building. “Babe?” T.K. reached for his arm.
Carlos startled at his touch and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
He was quiet as they sat on the back of the ambulance, answering questions with yes or no answers, eyes and body listless as they checked him over for injuries. T.K. had never seen his boyfriend look so small. 
They were both given oxygen and then Tommy reappeared, blankets in hand that she wrapped comfortingly around their shoulders, her mom tendencies coming out in full force. “Is everyone else all right?” T.K. asked, pushing his mask to the side.
“They’ve all got some first and second degree burns, but they’ll heal up all right. How are you two doing?”
“It could have been a lot worse,” T.K. said. 
“Carlos?” Tommy asked, her eyes softening and taking on a new level of concern.
He met her eyes and nodded. “I’m okay.”
She looked at him a moment longer and then reached out to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to go check on the guys. You two stay right here and do as you’re told, got it?”
It wasn’t long before the paramedics released them with instructions to take it easy, stay hydrated, and head to the emergency room if they experienced any concerning symptoms. T.K. was still in disbelief that they’d escaped so unharmed. It was nothing short of miraculous, if you believed in that kind of thing.
Carlos spoke as they walked away from the ambulance, his voice quiet. “I should uh, I should call my parents,” he said.
“Do you want me to do it?” T.K. asked.
Carlos shook his head, already pulling out his phone. “No. No it’s um, they should hear it from me.”
He dialed, taking a shaky breath as he waited for someone to pick up. “Hey Dad.”
The conversation was painful, even from T.K.’s end. He couldn’t make out Gabriel’s words through the phone, but he could hear the unbridled fear in his voice. Carlos on the other hand sounded almost monotone, relaying the story and pertinent information in painfully exact detail, but without an ounce of emotion behind it, slipping back and forth between English and Spanish as he explained.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so upset before,” Carlos said, when he hung up.
“Yeah.” T.K. looked at his boyfriend who seemed to be refusing to look back. “Carlos? How are you doing?” he finally asked. 
“I’m good,” Carlos said, eyes darting toward him and then away. It was clearly a brush off and they both knew it. So T.K. waited.
And then he watched as his boyfriend broke in front of him, anguish and fear spilling out like a wave until they were both clinging to one another as Carlos’ quiet sobs wracked his frame over and over again.
“Shh,” T.K. soothed, struggling to provide some kind of real comfort when he felt so raw himself. “Breathe. We’re okay. That’s all that matters.”
“I should have known, I should have made the alarm company come out today.”
“Carlos listen to me, none of this is your fault.” T.K. pulled him in tighter, desperate to do something to ease his pain.
“If I had just looked around, if we had waited ten more minutes to go upstairs—“
“We had no way of knowing.”
Carlos pulled back, still shaky. “You can’t really believe that. There’s always something. I should have done better.”
T.K. cupped his face in his hands. “Baby why are you beating yourself up over this so much?”
“Because I’m supposed to protect you!” Carlos said, the words coming out on a ragged sob. “That’s my job. To keep people safe. And when it came down to it I couldn’t protect you. The person I care about most in this world I couldn’t—”
T.K. used his thumbs to wipe away some of Carlos’ tears, clearing his throat, trying to keep his own tears at bay. “Listen to me. We’re a team, remember? We protect each other. You and me. Not just you.”
Carlos shook his head, face still contorted in misery. T.K. pulled him back in again and pressed a kiss to his hair. “It’s okay to be upset. But you cannot blame yourself for this. This was not your fault, do you hear me?”
Carlos nodded against his shoulder, but T.K. wasn’t completely convinced his words had gotten through.
Carlos took a shuddering breath and stepped away, wiping at his eyes and T.K. watched the wall go back up; the one Carlos had carefully constructed around him that meant he was always completely even-tempered and never out of control. “We should uh, we should go check on your dad and everybody. Tell them thank you.”
“Yeah, sure,” T.K. said, feeling like he probably should be saying something more, but unable to find the words.
Carlos was already moving toward the group gathered at the back of the ambulance and T.K. had no choice but to follow him. “You guys all right?” T.K. asked as Judd pulled him in for a side hug.
“We’re just glad you’re both okay,” Judd told him. “Everything check out with the paramedics?”
“We both ate a little bit of smoke, but we’re okay,” T.K. said. “Honestly though,” he swallowed hard, “we probably wouldn’t be here without you guys. So thank you.”
“You’re just lucky your dad drives so fast. I didn’t know he had it in him, what with him being such a city slicker,” Billy said with a chuckle.
“My driving is impeccable and I always drive the exact speed limit. Except in emergency situations,” Owen said, casting a look at Carlos.
Carlos managed to scrounge up half a smile but didn’t say anything.
A truck came screeching to a stop just behind the ambulance and Gabriel Reyes jumped out. The man looked truly shaken, eyes wild as he ran toward them. “Carlos! Mijo are you all right?”
“I’m okay Dad,” Carlos told him as they hugged.
“Gracias a Dios. You’re all okay?” Gabriel asked, looking around the group.
“We got out just in time,” Owen said. “Minor injuries only.”
“Which is more than we can say for the condo,” Judd said. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t do more Carlos, he had that place rigged up good.”
Carlos shook his head. “You did everything you could and we’re…” he swallowed hard and T.K. could tell he was blinking back more tears, “we’re very grateful.”
“Have they taken your statements yet?” Gabriel asked. 
“Yeah, about half an hour ago,” T.K. said. Officers had come around while they were still sitting at the back of the ambulance and written down what little they knew. Nothing like telling complete strangers that you hadn’t realized your house was burning down around you because you were upstairs having sex with your boyfriend. 
“Then there’s no reason you need to be standing around here,” Gabriel said. “You know the ranch is open to you both. Your mother is worried sick, she would be very happy to have you.” He turned to look at Owen. “But perhaps you would rather be closer to work? The ranch is a bit of a drive.”
“Well of course you’re welcome to stay at my place,” Owen said. “There’s plenty of space and Buttercup would love to have you around. But I’m sure Andrea wants you close to her.”
Gabriel shook his head. “I think they’re better off here in town. Andrea will understand. There will be a lot of paperwork to deal with in the coming days, they need to be readily available.”
“Well of course, but I’m not sure how much I can provide in the way of hospitality right now. The investigators didn’t really clean things up when they left,” Owen said meaningfully.
“Not a problem,” Gabriel said, taking out his phone. “I can have a crew there in the morning. It should never have taken this long in the first place. You know sometimes they drag their feet on these things.”
“Oh it’s no problem,” Owen said, waving him off. “Worth it in the end.” 
The dads debated a while longer before they decided an exhausted T.K. and Carlos would stay with Owen for the time being to be closer to work and to their former condo for whatever overhaul was necessary. By that point neither of them really cared where they ended up as long as there was a shower and a bed waiting for them. 
Owen elected to stay at the scene with Gabriel so Judd drove Carlos and T.K. home. Neither of them said much, still in a state of shock and Judd was mindful enough not to try and fill the truck with conversation.
The house was dark, Mateo asleep for the night. Buttercup looked up as they came in and gave half a tail wag before settling back down again.
“I think I left a couple sweatshirts and pairs of pants here,” T.K. said, searching through the drawers in his dad’s guest room. 
“Mmhmm,” Carlos said. He’d sunk onto the end of the bed and was staring blankly at the wall. 
“Hey,” T.K. stopped his search and went to him, cupping his face in his hands. “Why don’t you go get in the shower? I’ll find us something to change into and bring it to you.”
Carlos nodded tiredly and disappeared down the hall. T.K. stood for a moment chewing on his lip. He felt lost, adrift, trying to process and deal with his own feelings of grief and stomach churning worry, and Carlos seemed miles away. T.K. didn’t know what to do except to try and meet his physical needs.
He managed to scrounge up a pair of sweats and a t-shirt he thought would do the job. They might be a little tight, but at least Carlos wouldn’t be sleeping in the stench of his smoky clothes.
T.K. knocked softly on the bathroom door before stepping inside and putting the clothes on the counter. “You all right?” he asked.
Carlos sniffed and cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
T.K. gathered up Carlos’ soiled clothes from the floor and dumped them into the washer, intending to add his after he had his own shower. He heard the water turn off and a minute later the bathroom door opened. “I’m done,” Carlos called softly down the hall.
“I’ll be quick,” T.K. said, switching places with him. 
The water felt good and he watched as soot and sweat and ash slithered down the drain. He took longer than he meant to, almost lulled to sleep by the soothing pound of the water against his back. Eventually it grew cool and he turned it off, stepping out to try and squeeze into a pair of sweatpants that belonged to his dad and a t-shirt he didn’t recognize but had found in the clean laundry.
T.K. left the bathroom still toweling off his hair. He crept quietly toward the guest room; Buttercup didn’t even move as he stepped over him in the hallway. Opening the door he winced when it squeaked, fully expecting to find Carlos completely sacked out in the bed, more than ready to join his boyfriend in blissful sleep.
Instead he found the room empty and a spiral of fear shot through him so fast it took his breath away. “Carlos?” he whispered, as if the man would suddenly materialize from a dark corner or the tiny closet. 
When there was no answer he turned and went back the way he’d come, stepping over Buttercup again, searching the kitchen and the living room before he made his way to the back patio. “Hey,” he said softly when he spotted Carlos sitting on the edge of the outdoor sofa.
Carlos didn’t respond and T.K. felt his worry grow heavier. “Carlos?”
His boyfriend’s shoulders hitched slightly and T.K. walked around the patio furniture to find him hunched over, tears streaming down his face. “Oh baby,” T.K. said, dropping to his knees, hands frantically reaching for him. 
“I’m sorry,” Carlos said hoarsely. “I just…I can’t…I’m trying to pull it together but—”
T.K. slipped onto the couch next to him and pulled him into his arms. “You don’t have to be okay,” he whispered, his own throat thick with emotion. “No one expects that of you.”
Carlos’ voice was hoarse and broken. “I’ve never needed saving before. Not like that.”
“Most people don’t,” T.K. said.
Carlos looked at him, eyes red and swollen. “You were amazing in there. I was…I was panicking and you knew exactly what to do.”
“You’re a police officer,” T.K. said, resting his head on top of Carlos’. “I wouldn’t expect you to know what to do in a five alarm fire. Just like you wouldn’t expect me to know what to do in a shootout.”
Carlos sighed and leaned into him. T.K. bent over and kissed his forehead. “We should try and get some sleep.”
Carlos shook his head again. “I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I just keep thinking about it over and over again. I’m sorry I’m such a mess—“
“Hey, you don’t need to apologize. Everything you’re feeling is totally normal.”
Carlos swallowed hard. “I know it was just a house. But it was mine. It was the first place I felt like I could be myself. And then you came and it was our home and I—“ Carlos bit his lip and shook his head. “It’s all gone.”
“But I’m not,” T.K. said twining their hands together. “I’m right here. You’ve got me. And I don’t care where we are as long as we’re together. Home is us.” He stroked his thumb up and down on Carlos’ shoulder.
His face sobered as he took a really good, long look at Carlos. Exhaustion and fear still radiated off of him. He looked defeated. Empty. “Let’s at least try to get some sleep,” T.K. said softly, brushing a still-damp, curl from Carlos’ forehead. “We’ll figure things out in the morning.”
He pulled Carlos to his feet and they walked hand in hand back to the guest room. Carlos looked at the clock as he got into bed and groaned. “I have a shift in five hours.”
“You’re not going to work today.” T.K. told him. “They’ll understand.”
Carlos slid down the bed onto his side, leaning up on his elbow, his free hand finding a home on T.K.’s hip. “I meant what I said before. You were incredible tonight T.K. You saved us.”
“I’m pretty sure my dad, Billy, and Judd saved us,” T.K. told him.
Carlos shook his head. “I’m serious. If you hadn’t been there—“
“But I was,” T.K. said firmly. “I was and we’re fine. We’re…going to be fine,” he amended, because god knew there was nothing fine about them right now.
Carlos was quiet for a moment and then laid down all the way so they were face to face. T.K. shifted so they were even closer, needing to feel the warmth of Carlos against his own body. “I don’t think I can sleep,” Carlos said.
“Then we’ll just lie here together,” T.K. told him softly. 
They locked eyes, both of them breathing together in the silence, just being together, holding on a little tighter than normal. “I can’t stop seeing it,” Carlos finally whispered. “I was so scared T.K. What if I’d lost you?”
“You didn’t,” T.K. said softly. He leaned in and pressed a tender, reassuring kiss to Carlos’ lips. Carlos didn’t respond so T.K. nudged him gently with his nose and then kissed him again.
It was slow at first, Carlos still drowning so deeply in loss and anxiety, but as T.K. continued to silently encourage him he began to reciprocate. First just one kiss, and then another, this one a little deeper, until they were completely pressed up against each other, hands searching for bare skin, shared breath moving between parted lips. 
Things grew heated and T.K. could feel the increasing desperation in Carlos’ kisses so he smoothed a hand soothingly down his spine, pulling back from him just a little bit, forcing him to slow down. “It’s okay,” he murmured as their lips broke apart and came back together. “I’m right here.”
Carlos responded by matching T.K.’s slower kisses, following him rather than leading.
T.K. reached between them and slowly undid the drawstring on his boyfriend’s sweatpants. Carlos broke off the kiss. “Are you sure?”
T.K. nodded, moving his hands underneath Carlos’ shirt, helping him pull it off over his head. They both needed this, to touch, to feel, to reassure themselves that they were alive, that this might have changed their night, but it hadn’t change them. 
Carlos started to roll on top of him, but T.K. gently pushed him back down until he was the one on top, chests and hips pressed together, a reversal of their positions from just hours before. Carlos’ hands landed on T.K.’s back, their eyes locking, both of them seeking comfort in the physicality of being together.
“We’re okay,” T.K. said, as much for himself as for Carlos.
Carlos nodded and then closed his eyes as T.K. began pressing kisses into his neck and chest. “We’re okay,” T.K. murmured soothingly every time his lips left Carlos’ skin. “I’m going to say it until you believe it. We’re okay. We will be okay together.”
                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
T.K. woke up in the morning legs still tangled with Carlos’. It took him a moment to remember why he had a pounding headache and his muscles felt tight. Right. Burning condo. Smoke inhalation. Mad dash for their lives.
Carlos was still deeply asleep, for which T.K. was grateful. His boyfriend had drifted off in his arms somewhere around three am and T.K. had quickly followed. He managed to extricate himself without waking Carlos and pulled on some clothes before he headed out to the kitchen in search of painkillers. 
Sun was just filtering in the windows, the day already bright and clear. It was incredible how the world could continue to turn, even when everything had just crashed down around you. T.K. found some Advil, leaving it out on the counter, knowing it was likely that Carlos would be in need of some too. Then he moved their now clean, damp clothes from the washer to the dryer. They’d need to go out today and get some essentials. 
“T.K.?” Mateo asked in surprise as he appeared at the base of the stairs.  “I thought you and Carlos made up?” He paused and frowned in confusion. “Is that my shirt?”
T.K. sighed and launched into an edited version of the night’s events. “Dude,” Mateo said when he finished, a stunned look on his face. “Man that sucks. I’m glad you guys are all right.”
“Yeah, us too,” T.K. said.
“And listen, my house just totally blew up too. It was a rental, so not quite the same, but if you guys need help with any part of this process just let me know. You can borrow my car or laptop or whatever you need.”
“Thanks Mateo,” T.K. said gratefully.
There were footsteps on the stairs and Carlos appeared, eyes bleary and swollen, curls a disheveled mess. There was still a heaviness about him, but he looked better than the night before.
“Hey,” he said, wrapping an arm around T.K.’s waist and giving him a kiss, lingering slightly longer than their normal morning peck. “Hi Mateo.”
“Hey Carlos. T.K. told me about your place, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s definitely not ideal,” Carlos said with a sigh.
“Did you sleep okay?” T.K. asked.
Carlos nodded, then winced. T.K. reached for the bottle of Advil and poured him a glass of water. “Thanks,” Carlos said, swallowing down two pills.
“Did you call your captain?” T.K. asked as Mateo grabbed a protein bar and vacated the kitchen to give them some privacy.
“Yeah he’d already heard. Told me to take the time I need.”
“Good,” T.K. said.
The dryer buzzed. “That’s our clothes,” T.K. said, getting up to retrieve them. “At least you can put on a shirt that fits.”
He tossed Carlos his shirt and pants. Carlos stared down at them, a frown on his face. “You okay?” T.K. asked.
“Why did you throw a shirt at me?”
“What?”
“Last night. We were about to be burned alive and you made me put a shirt on.”
“Oh,” T.K. thought for a second and shrugged as he folded his sweatpants and set them on top of the dryer. “I don’t know. I guess I just…panicked. I was thinking that the temperature drops here at night and I didn’t want you to be cold when we got outside.”
“Our condo was hot as hell, but you were worried I’d be cold?”
T.K. bit his lip and shook his head, a sheepish smile growing on his face. “I don’t know, like I said I panicked. It was the first thought that came to me.”
“Well it was a good one,” Carlos said, slipping his arms around T.K.’s waist. “Standing out there all night with no shirt on would have been pretty uncomfortable.”
T.K. threaded his arms through Carlos’, hands coming to rest on his lower back. “You doing okay this morning?” he asked.
“Better,” Carlos confirmed. “Thank you. I think I just…needed to let it all out. I’m sorry about last night. My head was…”
“Hey,” T.K. shook his head. “No more apologies. No one has anything to apologize for, right?” He brushed a hand over Carlos’ cheek. “Do you want coffee? Or a smoothie?” His eyes went wide as a thought hit him. “Oh no!”
“What? What’s wrong?” Carlos asked, concern dropping over his face like a cloud. T.K.’s distress was so sudden and visceral that he pulled back slightly, eyes searching T.K.’s frame for some kind of injury.
T.K. felt his chest growing tight as anxiety gripped him. “Marlon Blendo! Oh my god, my dad is going to be so upset!”
“Whoa.” Carlos cupped his face in his hands. “I’m sure your dad will be okay. Blenders are replaceable.”
“Carlos he really loved that blender,” T.K. said seriously. 
Carlos chuckled. “Here I am, wondering all night long how we’re going to get through this and how you can be so calm when the world has literally gone up in flames, and now you’re losing it over a blender.”
“He was a really good blender!” T.K. pulled away from him and ran a hand through his hair as he took a few aimless steps, more thoughts striking him. “Oh my god my hoodies!”
“I will buy you new hoodies,” Carlos assured him.
“They won’t be the same,” T.K. groaned.
“Is this you finally freaking out?”
“I am not freaking out!” T.K.’s breathing had increased rapidly as panic spiraled through him. The sense of calm control he’d felt for the past twelve hours slowly started to slip away as reality set in. “Oh my god I’m totally freaking out. I can’t freak out, you’re freaking out! We can’t both be freaking out!”
“Hey,” Carlos cradled his face in his hand. “We’re okay? Remember? And if you need to freak out and lose it, that’s all right. It’s your turn. I’ll pull it together for a couple hours and you can melt down.”
“I don’t want to melt down, I want my shirt with the blue stripes on it. And that bergamot candle your parents gave us as a housewarming gift. Oh my god, Carlos all your spices from the market!”
“Come here,” Carlos said, pulling him into a hug, one hand holding him firmly around the waist, the other settling on the nape of his neck, thumb moving back and forth in a soothing motion.
T.K. let his forehead rest against Carlos’ shoulder, feeling more grounded by the strength of his boyfriend’s arms and the softness of his fingers. “Thanks,” he mumbled. 
T.K. took a breath as the weight of everything began to land on his shoulders. Losing their home. Almost losing each other. God, how was he only now feeling how terrible it all was? He’d truly thought he was okay until this very second. “We’re going to make it through this, right?” he asked. He’d been so sure last night, but now…
Carlos pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “Yes. We are.”
                                       XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
A/N: When I started writing this, did I think it would end up in the boys having soft, sweet "we're so glad we're not dead" sex in Owen's guest room? Nope. No I did not. Is it all @bluenet13's fault that it happened? Possibly. Or possibly they're just too sexy and they couldn't help it. Idk.
46 notes · View notes
jamespotterthefirst · 4 years
Text
Most Ardently (Ethan x f!MC)
Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 1,200  Warning: Adult language Premise: Days after her recovery, he tells her of the Pride and Prejudice vibe they apparently give off. Set after the events of Book 2, Chapter 11.
  Quote: “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Tumblr media
The bright beams of moonlight spilling through his window were enough to stir him awake. The first thing he thought of was how he had forgotten to close the curtains shut, as was his custom every night before bed. A slight rustling next to him, however, followed by a sleepy hum reminded him he had been far too busy to remember the damn curtains. 
When she settled further into his side, Ethan smiled, watching her sleeping form, carefully taking in every detail with something akin to urgency. Inexplicably, his chest constricted as he took in the faint dusting of freckles at her nose, the dark fan of lashes splayed in a half moon, her rosy, parted lips that puckered slightly with her breathing. It was almost as if every part of him knew he had been so close to losing her. 
Almost two weeks had elapsed since the attack and the icy terror of losing her still gripped him like an iron fist. His arm flexed on instinct around her as he fought back the remnants of dread, choosing instead to pull her warm body closer to his as irrefutable proof that she was there, right by his side. 
Mere seconds after, Lilac stirred, opening her eyes briefly only to squint at the moonlight. 
“Hey,” she murmured sleepily. 
“Hey,” he returned softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?” 
“It's almost one.”
“Shit. I fell asleep.” 
With a jolt, she pushed away from him, frantically patting the nightstand for her phone. Ethan sat up with a frown, already missing the warmth of her body. 
“Where are you going?” 
Lilac clutched the covers to her front, all traces of sleep gone as she winked at him from over her shoulder. “I've finally had my way with you, Dr. Ramsey. Now for my escape.” 
The playful smile she gave him made his heart leap with elation. Laughing, Ethan reached over and pulled her on top of him with ease. Lilac half shrieked and half laughed, her hips settling comfortably over his, her hands flat against his chest to steady herself. The messy tendrils of her dark hair brushed against his skin, leaving his every sense at her disposal. 
“Now that you have me, you might not be able to get rid of me that easily,” he explained in a serious whisper, their lips almost touching. 
“Good.”
Ethan kissed her, exhilarated by the fact that he didn't have to hold back anymore. Her lips curved into a smile against his, perhaps knowing this too. They pulled away for breath several times, their lips meeting with renewed fervor right after, until they were both practically too dizzy to continue. They caught their breath in silence, basking in a haze of unbridled happiness. 
“I should go home,” she said at last. “We have work in the morning and I don't have a change of clothes.” 
“Sienna brought you an overnight bag. It's in the car.” 
At that, Lilac pushed herself far back enough to give him a stunned look. “She– what?” She blinked several times. “How would she– She doesn't even know–” 
“She knows.” 
This only made Lilac blink in quicker succession, mouth open as her brain struggled to verbalize all her questions. It was entirely too endearing and Ethan couldn't resist leaning in to kiss the tip of her nose. 
“I told her,” he explained. “Though that was unnecessary. You forget she caught me sneaking out of your apartment all those months ago?” 
Lilac's shock slowly melted as she realized this. Soon, her expression relaxed into a grin that gave way to unrestrained laughter. When she couldn't stop, Ethan joined in, shaking his head. 
“I forgot she saw that,” she said when she finally sobered up. “For being two highly intelligent doctors, we can be so stupid sometimes.”
Ethan shrugged. 
“Even if she hadn't seen me leaving that morning, she would have suspected. According to her, we give off a vibe.” 
“A vibe? What kind of vibe?” 
“A Pride and Prejudice vibe.”
At that, her face lit up in a way that made his stomach swoop. 
“I knew you would enjoy that.”
“You absolutely put out Mr. Darcy vibes,” she said, barely restrained joy seeping from every word. 
“Here we go.” 
“Aside from being rich, handsome, and short-tempered—” 
“Short-tempered?” 
“—you are also masterfully good at the longing glances and discreet hand touching.”
“Hand touching? I don't recall—” 
The lie was swiftly interrupted by her impressive recollection. One by one she listed all the stolen glances from across hospital halls and the way his fingers always seemed to find hers. Impressed, he only grinned at her, content in the knowledge that she remembered every instance as vividly as he did. 
Lilac, on the other hand, was too busy circling back to teasing him about Sienna's reference. She cleared her throat, lowered her voice to a supposed imitation of Ethan, and quoted in an impressive English accent: “I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself.”
Ethan rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Despite being the subject of her playful taunts, he was ecstatic to hear her melodic laughter again. 
“My good opinion once lost, is lost forever,” he quoted, earning him an impressed, arched brow from her. 
It should have been embarrassing that even that small gesture was enough to tempt him because he was kissing her again. This time, when they pulled away, she bit her lip, a poor attempt to fight back a broad, radiant smile.
For his own part, Ethan allowed himself to smile as he looked at her, his fingers gently brushing a wayward lock of hair away from her face. Her eyes fluttered closed against his caress, making her nothing less than ethereal in the pale moonlight. The lovely sigh that followed inspired his very blood to buzz alive with warmth, like the spell of a quiet summer evening. 
Unbidden, another quote echoed in his mind, one that was far more fitting to the way his heart pounded fiercely against the confines of his chest— for her. Always for her. 
“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” 
They were words he used to scoff at. 
But now…
He remained perfectly still as their truth dawned on him, casting color and warmth into his every thought. 
Lilac was watching him curiously. “What?” 
His response was a gentle kiss that should have lasted forever. When he pulled away, he did so to kiss her jaw. “You make me so happy.”
Eyes bright, Lilac searched his face with such reverence that Ethan held his breath. Her delicate hand slid from his neck to his chest, right above where his heart thrummed vividly, proving his words true with each beat. Whatever she was looking for, she found because she leaned in and kissed him yet again. 
“Completely and perfectly and incandescently happy?” 
“I know you're back to teasing me about the Austen reference but yes. Completely and perfectly and incandescently happy.”
___________________
Author’s Note: 
Me @ me:
Tumblr media
Sorry. That reference killed me so I had to do this. I felt it in my soul. 
Thank you for reading this! And thank you for all the support you showed “Everything I Wanted” despite all the issues I had posting that one. 
 Love you guys!
-Bree
_______
Tags
@openheart12 | @ethandaddyramsey | @aestheticartsx |  @silverlitskies |  @flyawayboo | @paulfwesley | @hatescapsicum | @myusualnerdyself | @thatysn | @choicesyouplayandmore | @chasingrobbie | @trappedinfandoms | @togetherwearerapture | @nooruleman | @axwalker | @parkerattano | @i-bloody-love-drake-walker | @kaavyaethanramsey | @edith-eggs1| @choices-lurker | @jens-diamondchoices | @tefigranger | @ethanrcmsey | @coffeebeandragon | @senator-adrian-raines-wifey| @binny1985 | @mvalentine | @sanchita012 | @drethanramslay | @ramseysno1rookie | @takeharryandgo | @aworldoffandoms | @desmaranj  | @oofchoices | @ethxnrxmsey | @octobereighth | @kopenheart12 | @lilyvalentine | @honeyandsunfl0wers | @enmchoices | @colossalpainintheass | @rookie-ramsey | @humanpokemon | @apphia12 | @kiara-36 | @eramsey28 |  @custaroonie | @helloblueeyedcat | @dr-ramseys-rookie | @thegreentwin | @decadentwinnerjudgedream | @jeerapp | @doilooklikeiknow | @dulceghernandez | @starrystarrytrouble | @angela8756 | @maurine07 | @blossomanarchy | @openheartthot​
@lion-ess24 | @emotionalswift2 | @the-soot-sprite |
384 notes · View notes
Text
νοσταλγία (Chapter 5)
Tumblr media
νοσταλγία Masterlist
Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)
Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!
Word Count: 3.1k
Warnings: The usual :)
A/N: Hi! I really hope you like this chapter, and that you are enjoying the story so far. I didn’t notice many people reading chapter 4, and it was posted out of schedule, cause I decided every one wednesday I’m gonna post an extra chapter of something related to this story, so just in case I’m linking it here. Thank you for reading, hope you like it, and please let me know what you think!
Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​
Your eyes travel over the ship and its crew without you meaning to, taking in curiously the wooden ship that seems to have two bows instead of one. The sea laps at the worn wood but of course, it holds and breaks the waves with ease as you move further and further away from the city captured by Stithulf and his men.
The salty wind makes a mess of your hair, and you reach up unconsciously to move it out of the way, when the rattling of chains and the weight on your wrists stops you. A bubble of panic, of terror and of impotence starts at your chest, but you shut it down as quickly as you can, refusing to show weakness in front of these Norsemen.
Narses takes a seat on your side, his rough fingers moving your wind-swept hair out of the way so he can press a kiss on your bare neck in greeting. You smile faintly at him, and put your hand on his thigh with ease, ignoring Galla’s stare.
“We will be in Sparta in a matter of days,” The girl informs instead of voicing her real thoughts that you see shining in her dark gaze, and you nod. After a breath, she states, “The Laconians won’t take happily to the last of Lysander’s blood marrying a Thebesian.”
“I was raised by a Varangian and we just lost the war I decided to start,” You inform her without stopping to think about the pain of defeat, “Do you truly believe the biggest of their concerns is who I’m taking to bed?”
“I love you too, dear.” Narses states dryly under his breath, and you turn to him, offering him a smile that he returns with ease, promising he was jesting.
“My advice, little one?” Sieghild calls out, and you three turn to watch the Varangian approach you from the stern of the trireme. Without waiting for your answer, the redhead continues, “Do not pretend not to have your share of arrogance, of pride. Embrace it, for you are of Spartan blood. Embrace their brutality, their pride, their strength. Show weakness once and you will be like a lamb surrounded by lions.”
You look into her green eyes, and something in her words makes you think she speaks from experience. Rorik, your mind recalls, and you feel a pang of pain for your mother, but don’t say anything about it.
“You sound proud of the Laconians, Varangian.” Galla teases around a smile, leaning back on the wooden edge.
“Nothing on Viking berserkers,” She dismisses without hesitation before turning to you again, “But your blood is that of warriors, little one. And…you are my daughter, I raised you,” She points an inked finger your way, a threat and a caution, “and Viking women don’t raise lambs.”
“Priestess,” You captor calls out arrogantly, taking your attention away from your memories and your eyes away from the sea. King Ivar sits on a wooden crate by one of the edges of the ship, his hands toying with his crutch as he watches you.
When you lift your eyebrows, he motions for a place at his side, “Come sit with me.”
Sieghild’s horror stories of what Vikings do to prisoners, how they fight, how they kill, return to your mind like passing memories, setting your nerves alight and making your heart pound in your chest. It unnerves you more than unbridled rage, this courtesy.
You stand your ground and spit back, “Thinking I will jump ship?”
The Viking looks at you with a terrifying smile on his face, like he is reminding you of winning a fight you didn’t know you partook in. “You know, I went through a lot of trouble to find you.” He says, fingers near his mouth as his clear eyes roam over your red clad figure.
“Am I to be impressed?” You ask, your own eyes narrowed. You are well aware you are playing with fire, but whatever ought to happen to you will happen regardless of how you act. And granting the Varangian the satisfaction of seeing how scared, how unmoored, how exposed you feel is something you want to avoid.
Instead of holding your gaze, the Viking looks over your shoulder and gestures with a hand.
The sharp edge of a battle axe setting silently at the side of your neck brings you to stiff attention and forces all the breath out your lungs. The warrior that holds it looks ahead, you notice through a side-glace, keeping obedient eyes on his King.
“Ivar, is this really necessary?” The voice of the Viking that saved your skin in Stithulf’s docks breaks the silence. You watch the young man straighten in his place, biting into an apple but keeping his eyes on the King.
“She’s my prize, brother.” King Ivar reminds him, a dangerous edge to his voice that lets loose a new kind of tension in the air.
The two brothers remain still, measuring each other for a few moments, before the Prince sighs and desists, walking away into somewhere in the ship you cannot see.
So this is what you have been reduced to: a spoiled King’s plaything. Delightful.
The King turns his attention back to you, and the cold that runs down your spine when you face his pale eyes makes the blade of the axe sitting at your neck nothing but a bonus.
Viking women don’t raise lambs.
You straighten your spine and stare him down, daring him even when you know how dangerous it is to do so. And you could swear the beginning of a smile teases at Ivar’s lips.
In answer to your previous question, as if pretending the interaction with his brother didn’t happen, the King says,
“You are smarter than that,” He dismisses, and the blade leaves its place at the side of your neck silently. Still, you say nothing in response, so he gestures again to the empty space at his side, “Sit.”
You bite your tongue and take the seat, eyeing him coldly and angrily the entire time. This only seems to please him further, and it is infuriating and terrifying.
“Why am I here, King Ivar?” You ask quietly instead of voicing other thoughts, and look into his eyes trying to find any attempt to lie.
“I will explain later,” He says simply, the arrogance of a spoiled child in the gesture of his hand that you grit your teeth at, but say nothing. He looks up at you, his chin turned downwards and if you didn’t know better the gesture would look innocent. The King starts again, “And now you say my name, so I think I should finally know yours.”
You kept your name a secret for a long time, from many a man. Not that it means anything, not that it carries any value anymore. But…it is yours. It is yours to invoke and to know, yours to voice, yours to give away.
Names bind us, names define us; that’s what Attica taught you. Names are dangerous things when one aims to be free, because names chain us. To a family, to a legacy, to an ideal, to a home. To nostalgia.
You didn’t want Ivar knowing your name then, the same way you didn’t want to acknowledge his, because it wouldn’t make you two just…you two. It would make you Daughter of Athens, Heir to Sparta, Anassa of the Attics. It would make him King of Kattegat, Son of Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar the Boneless.
But those hopes of escaping a world of chains and burdens, it was so foolish and childish you feel not only regret but embarrassment at how you almost thought you could trust the man now before you. Those hopes that you could be anything more than a witch, a queen, a betrothed; those hopes escaped you when they put chains on your wrists.
So, you tell him quietly, and ignore the pang of…something in your chest when he tries the foreign syllables in his tongue a few times.
“Now you know all my secrets, King Ivar. Happy?” You ask dryly, looking at him from the corner of your eye as your face turns to the sea.
He hums to himself, clearly not believing you, but stays silent for the time being, and as time trickles down you realize you feel less and less eyes on the two of you. If his fame is to be believed, him taking a prisoner alive is reason of curiosity if not outright disbelief, so you try not to think too much of it.
“You didn’t tell me you were their Queen.” The Viking starts, and you shrug.
“My kingdom is ashes, and my people are dead. I have no interest in being queen over death,” You reply almost mechanically, but then catch yourself and frown his way, “You didn’t tell me you were counting on making me a prisoner, either.”
The anger is clear in his face as he sighs, his head moving slightly with the movement. Angering him shouldn’t delight you the way it does, for it may mean pain and death for you, but the glimpse of something real, something that is because of you, that brings control back to you; is enough and more than worth it.
“You are not a prisoner.” He grits out, but all you do is lift your shackled hands in response.
His gaze holds yours for a few moments, his jaw set tight. But you remain still and trying with all your might that your expression doesn’t betray your fear, your anxiety, your pain.
His loud bark of a name startles you, but you stay still as he motions for the warrior he called up to remove your chains. After a moment of hesitation, the young Viking approaches you, kneeling in front of you and making quick work of the iron bindings.
Soon enough the shackles around your wrists fall to the floor. You refuse to show the relief your sore skin feels at the newfound freedom, instead murmuring a thanks to the warrior as he takes his leave away from the two of you.
Lifting your eyes to the King, you raise your eyebrows at his almost expectant silence, “I am not thanking you.”
But he only smiles, and you could swear there’s an edge of hunger in his pale eyes.
____
Apollo’s chariot is almost at the end of its journey when the rattling of chains startles you from restless sleep, the monotonous movement of the ship having lulled you to sleep on a corner of the ship not so subtly guarded by the King like a dog protecting an old bone.
Two chained women who you assume to be slaves given as part of Stithulf’s deal with Ivar turn wide eyes to you as they see you move, huddled together a few feet from you.
Your eyes sweep the area around you and you find no trace of the King, but a glimpse of the man that announced himself as Hvitserk keeping vigilant eyes on you from the distance tells you the King hasn’t let go of this particular bone yet.
Still, you turn to the women.
“Are you injured?” You ask in a poor attempt at their language, and while one of them seems to consider your question for a moment the other grips a necklace at her throat and mutters something to herself. Of course, their cross can protect them from the Mediterranean witch, how could you forget. Gritting your teeth, you look away, unable to avoid the sting of shame and hurt.
Stealing a glance to the Prince that lingers with his watchful gaze on you as he eats an apple, you stand up on stiff legs and roll your shoulders as you walk to a part of the ship away from the women but also away from most of the Vikings.
The presence of the King behind you is not silent, the heavy stabs of the crutch on the wooden floor of the ship letting you know he approaches. But even without those sounds, you ponder, you’d still feel his curious and cruel eyes set upon you, like you do now.
The Viking calls your name, and you face him to see he is offering you a knife, handle turned to you.
Your wide eyes go from the small blade in his bandaged hand, up his arm and up to meet his own eyes, but the King does not falter, still offering you the weapon.
“What are…Why are you offering me that?”
“It’s yours,” He promises, moving his hand and inciting you to take it. With caution, you do, closing your fingers around the circular handle and bringing the knife close to you. Leaning back, seemingly satisfied, the King says, “After stealing it from me and almost gauging out that Saxon’s eye, Priestess, you have earned yourself a weapon.”
You do not know if he means it as a compliment or a patronizing way of recognizing what you did, so of course you respond with a curl of your lip and looking down at the knife.
“You are certain I won’t use it against you?” You ask before you can stop yourself, but the King only huffs a breath.
“It would be interesting to see you try, Priestess.”
“I may not be like one of your shieldmaidens but I know how to hurt.” You offer, if a bit defensive, raising your eyes to meet his.
But Ivar smiles, and although the darkness in his expression doesn’t surprise you, the hunger in it does.
“That’s the thing, Priestess, you hurt,” A small, cruelly delighted laugh leaves his lips as he regards you like he did on that carnage that occurred outside of the city’s walls. “You could have done so much with that knife in your small hand, and you kno this. You could have slit your own throat, killed yourself before becoming a ‘Varangian’s prisoner’; you could have tried to kill me, punished me for putting chains on you,” His eyes are intense when his smile quietens, when his expression, although just as hungry and dark, becomes more a truth than a mask. Ivar’s voice drops when he promises, “You could have killed Stithulf. But you didn’t. You want him dead, but you didn’t kill him.”
You force your gaze away from his in what feels like an acceptance of defeat, and grit your teeth, trying to ignore the memory of blood on your lips. It tasted sweet when it shouldn’t have.
“I am not like you, I do not…delight myself with death, my King.” You offer still, reminding yourself you will not let the cruel nature of the man that imprisoned you change your own.
“That man you killed in that field,” Your body freezes in your seat, for a moment the errant thought of having killed someone he wants revenge for making your blood run cold. The King leans an elbow on his iron-encased thigh, his face close to yours, eyes intent on reading your every expression, “Why did you do it?”
“What? H-He would have killed me.”
“Was it just that that made you do it?” He insists, voice a purr and even if phrased as a question he looks into your eyes like he knows the answer.
“Yes.” You reply stiffly, teeth gritted.
The King laughs darkly, gesturing with his hand as if attempting to placate you. You do not, and instead of voicing whatever the blood in your veins wants you to -and get you killed for-, you bite your tongue.
“Then, if it was just survival, just a woman of the Gods defending herself; why is it that you want Stithulf dead, Priestess?” Ivar asks, voice dark and eyes with that same intensity as if he looks past the title turned burden that your people gave you and sees the parts of you that fill you with shame and regret. The Viking leans even closer, and continues, “I know you want him dead. And you don’t want to give him a clean death, he does not deserve it. You want to make him bleed, you want to make him scream; like you did to that warrior in the field.
You remain frozen in place, enthralled and terrified all at once. The King leans even closer, or maybe you do, and your breaths are almost one.
He watches you with that same intensity that he did from across the battlefield, where you stood in shaky ground with blood on your face, your mouth, your hands, your dress.
“I saw you, remember that. It was not a vow to your Gods that made you bash his face with the shield until he couldn’t fight anymore, it was not your desire to return to your…peaceful city that made you rip out his skin with your teeth, your Goddess did not kill him pushing that arrow into his eye.” You can only look back at him, eyes wide and heart beating fast. Ivar’s smile widens, tip of his pink tongue tracing his lower lip before he rasps out, “No, it was none of that…was it?”
I wanted to kill him, I wanted to make him scream in pain. I wanted to make him pay for what his brothers in arms did to mine, to Narses.
In his face I saw the face of every man that thought he could raise a hand to me, that silenced me, that wanted to take what’s mine.
But you refuse to voice those thoughts, you refuse to let that part of you breathe, and instead hiss,
“I come from a kingdom of peace and civility, and no matter what assumptions you make, I shall not forget that.” You tell him, almost feeling you are talking to yourself, repeating to yourself the same thoughts that you’ve been forcing into your mind for years now.
It is wrong to want death. It is wrong to want blood. It is wrong to want chaos.
You cannot find your belonging surrounded by death and iron, you tell yourself, but a whisper in the back of your mind offers: you will not find your belonging amongst flowers.
So you force your eyes to focus on the horizon of the sea meeting the sky all around you, not daring to even breathe.
“Of course, your home of flower fields and warmth.” He mocks, and although you steal a glance his way, your stomach lurching at his taunt, you say nothing else.
Admitting you starved in the flower fields of Eleusis, admitting you chased war and death like old friends asking you to dance, admitting your drive to deny the Byzantine Christians their foothold in Attica was more than the desire for freedom; it would all mean that your people died for nothing more than a fraud, that the priestess they followed and loved was a mirage, that you failed not only your legacy but yourself.
It would mean you are not your mother’s daughter, it would mean the baby they decided would be a follower of the Goddess of Spring failed the Gods themselves by craving chaos.
____
Hi, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this, I hope you like where it is going. I’d love to know what you think of this story so far!
Ik some correlations to the myth are very on-the-nose here, and they will continue to be bc that’s the point of the story, but we’ll pretend the Priestess can’t tell, for suspension of disbelief’s sake lol.
145 notes · View notes
cotncandyboifics · 3 years
Text
The Bidding of the Prince Twins: Chapter 2
AO3 Link
Masterpost
Chapter 1 ~
Pairings: (vague/qpr) Loceit, eventual Analoceit
Word count: 2,961
Story summary: Virgil finds himself being held hostage in an unknown location. His two suspected captors seem to care for him more than any strangers should, especially strangers who kidnapped him. But were they really the ones who kidnapped him? That aside, Virgil also can't shake the feeling that there's something familiar about them. He just can't pin-point what it is. As time passes, the layers of lies the three of them are caught in are gradually peeled away, one by one.
General CW: U!Roman, U!Remus, food, kidnapping, implied Stockholm Syndrome, moderate to severe amnesia, swearing, sexual innuendos, graphic descriptions of gore/violence/scarring, minor character d-aths, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, non-graphic descriptions of needles, graphic and non-graphic descriptions of physical pain, (will be added to as I write more)
Chapter CW: Unsympathetic!Roman, Unsympathetic!Remus, food, moderate amnesia, kidnapping hostage, swearing, non-graphic descriptions of physical pain, (let me know if i missed anything please!)
Author Notes: <none>
...
Virgil woke up to an abundance of soft fabric surrounding him. He was groggy as all hell, and immediately felt a small ache coming from his left outer thigh. He grunted to himself as he tried to shift around - turns out his whole body was sore and aching to the bone. He managed to flop himself onto his back, only entangling himself deeper in the lush fabric that was practically engulfing him.
As he felt around him, he came to the ingenious conclusion that he was in a very soft bed. Likely a double, since he had more room to sprawl out than he usually did at home in his twin. He finally decided to try at opening his eyes.
He shied away from the light as he had before, but this time it was far less intense and concentrated on him. In fact, it seemed to be dim and gentle for the express purpose of providing a more docile mood than last time. He was able to turn his head in a wobbling jolt, and found that the only active source of light in the room was a yellow-bulbed lamp that sat cozily on the bedside table to his left.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Virgil recognized J's voice from across the room. He tried to sit up, and was somehow successful in his semi-panicked state, but set his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut as his head pounded in response to his unwanted movement. He cursed under his breath. "I see you slept well," J's voice was as snarky as ever.
When Virgil got his bearings enough to open his eyes, he looked around the room, trying not to move his head too much.
There wasn't much in the room. On the opposite wall was a very large mirror set into the wall - not a very discrete false mirror, Virgil mused to himself. Set in the top corners of the mirror were two rectangular black boxes that appeared to be small speakers. A nice carpet beneath his bed stretched half the length of the room, which then gave way to cement. A metal chair welded to the floor just above a drain was in the middle of the far side, beyond the carpet. In the far right corner, an opaque glass door with a metal frame, and Virgil could see the glint of tiles beneath the raised bottom of the door. On the far side of the left wall, there was a heavy-looking metal door that was bolted shut, with one small window at head height and one at the floor. Just beyond the door, in a fold-out metal chair, sat who Virgil assumed to be J.
He was sitting with his legs crossed, hands folded over one knee. He eyed Virgil from behind light-brown golden bangs that curled around and over the brim of his black bowler hat. Virgil couldn't make out his face well from where he was, but he could see that, while one of his eyes was a deep chocolate brown, the other was a nearly pale-white, and a very long and jagged scar ran vertically up through his eye from the edge of his jawline, along with a few other scars on that same right side of his face that ran across his cheek or down his neck and below his collar.
J stood swiftly, and started stepping toward Virgil cautiously. Virgil scowled, considering hissing at him or trying to get away, but his physical state combined with a strange gentleness he detected in the man's eyes kept him quiet and planted in place.
Janus sat on the edge of the bed, never taking his eyes off Virgil, who quietly gulped at the other man's closeness. "Virgil," J addressed after a momentary staring contest. "Will you answer me something?" J's voice was sweet and silky again, but this time it felt far less forced to Virgil somehow.
"Depends on what it is," he narrowed his eyes at J slightly. J only smirked at that, but any expected condescending tone had dissipated before he spoke again.
J leaned closer to Virgil, searching his eyes, before continuing. "Tell me. Do you recognize me in any way?"
That was certainly not what Virgil had been expecting. He scoffed. "y'know, I think I would remember meeting someone with-" He cut himself off, and J didn't miss how his pupils dilated slightly. "hmm," he hummed after a moment of searching J's face almost feverishly.
"...no?" It almost sounded as though some sort of hope J had been holding onto was dissipated, dissolving into oblivion with that single small word.
"I thought... no. No, I don't." Virgil's tone was unsure as he continued to search J's features like a blind mouse surrounded by the scent of cheese. J pursed his lips and sighed in defeat, looking away.
"That's good, I suppose," J mused, seemingly to himself. Virgil was growing more confused by the second. He knew there was something familiar about this man, but that feeling he was chasing the tail end of seemed to be detached from any memories he may have had of seeing him before. Eventually Virgil gave up, looking down at his lap.
"I thought L said you guys were only coming in together," Virgil's voice came out much smaller than he wanted it to. J opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden static noise shot through Virgil's ears and it felt as though it was scraping the inside of his skull. The sound was gone sooner than it began, before Virgil could cover his ears, and L's voice came through from the two speakers set in the frame of the false mirror, distorted and somewhat spooky.
"Hello Virgil. I am watching through this false mirror. At this time, only J can reveal his physical appearance to you, as it is less likely to jeopardize our assignment." J groaned, throwing his head back, and Virgil wondered if it bothered him that L kept calling it (whatever "it" was) an assignment. "However, you will be... meeting me, face to face, very soon. For now, J and I assumed you'd be more comfortable with a softly lit room, as opposed to pitch darkness." With that, the static sound returned for a moment, and was followed by silence. Virgil trained his eyes on the false mirror, wondering where exactly L was behind it. He scoffed yet again.
"What do you two care if I'm comfortable?" He hissed, glaring from the mirror to J, who was still sitting beside him. He considered his words for a moment, letting his angry expression fall away. He looked from the soft bed to the dim lamp, and realized that J and L clearly did want him to be at least somewhat comfortable.
"This is not meant to be a torturous experience." J's near whisper of a statement coalesced with Virgil's train of thought. he stared forward blankly, and Virgil quietly waited in his surprise to see if he would explain further. "We don't have a choice in this, as much as you don't. We-"
"J, I think that's enough for now," L's voice came through the speakers again, and J's eyes widened as he turned part way to face the mirror.
"Yes, perhaps you are right." Virgil hadn't expected that. Then again, he hadn't expected to get kidnapped by two strangely familiar men that he seemed to be developing some sick and twisted attraction for, despite how he had despised the concept of Stockholm Syndrome his whole life.
J seemed lost in thought, not moving for a long moment. Then he stood, glancing at Virgil with an unbridled sadness, before pacing to the large metal door, undoing the mechanical locks with a very long string of numbers entered into a keypad. There was a buzzing and the door shuddered open, and Janus slipped through quickly before pushing it shut hastily from the other side. The door immediately relocked itself when it was shut.
Virgil almost laughed at the half-assed security that was just displayed, but remembered he could scarcely move his legs, let alone stand or walk. He flopped backward on the bed.
After a short moment alone, there was a sound of scraping metal, though much smaller and more high-pitched than that of the door opening. A small tray of food slid through the opening at the base of the door. Virgil shifted in the bed to try to get up, but quickly gave in again to the aching soreness that was racking his body. He'd get the food later.
...
"Janus, what the hell was that?" Logan hissed through clenched teeth as Janus opened the door to their observation room. He slowly stepped over to the chair nearest to the door and dropped defeatedly into it, staring blankly forward at nothing in particular. A single heavy tear rolled down his cheek from his unblinded eye. Logan sighed frustratedly from the chair beside him in an almost-growl. "We cannot risk allowing our emotions to interfere with-"
"Oh can't we, Logan?" Janus fumed, whipping his head around to stare Logan down. "I could have said the same god damn thing to you yesterday. The way you spoke to him did so little to disguise your empathy for him that I nearly slapped you across the face then and there." Logan breathed a scoff after a moment, mostly amazed that he was being told off by Janus- the two had been in (objectively) much more strenuous situations together in the past, and never, never had Janus actually snapped at him. "I'm sorry having to interrogate him was your breaking point, but having your life-long friend look you in the face and tell you he doesn't recognize you is- is mine."
Logan waited a few beats of silence, trying to discipline the brash tone of his voice into something more manageable and clinical. "Janus. We knew this would happen. The amnesia is a direct side effect of the required doses. Assuming everything is working according to plan, he will not recognize me either when I see him tomorrow."
Janus' jaw was set, and he bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood. "Easier said than experienced, Jackson." Logan cringed at the use of his last name. "See how it makes you feel when he's got those eyes trained on you without a single trace of recognition."
With that, Janus stood, tromping away and gone with a slam of the door.
Logan stared unfocused in the general direction of where Janus had been, pursing his lips in thought. After long enough of that, he turned his attention back to the laptop before him, deciding it would be best to just get back to work.
...
The rest of Virgil's day was extremely uneventful and boring. He gradually mustered the strength to go eat, sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall as he picked at buttered mashed potatoes and some kind of flavorless meat. He took his time, not hungry enough to finish it quickly but bored enough to keep working at the meal. Eventually he was down to just crumbs and little smeared spots of mash. Still, he finished it all, cleaning the entire tray of any organic substance. Although then, he found himself having to search for a new source of entertainment.
He looked around for a while, from where he was sitting on the floor beside the heavy metal door. He noticed some white stuff sticking to certain parts of the metal chair welded to the floor, and assumed they were remnants of the duct tape from his interrogation session yesterday, or whenever that had happened.
From there he started spiraling about how long he'd been in "solitary confinement" as he'd dubbed it, but quickly tried to avert his attention; he knew panicking about something he very clearly could do nothing about would just make things harder for himself. He took a few slow deep breaths.
Opening his eyes again, he searched the room more thoroughly. There were a few visible dust bunnies under the bed, but the exposed carpet looked freshly vacuumed. The lampshade was positively covered in dust. There was a single caged lightbulb that looked very heavy-duty set in the very center of the ceiling, but it looked burnt out. On the other side of the door beside him, Virgil could see the outline of the edge of a light switch that must have been removed. In the far corner of the room, on the opposite side of his bed, a single long crack ran crookedly up the cement wall, just shy of touching the ceiling.
He looked to the glass door in the furthest corner of the room, watching as the tiles visible on the floor past it gleamed. Wait.
If the tiles were reflecting some sort of light- did that mean there was a window?
Virgil scrambled to his feet, dropping the food tray with a few loud clacks on the floor. He winced at the sound, but maintained his attention as he beelined for the door. He yanked it open a little too hard, and felt his shoulder ache slightly.
It was a small box of a room. There was a toilet, sink and shower all lined up uncomfortably close to each other on the wall Virgil faced. There were two cups on the sink, one on either side of the faucet; both looked well-cleaned, and one had a brand-new toothbrush resting in it along with a small tube of toothpaste. Above the sink there were indentations in the wall, as though there'd been a mirror there at one point that got taken down. The shower was really just a showerhead hanging from the ceiling directly above a small circular drain that the tile pattern dipped slightly at. There were two twist knobs on the wall above said drain, one marked with a red H and the other a mostly scratched off blue C. A small white soap bar sat on a little porcelain protrusion in the wall beside the knobs. And of course...
No window. There was just a vent with a cage drilled to the wall surrounding it set high in the corner of one wall, and a single industrial-looking light in the center of the ceiling that looked identical to the one in the main room. Virgil sighed, rubbing his temples.
He didn't know what else to do, and figured this was the only way to get certain privacy. So he pulled his shirt off lazily, shoving his pants and underwear off. He turned to see himself in the mirror, only to be immediately reminded that the only mirror was in fact just an observation tool. He wouldn't be able to really look at himself without feeling his guts whirl unpleasantly until he could get out.
If he ever did.
He twisted the cold nob around once, and didn't touch the hot. The pipes in the wall shook audibly for a moment, and then a surprisingly steady water pressure spilt over his hair and back. The water was cold, as promised, and Virgil fought a shiver as he felt his skin erupt in goosebumps.
After a moment of enjoying the coolness against his previously quite hot skin, he realized that a cold shower would likely hurt more than help his muscle situation. He groaned to himself and turned the hot knob around two and a half times.
The water changed surprisingly quickly, but not suddenly. Virgil adjusted to the gentle heat, relishing the steam that surrounded him and made it easy to keep his dark thoughts from taking over.
...
Remus Prince sat impatiently, leaning forward in the drivers seat to stare down the stoplight above threateningly. He thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel to keep himself from slapping his obnoxious, dramatic excuse for a brother in the passenger seat across the face.
"Yes hello, I'd like an iced Venti Chai Latte with - excuse me, ma'am, are you going- excuse me, will you allow me to finish my sentence?" Roman had always been disrespectful toward service workers, and it had always irked Remus. Though, he knew yelling at his brother now would only make it worse for the employee.
Finally the light changed, and Remus stepped on the gas slightly too fast, jerking Roman forward. He made offended noises as he continued conferring with the Starbucks employee on the other end of the line.
"Yes. Precisely. Thank you." His tone suggested he was anything but thankful, and Remus growled vaguely at him. Roman just side-winked at him, with his stupid smile on full display. "Yes, that'll be for Roman Prince."
Remus couldn't hear very well what the person on the other line had been saying before, but this time he did hear a "...is this a prank call?" after a beat of silence. Roman smirked to himself.
"No, my dear, it is indeed not." With that, Roman hung up.
As Roman set his phone down, Remus' received a notification and lit up. He grunted, non-verbally asking his brother to check it. Roman grabbed the phone lazily, and Remus saw his brother's smirk widen into a sick grin out the corner of his eye. Remus grinned at the road ahead, teeth slightly too sharp to be human sticking out grotesquely in a few too many directions.
"Shall we see how our boys are doing?" Roman connected his brother's phone to the car speaker system, pressing play on the audio file they'd been sent.
There was a slight static fuzz, before a voice could be heard. "Good morning, sleeping beauty." The twins both immediately huffed a laugh as they recognized Janus' voice coming through the car speakers.
"I see you slept well."
24 notes · View notes
crimsonrae · 3 years
Text
Disintegration
Chapter Three
Tumblr media
Summary: He witnessed the worst night of her life, he just never expected for her to become the love of his life.
KlausxCami
Warnings: Mentions of Domestic Abuse.
Rating: Mature
A/N: Something of a slow burn between Camille and Klaus. There is quite of bit of ground to cover. In the next chapter or two, there will be limited interactions between them if any. I'll explain more about why Marnie Taylor is important and what exactly Klaus is up to as we go on. Please read, comment, and enjoy. I really do appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you!
Chapter Three
"Mr. O'Connell -"
"This family has supported this university for decades -"
"Mr. O'Connell!" Dean Shaln interjected with exasperated force.
Camille couldn't fault his ire as he barely refrained from glaring at her red-faced father. Callan O'Connell was not handling the news of her expulsion well and had been on a steady rant for almost five minutes. He spoke over the harried dean with a single-minded determination that she would have found impressive if she hadn't been wishing she was anywhere else.
She hadn't been surprised by Dean Shaln's decree. She had attacked Scott in a public area on campus with hundreds of witnesses. It was the school's responsibility to keep its students safe and Camille had destroyed that sense of safety with one quick swipe of a beer bottle. She was now termed a risk to the student body and must therefore be removed. It was a shame that they hadn't deemed Scott the same risk.
If only they had seen the purple bruises and bloodied clothes of her roommate. If only, Scott had been dumb enough to hit her in the presence of another person. If only Marnie had said something...
To make matters worse, Camille had received a handful of anonymous notes, thanking her for her aggressive actions. One wishing she had done more to the predatory asshole. Tears had crawled down her cheeks as she had read each carefully penned word. In true horror, she hadn't realized the extent to which Scott had been getting away with his abuse. There had been at least three other women who had suffered silently at his hands.
"Your family's support is not in question. Your daughter's actions are." Shaln huffed with an indignant calm, "I understand she was acting in defense of her roommate but considering Ms. Taylor has yet to come forward to corroborate Camille's side, there is little I can do. There is a zero-tolerance policy on violence which your daughter was aware of when she signed the admittance paperwork. I'm sorry, but her expulsion stands."
"This is ridiculous!" Callan growled.
Cami could see him gathering air as he prepared to launch his next attack. She barely smothered a sigh. Instead, her focus turned toward the worry that gnawed at her gut like an incessant pest. Marnie hadn't been seen since Thursday night. Camille hadn't known the hospital had released her friend mere minutes after she had left her side. Her calls had gone unanswered, as had countless texts. She didn't think that Scott had managed to do anything to his girlfriend in the few short hours that Camille had been away from either... but she couldn't shake her sense of dread.
She silently prayed that Marnie had decided to lay low in hopes of making a clean break from Scott.
"Callan."
Camille stiffened at the sound of her mouther's voice. She had nearly forgotten the older woman was there...nearly.
Vivian O'Connell hadn't spoken beyond the standard pleasantries at the start of the meeting. She had sat calm, cool, and collected with near regal poise as she listened to both men and, to a certain extent Cami, as she answered questions and defended her actions. Even now, her voice was no more than a low murmur, but it effectively cut through and silenced her irate husband.
Callan turned his jade gaze – so similar to Cami's unto his wife in quiet askance.
Vivian smiled politely, "I think we've heard enough. I've arranged a meeting with the school board later this week. We will be withdrawing our funding, as will the Travis, Beaufort, and Bendecott families."
Dean Shaln paled as she listed the top three financial providers for the university. He had forgotten that Vivian O'Connell belonged to the Beaufort family and had strong ties with the other two, "Mrs. O'Conell, I hardly think that necessary."
"I do." Vivian stated stalwartly, "You talk of the safety of the students, but you have failed to address the issue of Scott Nebroski. According to campus police, the accusations that Camille has levied against him have not been the first. There have been others and yet, he remained here. Preying on the young women of this campus. This entire situation could have been avoided if you had simply expelled the so-called victim of this fiasco when he had initially been brought to your attention."
"There had been no substantive evidence of Mr. Nebroski's wrongdoing. I cannot expel a student on hearsay." Shaln defended quietly, but even Camille could hear the feebleness of his response.
Vivian snorted and Cami arched a brow at the unusually crass action, "And what would be substantive evidence, Mr. Shaln? Does a young girl need to be bleeding out in front of you? Does she need to be lying in a hospital bed or perhaps dead before you take action? It's clear that the needs and safety of the women here are not taken into proper consideration."
"Mrs. O'Connell -"
"Perhaps this will change your mind." Vivian continued as if she hadn't been interrupted and Camille watched bemused as her mother pulled a folded paper from her purse. It took her a moment to recognize the paper as one of the notes that had been left for her.
She blanched and opened her mouth in protest, "Mom!"
"Hush, Camille." Vivian reproached dismissively, "That was left for Camille. She has received several others. It's shameful that it took the actions of my daughter to put an end to this monster's reign and even that remains ambiguous. Someone here should have listened sooner."
Cami bit her tongue as she kept back an invective remark. She hadn't realized her mother had seen the notes on her desk. Unbridled anger and a hint of helplessness coursed through her veins as she watched the note slide into the Dean's hands. Those letters had been private – intimate. And while logically Camille knew that these tokens of gratitude had the potential to help her out of this mess, she hadn't wanted to spread these girls' secrets. Their pain wasn't hers to share.
The Dean merely gave the note a passing glance and Cami knew then he wouldn't read it. And if he did, he wouldn't understand.
Vivian seemed to sense the same as she arched a cold brow, "I believe we're done here. I'll be seeing you at the board meeting, Mr. Shaln."
No one missed the emphasis that she placed on the mister and Camille had no doubt that he would be out of the job by the end of the month. Her mother was many things, but ineffective had never been one.
In tense silence, the trio exited the Dean's office as he quietly followed. Shaln, by his grace, made no attempt at empty platitudes. The resignation in his façade said it all. Cami almost felt a shine of pity for the man.
"Dean Shaln, your one o'clock is here."
"Thank you, Ms. Lankam."
The quiet aside was summarily ignored by the O'Connell family. Camille could see that her father wanted to make one more cutting remark and she averted her gaze from the burgeoning spectacle. Feelings of embarrassment, and frustration were threatening to overwhelm her as it was... It was then that her gaze landed on Dean Shaln's next appointment.
A growingly familiar figure turned toward the office door and Camille found herself caught in the dully curious currents of an oceanic gaze.
Klaus.
She blinked, wondering dimly if she were imagining him. It couldn't be a coincidence that he was standing here.
"Camille." Klaus murmured with a crooked smile that danced somewhere between polite and lecherously charming, "A pleasure to see you so soon."
"Klaus - what?" She sputtered befuddled.
His smile widened slightly at her fumble, "We need to stop running into each other like this, lest I begin to think you're stalking me, love. Though I could think of worse stalkers to have."
Camille was considerably less amused. Any other time, she was sure that she would have found him charming and flirted back, but her morning had been fraught with tension, and her desire to maim or runaway – both equally appealing – roiled too close to the surface.
She refrained from rolling her eyes as she pursed her lips, "Considering I was here first, I believe that would make you the stalker, not me."
"Camille."
Cami winced, not needing to turn to picture her mother's face. The imperviously impassive mask that catered to an ice-cold stare as she studied Klaus. Vivian would have the appearance of civility with the bearing of a disdainful queen as she called her daughter to heel.
Reluctantly, she followed Klaus's curious gaze, barely noting the quiet words that her father was harshly imparting to the Dean.
No.
As for the hundredth time in the past five days her world was squandered by her mother's quiet disapproval. Disapproval which she had unwittingly extended to Klaus by simply participating in their little exchange, she was sure.
She was suddenly thankful she had his number. She would have to call and apologize to him later for whatever was about to occur.
Vivian dismissed Klaus with a flicker of her lashes, "It's time we leave. Say goodbye to your... friend."
It was insane how quickly Camille descended into her thirteen-year-old self at those words. A large part of her wanted to die from embarrassment from being ordered about like a child, another wanted to huff and start a fight, but by some strand of control, she did neither.
She gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing dangerously as she missed the morbid interest in Klaus's near rapturous observation.
Cami turned back to him, forcing a smirk that looked more like a scowl. Humor gazed back at her and she was torn between making a biting remark at him and truly smiling. She didn't want to like his enjoyment of her discomfort, "Well, stalker, it looks like we'll have to pick this up some other time."
Klaus arched a brow, but inclined his head in agreement, "I look forward to it, love. Perhaps another round of question for a question. I remember you have quite a few."
"As if you don't." Cami murmured with a softer smile, "It is good seeing you, Klaus. I'll call you."
"Will you?" His question was teasing but his eyes were daring her to stand by her words.
"Mr. Mikaelson?"
Again, the duo was broken from their bubble. This time Klaus was the one to grit his teeth as he acknowledged the Dean's summons.
"It seems we really must part ways." Klaus muttered before he stepped forward and placed a kiss to her cheek, "I look forward to that phone call."
Just as the last time, Camille felt a blush rise to her face as his bold actions. She barely blinked, only to find that he was no longer before her, but stepping into the office she had just vacated.
"I thought you were dating that other boy."
Cami barely suppressed a sigh, "Ian, mother. His name is Ian. And Klaus is merely a … well, Klaus."
Terming him a friend hardly seemed appropriate, but she would say he was more than an acquaintance. He was an enigma, a nice distraction from the foibles of her current situation. A distraction that she couldn't afford to fall headlong into, she acknowledged quietly... because as nice as it was to flirt and forget with him, Klaus came with the added danger of being trouble. Her attraction wasn't one-sided, and temptation could make her disloyal. She had no desire to betray her boyfriend in that manner.
With that thought in mind, Cami made the decision to not call Klaus. He would be no more than a passing guy in a bar that had engaged her interest for a short while.
Unaware of her daughter's meandering thoughts or disappointed resolve, Vivian merely hummed knowingly. She was not blind to the sparks the couple emitted in their short conversation, but truly Camille's taste in paramours was the least of her concerns, "Well, I'm sure Ivan is waiting for you at the dorm. We best get you packed."
Cami bit her tongue for what felt like the hundredth time. Her mother knew full well that Ivan was not his name, but these little slights were Vivian's way of reinforcing her dislike for Ian. She had done it with every single one of Camille's boyfriends. As infuriating as it was, the familiar rebuke also brought her a strange sense of comfort. Her mother passive-aggressively dismissing and critiquing her life was normal... Cami needed normal.
"Where's dad?" Cami asked as she noticed that he was no longer residing in the front office. Only Ms. Lankam remained as she diligently ignored the women from behind her computer.
"Oh, he stormed off in a huff. You know how he is and that famous Irish temper of his." Vivian murmured quietly a weary gleam entering her grey gaze, "Something that you've inherited."
Cami sighed, "Mom... I know you're not happy with me."
Her mother raised her hand to forestall any further defense and gestured for her to follow her out the building, "I didn't raise you to be a violent woman, but I will not rebuke you for what you did to that... well, I won't even dignify calling him a man. I simply wish you had been more aware of your surroundings when you acted. Could have saved us the headache."
Cami blinked "What...?"
Something resembling a smirk crossed Vivian's lips, "I saw the photos the police took of Mr. Nebroski. You may have your father's temper, but you certainly have my vicious streak. He deserved everything you gave him. Like I said I simply wished you had been smarter about when and how you acted."
Icy shock shook Camille to her core as she finally noticed the pride that shined in Vivian's gaze, and while part of her felt warmed by her mother's support, a larger part of her felt vaguely sick. Why had it taken this act for her to receive that glance from her mother?
"Right...sorry." She murmured, unsure how to progress their conversation or even if she wanted to...
"Honestly, Camille, you would think that you wanted me to be upset with you." Vivian chided.
Camille swallowed another sigh... she really couldn't win.
____________________________
In truth, Klaus had not engineered this latest run-in with Camille. It had been an accident he was more than happy to cultivate.
He arrived at Dean Shaln's office midway through Callan O'Connell's tirade. He hadn't even needed his enhanced hearing to hear most of the meeting inside and to say he was displeased was like saying the Amazon was filled with trees. True, but did not convey the depth and breadth of such foliage. He respected Mr. O'Connell's passionate defense of his daughter, but his interest had peaked with the calmly calculated words of his wife.
Mrs. O'Connell could either be a strong ally or a formidable enemy it seemed. Shaln had stupidly made her the latter. Had made him the latter as well, and Klaus hadn't even met the man yet.
Yet, standing before him now, Shaln proved to be exactly the mediocre bureaucratic cowardly administrator that Klaus had expected. He supposed that he had Mrs. O'Connell to thank for the man's near mercenary kindness. The dean was currently extolling the virtues of the university ad nauseum, more than hungry for a new prolific donor as it seemed that three would be lost in short order.
Klaus let him ramble as he silently perused the contents of the other man's desk. There was the usual paperwork nonsense and drivel that seemed to clog any office, but under a few leaves, he spied the edge of a file containing Camille's name. Two more files resided underneath, and he would bet all the money in his coffers that those files belonged to Scott Nebroski and Marnie Taylor.
Humming slightly, Klaus leaned forward and locked his eyes with the administrator, compulsion dripped from his voice, "Dean Shaln, hand me the files pertaining to the woman that was just in your office. As well as the two pertaining to Marnie Taylor and Scott Nebroski."
The Dean's brow furrowed for a moment as he dug into the papers before him, "Of course, Mr. Mikaelson. I have those just here. As I was saying, the art department could use an updated facility -"
"I'm sure." Klaus murmured as he thumbed through the contents for a moment, mildly happy he had won that bet with himself. The other two files had indeed belonged to Nebroski and Taylor, "I'll be taking these with me, and you'll say nary a word about it. Now, what can you tell me about the whereabouts of Ms. Taylor?"
"Ms. Taylor has not been seen in several days." Shaln answered immediately, concerned peaked in his muddled orbs that had Klaus frowning in consternation, "Police are searching for her – she was declared a missing person yesterday evening. Though Detective Williams informed me that the police believe her to be a runaway. Likely taken in by an abuse shelter."
That news, while unsurprising, was thoroughly unhelpful, "Detective Williams, you say?"
"Yes. He's heading the investigation into her disappearance. Her father is very worried for her." Shaln elaborated almost congenially.
"Right..."
What a wild goose chase this was turning out to be? Klaus mused absently, he hadn't had so much trouble tracking down a girl since Katerina had become a vampire herself. Lurking fury simmered in his veins at the stray thought of the Petrova doppelgänger. Forcefully he banished the image of that insipid purveyor of bad fortune and refocused on the new lead to follow. After all, finding Marnie Taylor could potentially be the key he needed to fix the mess that Katerina had created. He would have Maddox speak with the detective and see what he could glean of his case.
"Wait...why am I -?"
Klaus blinked, realizing he had let his compulsion slip as his thoughts meander. Garnering the student files had taken less time than he anticipated – Camille's attack on Nebroski and her subsequent visit to the Dean's office had expedited the process.
He really wished that he had taken more time to speak with her in the lobby. Her weary countenance and thinly veiled frustration had been plain, and he dimly wished that he had been able to bring a true smile to her lips. He was sure he could have wrangled more than a phone call...
"...interested in Marnie Taylor?..."
One he wasn't sure he would receive. Mrs. O'Connell's tepid reminder of a boyfriend had struck a mark. Klaus had caught the fine glint of guilt in Camille's jade irises before he had entered Shaln's office. Despite their flirtations, Camille seemed an honorable person. He doubted that she would take the hint of infidelity well. And from the brittle tension between mother and daughter, he was sure that such an insinuation would have festered more bitingly.
Still...
"Apologies, my mind is elsewhere I shouldn't have let my compulsion slip." Klaus entreated with a sardonic smile.
Shaln frowned, "Compulsion? What?"
"Yes, I am a vampire. Luckily for you, I'm only interested in your information and not your life. Otherwise, you'd be a mere husk on the ground right now, it helps that I need you for a few errands still."
Shaln's eyes grew wide, uncertain if the man across from him was insane or joking. By the almost maniacal glee in Klaus's cerulean gaze, he was leaning toward the former.
"You won't remember this encounter, except that it was simply with a potential benefactor of the university. You'll be developing a new art department soon. Isn't that exciting?" The hybrid continued loftily before a more demur expression crossed his mien. If Shaln hadn't been trapped by compulsion he would have been shaking from fear as he sensed something dangerous in that look.
"Oh...and as for Camille O'Connell, you will take into consideration all you know to be true of her character and of Scott Nebroski's character and admit that the university has failed its female students by letting such a cretin walk its halls. Call another meeting with Mrs. O'Connell to see what amends can be made as you reinstate Camille as a student. You'll agree to any terms set forth... do you understand?"
"Yes." Dean Shaln murmured as Klaus smiled winningly.
"Fantastic. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Dean Shaln." Klaus said genially as he offered his hand.
The dean smiled, almost confusedly as he tried not to wince in pain from the handshake, "Yes...Yes, I quite look forward to the improvements to the art department, Mr. Mikaelson."
"As do I, as do I." Klaus murmured as he swiftly exited the office.
The dean would have to excuse his quick departure. He had files to read, a woman to woo, another to find, and a curse to break after all.
Previous Chapter                             Next Chapter
5 notes · View notes
narutsuart · 4 years
Text
Book IV Chapter 9 Violent Fantasies Recap:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
I think people can finally stop saying Peony=Sharena never believed that theory anyway.
So as I and many others suspected Peony and Triandra are definitely sisters that had a terrible and hopeless life as mortals which caused Freyja and Freyr to offer them the nectar to change into álfr. Technically it’s still not 100% confirmed that Peony is the little sister in the sense that Freyja didn’t outright tell Triandra, but c’mon.... they’re practically beating us over the head with it at this point without outright saying it. Also it makes sense Freyja didn’t tell Triandra who her sister was because then she wouldn’t remain loyal if she knew Freyja was basically making her fight her younger sister to the death.
Tumblr media
Anyway It’s revealed that Triandra and Peony had an abusive (step?) father that would not only starve them, but make them sleep outside even in the winter. Not much is said about their mother, but we can asume she never tried or at least failed to stop their father’s abuse. In an unknown turn of events, likely their father physically abusing Peony, Triandra killed him to save her little sister’s life.
Tumblr media
As I mentioned before Peony was a human child which implied she had her own backstory involving Triandra, and I felt that this in itself was proof she couldn’t possibly be Sharena, and now with all the details of her past being wildly different from Sharena, looking completely different even in human form, her relationship to Triandra, the fact that she wasn’t royalty(born into poverty in fact), and the fact that Peony hasn’t really shown signs that she and Alfonse had a prior connection leads me to believe that the trailer showing Peony in the mirror of Sharena was a red herring ambiguous enough to lead people away from the simple truth...... she’s Triandra’a little sister and they used to be human.
Anyway Freyja and Freyr provided them an opportunity at a better life, but ultimately as was the only way to save the Realm of Dreams. A decision we see that Freyr would come to regret. It’s revealed that those who partake of the nectar cannot return to human form. Their life of as a mortal is gone forever. Perhaps Freyr and Freyja were upfront about this fact and Peony, Triandra and Mirabilis(who assumingly had an equally tragic story) decided that they had no life to return to. The only thing is if they were upfront about this fact I find it hard to believe Sharena would drink the nectar seeing as while a bit lonely sometimes her life wasn’t tragic enough to abandon. It’s possible Sharena willingly chose to not to drink the nectar, but to help out anyway. This would explain why Sharena remained a human and grew up in the mortal realm. This would ultimately make the changling stuff a red herring... Alternatively Sharena could have taken the nectar and our Sharena was a changling while a álfr version of Sharena also exist and perhaps will be shown later in the story? Honestly no clue.
Anyway in the end of the chapter Freyja has complete control over Freyr and unbridled power over reality and dream. Instead of finishing off the Heroes she plans to make the GENIUS move of letting them live long enough to find a way to win. Anyway It’s implied that whatever threatened their realm in the past, has changed Freyja. She’s beyond redemption by Freyr’s own admission although I feel like there’s gotta be something more to her, I find it hard to believe she truly would stoop so low JUST because she has a hard on for her fucking brother. That would be disappointing to say the least. Perhaps whatever threatened their realm in the past has corrupted her, amplifying her attactchment to her brother to an insane degree, perhaps she’s merely a pawn to a far more malevolent entity, perhaps their is a chance to redeem/save her from her madness......or perhaps I’m over thinking it and she’s just a poorly written incestuous yandere hopefully we’ll find out soon enough.
32 notes · View notes
bb8sworld · 4 years
Text
what can’t be spoken
pairing: obi-wan kenobi x jedi!reader
summary: it is said that we will fall in love three times in our lives, with the third one being our greatest love. but how can we be certain?
word count: 2.5k
a/n: this is my first proper obi fic, so i hope you enjoy! the title is inspired by this song from les mis. this isn’t exactly a song fic, but some themes were written when listening to it (if that intrigues you). there’s a rollercoaster of feelings here, so be prepared for that. also, it’s a weird hodge-podge of fluffy plot at the start and angsty introspection towards the end, but i hope you give it a chance anyway!
-- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ --
You had snuck into Obi-Wan’s quarters as you usually do when quiet sets over the Jedi Temple and the sun takes reprieve in the sky. The two of you greeted each other with a sweet kiss as you used the Force to close the door behind you. (“How frivolous,” he told you with a playful smirk before you shut him up with your lips on his once more. There were no critiques about your use of the Force after that.)
Excitement coursed through his veins at finally being able to hold you close to him after being separated for what seemed like an eternity (though it was only a couple weeks). With both of you being Jedi, it was common throughout your relationship to be separated for weeks at a time as you were sent on different missions. It was never easy to be so far apart for extended periods of time, but this, this coming home reunion, this well of love between you two, this devotion and understanding of what you just faced, was enough to keep you both going through the distance. It became your drive to make it out of each battle alive. To live to see another day. To come home. And finally, you had gotten back from your mission earlier that day and you were in his arms once more where he could keep you safe and protected (though you hardly needed his protection in the first place).
There was a usual routine any time either of you came back from a mission: you would meet in one of your rooms, catch up over a cup of tea, and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Though, if the tea happened to get cold before either of you finished in favor of reacquainting yourselves with the taste of the other and tenderly mapping the lines and curves of your bodies through gentle caresses, then that was neither here nor there.
You were sitting on the couch in Obi-Wan’s quarters, staring over the back of the couch at some spot in the kitchen as your lover dug through the cabinets. As he muddled around finding the kettle, two cups, and the tea each of you preferred, Obi-Wan noticed that, instead of your usual chatter of how your mission went or your familiar questioning over what he did when you were gone, you were silent. It looked like you were pondering over something and that whatever it was had deeply consumed your thoughts. Through the Force, he nudged at your mind gently, quietly reassuring you that you could talk to him if you wanted.
Your eyes flicked away from the space you were staring at in the kitchen to meet with his eyes. A moment of silence had passed before you smiled softly at him.
“You know I love you, right?” you asked.
At your question, he nearly laughed at how out of the blue it was. But he held his laughter in and traded it for a fond smile that he sent your way.
“Of course I know, my dear. I am as sure of your love as I am sure that there are two suns on Tatooine or that Anakin hates sand or that you adore when I wear my cloak,” he replied earnestly, the very laughter he held back underlying some of his words. By now he had filled the kettle with water and had left it to start boiling.
You gave a laugh at his comment. “I do love you in your cloak,” you remark quietly before you sigh. “But I’m serious, Obi-Wan. If something were to happen to me, I don’t want you to have the slightest doubt that I love you.”
The familiar drop in his stomach occurred at the thought of something happening to you—at you getting injured, being in pain, or dying. Maker above, he doesn’t know what he would do if something were to happen to you. Of all the things in his life, you are what matters most to him, and if you were to suddenly not be there anymore, well…he doesn’t like dwelling on that possibility. But still, he pushes away that unbridled fear of you dying and responds with as steady of a voice as he can muster.
“And I don’t have any doubts. I know that you love me and I hope that you know that I love you,” Obi-Wan walks away from the not-yet-piping kettle and empty tea cups to make his way over to the couch. He sits by your side, grabbing onto your hand tightly with one of his own, the other going up to caress your cheek. “You’re the only one who has ever made me feel deeply like this and I don’t regret being with you, loving you, or being loved by you.”
He watches as your entire demeanor softens and tears fill your eyes, but they dare not spill. You pull him to you and softly press your lips against him in a kiss that has him reeling. There’s so much you’re trying to convey in the soft act, so much he picks up on, and he’s almost overwhelmed at your feelings. There’s so much to sort through, but not enough time to investigate before you two separate. He can just barely hear the trembling in your breathing as you exhale. Clearly there’s something more to this that you’re not mentioning, and while he hates forcing you into conversations when you’re feeling uneasy, he thinks it may be worth a shot to try and prod.
“Why are you bringing this up, my love?”
He’s answered by silence, at first. Your free hand grabs his which is still caressing your cheek and you hold on tightly, as if for support. You kiss the back of his hand before pulling it on your lap so you can hold both of his hands in yours. You swallow thickly before you respond, “My recent mission. During one of the battles, I had a brief moment where my life was at a crossroads,” you trail off. Your grip tightens on his hands as the next words come out, “Obi-Wan...love, I almost died.”
Suddenly the hands you were holding onto cling to yours. You both are holding on with a white-knuckled grip as you process what's been said. Obi-Wan swears his heart stops at this knowledge. You had nearly died on this mission, and he would’ve been none the wiser until the report came through or someone contacted the Temple. Despite the clear despair written in his eyes, you mush onward, “Before the fighting outbreak happened, I was approached by some locals and they started talking to me about their lives on their home planet. One thing they kept bringing up was their ‘great loves’ who had fought in battles prior and died,” you pause, choosing your words carefully before continuing, “They explained that their people believe everyone falls in love three times and that the last of these is our greatest love.”
Despite not knowing where you’re going with this, he responds with a quiet “Oh?” to let you know that he’s still listening. 
“And they told me that each love is special. They have different purposes or meanings, I guess. The first is infatuation and idealism. The second, hard and hurting. The third, everlasting…all-consuming…,” again, you pause, “It got me thinking.”
“About?” Obi-Wan asks.
“You,” you state plainly, simply, as if the answer was right there the whole time. You can’t help but smile at him as you continue, “You may be the only man I’ve ever truly loved, but I know that you are my greatest love. And if I were to ever die, I don’t want you to doubt for a second how much I love you or how you mean everything to me.”
It’s as if you’ve punched all the air out of his lungs, and he can’t help but stare at you in disbelief. Sometimes he is jarred by the mere presence of you and how effortlessly you can use your words. He never fails to be in awe over how even the everyday words which fall from your lips seem to turn into pure poetry to his ears. And every time you tell him you love him it’s without hesitation. It’s bold but heartfelt, as if you’re simply stating a fact known by all and not dropping a bombshell that could get both of you kicked out of the Order without a second thought.
That’s one of the many things he loves about you: the way you are so attuned with your feelings and how you use them to your benefit, instead of your demise. You grow from your love, and you’ve taught him how to grow alongside you. How to appreciate the little things. How to be unafraid of this tender, precious thing between you two. Privately, he thinks loving you even makes him a better Jedi, but he has yet to say this aloud. You have completely turned his life upside down and while he was afraid at first, he is no longer scared and relishes in every gentle touch, whispered word, and longing glance sent his way by you.
Though he may be the Negotiator, Obi-Wan always finds himself tongue-tied at your sweet and loving gestures, but he’s come to learn that the best way to express his feelings to you when words aren’t enough is through action. And so, as he stares deeply into your eyes, he can feel tears welling up in his own as overwhelming emotion courses through him. He releases his grip on your hands to pull you close and kiss you, his own hands shaking as he caresses your face.
When the two of you finally do part, he swipes quickly at his cheeks before catching your eye again.
“And you are my greatest love,” Obi-Wan whispers, as if scared to break this moment between the two of you with anything louder. “You have… stolen my heart. Words cannot describe all that I feel for you, my darling.” A deep breath. “But I know with absolute certainty that I love you more than anything else.”
A couple tears escape your eyes and you lean forward, leaning your forehead against his as you both breathe together, absorbing this moment for as long as you can. A few beats later, the kettle finally goes off and the two of you pull back and turn your heads in sync to stare at it before sharing a laugh. Obi-Wan gets up from your side and places a soft kiss on your forehead before going to retrieve the screaming kettle.
As he pours the water into your tea cups, he can’t help but spare a quick glance at you on the couch. You’re looking at him this time. He feels his heart stutter in his chest and his cheeks turn a light pink at the look of absolute love and fondness that you send him. It’s an image he wants nothing more than to have ingrained in his head, a treasured memory to turn to when it looks like the chips are down and he stares at death in the face. Something happy and cherished and beloved to think of before he passes, should that time ever come like he fears it will during the Clone Wars.
And stay with him it does, but instead of it being something he thinks of fondly, it haunts him as he stews in his regret and heartache.
It’s all he can think about tonight as the wind blows in the cold night as he sits alone in the dunes of Tatooine, darkness clouding his vision and an inky blackness covering all feelings within him aside from the residual numbness. He has only been here on Tatooine for a brief period of time—a couple weeks, maybe a month, he can’t remember anymore—but he finds that the days bleed together on this godforsaken planet.
He’s haunted by the faces of those he once held close. A young Anakin hopping aboard the ship alongside Qui-Gon, bright eyed and eager to go to Coruscant and become a Jedi. Padme standing in her office discussing with him the senatorial address she was preparing, the bright sun illuminating her silhouette, giving her an ethereal glow. The voices of his men, the very clones who betrayed the Republic and the Jedi, teasing at his ears when he first wakes up as if he’s back on his ship surrounded by them.
But it’s you who haunts him the most. Unlike Anakin, Padme, his men, and those who he found at the Temple before he went into hiding here, he has no idea if you survived Order 66. He’s tried reaching out in the Force several times, hoping against all hope that you’d be reaching out for him as well, but he’s only met with emptiness. Silence. His own fear.
Although you’re no longer by his side, he swears visions of you follow him, haunting him like a ghost. He’ll be going about his day only to have his eye play tricks on him when he looks off into the distance, telling him that you’re there, you’re alive, you’re going to stay with him, but once he rubs his eyes you disappear. Or similarly, he dreams at night that none of this happened and he’s still on Coruscant, you tucked in his arms, only to wake up to a bed that was cold from the very moment he laid in it.
It’s the small memories of you that echo at him the loudest. Your smile, big and gorgeous when laughing at some awful joke he made in the early hours of the morning as you cuddled in bed before one of you took off for the day. Your eyes, twinkling in the night, impossibly brighter than any of the stars in the galaxy, as you excitedly tell him about something new you learned or witnessed that utterly fascinated you. Your tender hands playing at the edge of his mind as he recalls the absolute adoration and love that you two shared when thrown in the pits of passion.
You may be alive for all he knows, but he grieves you nonetheless. He’s not sure if this pain will ever go away—if it can ever go away—but he can’t help but ask for forgiveness from you every time he thinks of you. Forgiveness that he lives and you most likely are gone. His apologies are coated by sorrow that you were killed and utter regret that he couldn’t protect you better.
He thinks your words from that night haunt him the most: You may be the only man I’ve ever truly loved, but I know that you are my greatest love. You were undoubtedly his greatest love...he only wishes he could’ve conveyed that better. Oh the irony of you being worried that he didn’t fully understand your love for him when now it’s him who worries if you truly understood the depth of his feelings towards you. That very worry seizes at his chest and causes tears to well up in his eyes more often than he’d like.
But here in the dark night on Tatooine, he allows the tears to fall freely. He stares up at the stars that always paled in comparison to you and whispers out into the silent night, hoping that maybe somehow through the Force you’re listening.
“How incredibly lucky I was to love and be loved by you.”
14 notes · View notes
thewickling · 4 years
Text
winding moonrise - trouble
winding moonrise master post
[Context: Set before thirteen years in their last year of college.]
Lan Wangji's cheer shocks his shufu and xiong.
One imagines Lan Wangji's smile like a crack in a sheet of ice. A fractureline that is so faint one would barely notice it. That to call it lips upturned would be an exaggeration. Many of his pack believe this.
Yet it sweeps across him like sunlight touching the first growth of spring through melting snow. Touching his fold his arms to his head, he thanks Lan Qiren. His voice rings determined and sincere.
Lan Qiren hates iron for not becoming steel. He loaths that nephew has be dug up by a pig. He still thinks 'Wei Ying is a bane' on his spotless teaching career. A part of him grimaces at the thought that they could have met younger. Not a single cell of his rejoices in his decision, yet Lan Wangji's soft joyous expression gives him pause.
Dragged by the neck, Lan Qiren's xiong announces in his ear, "I've met her, my moon."
His xiong's arms trembled with the emotions that he can't contain. His timbre turned to lilts as he described her. He sang with elation.
The memory sharply contrasts the devastation and bowed head when he breathlessly voiced that she's killed their shifu. The resolution and sobriety with which he declared their marriage still sends Lan Qiren's blood boiling. Whatever hesitation catches him is annihilated.
An acridic taste invades his sense with its unwanted familiarity. Between the moon-blessed, fate does not promise happiness. He curses the moon for guiding his nephew to... He does not have a word for the various ways in which he disproves of Wei Wuxian.
Lan Wangji finally straightens as if the weight of his gratitude held him in place. He shifts and turns to bow to Lan Xichen. He repeats his thanks.
Lan Xichen ponders the last time he saw this sight. He bites his lip, recalling his di grinning on his mother's lap. It clashes with Lan Wangji's kneeling figure outside her detached house. That tiny voice inquiring is engraved in his heart: "Has she returned?"
He lowers his head.
Lan Wangji keeps his earnest posture. He acts from the pack manners carved in his bones. Inwardly, he races through the woods, howling.
His bowed figure burns into Lan Qiren's irises. Only tradition keeps him from looking away. He does not deserve or want his cherished nephew's heartfelt gradtitude. He questions if his xiong's ghost pried his begrudging consent from his throat.
Lan Wangji pleaded his case every day until he was prohibited. Then, he dug up half-forgotten traditions so that he could petition once each fornight. The numbers soared over a hundred times.
Some of their clan believed Lan Wangji's preseverance wore down Lan Qiren's ivory tower. Others suspected that Lan Xichen, who had this point inherited his duties in all but name, had said he would approve, giving the most esteemed elder of theirs no choice but to accept unless he wanted to be the first to come into conflict with the head of pack's first formal decree. Many of the Lans shared these thoughts but these were never spoken as gossip is barred.
The approval is both shocking and unsurprising. After all, a wolf meeting their moon is auspicious. It is the thing of legends. It is a blessing from the moon herself. In all of Lan's history, a moon-blessed pairing is only delayed never denied.
The elders ready red-envelopes. The more excitable ones quietly pass on suggestions. Celebration is in the air.
The atmospheric change flis over Lan Wangji's head. One of the Twin Jades of the Lan is not careless but a glance tells everyone his mind holds than any action he currently does. His daily practice croons sweeter. His manners contain extra consideration. His steps glide with excitment.
Considering the possible location and time and environment for the thousandth time, Lan Wangji thinks, Wei Ying wouldn't care.
Even if he shared his secret in the worst of conditions, but he cannot imagine that Wei Wuxian is unkind even is worst of moods, he trusts that if Wei Wuxian does not return his affections (not that Wei Wuxian has any obligation to return it, though with every breath of his life he hopes his moon will shine on him) that his secret is as safe with his moon is it is with him. Wei Wuxian might not care, but Lan Wangji does. He wants it to be perfect.
Perfection is a fool's errand.
What a better cause to be a fool than love?
Lan Qiren taught him restraint. Every lesson cautioned aganist giving in to unbridled emotion. That such a careless action is a threat him and the pack.
Lan Wangji read Confucian, stuided Daoism, and reflected on the eight-fold path. He knows the boundary. He does not expect his affections to be returned.
He also isn't bitter for how long it took to gain his pack's consent. It allowed him to grow close to Wei Wuxian. He recalls his thoughts when he first saw his moon: He looks like trouble.
The thought swelled when Wei Wuxian's scent first hit him: He smells like trouble.
A gust sweeping across a lake. A clarity and freshness that purified the sterile and musky scent of dorms. Yet rather than calming it triggered every alarm in his body.
His limbs locked in place. His heart thumped like it wanted to punch through his chest. His lungs released all their air.
Never had he felt more helpless. His eyes traced Wei Wuxian's figure. He engraved the mirthful, smiling, and handsome teen in his heart. Landing on the glass bottle in Wei Wuxian's hands, the conduct etched in his bones took over.
Grabbing Wei Wuxian's wrist, he stated, "Alcohol is banned in the dorms."
"Ge," Wei Wuxian said, wide-eyed.
His brown eyes were so bright that Lan Wangji wonders if he is sick. What else could explain why he wants to both flee that from that warming gaze and also never move again.
"Are you serious?" he laughs.
Now even his ears are overwhelmed. The timbre and tone is frustrating unfamiliar yet it comes straight of his memory. His fingers tightened to hold himself upright.
"Mnn."
"It's move in day! One of my cousins snuck into my luggage." He bowed coyly as he pleaded, "Look it isn't even open. I'll toss it out right now. You can even come with me! Ge, nobody has to know but us. It can be are little secret."
Those brown eyes peered up with him so... For the first time he understood why people wanted to melt chocolate on their tongue. Never had he been more frustrated. Principles are not principles if they bend for a breeze. He shook his head. "Rules are rules."
And Wei Wuxian literally disarmed him.
He is my moon? Lan Wangji thought, correcting stance. His reflexes honed even as his mind was in chaos. Restraining the other student again, his heart confirmed, He is trouble.
Between thoughts of the first place they met and the other firsts Wei Wuxian took, Lan Wangji considers, It was best that I waited.
It gave him time to accept his own feelings.
He settles on the park. Wei Wuxian is so clever. From the very first year, Wei Wuxian ensnared him in debate. What started as an argument carried them through the campus park in provoking discussion. He captured Lan Wangji over and over and over until it became habit long after the park stopped being a converging point between their classes for them to drift toward the park every time they crossed paths. Certainly they will continue this tradition until graduation. He wants every time they tread that path after to remind him of this confession.
The day of he presses palms tightly into his pants. His bag feels strangely heavy with Wei Wuxian's favorite spicy snack. In the crowd of students shuttling from class to class, the two fall into step as if it was explained beyond a message to meet that neither listed a place or time.
"Lan Zhan! You would never believe what Wen..."
He doesn't ignore Wei Wuxian. How could he when sun shines so enticely on Wei Wuxian's skin, bringing out warm notes that make his teeth itch and inspire him to lean down... He swallows. He counts down the steps it'd take for them to reach the groove, their favorite spot.
Ten.
Wei Wuxian's words form a piece that he never wants to stop hearing.
Nine.
His shoulders brush Lan Wangji's. The heat soaks into his skin.
Eight.
Wei Wuxian's heart stutters.
S-
The world jitters. Wei Wuxian leaps behind him. His heart gallops in his chest like a skittish horse. His fingers dig into Lan Wangji's arm.
Wei Wuxian is a handful of centimeters taller than him and they share familiar figures but with all of his ability Wei Wuxian hides behind Lan Wangji. He shifts and teeters as if noticing every exposed milimeter with dread.
All of Lan Wangji's reflexes kick in. Heat surges through his veins alongside adrenaline. The urge to shift slams him. Scanning the horizon, he analyzes, What threatened his moon?
Wei Wuxian is so brave after all. During the joint hike between their majors, he lead half of the group to leap off a waterfall. His smiled all the way down.
He assesses trees, open grass, and distant figures only to eliminate them.
"Lan Zhan! Dog!"
Lan Wangji's blood thickens, wondering how he could have missed a danger like an aggressive hound.
His attention lands on medium-sized dog, bounding toward them. A leash trails behind it, emphasizing its wagging tail.
"Save me." Wei Wuxian whispers, breathless with panic.
Confusion flushes his mind. Harsh reality chills his blood. Wei Wuxian is terrified of dogs.
He vocalizes a threat that humans' can't hear and adds a 'shoo' for safe measure.
It races off.
"Wei Ying. It's gone. You're safe." The sun shines on them but Lan Wangji might as well be in Yanluo for how freezing he is.
"Thank you! Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian steps out, patting Lan Wangji's shoulder. His mouth moves nervously, "My hero."
"You're the best. Dogs are the worst!" he speaks for the sake of speaking. Wei Wuxian knows it's irrational but even the smallest of dogs punches his flight reflex. When he thinks of dogs, he recalls the time one nearly took a chunk out of his face but on a level he denies their bark brings up the howl of grimey and arctic streets, their teeth of the bite of constant hunger and uncaring hands, their claws of scraped palms and hands emptied of the little food or comfort gained... "They're so scary with their teeth and claws."
Lan Wangji's blood stops. If dogs turn Wei Wuxian's scent into a tumultuous wave of polluted sewer water, what would a wolf do? For the first time, his heritage bears down on him like the curse it once was.
"Thanks for not laughing. I know it's silly but dogs and I are not met for each other or my name isn't Wei. Jiang Cheng loves them but I can't..."
"You're welcome," he says as much out of reflex as self-preservation. He is certain he is going into shock. But he can't let Wei Wuxian be mistaken. "You don't have to thank me."
"What?" Wei Wuxian quirks his head,
"You don't have to thank me or apologize." Lan Wangji's surprised he can speak but Wei Wuxian is distressed. His moon can't be under the delusion he would not sacrifice nearly everything to defend him. Or that he would want nothing more than soothe his moon even as he's certain his heart stops. "It's fine."
"Right? Why did you want to meet?" Rubbing his neck, he inquires, "Other than to show off how much of a perfect gentleman you are, anyway."
"Nothing important." He answers, reaching into his bag. He hands over the snack. His actions are stiff and heavy.
"You are the best! Did an admirer sneak it in your bag?" Wei Wuxian chatters, used to filling the space between them. Strangely, the silence is nearly unnerving, but he chalks it up to Lan Wangji processing his phobia. He spins noise into aimless words so that Lan Wangji knows that this had not changed their friendship. If anything, it is a relief for Lan Wangji to know and accept it.
Lan Wangji drinks in it, but realizes with startling clarity that the sound is just as sweet as a few minutes ago. Wei Wuxian hasn't changed. He has. That the sound he considered an upbeat, love ballad now sounds like a lamentation on lost.
After all his heart is gone, he gave it to Wei Wuxian long ago, but his moon will never shine on him.
Another epiphany strikes hims him like a lightning tribulation. That he is shouldn't be a jade of his pack. After all Lan Qiren cautioned him from birth and raised him to restrain his emotions.
He was blind to his hubris. I don't have any expectations?
The version of him that died minutes ago was truly a fool. He did not meditate enough. His understanding of principle of Confucian, the Dao, or the Buddha barely skimmed the surface.
Did he not hope or pray or wish that Wei Wuxian would love him?
No.
He wanted it like air. Now he suffocates. His throat constricts. His unwarranted expectations choke up there.
A hollow exists where his heart should be. In a utopia, Wei Wuxian would have placed his heart in Lan Wangji's care. He cannot take back his heart nor does he want to. The moon may not bless people once but he has made his choice. His love where it is rightfully where it belongs. Love is no obligation.
The fault lays in his shallow cultivation. He swore to never impose their fated-bond on Wei Wuxian. That much he barely managed. He intends to keep that oath. For the rest of his days, he will mind his position. He will hope for the honor of remaining Wei Wuxian's friend. He has to.
Wei Wuxian can't discover this. That he has fiercesome teeth. That his claws are more menacing than a dog's. That he is the kind of being that his moon despises.
He dare not exist then.
The Lan juniors being adorable part has been linked incase you need to recover from the above.
39 notes · View notes
plays-the-thing · 4 years
Text
Netflix’s Witcher: What Makes a Good Adaptation? – A companion piece
If you’ve somehow found this without seeing the video first, here’s a link:
In this video I analyze the screen adaptations of Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire, and the Witcher series. I use the comparisons of the three to discuss what makes adaptations in general work and to explain why I feel the Witcher is heading down the road to mediocrity.
However, this is a hugely complicated subject, and the works themselves are also complex, especially Martin’s work. I make plenty of claims in the video that a reasonable person could disagree with without any explanation for why I think they are true. Unfortunately, if I were to go down every rabbit hole that I touch on the video would be hours long, so I have to gloss over some potentially confusing or controversial statements.
Enter this post. Here I will be attempting to pre-empt any questions that I think people may have, and go through my thought process on certain claims. I don’t recommend that you read the whole thing. Each explanation will be followed by a timestamp and relevant quote from the video that I am expanding upon so that you can quickly search the page and find what you are looking for.
 I’m sure there will be things I don’t think to cover, or things that are poorly reasoned both here and in the video, so feel free to ask additional questions. Just please check to make sure you aren’t asking something that I already covered here.
 I will also be attempting to give as much credit as possible to all the wonderful writers and creators who have influenced my thinking with regards to these works. I’ll be linking as much as possible to my sources, as well as to additional content that expands on ideas I mention. Also I’ve included some personal tidbits and commentary, just for fun.
 Under a cut for length.
INTRODUCTION:
Huge props to the people who put together the behind-the-scenes footage of LOTR. I’ve watched all the bonus footage numerous times in my life. If you have any interest in the nitty-gritty of how movies get made, I can’t recommend it enough. It really shows all the work and complexity that goes into making movies. That they even get made at all is honestly incredible, especially massive undertakings like LOTR.
[3:30] And if you've ever wondered what the hell happened to The Hobbit, to me it seemed like they were indulging all of these worst impulses instead of catching themselves and editing them out like they did in LOTR.
As soon as I saw that they were making three Hobbit movies my hopes plummeted. It just reeked of executive meddling, and of trying to make the story into something it just isn’t. Lo and behold, that’s what we got: sticking in loads of unnecessary and thematically incoherent material to stretch out the runtime and make it more “epic.” I couldn’t bring myself to watch past the first one, but Lindsay Ellis has an excellent video series exploring in detail what went wrong with the trilogy.
PART ONE: LORD OF THE RINGS
[8:40] If you followed the events and the chronology of the book they would just hang out with Faramir for a little bit and then the movie would end
Technically it’s more complicated than this because that’s already following the revised movie timeline. In reality, Frodo would have just left the Black Gate. They *are* moving the events around to some extent, usually by a few of days here and there, but they can’t move stuff together that takes place weeks apart or the whole timeline would crumble.
[9:55] You can call it the theme, the soul, the spirit, the point, or whatever else you want, but the great works of fiction have something at their core that pulls everything together and elevates it into art. It’s a difficult thing to describe, but I think this scene perfectly tapped into the soul of Tolkien’s work.
Huge shout out to Bob Case and his video “Blame of Thrones” for first introducing me to this concept and the language of the “spirit” of a work to describe this phenomenon. In many ways the first two parts of this video are merely building on the LOTR-GOT comparison that he makes in that video, digging a little deeper and looking at more specific and concrete (and spoileriffic) examples of what he’s talking about so that we can apply these ideas to the Witcher…and beyond. Like all his work, it’s excellent. His YouTube is pretty much inactive these days, but he also occasionally writes content for Shamus Young’s blog if you want more of his work.
PART TWO: GAME OF THRONES
Alright, here it is: the section that really caused me to want to make this companion piece. Earlier I mentioned that I have sympathy for the GoT showrunners, and I really do. Martin’s work is incredibly complex, and so this section dominates the blogpost because there is so much to explain and no way that I could explain it all in the video without incredible bloat.
First I should mention that I, and all the writers I am going to credit here, share a very specific interpretation of Martin’s work. This isn’t the only interpretation. I doubt it’s the interpretation of the majority of readers. Obviously, I fully believe it is the correct interpretation, but the showrunners clearly had a wildly different one.
People who have this interpretation express it in different ways. Joannalannister collects hers in her tag #the-meaning-of-asoiaf. PoorQuentyn expresses it here, and in his analysis of Davos, Quentyn, and Tyrion. Other writers express it in their own ways.
With my lit degree hanging over my head, I can’t help but see it as a problem of competing artistic movements. To me, HBO’s Game of Thrones is part of the art movement of the past few decades, namely postmodernism. Art movements are complex, but basically postmodernism is the cynical reaction to the sincerity of modernism which came before it. Cynicism is, I think, the defining trait of Game of Thrones.
But it is NOT the defining trait of the books. In my view, Martin’s ASOIAF is part of the art movement that we are moving towards, which is starting to become known as metamodernism. Metamodernism is a reaction to the nihilistic pessimism and cynicism of postmodernism, and replaces it not with the unbridled sincerity of modernism, but rather oscillation between the two modes. It can be both ironic and sincere, deconstructionist and constructionist, apathetic and affectual. Once you have peeled back all the layers however, it is ultimately hopeful and optimistic. It embraces a sense of radical optimism. In metamodernist works optimism is often radical because the world the characters live in can be so dark. But that darkness serves only to highlight those characters that can hold fast to virtue amidst such darkness.
So, be warned. If you believe that Martin’s work is all about controlling the Iron Throne, and believe that cynicism is for the wise and honor is for fools, we just aren’t going to see eye to eye.
[12:45] Ned is a competent northern politician who has some trouble adapting to southern culture. Through a combination of bad luck, some understandable mistakes, and a misconception about his position, he fails in his goals.
The show didn’t invent the idea of Stupid Honorable Ned. Plenty of people believed this, even before the show. Obviously I believe they are wrong. If you would like to read more about it I would suggest Steven Attewell’s analysis of Ned’s chapters that he does on his blog, particularly Eddard XI and Eddard XIII. Steven does a much better job of analyzing Ned as a political actor than I ever could.
[13:00] Most of these changes are subtle…the best example is the council debate about whether or not to assassinate Daenerys.
Many of the ideas in this section are pulled from two essays by turtle-paced: Poor Doomed Ned and The Argument to Assassinate Daenerys. Turtle goes deep into the details of the differences between the Ned Stark of the books and the show, and I skimmed some of their comparisons for my argument. Steven Attewell’s analysis of this chapter is also worth reading.
[14:09] It’s a good argument, and I think in the books we are expected to mostly agree with Ned, both morally and politically.
When I say “expected” I mean from the authors point of view, which of course relies on me being correct about my interpretation of Martin’s work. Obviously I think I’m right, but if you don’t agree with my interpretation you may not agree with this statement.
[14:16] Notice also that the supporters of the assassination: Littlefinger, Varys, Renly, and Pycelle are all villains (all except Pycelle are trying to destabilize the kingdom), and the people who oppose it, Ned and Barristan, are heroes.
Each of them represents a different sort of evil. Littlefinger is a scheming sociopathic villain. Varys is a well-intentioned extremist whose willingness to commit utterly heinous acts in the pursuit of his goals makes him a villain. This is because, as Huxley puts it, “The end cannot justify the means, for the simple and obvious reason that the means employed determine the nature of the ends produced.”  Renly is narcissistic ambitious evil, willing to throw a realm into war to satisfy his own ego, and is totally uncaring about the lives of other people. It isn’t precisely correct to say that Pycelle is a villain because he represents the banality of evil. He thinks he’s just doing his job, but he’s morally bankrupt and politically corrupt.
[16:40] It would take too long to list all the ways that Tywin is awful, and everyone knows it.
To clarify, I mean that everyone in-universe knows it. For some god-forsaken reason, some readers seem to think that Tywin was just being effective after he unleashed the Mountain on the Riverlands and violated every military and political norm in Westeros.
If you are going to say that he is “Machiavellian” I would encourage you to actually read The Prince, where Machiavelli says “Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred” and goes into the reasons why.
[17:17] Tywin on the other hand accomplished a lot of short-term gains by being as treacherous and dishonorable as possible. But this has a cost: by proving themselves fair-weather allies they surround themselves with the same. Nobody trusts them, and so their allies scheme and betray them.
Oberyn and Doran are both scheming in their own way to revenge themselves on the Lannisters for the deaths of Elia and her children. The Tyrells poison Joffrey and scheme to spirit Sansa away to Highgarden.
[17:36] Ned failed due to a couple of minor mistakes, some bad luck, and treachery.
I mention a few times that Ned, and more broadly the Starks, get “unlucky.” Again, Steven Attewell does an excellent job of documenting this with his keen eye for how GRRM cheats political realities, but I’ll note a few of the many ways George has to bend over backward to screw the Starks.
In AGoT Catelyn leaves King’s Landing roughly around the same time that Tyrion leaves the wall, and both are on horseback. In order for them to meet at the Inn at the Crossroads Tyrion has to travel roughly 2,000 miles in the same time that Catelyn travels 400 miles. This is basically impossible, but necessary for the plot so that Catelyn can lose Tyrion at the Eyrie. If she had caught him somewhere further north she could have simply chucked him into her own dungeons and managed his trial herself.
Cersei has been trying to kill Robert for goodness knows how long with just as unreliable methods as “get him drunk on a hunt.” In order for Ned to get screwed she has to succeed in killing Robert at precisely that moment. If it had failed like every one of her other attempts she is most likely dead, because Ned would tell Robert the truth about her children as soon as he got back.
In order for Theon to take Winterfell, veteran military man and castellan Ser Rodrik Cassell has to stupidly empty the Winterfell garrison while he knows that Ironborn raiders are running loose in the North, not even leaving behind a mere twenty-five to fifty men that would have completely thrashed Theon’s assault. If Theon can’t take Winterfell, the Red Wedding doesn’t happen (as Martin has told us that the real inciting incident of the Red Wedding was the fall of Winterfell).
[17:41] However, killing him was a terrible idea, and backfired on the Lannisters instantly.
Continuing this theme, the Lannisters were in an absolutely horrible position at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. They pretty much just have their bannerman in the Westerlands. Stannis seems to have the support of most of the Crownlands, and he and Renly are splitting the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands (with Renly having the larger chunk). The Starks have all the support of the North and the Riverlands combined. The Lannisters are surrounded by enemies who outnumber them on all sides. Killing Ned immediately jumpstarts a war that will almost certainly crush the Lannisters. That it didn’t took some very thin plotting and improbable developments at times, but overall George made it work. For more analysis of this, again check out Steven Attewell Blog: Race for the Iron Throne.
[17:48] Tywin was killed by both a guest whom he considered his ally, and his son.
I firmly believe Oberyn poisoned Tywin. Here’s a good rundown of the evidence. Beyond simple means, motive, and opportunity it also provides neat answers to lingering odd questions like why Tywin rotted so oddly and aggressively, why Tyrion knew he would find him in the privy, why Oberyn was willing to chuck his life away for a confession before seeming to have secured revenge against Tywin.
It’s also thematically juicy. I love the idea that Tywin, who so egregiously violated Westerosi norms culminating in the total breach of the social contract at the Red Wedding, was a victim of contrapasso. He can’t be protected by social norms, so he gets poisoned by his guest and ally. Did Tyrion know he was dying? Had he put it all together? Was that bolt really an act of mercy? Perhaps it was one final service to the Lannisters, to keep the dream of their alliance with the Martells alive. Who knows, but boy is it interesting to consider.
[18:13] his alliances fall to pieces, and his children are abandoned by even their own family.
I’m referring here to the infighting between the Tyrells and Lannisters (and Martells, though they never had any intent of staying true to the alliance) after Tywin’s death (though there was some before as well, just intensified after Cersei takes over from Tywin). Kevan forces Cersei to take the walk of shame, and Jaime and the rest of the Lannisters abandon her to that fate.
[19:41] Just like Lord of the Rings, and the Witcher, ASOIAF is clearly dedicated to anti-violence. Not pacifism: all three works have heroes dealing out retributive violence in order to try and restore justice.
I understand it might be odd to suggest that three works which feature so much violence can be dedicated to anti-violence, but depicting something is not the same as endorsing it. I would argue in the case of Martin’s work in particular that his depiction of violence, so un-romantically brutal and direct, is intentionally revolting, and therefore is designed to be anti-violence. Martin purposefully makes you want revenge on certain characters, gives it to you, and then forces you to stare at the inhumanity of this thing you thought you wanted. Yeah I wanted Theon to pay, but not like that. Yeah, I wanted Cersei to pay, but not like that. Yeah, I want the Freys to pay, but I don’t think I’m going to like what Stoneheart is going to do to them.
There is a certain amount of this in the Witcher as well. I can specifically think of one scene in The Blood of Elves, but I promised no Witcher spoilers.
The violence in LOTR is much more romanticized, but as Faramir says: “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” The hero is still Frodo, who doesn’t fight anyone or anything in the whole story. Frodo is a pacifist, but his pacifism is enabled by others who are willing to fight.
[20:07] In a Dance with Dragons Daenerys allows the old slave-holding class to maintain too much power and so they immediately attempt to continue the old violence of slavery. Daenerys did not commit enough violence against the slave-owners, so they were allowed to continue existing, and as long as they existed they were always going to abuse and oppress the ex-slaves.
A couple years after the release of ADWD, an obnoxiously wrong and poisonous idea began to creep into the ASOIAF fandom: Daenerys’ violence against the slaveowners in Slaver’s Bay is dangerous and immoral, and peace is the better option. This idea was most persuasively argued in the Meereenese Blot’s series of essays.
I’ll quote some of the conclusion here:
“They are supposed to feel this generic distrust for everyone, and to fail to grasp that their peaces were actually quite successful. Dany is supposed to conclude — wrongly — that her behavior through most of the book was silly and foolish. And if you came away with those impressions too, it’s perfectly understandable…The whole plotline is designed to maneuver Dany into a mental place where she’ll decide to sideline her concerns for innocent life, and take what she wants with fire and blood.”
This idea, much like the idea that Daenerys is some sort of unhinged fascist just waiting for the right trigger, makes me unbelievably angry. This idea that I am supposed to value the life of the slaveowner and the slave equally, and that maintaining a “peaceful” slave-owning society is an acceptable alternative to violent revolution is so fundamentally revolting to me, that it turns my stomach even to write that sentence.
Some fans went even as far as to suggest that Daenerys’ occupation of Meereen was a parallel to the US occupation of Iraq, and that she was engaged in erasing an authentic slave-owning culture that she despised. If you read the above series of essays, you can see that they are, at the least, enabling that kind of thinking.
To be clear, I do not consider any slave society to be worth a damn thing. Anything that continues it is evil and all that attempts to destroy it is good. That being said, once again Steven Attewell does a better job than I ever could of rebutting the ideas of the Meereneese Blot, and explaining how the correct parallel of Daenerys’ actions in Meereen is the American mistake of abandoning radical reconstruction. He describes her actions in Meereen as abandoning a revolution half complete. I highly recommend reading it, especially if you are American. 
Martin is not a pacifist. He has said he would have fought in WWII. He demonstrated against Vietnam. As far as I know, the first time George ever used the words “Fire and Blood” was in a book released in 1982 called Fevre Dream:
“I never held much with slavery […]. You can’t just go… usin’ another kind of people, like they wasn’t people at all. Know what I mean? Got to end, sooner or later. Better if it ends peaceful, but it’s got to end even if it has to be with fire and blood, you see? Maybe that’s what them abolitionists been sayin’ all along. You try to be reasonable, that’s only right, but if it don’t work, you got to be ready. Some things is just wrong. They got to be ended.”
Daenerys is a slave-freeing, slave-owner-killing Hero with a capital H. She has made mistakes. I weep for the lives of the slaves that she has thrown away by abandoning her revolution, by failing to give the people of Astapor the strength to defend themselves, by maintaining a false peace that allows the Meereneese KKK to kill ex-slaves in the night.  I shed no tears for the slaveowners that she has killed. When you treat other human beings as property you forfeit your right to Prosperity, Freedom, and Life. Preferably in that order—I would prefer that a slave society could peacefully transition, that those who attempted to continue it could be locked up, and that bloodshed could be avoided. But sometimes violence is necessary.
Daenerys will make more mistakes, I am sure. I believe that she will swing too far in the other direction, temporarily. But that’s a topic for another time.
[20:57] She comforts the hound even as he threatens her and helps him on his path from violence to peace.
Sandor did not die, despite what the Elder Brother told Brienne. He uses his words very carefully, to suggest that the Hound is dead, but that Sandor Clegane the man is simply “at rest.” He has become a brother of the isle.
“On the upper slopes they saw three boys driving sheep, and higher still they passed a lichyard where a brother bigger than Brienne was struggling to dig a grave. From the way he moved, it was plain to see that he was lame.” - Brienne VI, AFFC
[21:40] If they don’t understand why Tywin is a villain then of course they won’t understand why the Others are the main villains of the series, and will probably replace them with some blonde queen. And if you don’t understand that the cold of the human heart is the real enemy than of course you’ll think you can stop winter by just stabbing it. Like Tywin would.
In the books the Others are the villains. They are what the whole story is building towards, much like in LOTR the story builds towards Frodo casting the ring into the Fire. Martin has said that he thinks that the finishing chapters of LOTR, like the Scouring of the Shire, were important, so we may see something like that, but the clear emphasis will be on the existential evil, and cleaning up Cersei or Aegon “Targaryen’s” mess will be a clear step down in importance. It’s something that the heroes have grown beyond, but still need to handle, just like Saruman in the Shire.
[22:04] There’s nothing wrong with liking Game of Thrones, or disliking Lord of the Rings, or anything else.
I really do mean this. I am going to be critical of things you like, and am going to praise things you love. People are different, that’s to be expected. I am not here to pretend that people should only like the things I like. I’m interested in what makes these stories work. I said much the same thing in my last video about some of the new Star Wars properties. People tend to get really attached to the media they like (I’m no exception) and that can color our perception of criticism. Do try to keep in mind that if you like something I criticize it isn’t an attack on you. You have a sacred and personal relationship to the things you enjoy that no one can take from you. I like all kinds of stuff that other people might consider bad, and that’s okay. Actually it’s great, because it gives us something to talk about.
I may genuinely hate Game of Thrones because it butchers something I came to love, but that doesn’t mean I have anything against the people who do like it for their own reasons. We’re all just out here enjoying what we like.
PART THREE: THE WITCHER
There is less in this section for two reasons. First, I promised not to spoil anything past the material covered in the show and I’ll stick to that here. Second—full disclosure here—I haven’t read all of the books because after Blood of Elves I got pretty bored and from what I had heard they did not improve in quality, and if anything got worse. Having already felt that going from the anthologies to Blood I was happy to end my reading there.
If something I say is contradicted by a later book that I didn’t read feel free to let me know.
[23:31] First I should mention that Sapkowski’s works are not on the same level as Tolkien’s and Martin’s, who are the best and second-best fantasy authors of all time. I have enjoyed the Witcher books that I have read, but they are not anywhere near as complex or beautifully written.
This is just my opinion, see above paragraph. I really do think that it’s a pretty common opinion though. I’ve read it before, and you often see people recommend the first two Witcher anthologies in a “if you like it maybe see if you like the rest of them?” sort of way. Book sales numbers also support this, though by all accounts they are exploding in the wake of the show.
But, one potential issue is that I’m reading a translation so I have no idea how good Sapkowski’s prose actually is. You get a lot of sentences in the US edition like: “it must be both bothersome and irritating.” Translation is art, not science, and passages like these make me worry that the translator is just translating each phrase without worrying about all the subtlety that makes language beautiful. These are minor examples of course, but they worry me about what else might be changed. So take my criticism of his writing with a giant, translated, grain of salt, in that I don’t read Polish.
[23:58] Despite this, Geralt the Witcher has been worming his way into popular culture for years, interestingly on the back of a series of video games
Google trends clearly show that the video games are what primarily generated interest in the character before the show. There were no English editions until around the time the games started coming out, and the US editions all feature concept art from the games on the covers. The release of the subsequently translated books after the games received very little attention in comparison to the games.
[24:15] In my opinion, that decline of focus on Geralt was the greatest weakness in the books, and the focus on Geralt is the greatest strength of the games. Because Geralt is at the core of what made Sapkowski’s story and world engaging in the first place. He is a fascinating character in a way that Ciri, who is a fairly standard fantasy “chosen child,” could never be.
This is just my opinion, and I explain why I think Geralt is so great in the subsequent paragraphs. Reasonable people can disagree on this, but I’ve come across more than a couple fantasy characters who could be generically described as “royal orphans with special powers.” It’s not exactly novel. Geralt is pretty novel, at least in terms of what I have read.
[24:49] He suffers many of the same psychological problems that characters like Tyrion and Brienne suffer from in Martin’s work
The technical name for these kinds of issues is “internalized bigotry.” This happens when you get treated consistently horribly by the society you live in due to some fundamental fact about yourself that you didn’t choose, and eventually you begin to believe and “internalize” their opinion of you. For example, people expect Tyrion to be unlovable, conniving, lecherous, and debauched. Eventually he simply leans into these characteristics, because in a way it’s almost easier to be what people expect you to be.
[25:48] To top it off, he hides all this inside a cynical and nihilistic exterior, he pretends he doesn’t care when in fact, he cares more than anyone.
The shot that accompanies this, of Geralt looking intently at what’s happening in the room while others tend to be watching with a sort of mild curiosity like you might at an unexpected circus performance, did an awesome job of conveying this idea.
[26:36] This was kind of a cool idea, but predictably their scenes ended up being generally less interesting and engaging then Geralt’s. Yennefer’s were sometimes fantastic but Ciri’s rarely were.
This was the opinion of fans that I most commonly observed. I don’t have any empirical evidence of this. If you have any that either supports or contradicts this please let me know, I would be fascinated to see it. I could see someone really loving Yennefer’s scenes, and I personally enjoyed a lot of them, but I don’t understand how someone could walk away from the first season with Ciri as their favorite character of the three. I’ll come back to this in a later section.
[27:40] In many ways the first two books, and the games, have more in common with Sherlock Holmes than they do most other fantasy stories.
Really a more accurate comparison would be Philip Marlowe since Geralt is definitely more of an American Pulp detective than a British one. I do love the similarity between Geralt’s Witcher Senses in The Witcher 3 and Sherlock’s detective vision in Crimes and Punishment. I can’t make the same comparison to a Philip Marlowe game, because no one’s made one yet.
Actually that’s not strictly true. There was one game that came out in 1996.
[28:12] But Netflix’s Witcher has barely a whiff of detective fiction anywhere. I think this has caused a lot of fans to feel alienated by the show, even if they can’t explain exactly why.
It’s not reasonable to expect people to know why they like or don’t like something. It’s a feeling, and unless they have experience with writing, narratology, literature, film studies, or just read a lot of tvtropes.org, they are not likely to be able to put their finger on what it is. This causes people to disproportionally blame the things that are most obviously wrong. The premiere example of this is Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace. Jar Jar was obviously bad, but he doesn’t even come close to the top ten biggest problems with the movie. It was much worse that there was no main character or understandable plot and drama. Check out Red Letter Media’s legendary review for more on that.
I think a similar thing happened with Ciri, in that her story was sort of obviously underwhelming and so received a lot of flak, but there are deeper problems with the show.
[32:04] The third change is more subtle, but I’m worried that this Geralt genuinely believes in neutrality.
Just like Ned, the showrunners would not be the first to espouse this view. This quote in particular about “evil is evil” is obnoxiously peddled about as a justification for fence-sitting despite the fact that Geralt’s actual behavior doesn’t support it at all.
I don’t know for sure if the showrunners genuinely think Geralt tries to be neutral. There’s some evidence for yes in the first episode, the Borch episode, the Striga episode, and a couple of others. There’s strong evidence for no in the Duny/Pavetta episode. We’ll just have to see.
To be clear, when I mean “neutral” I mean in the face of immediate violence or injustice. Geralt often doesn’t care who is king, as he explains to Ostrit. But he won’t let a Striga continue to kill people just for coin.
[37:20]  When the writers took away Ned’s best arguments for his actions, when they took his story of existential triumph, of not compromising his morals, and turned it into a simple tragedy, they showed they clearly did not understand his heroism.
See PoorQuentyn’s explanation of existential heroism, and how it applies to ASOIAF.
[37:58] In the books, Ciri and Yennefer are included in the story through their connection to Geralt, because he is our hero and the foundation of our connection to the world. In the show they are included before ever having met Geralt, and they take up time that could have been spent focusing on those devilish detective details that make Geralt’s stories and character work.
Originally this video had a lot of discussion about how well these two other characters worked, but it ended up being kind of useless because it comes down to personal opinion, and the writers failure to properly use Geralt massively overshadows whether or not someone liked or didn’t like either of the other two leads. Again, I get why someone could like Yennefer’s scenes. I get why someone could maybe even like her scenes more than Geralt’s. Anya Chalotra did great. I thought the writing was a little weak at times, but on balance pretty decent. Geralt gets the benefit of all his stories being straight adaptations, and she didn’t, so it was a pretty decent job.
On the other hand, I thought Ciri’s storyline was a giant waste of space. When I think of all the best moments in the show, Ciri doesn’t show up in any of them. She spends the entire season running away from and interacting with fairly minor and forgettable characters that did not need to be introduced in this season. Calanthe, Eist, and Mousesack were great characters and the actors gave great performances, but that did not make up for the fact that her storyline went nowhere and did nothing to justify its inclusion. If someone loved Ciri’s storyline I would genuinely be interested to know why.
[39:10] I do have some sympathy for the writers of the Witcher.
Many times in this video I mention sympathy for various writers. Moviemaking is a massively complex undertaking. If you know anything about the difficulty of getting these things together you’ll know that it’s an absolute miracle any movie gets made and takes herculean effort from everyone involved. Television series are arguably even worse because they are longer, more complex, and often have a lower budget despite that. The people involved are honestly doing their best, and I recognize that, even if I criticize the product.
[39:47] They are in this unfortunate position where they can’t really pull the majority of their writing straight from the books because the material isn’t really strong enough by itself.
The books are very dialogue heavy. As I allude to, the one scene that was very close to the book is that scene with Filavandrel and it’s just obnoxious because the two characters just dialogue at each other. It goes on even longer in the book. How well that works in a book is up for debate but it wasn’t going to work on the screen, and it didn’t.
These problems are not insurmountable though. You can put other footage over these monologues. You could have included some footage of Elves fighting in their war. You could have footage of the “cursed” daughters of Lilit being locked in towers or autopsied while Stregobor explains it. I get this is more budget, but that budget went other places.
On the other hand some great scenes that I think would have translated excellently shot-for-shot from the book with little additional budget, like Renfri and Geralt in the Alderman’s attic, are entirely cut. Ah well.
[40:25] Well, I have my theories, but it in the end it doesn’t really matter.
I have a sneaking suspicion that somebody thought it needed to be more “epic” than the first two books are, so we got all this princess and political stuff in early. If there’s any merit to the idea that this series “copied” GoT, it’s somewhere in here, just like how the Hobbit got poisoned with all of the “epicness” of LOTR.
[44:54] Lastly, I’m gonna do my best to put out more regular content going forward. I’m aiming for at least one video a month.
I place no limitation on topics. It’ll probably be mostly media analysis, but if I’m honest I’m just going to write about whatever interests me. That’s the best way to keep myself interested.
That being said, if you have something you think I should analyze let me know. If I’m interested, I might do it.
5 notes · View notes
deathflares · 4 years
Text
» ffxivwrite day #08 — clamor
wol&graha, brief implied wol/graha, 1.1k words, M.
[ao3 mirror]
The clamor of those they'd left behind still chases them, across the years.
He’s still a boy when it first happens.
It’s a dream—the only one he had during his childhood that he remembers by the time he wakes. In it, he stands before a young woman, her eyes a bright crimson like his own, and she reaches for his hand, her features twisted in anguish.
“Desch,” she calls him. “You must—”
Her lips move, but whatever she says after that, he cannot hear.
“I will see it done, your highness,” he hears himself say, with a voice not his own. “No matter what—”
The scene shifts, fades. He sees flashes of other events—resistance fighters raiding a palace; the very earth cracking open and crumbling away, swallowing a gigantic tower with it; the clamors of despair from a people who have just witnessed the fall of civilization.
Then there are—faces. Men and women, young and old, their eyes the same as his own—pearls of crimson bisected in black. They surround him, and though each of their voices is barely above a whisper, together they are deafening.
You must, they say. Her wish, our wish—you must be the one to—
He wakes with a startle. The voices fade, but the emptiness in his chest remains for many years to come.
        She starts hearing—and seeing it—after she turns eighteen.
Perhaps it was to be expected. Physically, she made it through that day nearly unscathed, so the gods must have seen fit to give her soul scars to match the ones on her brother’s body.
It happens when she dreams. She’s back on that moment—kneeling before the two mangled bodies even she can barely recognize as her parents, only static in her ears and all of her limbs heavy as lead.
And then they move.
They, and every single person she had tried and failed to save. They crawl through the debris, a gruesome trail of bloodied innards and torn, burnt skin in their wake, and they grab at her—tear her clothes and hack her flesh, the clamor of their voices more painful than the growing, gaping wounds on her body.
Why didn’t you do anything, they cry out. Why didn’t you protect us? Why were you so weak? Why, why, why—
I’m sorry, she tries to say as her mother’s nails claw at her throat, death’s grip claiming her consciousness. I wanted to. I tried. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
When she wakes, the memory of her dreams terrifies her as much as the fact that a part of her wished they had been real.
        The voices are the loudest they have ever been after the doors close.
They guide him, through each notch of the endless stairs that lead to the peak of the Syrcus Tower. With every step he takes, they claim a little more of his reason. He’s thankful for that, somewhat—at least in those last few moments, he won’t have the clarity to truly fathom what he’s surrendering.
He comes to a halt in front of the throne, traces the edge of the seat with hesitant fingers. How disheartening, to think so many could have been spared a life of doubt and emptiness, were it one for a single man’s unbridled ambition.
Bygones are bygones, however. It ends with him, now.
He sits on the throne and takes a deep breath, feels the tower’s pulse as it were his own. Exhaustion overcomes him, and he doesn’t resist.
The last thing he hears before slumber takes him is the voice of that same young woman he saw in that dream, so many years ago. Thank you, she whispers, and the emptiness within him vanishes at last.
        With each loss, there are new faces in her dreams.
Moenbryda shows up first, tearing a hole in Shiori’s chest to match her own. G’raha comes after, inviting her to join him in slumber before he snaps her neck. Minfilia gives her a hug, then sinks her silver knife on her back as the ceiling comes crashing down on their heads.
Sometimes they just talk. If you weren’t so weak, maybe, they clamor, maybe we would still be here, wouldn’t we?
She prefers when they kill her.
When Haurchefant joins them, she stops sleeping.
        The ancient chorus is no more, but there’s no shortage of voices in his mind, be it when he’s awake or when he slumbers.
After Biggs and the others rouse him, it’s usually his old friends. He wasn’t there to see it, but the even image of them lying lifeless on the ground as Black Rose halts the very flow of aether within their bodies, or, perhaps worse, surviving to see what the world becomes after—it’s too much to bear.
Once he arrives on the First, it’s those he left behind. We’re sorry for sending you alone, they’d said, so many times, as if he was the unfortunate one, he who would at least be free from that godsforsaken world, ruined beyond salvation. He prays every night that he might one day have a fraction of their bravery within himself.
Then, it starts being the people of the Crystarium. A literal clamor, sometimes, so many who now look to him, undeserving and unprepared as he is, for guidance and protection and leadership.
Whoever the voices belong to, however, the message has always been clear: he cannot afford to fail.
        Her homeland is free.
She learns that they had buried them, all of them, after she and her brother fled. They show her the way, but it takes a long time before she feels ready to see it.
The day she does, she goes alone. She walks through every grave, reads every name, then stops when she arrives at the ones she was most afraid to see. Mizuki, reads one, and Hibiki, the other. She kneels, silently.
“I’m home, mom, dad,” she says. Then she cries.
The nightmares don’t stop entirely. But they’re a little less frequent, and the voices a little more quiet.
        He kisses her awake, just because he can.
“Raha,” she whispers, stirring in his arms, voice still groggy with sleep. “I missed you.”
“I’ve been here all along, love,” he says. He would never leave. Not now, that he’s been given a second chance.
“I don’t see you in my dreams. At least, not anymore,” she explains. “But I’m sure you understand when I say I am rather thankful for that.”
He does understand. Better than anyone, perhaps.
The voices of those they had left behind still chase them, across the years—but at least, when they’re not alone, their clamor is made the tiniest bit more bearable.
2 notes · View notes
indiavolowetrust · 4 years
Text
Carajillo II
SUMMARY: The sequel to Carajillo, which you can read here. A coup d'etat has been staged in the Celestial Realm. The human proposes a plan to halt the impending war.
Part One: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Part Two: Coming Soon!
Part Three: Coming Soon!
TW: Blood, Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Mention of Rape
PART ONE: CHAPTER ONE
Even in slumber her face is lined with worry. There is no end to her brooding, it seems. She whimpers softly against the pillow again and again, her cheeks stained with tears, and her frail body trembles with an overwhelming, oppressive fear. She should not suffer her inordinate sensitivity to the cold as she had in life, given her state as a soul, and still she shivers. Still she cries out in the long hours of the night, her psyche revealing the damage I had inflicted upon it. Her fingers curl against the sheets, searching for purchase. I slip my hand beneath hers, entwining her smaller fingers with mine.
I use my free hand to trace the soft angles of her face. Carving out the silhouette of her visage in the darkness. I have witnessed the image thousands of  times before -- the dark, doe-like eyes, olive skin, and pitch-black curls spilling over her shoulders -- and I can only hope to have the pleasure to witness the image thousands of times more. If she would have me.
I press my palm to her cheek, cradling the cold skin there. She sighs. Her eyelids begin to flutter, the clutches of her nightmare finally releasing her, and it is only moments before she regards me. She blinks, the vestiges of sleep clouding her perception. Her fear slowly but surely retreating back into her psyche.
And then she smiles.
“You don’t sleep,” she murmurs, nuzzling into my touch.
“Neither do you.”
“Yes, but I’m not the one that has to be up all day,” she counters, her tone languid. The shadows under her eyes would suggest that she has slept little as well, undoing the implications of her argument. “You’ll have about an hour or so, I think, if you go to sleep now. You should at least try.”
“Should I?” I ask.
“Of course you should.” She begins to turn away from me, adjusting her position in the bed, but I do not allow her to do so. Her eyes flicker to mine with slight annoyance. “Barbatos --”
I roll on top of her before she can finish, my arms caging her in. Already I can feel the sensation of my true form coming to light -- my horns rupture through the sides of my skull, my tail forms from the bottom of my spine, and my teeth lengthen, growing sharper with each increment. Maria stares at me for a moment, wide-eyed. All vestiges of sleep seem to have simply vanished from her conscience, her prior lethargy having succumbed to the realization of my intentions. My tail flicks away a stray curl at her brow.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, pressing my hardness against her. I can feel the outline of her folds through the thin fabric of her underwear, her channel already beginning to slaver with need. “I would be happy to explain, if you have a need for it.”
She furrows her brows. “It’s too early for this.”
“Your reaction seems to indicate otherwise.” My tail all but peels off the flimsy garment from her form, flinging it elsewhere in the room, and I lean down to her throat the nibble at the sensitive skin there. One of my teeth grazes against the delicate area, inciting a shiver to run through her body. “If I didn’t know any better,” I continue, planting small kisses along her throat and collarbone, “I would say you had anticipated this. This is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Don’t -- don’t tease me like that,” she says, biting her lip. She barely stifles a gasp as I latch onto one of her breasts through the fabric of the borrowed shirt, sucking aggressively at the flesh beneath. “Just hurry up.”
I meet her gaze, taking in the image of her lustful expression. “Why?”
“Because --”
She yelps in surprise as I place her thighs onto my shoulders. My mouth envelops her small clit, sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves, and my tongue moves to drag itself languidly across the folds of her dripping gash. Five minutes and twenty-three seconds into the act, Maria’s soft moans and breathless sighs saturate the air of the bedroom. Intoxicating me. Seven minutes and forty seconds into the act, she is writhing beneath my assault, attempting to angle me just so to quicken the course of her release. I deny her. Ten minutes and two seconds into the act, pleading, quiet words depart from her mouth in a continuous stream, begging that I take her. Hopelessly, endlessly urging that I do so.
What am I but an instrument for her wishes? Who am I to deny the indulgence of her pleasure?
I need no other encouragement. It is only a moment before I position myself at her entrance, pressing against the soft, velvet folds -- and then I plunge myself into her, fully sheathing myself into her channel. Her name is a prayer on my lips, hanging in the space between the both of us. I do not allow it to remain as such. I press deeper into her, adjusting the angle of my thrusts. Wrapping my arms around her. She gasps, her body squirming in response to the sudden accommodation, and I make an effort to restrain myself. Even in death, it would appear that her body is too frail for me to treat with ultimate fervor.
I will not inflict pain on her again.
Her pupils are unfocused in the dark, the barest of a wince coming over her features. It takes thirty-eight seconds for it to cease. It takes ten seconds for me to convince myself that I am not harming her with the act. It is only then that I begin to shift myself in and out of her, studying her expression with every movement. The impulse to simply thrust into her with abandon is compelling, my own need threatening to overtake my actions -- but my control is much too strong to succumb to such things. My fear of tearing her apart again is even greater.
Her visage is awash with the light of the false moon when I position myself just above her once more, the illumination playing at her soft features. The everlasting darkness of the Devildom permeates the space around us, yes, but it is as there is a light that emanates from within her form. As if some shard of the false moon had lodged itself within her, her frail body chosen as its bearer. I am only fortunate enough to gaze upon it.
It is a soft, quiet copulation. This time, I do not take anything from her. Instead, I give and give and give until there is no more of myself to offer. I listen to every whispered plea, every undulation of her form, every soft word that escapes her lips. After what I had done -- after the horrifying realization that she had been aware of my actions -- I cannot bring myself to treat her in such a manner again. I have locked away that selfish, more desperate part of myself, caging in the dark thoughts. I have long swallowed the key, if only for her sake.
“Why did you do it?” she asks. Her voice is oddly resonant. Distorted. “I don’t understand.”
“For you,” I respond, pressing small kisses to her throat. “I did everything for you.”
I feel her shake her head, the bare skin pressed to mine suddenly moistened with tears. “No. No, no, not that. How could you do it? How could you let it happen?”
I draw back from her form to regard her, lifting a finger to wipe away her tears. Preparing to dash away whatever sadness or fatigue has befallen her. The false moonlight spills over her small form once more.
She is not crying.
Her throat erupts with that horrible, vivid crimson, the sheets beneath her becoming stained with the liquid. Blood drips freely from her mouth as she chokes, wheezing gasps escaping from her lips. I watch with horror as the blood encapsulates my own hands, holding me in place as the hue travels up the contours of my body. In moments there is nothing but that violent crimson visible in the space around us, drowning me in the screaming, intense hue. Forcing me to gaze upon her.
There is almost nothing but pure, unbridled hatred in her expression. Blinding rage. Yet amongst the anger, the disgust, there is also the hint of pity. Blood spills from her mouth when she speaks once more, the iron suffusing the air.
“How could you let me so suffer so many times?” she cries. “I felt it! I felt everything! How could you be so selfish? Why couldn’t you just let me die? I hate you!”
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
The room shatters, the shards of the windowpane skewering through both her body and mine. I try to look away, to tear my eyes away from this being that cannot possibly be her -- but some unseen force holds my skull in its vice-like grip. I am forced to stare at the deserved wrath that lies in her gaze as my limbs are torn away from my body, the flesh ravaged by some beast that lies in the blood. Devouring me. My bones crush easily within its jaws, my skull cracking beneath the force. I cannot fight the entity.
There is only the dark, seething wrath in her eyes as she immolates me. Even when there is nothing left of me, my bones crushed to dust and my flesh stripped from my body, I can feel the weight of her hatred.
* * *
My heart threatens to burst from my chest when I finally awaken, a trickle of cold sweat running down the nape of my neck. The vestiges of the nightmare still cling to my conscience, even moments after, and I find myself scanning the darkness of the room for any signs of danger. Any hint of that violent, horrible crimson. My gaze flickers around the corners of the sparsely decorated room, searching. But there is nothing of the sort to be found. My desk and nightstand lie bare, the doors of my wardrobe fully closed. The grandfather clock ticks distinctly at the end of the room, the reverberation joined by its fellow timepieces, and my waistcoat is folded neatly on my chair. Everything is just as I had left it.
The guilt is eating me alive.
I glance at the grandfather clock, despite the lack of a need to do so. My body has allowed me to rest for six hours, twenty minutes, and seventeen seconds, and so it should be six hours, twenty minutes, and seventeen seconds past midnight. Five hours, thirty-nine minutes, and forty-three seconds until noon. As such, it would be exactly three hours, thirty-nine minutes, and forty-three seconds until the meeting between Maria, Lord Diavolo, and the seven figureheads of the Devildom. If I start to prepare myself now, I should be able to attend to her in exactly thirty minutes.
In conclusion, I would be five minutes late.
My work uniform is folded neatly on my chair, my shoes lined up neatly at the base of it. It is five minutes before I force myself away from the bed -- ensuring I would be exactly thirty-five minutes late -- and thirty minutes for me to prepare for the work day.
2 notes · View notes
alphawave-writes · 5 years
Text
The universe sings for him alone
Synopsis: Talon tries to help him rehabilitate, but nothing can ever stop the universe's song. It wants him, and it wants him alone. It sings him its song because he is the only one that can hear it.
Siebren didn’t plan to be an astrophysicist. Originally, when he was young, he held the lofty ambitions of becoming an astronaut. It was a typical childish dream, but one that he strived to achieve. He trained his body and his mind. He studied all there was to know about space and space travel and the physiological and psychological tolls space will have on him. He persevered, and soon he was accepted as an astronaut for NASA. In another world, he would’ve been the youngest astronaut ever, but something else stopped him.
As part of his training, Siebrun experienced a simulation of the zero gravity conditions similar to what he will work with up in space. He went in, tasked to solve a problem in a recreation of the interior of the space shuttle he will spend the next six months in. Within seconds, gravity dropped. The lights had went out.
He unhooked himself, floated in the darkness, and saw the stars sparkle before his eyes. In the light, he saw a new path, one that spoke of discovery and isolation, the beauty in the mundane. His mind was no longer on his mission. All he thought about was how wonderful the universe and the stars looked, and how he wanted to learn their secrets. He remembered a distinct humming sound that day. He never knew if that sound was caused by the blood filling his ears or the drone of the whirring machines, or if perhaps it was the universe singing to him the hymn of its life. All he knew was that he was drawn in, a child lured away from home by the Pied Piper’s song.
Siebren may not have become an astronaut, but he left that day with a renewed sense of purpose and unbridled curiosity. Siebren the astronaut died so he could be reborn as Siebren the astrophysicist. There was not a day in his life that he regretted his choice. He knew he was destined to decode the universe’s song.
It was only later in his life that he realizes that the universe sings to him not so he understands their pain, but so someone can hear it cry in the dark.
Sometimes he is oversensitive. Other times he is not. He can’t remember if it’s another side effect to the cosmic powers he had been granted or if it he has always lived life this way. He never liked socks and shoes, he remembered, or was that a dream? The lines between reality and imagination have blurred so much. He’s seen so much of the fabric of reality that he can only define it by the seams.
Talon is more than happy to let him walk around the base with no shoes. They seem more concerned about the floating more than anything. A perfectly natural response, he thinks, but a disheartening one nevertheless. He needed an outlet for his powers, and floating was the least disruptive one. There will only be chaos and destruction if he subdued his powers. Many a person have died trying to keep his powers in check. At least, that’s what the jailers in the facility told him. He refused to call them doctors, no matter how much they insisted otherwise. He is insane, but he is not stupid.
At least there is one who is not disturbed by him, and that is Doctor Moira O’Deorain. Though not a trained psychologist by any means, she has been courteous enough to look after his mental wellbeing and doublecheck that the anti-psychotics he had been prescribed are of the correct dosage. He is a rather large man, and his volume of distribution is significantly higher than average, but she calculates it with ease and makes appropriate adjustments based on his behaviour. The staff at the facility had trouble sedating him. He had to learn how to escape into his own mind to endure.
Sigma doesn’t have much of a mind to retreat into anymore. If he tries to retreat, he succumbs. Whenever he succumbs, he loses days, sometimes weeks of memories. He does something in these moments because every time he finally regains control, his body is tired and there’s blood all over his clothes. He checks the calender every time he wakes up. Time is no longer linear.
Moira helps him in the rehabilitation process. They are kindred in the sense that they share a similar burden of understanding the powers they now wielded. Their reasoning differed, however. Moira is convinced it can all be explained by science, and that those who called their powers magic were too feeble-minded to consider the vastness of scientific possibility. Sigma is less convinced that science is the true answer. He hears the whisperings of the universe, singing its sanctimonious melody in his ears, and he thinks that perhaps their abilities are in some part due to the will of the universe. Not that he will ever say this to her. She will dismiss it as part of his ramblings, he is sure of it.
He hears the melody again and grits his teeth. Moira thinks they are mere auditory hallucinations, a result of his psychosis. Sigma knows it is the song of the universe, calling out to him, beckoning him.
 Release me, release me!
“You’ve been showing significant improvement, Sigma,” Moira says during one such rehabilitation session. He remembers and forgets his true name with the rise and fall of the sun. As far as he’s concerned, Sigma is his name now.
“I think I have a better grasp on my abilities,” he responds slowly. She gestures for him to demonstrate and he complies. He hums in his head the melody that haunts his waking life. Two hyperspheres appear in his outstretched hand.
Moira smiles. “Fascinating.” She glances down at her notes and for a second she frowns. He blinks, and it’s replaced by a more familiar, studious look. He’s not sure if he imagined it or not. “I have organized a special test today. It is time to test the limit of your abilities.”
His brows furrowed. “My limits? Are you sure?”
“Our organization is interested in seeing you finish your research. Talon wants to help you understand how to harness the black hole again.”
A cold chill ran down his spine as a memory played before his eyes. He yells, weightless and fragile and alone in the deep reaches of space. The black hole is beautiful and horrible and awe inspiring and terrifying. He can feel himself floating higher now, the hyperspheres rising with him. Numbers fly across his vision and his body is numb. The universe is whispering its dark desires into his ear again. Hold it together, HOLD IT TOGETHER!
A hand is placed on his shoulder and he returns back to earth. The voices have quieted down to a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. The hand releases and he realizes that it belongs to Moira. She frowns.
“Perhaps you are not ready for the next step.”
His eyes widen. “N-no no, I am ready.” His body is quivering and the cool air on his feet is almost too much. He quickly summons the hyperspheres again. “I-I am in control. I can do this. Please.”
Her smile is soft with sympathy but there’s something else in her eyes, a sadistic glint that makes him wonder if she was hoping he would say this. But Moira was his friend, she would not do anything to him unless…no. No, that cannot be the case. There is no evidence.
“If you are sure,” she says, and leads him out of her office. She stands in front of an unfamiliar door and swipes a card. It beeps, green lights flickering above before the door slides open.
He’s never explored this section of the facility, so he does not know what to expect. Whatever he imagined, it wasn’t this. Men and women make a ruckus from their cages, staring warily in his direction. The humans shriek and beg in their native languages. He recognizes what they are saying, but he does not understand them. He’s fluent in six different languages and he understood the individual words, but language loses sense when it is screamed at him with such vitriol. Formulas fly by his vision, desperately trying to find the patterns in their speech but even math fails him. The equations were correct, but the answer was wrong, why was it wrong? His hold on the harness is slipping.
Moira notices his horrified expression. She is unperturbed. “Don’t listen to them. They are far more disturbed than you ever were. You are better than them.”
He nods, but it is hesitant. He floats behind her, staring at the desolate people with sorrowful eyes. Moira stops at another door at the end of the hallway. She gestures for him to enter.
When he does, he very nearly lost his grip on the harness again.
There’s a man strapped to a chair, naked except for some stained underwear and white cotton socks. His skin is dark, or at least it should be, but red welts stain the dark ebony expanse. His purple bruises blend in with his skin under the solitary lamp above him. Sigma thinks the man is unconscious, but is soon proven wrong when he stirs, rabid eyes staring at him. Those eyes are the same colour of his mother’s stroopwafels, he thinks, but no matter how much he tries, he realizes he can’t recall what his mother looks or sounds like. He doesn’t even know if she is dead. The voices are getting louder, and for once, they are screaming the same thing.
This is a torture room, they cry in unison. Danger, hold it together, RELEASE ME, GIVE ME VIOLENCE!
He points his shaking figure at the man. “Who…w-who is he?”
“A criminal,” Moira says blandly, like she is discussing the different varieties of coffee beans. “He has killed many without remorse, and he will do it again if we free him. He is here for the good of humanity.” She turns to him. “He is your first test subject.”
“Test…subject?”
“But of course. Your powers are of high interest. Talon is interested to see the extent of gravity manipulation. There is no device or machine in the earth that can harness its powers. Not like you can.”
The man struggles weakly against his bonds, his yells muffled by the tape over his lips. The voices are shrieking again. HOLD IT TOGETHER, GIVE ME VIOLENCE, LET ME BE WHOLE!
Sigma swallows loudly. “This…this is unethical.”
“Remember the experiments committed during the second world war? The atrocities committed were horrible, but we learned so much about the human psyche. Is that information not valuable nowadays? Did it not shape our understanding of psychology? Did it not expand our knowledge of the human mind?”
Not even I understand my mind, he thought morosely.
“You alone hold a power that scientists around the world thought impossible. Think how many people you can save. The inventions we can craft. Interstellar travel will finally be possible. If you are able to manipulate gravity to its fullest and harness the power of a black hole, you can help so many people. But to understand, you need to conduct experiments. And with experiments, you need experimental subjects.”
He approaches the bound man, instincts taking over as he summons the hyperspheres into existence. He knows it hurts him if he directly touches it. Is it the same for others? Will it hurt this man or kill him? How will this man react? Will the tears flow uninhibited until they are begging to stop? What secrets will spill from their lips?
He catches his thoughts and he almost screams. He wants to retreat but his body does not listen to his commands anymore. His limbs are burning hot and freezing cold and he can hear that melody loop again and again. The floor is crumbling beneath his feet, pebbles of rock breaking away, hovering up to him, building up, up, up. He is barely holding onto the ledge. He cannot let himself succumb. Not again. Release me release me RELEASE ME!
“Sigma,” Moira says.
“I-I don’t want to lose control.” He’s not sure if he’s saying this to her or to himself. Fear has gripped his heart in a stranglehold.
The melody plays again, this time in its entirety. Formulas flash before his eyes. A golden path appears before him, and he swears he sees the universe now for what it truly is. It is stripped of its pretenses, unveiling to him alone the true extent of its depths and it is endless. It calls him forward. He understands it and he doesn’t know why. Everything is rising around him. There’s shouts of surprise and terror but he cannot hear them, only sense them from the shift in the gravitational field. He is floating higher and higher and higher. Not even the ceiling can stop him.
“The universe is singing to me!” He laughs as he succumbs.
He doesn’t feel anything anymore. Not the wind whipping over his sensitive feet, not the weight of another life taken against their will, not gravity. All he hears is the universe singing its song for him alone.
He awakens with a start. He’s in a comfy bed in his room in Talon’s HQ, the blankets tucked just the way he liked under his feet. His eyes are half lidded and his body aches. He blearily turned his head to the holographic clock on his bedside. It tells him it’s 2am. With a groan, he pulls himself up and glides over to the curtains, pulling them open to reveal the stars in the sky.
He remembers the last time he was under a starry night sky like this. It was a frosty November night and he was crying tears of joy when he learned he was going to work with eminent professors in The Hague. His colleagues had said he was overly sentimental and sensitive. Men like him don’t cry. Men like him don’t go out into the winter snow in only a pair of pyjamas and some slippers to stare at the stars with all the love and wonder in the world.
He looks down at his hands, surprised to see that they are bruised at the knuckles. He doesn’t recall how they came this way. They weren’t like that the last time he was awake. Pieces of his memories flood back to him in a tidal wave. He remembers talking to Moira in her office. He remembers torturing and killing a man bound to a chair. He remembers being consumed by bloodlust, of being egged on by his new Talon colleagues, all telling him to embrace the darkness they knew lived in everyone’s heart.  
“I’m not a villain,” he cries, even as his hands were covered in the blood of innocents. “I’m not a villain, I’m not a villain!”
He breathes in and out and the images fade away into the night. The lines between reality and imagination have blurred so much. He concentrates on formulas and equations, the one constant in his universe, and slowly he feels himself ease back into control. He lowers himself down to the ground, wobbling unsteadily but successfully remains standing on his own too feet. He has to keep reminding himself to walk every now and then, if not to maintain muscle mass then to remind himself of what gravity used to feel like. His feet are cold and sensitive but he makes no move to put on the socks he knows are stored in the dresser next to him. He wants to feel the ground beneath him. He wants to feel the sand beneath his feet.
He stares at the door for minutes. Ever since he came to Talon, a part of him longs to escape. The people in Talon were far more stimulating conversation than the doctors at the government facility, and they treat him with the gravitas his title commanded, but they still walk on eggshells around him. He cannot leave Talon’s HQ without an escort. He cannot talk to anyone that wasn’t his escort, with very few exceptions. The public will break out in a riot if they knew he was alive, they said. 
Some days he wants to be free, but he knows he is a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. He knows that, and yet he wants to see the world once more. He misses the little things his old life gave him. The stroopwafels with his morning tea, the afternoon walks by the Hofvijver, the starry night sky that he would admire by afar from his telescope.
The universe sings again, and he realizes he understand the lyrics. It beckons him outside, whispering sweet nothings in his ear that meant everything.
He glances at the holographic clock. It’s approaching 2:30am. He glances at the two hyperspheres he summoned in his hand, sedated and in control. His mind is clear today.
“I suppose it would not hurt to go outside,” he whispers to himself. His eyes are on the door. A smile creeps up his face. "I need the exercise. Stretch my legs.”
He follows the universe and escapes the confines of Talon HQ. He walks into the outside air and smells the dust in the air and feels the earth on his toes. The universe sings for him to return to him, and he sings it a tune of his own creation. One day he will fly up over the atmosphere and be lost among the stars and his mind will be whole enough to give the universe the love and attention it deserves, but that day is not today.
For tonight only, while he has his mind, he walks the planet with his feet on the ground and his head up in space.
88 notes · View notes
chalabrun · 5 years
Text
whatever happens
Word Count: 2,738 Pairing: Syphacard Rating: T Warnings: Some suggestiveness Summary: The Greeks have a philosophy: what we consider beautiful, we are terrified of. Alucard never understood what it meant as a child. But after falling in love, he finally did.  A/N: Huge thanks to mercytxt for helping me with the scenario premise for this! 
( READ ON AO3 )
He looked at her the way Greeks did their philosophy: beauty was terrifying. When his mother had first read the phrase in some old tome that smelled like cobwebs and warmth and old parchment, he had looked at her quizzically, not understanding. Mama, why was beauty terrifying? He didn’t understand and had forgotten about it. Once, he’d asked his father, but all the old Count could explain was that it spoke of being in love and what it could do to people, its beauty, and what one would do to keep it. And still, he didn’t understand. Lisa had laughed because he was too young. He laughed, too, and Dracula smiled in amusement.
Alucard was much older now, and he understood. His father had killed for love, for Lisa’s beauty beyond the physical. He saw how terrifying it became.
Across the fire where they’d sought shelter from the winter interlude, again he understood—another chapter. Beauty was terrifying. Beauty was a kind smile and gentle, sky-blue eyes and hair like maize or pale gold. Eyes that drank in books more voraciously than blood, that stood before nightly terrors and declared, I’m not afraid! 
He couldn’t stare for too long at the Speaker, Sypha animated as she spoke with such a mesmerizing candor that he soaked it in like sunlight. But, this couldn’t be love. Not when the sole thing louder than her bewitching conversation was the pulsations, the beat of her heart that rattled the very air and agonized him in temptation. Blood his fangs lengthened yearningly for, wanted red and livid.
That wasn’t love. That was bloodlust. The yearning of a beast.
Brows furrowing, Alucard numbly excused himself for a moment as an reason to recoup; a piss-poor excuse. Claiming to be patrolling the perimeter of their camp when it was needless due to his extrasensory perception that could sense anything that stepped within a ways of its borders. But, it was time distracted, watching as people sleepily submitted themselves to their tents until Sypha was the last one left.
Somehow, there was a God he’d have to thank for that.
“Oh, Adrian, I was wondering where you went off to,” the scholar greeted sleepily as she brought her knees to her chest, opening a wing of her heavy blanket invitingly to share in her warmth. As always, he was too much a fool to think of refusing. Not when it gave some paltry excuse to be close. “The night’s so beautiful, isn’t it? The others are right; maybe I am risking a cold, but it’s almost too beautiful for me to care.”
Did she realize her own wonderment was far more beautiful than the sky could ever be?
“Yes, it is.” His eyes were nowhere near the stars. “Perhaps you should heed their words. I can keep watch, Sypha.”
The blonde snorted openly at that. “Are you kidding? After they made us dinner and let us stay in their encampment? No, kindness has to be repaid with kindness. Besides, isn’t the view a bit of a bonus?”
He wanted to agree, but when Sypha scooted marginally closer he could feel warmth creeping along his sides, the nape of his neck, like he’d been burned by the loveliest fire. Her fire. “I— Surely their kindness must extend to me as well,” he protested, but it was weak. Empty words and emptier wants when her sweet scent was so intoxicating he wanted to drink her in like water. Like a man crawling on the desert sands and finally able to slake his thirst after so long.
“Sorry, Adrian, but you’re outvoted here. It’s the view and their kindness versus…well, that kindness applying to you only. I’m afraid it’s majority rules,” Sypha reasoned with a short laugh, certain as not to awaken the others. She wrapped her arms around her knees again, seemingly oblivious to Alucard’s incremental closeness.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” He perked up at this, genuinely interested. “The stars are so far away and cold… And it’s winter here. It’s cold here, too. Do you wonder if one of those stars is a place like this with people gathered around somewhere warm? Do you think they look at us and wonder what we’re doing?”
“They might. It’s hardly implausible to wonder,” Alucard answered neutrally even though his heart warmed tenderly. She bore so much of the same intelligence his mother had. It made him ache and yearn all at once despite being barely millimeters apart. “Although, I doubt those people could fathom someone such as yourself. You’re one of a kind, Sypha.”
Sypha blushed; he could feel it with wan, secret delight. “I hope you mean that in a good way,” she teased placidly. There was no offense in her voice, just a genuine wonder.
“Why wouldn’t I? Do I have reason to lie?” He could see flashes of her neck. Flashes like dreams. Bathing still in her warmth.
Sypha’s brows furrowed, smiling wryly at him. “I should hope not, I—”
The scholar never had the chance to finish as Alucard suddenly craned downwards to gently capture her lips in a kiss. There was nothing overbearing or forceful about it, just a shy passion that bubbled to the surface. Against her own awareness, coming as easily as instinct, she leaned into it while Alucard hummed warmly. A hand touched her waist, holding by the small of her back while she leaned into him without even thinking twice. Her hand curled into a fist by the lapel of his jacket, pausing once to catch a breath while she felt the prominent well of an eviscerating loneliness and despair and grief well profoundly in him.
With a gasp did they part, Sypha breathing hard and staring at the dhampir in mute shock. It felt accusing, even if it wasn’t, Alucard swallowing down a breath and just as shocked as she at what he’d done almost subconsciously.
“Adrian—”
Wordlessly, guilt opening a black hole in his heart, he sat up quickly and fled the incriminating scene in ground-eating strides, not giving time for the blonde to digest what had just happened between them.
A week passed, maybe more. She hadn’t seen Alucard since that incident, even Trevor wondering where he’d gone. Not in Castle Dracula, the Hold’s library, or anywhere else she could think of. Not the places she thought, and even exploring that treacherous palace yielded little. Guilt wracked her heart and her mind, spiraling into confusion she hid behind a studious and chipper exterior even Trevor hadn’t caught on to. That…kiss, it was just a fluke, right? Maybe he’d mistaken her, or—God, she didn’t know. All she did was she’d returned it, Something she shouldn’t have done, especially considering it was just an accident, right?
“Look, Adrian, next time you fuck off for a week could you at least tell either one of us? Throw a brick through a window or something,” came Trevor’s familiar, exasperated grouse. It was the voice she heard that caused her to internally retreat.
“You seem to forget I am in no need of permission for affairs that concern me. In any case, I was investigating something at Styria’s borders. A lead to find Carmilla.”
“Ugh, whatever. Do what you want,” Trevor murmured dismissively before espying Sypha, feeling her nerves constrict her throat as he clapped her on the back and smiled crookedly. “Ah, the voice of reason. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
Sypha smiled half-heartedly. “Ah, yes. I certainly can try, Trevor…” Though, her voice tapered off, leaving an enormous gulf only she and Alucard occupied. Almost ready to flee again, she instead steeled herself. “Adrian, may I speak with you?”
When she stood face to face with him, it was being struck by lightning. That same, lonely gaze that thawed from behind his frigid exterior caught her off guard, made her resolve nomadic. Still, she couldn’t run away. Not now. She’d fought hordes of evil, for the love of God! “…I needed to apologize. For what happened last week. I cannot know what brought it on, but—I did wrong by prolonging it. And for that, I’m sorry.”
If that was true, then why didn’t it feel like a fluke? Like something lighthearted and funny between friends? Why did it feel like someone had dumped lead in her heart and left it there to hang and tear? She felt a hot sting in the corners of her eyes, averting them from that honeyed gaze of the dhampir she knew could strip her to the bone if it wanted. Where were the gamey jokes, the teeming laughter at an understanding of that kiss’ nature?
Alucard watched as Sypha crumpled into herself, murmuring another apology as she mistook his silence for mortification.
Wait. No, I wanted to kiss you. I want to, please. Don’t feel this way.
But, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead, Sypha’s retreating back was all that filled his vision, that crippling hunger and the sickly sweet yearning for her that boiled with the sting of self-admonishment: how could he be such a colossal fool? Ground-eating strides followed her in hot pursuit. “Sypha, wait!” he barked after her, catching her by the bicep as the blonde sagged and he thought he heard her choke on a sob. “I wanted that. I wanted you.”
At that, Sypha whirled around, flushed and sobbing messily. “I’m not a little girl, Adrian! You don’t have to indulge this foolishness. Not even for me!” She shook back a sob, voice cracking. Why was she so heartbroken by this?
Not another word could be spoken as Alucard suddenly framed her face with his hands and brought her lips to his own, this time no passion disguised, unbridled and roiling. Sypha was stock still in shock before she found herself succumbing to the kiss, those hands replaced around her waist and back, bringing her flush against his form while breathing became a forgotten practice as he kissed her woes away, even if new ones took their place.
“Sypha, I know what I want. And it isn’t to reject you. No…I want you.” There was a marked vulnerability in his voice, so rushed into the present that she saw how it evaporated the chilly exterior of control he wore like a mantle.
It wasn’t enough. Not when hers was a dam near overflowing. “Adrian, why—I, I don’t understand!” Was what it that made her heart hot and cold all at once, reveling in the kiss while despairing in it in one breath?
A heart blind to the love it was in.
“Sypha, you know me. I do not act upon capricious whim. Especially not in affairs of the heart. …The kiss, I don’t know how else to say that I’ve fallen in love with you. What else would you have me do?”
“What would you have me do, Adrian?!” Sypha demanded brokenly as she extricated herself from his arms, cheeks still awash in tears. “Do you…see yourself? Know what other people see? There’s a sadness in you and it’s so deep I feel as though it could swallow me whole! I saw it in you, and in your father when we defeated him. And if I became to you what Lisa was to Dracula, what would that mean if I died? If something happens to me? We haven’t seen the full extent of your power and I’m afraid of what you could unleash if it came to that! What…horrors could be done all for the sake of revenge! Adrian, I don’t want to be the thing that makes you into a monster!”
Sypha sniffed and calmed herself somewhat, eyes shining as she gazed on him, imploring, stricken. “I saw what he was capable of. How could it be any less true of you, dhampir or not?”
That stunned him into a silence unprecedented. He remembered overhearing snippets of her conversations with Trevor shortly after they’d discovered the Hold, of the bottomless despair and mourning prominent in his character like a black hole that swallowed every good thing it touched. How it was different from Trevor’s, fathomless. Though he couldn’t say a word in reply, rendered speechless by such an astute and eviscerating observation, he gathered one of her hands to place a tender kiss upon. He wished she’d say something else, a clear cut distinction. Anything but this grimness.
Sypha shivered, but not unpleasantly. “Adrian…don’t let me become your weakness. Don’t let me become the reason you’d lose your humanity. Even if our enemies used me against you, please—promise me.”
“Never. I promise.” he swore in a harsh, adoring whisper, imploring and clinging to her every word. So much fear and longing in his gaze, so contradictory, even as Sypha bumped their brows together that he leaned tenderly into.
Saying nothing more, he wrapped his arms around her, Sypha surrendering to his embrasure.
They needed time after that, to simply process everything that had been said, this tumultuous proclamation of love. Now, for the first time in ages, he understood what all the love poets meant by love that was never easy, filled with strife and sorrow for every moment of happiness and beauty. It truly was agonizing, wasn’t it?
He was alone in one of the Hold’s many alcoves, perfect for a solitary reader such as himself, before Sypha found him in their shared silence. It was an uncanny thing that made his heart throb adoringly.
Wordlessly, she curled into his side and he gladly made room for the small woman, struck by how petite she was when the blonde nestled into his flank and wound an arm over his middle and buried her face into his chest. Surely, she heard the way his heart beat a little louder, apparent by the way he felt the weight of her head against his chest. His lips grazed the crown of her head and he gladly held her where she lay, breathing in her sweet scent.
This was the weight of the war they’d waged, he realized. She was only human. And sometimes, she didn’t want to have to be strong and invulnerable, but small and pliant and held.
“…I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It wasn’t right for me to compare you to your father. You’re nothing like him, Adrian.”
It had hurt, it was true. But considering how he feared his own nature like a reaper, such sentiments were unavoidable. “It’s only rational to at least wonder after such a thing, Sypha. In fact, I forgive you totally. Considering all we’ve been through, I can hardly blame even an impasse.”
Sypha sat up some, lower lip worrying. “You can’t just let me off the hook like that! I understand, maybe some of him is in you. It is! It’s inevitable, but—you don’t use what he’s given you to the ends he went, to the means to an end that he tried!” She deflated considerably, sighing deeply. “I know you. You’re not like that.”
He didn’t know what to say to that other than she was right. How his very alias was an axiom, a reminder of what he’d always be: the exact opposite of what his father had been. Even so, a relationship between them wasn’t guaranteed to be easy. Not when there was so much opposition ahead, not when there were enemies stacked against them still. Those vampire generals alone commanded legions, and those loyal would thirst for vengeance.
A soft sound of disquiet was uttered when he felt Sypha try and maneuver him into her arms, something he submitted gladly to. He nuzzled into her bosom and sighed contentedly when he pressed his cheek against her heart, against her softness while her arms cradled him near. It was a tender moment, one that made him shudder before melting into a warm haze.
“Adrian?” she asked after a long moment. “Can you promise me something else?” Sypha paused for a beat, one gold eye cracked lazily open that met hers. “I want to be your strength. I don’t want to be the reason for your weakness in any capacity. Can we try and do that, please?” Her voice was thick with sentiment, something that made her throat bob with it.
Though, his eyes sank closed again, nestling anew into her embrace.
“Yes,” he murmured drowsily, “I promise
93 notes · View notes
Text
Emilia Clarke on Why Game of Thrones Is the Perfect Form of Escapism + HQ Scans
As Daenerys Targaryen on Game of Thrones, Emilia Clarke created a warrior queen for the ages. Her legend can be told on the walls of caves or on T-shirts at Comic-Con. But behind the Valkyrie wigs and very testy dragons, Clarke has an inspiring origin story of her own.
A valley sprawls before her, rich with every color of green in the kingdom, reaching out to a twinkling city, which borders the infinite sea. Her hair (tinted not with peroxide, but tiny flecks of actual gold) glows with a radiance that makes the setting sun so jealous it hides behind the surrounding mountains, and the evening sky blushes. She is Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Everything in sight belongs to her.
Just kidding! She is Emilia Clarke, sitting high above Beverly Hills in a glass mansion rented for a magazine cover shoot. So high up that passing aircraft rattle the bones of the house and those inside it. So high up that you can see Santa Catalina Island in the distance, peeking out from behind a curtain of fog. She laughs about something the makeup artist says, and the last of the evening light bounces off of her cheekbones and shoots into the camera lens.
We are in the sky to talk about Clarke’s reign as one of the most preeminent television actresses of our time, as Daenerys on Game of Thrones. But first, I have a few questions about her abandoned career as a jazz singer.
Clarke’s default emotion is joy — her resting heart rate seems to be just below that of someone seconds after winning a medium-expensive raffle prize — but it quickly congeals into theatrical horror when I reveal that I know that she is a casual but talented singer of jazz music.
When she was 10, Clarke was an alto in a chorus that she describes as “very churchy.” Then a substitute teacher introduced her class to jazz. “I just innately understood it,” she explains. “I was always sliding up and down the notes. Every time, the [chorus] teacher would be like, ‘Quit sliding, just sing that note and then that one and that’s it. Stop trying to fuck with it.’ Then this [jazz teacher] was like, ‘Fuck with it. That’s the point.’ ” Fast-forward a couple of decades, and Clarke was singing “The Way You Look Tonight” at the American Songbook Gala in New York, honoring Richard Plepler, erstwhile CEO of HBO. Nicole Kidman was there, too, and that is the story of Emilia Clarke, a very famous singer.
Just kidding, again! That is the story of Emilia Clarke, extremely famous actress, and it is not even the beginning. Game of Thrones, the HBO fantasy epic that has captured the global zeitgeist for most of the past decade, has entered its ultimate season. Since the show premiered in 2011, Daenerys’s searing platinum blonde has been branded into the brains of every living person with cable access, so much so that she has become as recognizable an action figure as Princess Leia. Every autumn, legions of Americans don Grecian-style dresses and carry stuffed dragons to Halloween parties in homage. Kristen Wiig even appeared on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon in a full Daenerys getup. This phenomenon exists in part because it’s a relatively easy costume to assemble, but more likely because Game of Thrones is the most popular TV show in the history of TV shows.
It’s also just one of three popular entertainment franchises Clarke has participated in. Last year: Solo: A Star Wars Story, as a paramour of Han Solo. Two years before that: the fifth Terminator movie, beside Arnold. She was also Holly Golightly in a short-lived Breakfast at Tiffany’s production on Broadway. None of those projects were particularly successful — but none of that matters, to a remarkable degree, because what matters is: The people love Daenerys.
They love a character whose series arc begins with her indentured servitude as a warlord’s concubine and ends, most recently, with her fighting for sovereignty over a league of nations and for a throne made of swords. They love how fictional languages drift from her mouth like dancing smoke, and how her searing-white mane retains a fearsome curl, even in or near battle. They love the whole dragons thing.
The people would love Emilia Clarke, too, if only they knew who she was. During the first few seasons of Game of Thrones, Clarke was able to fool the general public into believing she was very regular civilian Emilia Clarke, because Daenerys was blonde, and Clarke was not. Now, she says, recognition happens more frequently. Particularly Stateside.
For reasons I cannot fathom, Americans feel more entitled to command the attention of celebrities. “People are like, ‘UH-melia CLORK!’ ” she says, in perfect American. In London, people are prone to whisper about her as she passes by. “ ‘Was that Emilia Clarke?’ ”
“I move like a shark when I’m in public,” she says. “Head down. I think I’ve got quite bad posture because of it, because I’m determined to lead a normal life. So I just move too quickly for anyone to register if it’s me or not. And I don’t walk around with six security men and big sunglasses and a bizarre coat. I really try to meld in.” It gets worse when the show is being promoted, but otherwise, she says, it’s not so bad.
“I move like a shark when I’m in public. Head down…I’m determined to lead a normal life, so I just move too quickly for anyone to register if it’s me or not.”
Her best efforts aside, anonymity may be a pipe dream. The show is as decorated as a Christmas tree in a craft store. Game of Thrones has won a Peabody and 47 Emmys, the most of any television drama in history. The show marries critical praise with popular success, then it mercilessly slaughters those who have come to celebrate this union and receives even more acclaim (“The Rains of Castamere,” season 3, episode 9). The plotlines are famously convoluted. Luckily, we have an entire web’s worth of episode explainers, encyclopedias designed specifically for the Westeros universe, and a self-explanatory Funny or Die segment called Gay of Thrones, starring Jonathan van Ness.
When Mad Men first aired, television bloggers dutifully unpacked its symbolic elements, and millennials celebrated the show’s style with Mad Men–themed parties that were really just ’60s-and-one-red-wig-themed parties. Game of Thrones is basically an economy of its own. Since the show premiered, tourism to Croatia, whose coastal port Dubrovnik stands in for the fictional city of King’s Landing, has nearly doubled. Game of Thrones–themed weddings are so popular that it is almost impossible not to attend them — in 2016, Clarke accidentally walked into one that was occurring at the same hotel where she and the cast were staying during filming. (It was not a canonical wedding, and no guests were harmed.)
Game of Thrones has also earned one of the most important pop culture accolades of the century: The attention of Beyoncé Knowles. I believe it is her favorite TV show, and this is why.
Exhibit A: Jay-Z reportedly gave her a prop dragon’s egg from the set, at great personal expense. Exhibit B: At an Oscars after-party this year, Beyoncé approached Clarke (“voluntarily,” according to the actress) to introduce herself. “I watched her face go, ‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t be talking to this crazy [woman], who is essentially crying in front of me,’ ” remembers Clarke. “I think my inner monologue was, ‘Stop fucking it up,’ and I kept fucking it up.”
“I was like, ‘I just saw you in concert.’ And she was like, ‘I know.’ ” Clarke also mentions that Beyoncé complimented her work but declines to share specifics.
Why are people (more specifically, everybody) and goddesses (more specifically, Beyoncé) all obsessed with a show about some dragons and lots of dungeons?
“The show is sensationalist in a way,” Clarke explains, in an effort to describe a TV series that features twins having sex and a child’s defenestration in the very first episode. It doesn’t matter — Clarke’s conversational style is so intimate and emphatic that basic facts feel like sworn secrets. When she smiles, she does so with every single muscle in her face. “It’s the reason why people pick up gossip magazines. They want to know what happens next…. You’ve got a society that is far removed enough from ours but also circulates around power. How that corrupts people and how we want it, and how we don’t want it.”
In other words, Game of Thrones’ value proposition is creating a rich other world for people to experience a prestige, high-production version of pure, horny, violent, unbridled drama. It is, according to Clarke, pitched perfectly: “I think it caught Western society at exactly the right moment.”
“I don’t know about you,” she says, “but when I watch something, it’s escapism. I’m feeling crappy; I’m just sad, moody, depressed, upset, angry, whatever it is. I know that distraction is what makes me get better. Distraction is what really, really helps me.” She laughs and then quickly pivots to a caveat: “I’m sure that’s not what a therapist would advise.”
It is at this point that Emilia Clarke leans in very close, her breath knocking at my sideburn, and explains to me the bombastic and devastating ending to the most important TV show of the decade.
Wow — just kidding once more. But, uh, while we’re on the topic, how is this whole thing going to end?
It was not hard to root for the Breaker of Chains, until recently. Now we’re seeing the gentle unspooling of her character, and flickers of a dangerous prophecy that she will ascend the throne only to follow in her father’s footsteps and burn it all to the ground. For a while, Daenerys seemed like the Lawful Good ruler, but we have had the great pleasure of watching how power can pervert people. (Nate Jones, at Vulture, leads a thrilling discussion of this very topic.) (Also, if Daenerys were to rule the Seven Kingdoms, only to go nuts, we might at the very least have a spinoff to look forward to.)
Clarke will never say. Throughout 10 or so years in the public eye, her interviews have been peppered with the same handful of charming personal details from her career — the service jobs she worked prior to making it, dancing the funky chicken during her Game of Thrones audition — which feels a lot like walking a vast beach and finding the same series of 10 seashells.
Then, in March, some very different treasure washed ashore when The New Yorker ran the most illuminating profile of Emilia Clarke to date. It was written by Emilia Clarke.
If I am truly being honest every minute of every day I thought I was going to die.
In it, Clarke revealed that she had suffered two near-fatal brain aneurysms during the early seasons of Game of Thrones. The first hit her mid-plank during a training session, and not long after, doctors discovered a second that required them to open her skull for a risky operation. The recovery period was, to her, more painful than the aneurysms. “If I am truly being honest,” she wrote, “every minute of every day I thought I was going to die.” She also announced her charity venture, SameYou, which seeks to provide rehabilitation for young people recovering from brain injuries.
The second time we talk, it is the day before the Game of Thrones New York premiere, and Clarke is at a morning fitting, surrounded by a coronation’s worth of gowns. It’s early, and a passing cold has fried the edges of her voice. But her words still vibrate with so much joy, it’s like she doesn’t even notice. She’s just happy to be here, wherever she is.
Source
Emilia Clarke on Why Game of Thrones Is the Perfect Form of Escapism + HQ Scans was originally published on Enchanting Emilia Clarke | Est 2012
1 note · View note
loveiscosmicsin · 6 years
Text
Home Cooking
To @dancingfox on Tumblr, as part of the IgNoct White Day Gift Exchange @ignoctgiftexchange, I offer you a fic (it was a struggle because I was debating with five ideas at once and suffering from writer’s block and then life got really crazy that I didn’t post until way past the dates). I’m not sure what you like since you gave me “Anything, truly :)”, but I can safely assure you that there’s nothing about non-cons or excessive violent themes in this, just lots of fluff and I hope that’s okay! Though this fic can be read on its own, it’s branched off an Fateswap AU where Noctis is the Oracle and Lunafreya is the King of Light and Ignis is her advisor titled “Radiance”. Happy White Day and Happy Gift Exchange, I hope you like this. Sorry for being super late to you and the mod behind the event. I feel massively guilty but I wasn’t going to abandon this. - Title: Home Cooking Rating: G Warnings: None Summary: Courtship is such an antiquated tradition to Noctis, but he’s willing to push the aversion aside and show how he cares with a thoughtful gesture while Ignis is staying in the Crown City. - “Well,” Luna began, crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap. Unbridled excitement coursed through her, almost similar to the feeling she relished harvesting raw elemental energy from touch alone, as the King of Light and her trustworthy retainer passed the first landmark. “Our second time in Insomnia swiftly approaches.” “Indeed.” Ignis replied, eyes closed in contentment as he sipped from a can of Ebony, flipping through the magazine, his steady gaze was fixated across the pages. “You must be absolutely delighted that we are to see dear Noctis once more. These last months must have been torturous for you.” “Of course, my lady.”
Luna let the next couple minutes of silence sink in, save for the sounds of the train in motion, before narrowing her eyes and a slight twitch at the corner of her frown took form. “So... pray tell what is so intriguing in this issue’s quarterly that you deign to provide me a proper answer?” “I’m rather absorbed in this soufflé recipe,” Ignis answered without looking up and nothing more. He raised the Ebony again as to solidify the answer he had chosen and end the discussion there. Dissatisfied with the poorly made apology and in one swift motion, Luna pressed her palm firmly on the can and snatched the magazine out of Ignis’ hands. “Why,” Luna’s blue eyes widened before she grinned knowingly as her suspicions were indeed correct. Her advisor had artfully concealed a magazine behind a cooking one. “Ignis, consider yourself caught in the act. You’re reading a fishing magazine!” The woman turned to the can in her hand and shook it. “And not once have you requested a replacement for your beverage. It is empty.” Ignis sighed, color high on his cheeks as he plucked magazine back and set it on the table between them. "I suppose saying merely looking at a recently discovered fish had my mind swimming with recipe ideas wouldn't suffice as an answer?" The advisor tried, Luna sent him a look and he grimaced before admitting,  “Noctis informed me that he enjoys fishing..." Luna smiled. "It's his favorite past time, I'm told. You may find this hard to believe considering my brother’s animosity towards him, but Ravus taught him how.” "It seems very... time-consuming." He tried for a delicate term but the way Luna hid her mouth behind her hand told him he had failed. “He wished to take me fishing at one of his favorite places.” "He will be thrilled to know you've suddenly taken an interest in it." She laughed, earning her a tired stare. "Do not worry, Ignis, for when he sees you, fishing will be the furthest thing on his mind." To see Ignis and Noctis have gained such familiarity and fondness in such little time warmed the heiress’s heart in full. It was unexpected, certainly for her advisor who was quick to assume that the Oracle of Futurity was no more than a voracious beast. Fortunately, his opinion changed overnight when Noctis restored his vision and the two became well acquainted. Luna couldn’t help but feel wholly obligated to cheer and tease Ignis whenever she pleased, much to her advisor’s chagrin. Ignis nodded in appreciation for the reassurance, but the conversation wasn’t over. He gingerly caressed the worn and curling corners of the magazines, conflicted. “Actually, there’s something that I must address with you, Luna. It’s urgent, but we can discuss it later if you prefer.” Luna blinked, her mouth slightly agape. Ignis can be stern and alarmingly taciturn at times, even as a young child, he groomed himself this way so to prove himself worthy of Luna’s retainer despite the disability. He was looking at her now with the same intensity he did then, the scars from the burns could never smother the radiance from the soft sky blue and puffs of white. There was a storm cloud hovering above him. “Do not say that when I have not heard what it could be about first.” Luna regained her composure albeit she stammered when she said this, taking his hand in hers. “Let us discuss this now or I fear we could not enjoy the rest of our journey comfortably.” Ignis was inclined to agree. The lump in his throat bobbed slightly as he avoided looking directly at Luna’s worried expression. “If I could now, I would bend the knee for you, Lady Lunafreya. At your word, my counsel and my blades are yours, always. You will always be my princess and Tenebrae’s True Queen.“ “Ignis,” Luna pulled her hand away, feeling the blades of Ignis’ carefully placed words piercing her heart. “Are you... leaving me?” Her eyes stung, hurt, reminding herself that she was royalty and mustn’t cause a scene in public. If it was her closest friend’s requests, she must grant him leave in a dignified fashion. At that, the advisor’s eyebrows were raised as if offended, no, appalled by the inquiry. That reaction was unwarranted for the princess wanted to berate him for thinking that she would handle this delicately when he knew her much better than that. “No, I believe you’re mistaken by what I’m trying to get across,” Ignis reached out to loosen his collar and cleared his throat, embarrassed but the princess didn’t know by which, the misunderstanding or the topic on the tip of his tongue. “I merely wish... to ask for your permission to initiate a formal courtship with Noctis.” “Oh.” Luna’s cheeks glowed hot not long after the request was spoken. “Oh,” she repeated, pressing her mouth against her palm. “Then why must you waffle on when you could speak plainly? I... I thought you asking for a dismissal.” “My apologies,” Ignis amended, offering the woman a handkerchief. “I underestimated how quick you are in jumping to conclusions, Highness.” Luna sent him an icy glare to which Ignis added, “But I cannot fathom how you would be without your Hand.” Luna dabbed at her eyes. She cannot imagine herself without Ignis either and can undoubtedly forgive him here. “Now, does Noctis know of this? Is that why you’ve come to me?” “I have not consulted him on this, no.” The advisor paused, knowing that he had to explain himself. “It is customary for subjects to the Crown to ask his liege before pursuing a romantic partner.” “From an antiquated tradition that has not been in practice for years? On Eos?” Despite being two years his senior, it still came as a shock to Luna that Ignis was terribly old-fashioned and a secret romantic, Noctis was fortunate indeed. In all the time they had together and cherished, Luna never thought she would see the day when Ignis would consider dating. Her advisor was quite popular among the young ladies at balls and such though he didn’t seem to notice or care of their affections. Luna decided that she will continue to support the two in any way she can. - Noctis took a step back, wiping at his brow as he did so to admire his work. He consulted the cookbook propped on a stand before glancing at the final results. “Not bad after a couple tries,” Noctis commended himself, putting his hands at his hips. “Chef Noct’s got a nice ring to it. If I wanna have a career change.” He may have gone overboard with the quantity of the ingredients and he’s surrounded by an abundance of tofu cartons and potatoes than he ever had in his life, but a pat on the back was in order. The Oracle of Futurity and Crown Prince of Lucis may have been renowned for performing miracles before the age of twenty and now, he can cross off making his boyfriend lunch on the list. Though debatable of how high of an accomplishment this was, it was major. He wouldn’t cook for just anyone. He wouldn’t have asked Gentiana to gather texts of cookbooks or dragged Prompto along to the grocery store for the ingredients for just anyone. Baked tofu skewers and potato salad on a bed of sprouts, a common comfort dish in Tenebrae though the sprouts there served for bedding and to secure the food together in the plastic lunch box. A-not-so novel pairing, but the Prince Oracle thought a meal would ease whatever homesickness the Tenebraean Crown Advisor may experience and it was simple to make. He had let the thoughts ruminate constantly through extravagant recipes far beyond his skill level and wanted to present a meal in good faith while not wanting to show that he didn’t spend more time than necessary to prepare. And from what he glossed over, he found that he was really good at slicing and dicing. The Oracle turned his attention rectangular tin box emblazoned with Lucis’ allied province’s emblem featured by the male King of Light and female Oracle from the Cosmology watercolor illustrations he read as a child. The current bearer of the title and childhood friend, the King of Light, gave it to him. ‘Not yet,” Luna chided with a airy giggle when she stopped Noctis from opening it. ‘When you see Ignis, share these with him.’ Though it was a gentle smile, there was an underlying threat that if she did find out that Noctis didn’t abide with the instruction, he wouldn’t keep his hand. His phone alarm erupted with the iconic King’s Knight victory fanfare. Time to see Ignis. “Unescorted?” Ignis inquired, raising an eyebrow in amusement when Noctis waiting in the reception room alone. “My apologies. Were we to meet today?” One of the guidelines of courtship dictated that the two people involved must always be escorted by designated officers on dates. At times, even Luna joined them and others, Prompto and Gladiolus or Gentiana. For all his life, Noctis had the world’s eyes on him and for once, he would just like just Ignis’ when it was just the two of them. Noctis didn’t have knowledge of Ignis’ intentions to court him until the advisor was granted a private audience with King Regis. Apparently, everyone knew but Noctis. And something in him sang for his own validation, emboldening him. ‘Ask me,’ the Oracle challenged breathlessly when he pulled the advisor to the side, away from prying eyes. Despite wanting the whole world to recognize their relationship, something must be made clear now. ‘Not Luna. Not Dad. Me.’ Ignis won’t be dating the Crown or the Prince Oracle, not even the playboy persona he built up in their first meeting, but Noctis, as he is, no gimmicks. Noctis only wanted Ignis. To his defense, at the time, Noctis thought he and Ignis were dating already, sharing an interest in each other’s hobbies, exchanging letters when they were apart, all but without putting a label on it. He wanted to make it official then and still do. Ignis did ask and Noctis accepted without a moment’s hesitation. “Nope, but you got me anyway. No objections allowed.” Noctis braced himself for Ignis to protest, had a counter in mind that he can’t send him back because an attendant wasn’t in their company. Thankfully, there was none. “Your spontaneity never ceases to amaze me. I find that very refreshing about you.” Surprising him was a good call after all. “But I got something for you,” Noctis announced, holding out the stacked lunch boxes wrapped in a plaid cloth. “Hope you brought your appetite.” The two retired to the courtyard with the lovely view of the garden and greenhouse across from them. “Baked tofu and potato salad,” Ignis studied the dish, approving the vibrant colors. “You made this for me?” “With a dash of sagefire,” Noctis took an imaginary pitch of spice and with a flick of his wrist whisked it into an imaginary dish. “Bam.” As he said it, he felt a case of embarrassment overwhelm him. “How thoughtful,” Ignis reached over to give Noctis’ hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll savor every bite.” Ignis eagerly bit into one of the skewers and thoughtfully chewed. Enthusiasm and curiosity then turned to a furrowed brow and a slight grimace. It was gone as instantly as it appeared, but Noctis was attentive enough to not let it pass. “Does it taste bad?” Ignis shook his head, taking another bite. “It’s delicious. The... condiment has a distinctive taste.” Noctis frowned. It was just barbecue sauce. Couldn’t he tell? He snatched a free skewer and dug in before spitting the tofu block right back out. Salt. He mistook for what he thought was sugar for salt and Ignis was still eating it. “Uh, Ignis, you really don’t...” “I’m a man of my word, Noct.” After some time of verbal gymnastics and Noctis trying to retrieve the lunch box only to be thwarted at every turn, Ignis closed the box and sighed happily, “That was delicious.” Noctis completely doubted that, but the potato salad was the only thing that wasn’t ruined. He handed a can of Ebony to him. “Yeah, sure.” “I meant what I said,” Ignis sipped the can. “Because you made it for me. I look forward to the next lunch you’ll bring me.” Well, at least that wasn’t a complete failure. “Hey, Luna gave me this,” Noctis presented the decorated tin box. “Wouldn’t let me open it until I see you. Pretty serious about it, too. Dunno what that’s about.” “Oh?” Ignis tilted his head, quizzically. “Lunafreya’s hardly grave about—“ Cookies, shaped like the rare minted Oracle Ascension Coins commemorating every anointed savior in office, greeted the two men. Instead of edible replicas of the currency, they were edible versions of Noctis and Ignis’ faces with... a distinguished choice of design. No doubt that Luna was going for cute and it took her a great amount of time to design. “Ah, this is certainly her doing. No question about it.” Ignis sighed, picking up a cookie with his face on it. “She knows that I don’t fancy sweets.” He said, putting it close to his parted lips. “Wait!” Ignis looked at him. “Isn’t it...” Noctis averted his gaze. “Isn’t it weird that you going to eat your face?” Ignis smirked. “Would you prefer that I eat yours?” “I...” How was the Oracle supposed to answer that seeing the mischievous gleam in the advisor’s eyes? - Lunch passed by quickly, and Ignis offered to take Noctis back to the Citadel to which the latter accepted wholeheartedly. “May I, Your Highness?” Ignis held out his hand, and Noctis knew what it meant. “You may...” Ignis lowered his head, intending to brush the knuckles with a chaste kiss, the only permitted contact in formal courtship, but Noctis dove in first and met his lips with his own, sealing a first kiss. If there were any doubts that this Prince Oracle wasn’t proactive, those doubts should be dispelled at this point. The advisor was beside himself, his cheeks tinted red and stuttering as he adjusted his glasses. “N-Noct...” “So...” Noctis was grinning until his cheeks hurt, so over the moon that his tongue boldly ran wild with revelation and a growing desire to kiss Ignis again. “Was that your first or...?” “It certainly was not!” It was.
9 notes · View notes