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thosewickedlovelies · 4 years

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AND THEY WERE WALLMATES: Banana Bread (part 1)

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: probably T for mature themes (implications of sexy times and violence). It will go up later ;)

Summary: You share an apartment wall with Javier Peña, but that doesn’t make it any easier to get to know him. You didn’t think your baking would be the catalyst (read: Javi is jealous that Connie gets all the extras).

Tags: Mention of blood; super vague description of wound care; alcohol; TW for Javi: you have FEELINGS bby

Word count: 2,791

A/N: I guess technically this starts at the beginning of season 1, but I don’t plan on referencing the events of the show, so imagine they’re working on things less intense than trying to catch Escobar. I found Javier really tricky to write for, so I hope this reads okay! I’m so excited about the future chapters I have outlined for this lol pls get hype.

Masterlist

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You had only been living in your new place for about a month when you got new neighbors. You were glad for the company- the four-apartment building was fairly new, and didn’t feel very lived-in. You did your best to add some personal flair to your apartment, but it still had the effect of reminding you of your own newness to this place, your lack of any deep personal connections.

Your other neighbor didn’t exactly help with that. Javier Peña had lived here for awhile before you moved in, but that was all you knew about him; you didn’t speak much beyond your neighborly greetings and his insinuating smiles. He never hides his lingering glances, but nor does he make any other moves- you sense he’s a safe type, all bark and no bite (without consent). So you always amusedly but politely ignore the invitation implicit in your exchanges. They don’t seem to have a lot of depth anyway, as if he’s just trying for the sake of trying. Granted, he probably never has to do much more than that- you’re very aware of how attractive your neighbor is on the surface. You just prefer to feel a connection slightly deeper than surface level before going home with someone.

You learn more about him from Connie, who tells you that he works at the embassy with her husband, Steve. In “janitorial services.” You raise a bemused eyebrow at that, but respect your neighbors’ privacy and don’t ask further questions. You help Connie get a job at a hospital a few blocks away from the one you’re a nurse at and promise to help her practice Spanish.

The building feels more lively now, and you’re happy to have a confidant upstairs, especially one who’s more privy to the life of your enigmatic hall-mate. You don’t know if it’s the neighborly care you feel for your new friend or if there’s some other unconscious change, but you begin to keep an ear out for Javier. You do share an apartment wall, although you don’t glean much through it. Some standard kitchen rummaging, television noise, the occasional bedroom guest (whose enterprises you try not to listen to, but damn if the man doesn’t have a perfect voice for after-dark activities). The most noticeable thing about him is the odd hours he keeps: sometimes in tandem with Steve’s schedule and sometimes not, you can never predict when he’ll be in or out.

Little do you know, you’re not the only one paying attention. Javier has spent many an evening alone with only whiskey and the television for company, but now there are other things to stimulate his senses. The smell of your baking filtering through the wall, even lingering in the hallway the next morning. The sound of you singing to the radio while clattering about the kitchen. Sometimes he turns the tv down to listen and imagines there being no wall between your two homes. What would his life be like with someone to infuse that kind of sweetness and light into it?

He doesn’t mean you specifically, necessarily. If, once or twice, your face jumps to mind while he’s taking care of himself in bed, he thinks nothing of it. You’re his beautiful neighbor- it’s a fantasy begging to be played out.

But damn if he hasn’t been tempted to make it a reality. He gets to taste your baking sometimes when you leave extras with Connie, and one day she catches his brow creased in a frown, distracted halfway through a slice of walnut banana bread.

“Javi,” Connie repeats, trying to get his attention.

“Yeah.” Javier snaps out of it, looking up.

“You’ve been staring at that piece of banana bread for a full two minutes. Is it gonna do a trick?”

He decides to lean into it, see what Connie’s reaction might be. “Only if the trick is getting me out of my pants. I don’t know a man alive who could resist the shit she makes.” He scoops another forkful into his mouth to prove his point, letting the rich, nutty flavor remind him of other places. Homes. Real homes, made of people, not the solitary kind he lives in now.

She rolls her eyes at his crudeness, but agrees. “You’re right about that. I don’t know where she gets the energy to do this after hospital shifts.”

Javier hides his next thought with another forkful of bread and a noncommittal noise. Wonder if she’d have as much energy for it if she had a man to tire her out. It was automatic, a question he couldn’t help debating with himself. Surely no one who spent that much time in the kitchen could have energy to spare on…other pursuits.

Connie is regarding him shrewdly. He avoids her gaze, focusing on finishing his plate in large mouthfuls to avoid the questions he can feel brewing. But he’s not quick enough. “Has she always brought you extras too?” she asks. Too casually, idling with her fork.

“No,” Javier says dismissively, and it’s not quite a scoff. “She wasn’t here long before you showed up. We’re not as close as you two.” Understatement. Did he sound sour about the fact?

Before Connie can ask any more questions he rises from his seat. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Tell Steve what I said.” With a nod of farewell, he turns and strides out the door.

One night you’re awoken with a start from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch. Heart pounding, you sit up, listening intently. You’d never felt unsafe here, but you’re aware of the potential dangers. What had woken you?

You hear a swear from the hall, and your muscles relax as you recognize Javier’s low voice. There’s a beat of silence, then a scraping, clinking sound. He must have dropped his keys. But then he grunts, and concern sweeps over you. You’re a nurse- you recognize the sound of a man stifling his pain.

There are long delays before each new noise that indicates an action. The doorknob twists as he grunts again, but it’s a moment before the key turns in the lock. It seems to take an age for him to get through the door; his motions sound clumsy before he closes it. Safe in the privacy of his home, so he thinks, he lets out a longer sigh, the pain and exhaustion now obvious in the sound. But you can hear his fumbling through the wall, and you worry your lip between your teeth. It is your place to go see if he’s alright?

Finally you decide that it is. You’re his neighbor and a healthcare professional, and it is your professional opinion that he sounded in-pain enough to warrant a check-up. Plus, you heard him that way before he got inside, you reason. So it’s not as if you were just being snoopy through the wall.

Just in case, though, you grab some muffins you made earlier as a backup excuse (once again mentally thanking whoever left the cookbook in your apartment). 11:30 isn’t too late for a friendly drop-by, right?

You knock softly on his door. “Javier? It’s me.” Nervous energy taps in your fingers. You’re never even been on his side of the hallway before.

There’s a shuffling sound, and the door unlatches. A narrow gap opens, into which Javier plants himself, and you immediately zero in on where he keeps one leg wedged behind the door. He leans into the elbow propped against the doorjamb above his head, while his other hand already holds a glass of what you can smell is whiskey. He looks like he would rather be anywhere but here at this moment. “Neighbor,” he greets dryly, a neutral expression on his face.

“Uhh.” You’ve never been this close to him before, and his appearance catches you off-guard. His usually combed hair is messy, waves tangling over his forehead, and he’s sweaty, the open collar of his shirt damp and the exposed skin gleaming with moisture.

Javier raises an eyebrow expectantly, taking a sip of his drink. His glances down at the plate in your hands, and it prompts you to speak.

“Hi, Javier. Uh, sorry, I know it’s late, but I thought I’d bring you some of these-“ you lift the dish “-before they come with me to work tomorrow. They’re banana bread muffins.” Your voice falters with your confidence. Your eyes can’t help but flicker over his face and chest, taking in the smear of dust on his jaw, the redness of the knuckles wrapped around his glass. Mostly you’re trying not to look at the leg he’s definitely hiding, which you can tell he’s keeping his weight off of.

Javier stares at you, not buying it for a second. His lips purse for lack of a cigarette to wrap around. He shifts the weight he has on his arm- damn, his leg hurts- and wonders what could have possibly prompted you to start bringing him baked goods now of all moments. “Why aren’t you bring those to Connie’s?” Like usual.

“Um, well-“ He sees your gaze finally drop to the leg he’s kept out of view, and too late remembers who got Connie the hospital job.

“I heard you drop your keys, and it sounded like you were in pain,” you confess. “I’m a nurse, Javier. I can help if you need it.” Though apologetic, your tone is firm, face sincere as you offer him aid. Him, your grumpy neighbor who does nothing but leer at you.

Well, he isn’t that proud. Javier sighs, and opens the door further. Your eyes widen as you see the long slice in his pant leg, blood still damp around the wound beneath. “Shit, Javier, what happened? It doesn’t matter, shit, sit down.” You surge forward without waiting for permission, tucking yourself under the arm of his uninjured side and steering him toward a dining room chair. Where he’d been about to sit down down and tend to the cut himself. He supposes your apartments mirror each other, but your familiar reaction to the layout still surprises him.

“Whoa, hey, watch the whiskey,” he exclaims, flailing out the arm holding the glass, taken aback by your sudden manhandling. With one hand still occupied by the muffins, you direct him solely with an around his waist and your shoulder propped under his armpit. He couldn’t have resisted if he tried. If it weren’t for the fiery pain in his leg, your hold would have him feeling a very different kind of heat.

You give him a look that says you won’t be fooled by his blustering as you deposit him onto the chair and the plate on the table. “May I?” you ask, kneeling, hands hovering above his wound.

“Oh, now you’re asking permission?” He scoffs in disbelief but waves a hand in consent, leaning back in the seat.

You scoff right back at him. “Look, I see blood, I make the macho men sit, okay? Why didn’t you go to a hospital with this?”

Javier studies you as you carefully lift the denim to peer at the cut on his thigh. He takes a sip of whiskey to buy time (as well as dull the stinging pain). You’ve put on a robe over what looks like pajamas, but you seem too alert to have just dragged yourself from bed. And yet...was that a pillow mark on your cheek? Just there, arcing from your temple to your jaw…

“Javier?" you're looking up at him, a touch of confusion on your face.

“Did I wake you up?” he hears himself asking.

Her gaze drops again. “No,” you answer. “Well, yes, but I fell asleep on the couch, so it was a good thing.”

Ah, that explained the pillow mark.

Finally you stand. Your hands rest on your hips, heedless of your fingertips smudged red with his blood. “It doesn’t actually look too bad. I have enough supplies here to fix you up. You stay here, take off your pants if you can manage it by yourself, and I’ll be right back.” And with that you whisk away, robe swishing through his front door.

Javier remains where he is, a bit stunned by this turn of events, your sudden insertion into his life. He shakes his head. Maybe whiskey and blood loss shouldn’t go together. He tosses back the rest of his glass anyway in order to wrangle off his jeans.

By the time you return, he feels more composed, if rather uncomfortably vulnerable, sitting in just his boxers with a bloody slice across his thigh. He watches silently as you arrange various medical supplies on the table and pull up a chair across from him. You perch on the edge of it and look at him before doing anything else. “Are you gonna tell me how you got this?”

He’s not about to tell you it was a fluke accident during one of Carillo's interrogations. Somehow, while his back was turned, the guy got free and tried to escape, swinging a knife wildly as he hurled past Javier. The cut was long, ugly, but shallow. He’d live. He couldn’t say the same for the man who delivered it.

Javier considers his answer. “Can’t,” he says. “It’s better if you don’t know.” His gaze skitters away as he speaks.

He works for the government with a poker face like that? “Janitorial work, huh?” you say dryly. Sighing, you reach for the antiseptic. “At least tell me what made it. So I can treat it properly.” You look at him steadily.

Javier looks back for a long moment. “A knife,” he says at last.

You nod, and rip open a packet of gauze. He sucks air through his teeth as the antiseptic sears the wound clean, but otherwise doesn’t speak while you work. Which is fine. You notice he’s drained his glass, and you empathize. Frankly you wish you had a drink yourself right now.

Once you’ve cleaned the cut it’s easier to see the damage. Which is minimal, thankfully. Most of the blood was probably from him moving around when it happened. You explain what you’re doing as you seal the wound closed. Only when you’re almost finished does he speak.

“Why don’t you ever bake me anything?”

It’s so unexpected that your hands still. You stare at him in astonishment, waiting for him to elaborate.

“What I mean is…christ,” Javier mutters. The unflattering fluorescent light overhead highlights the dark circles under his eyes as he scrubs a hand over his face. “You always leave extras of stuff at Steve and Connie’s. Never here.” With me.

You resume your work on his thigh, surprised to feel a tinge of guilt. “You didn’t seem like a baked goods kind of guy,” you reply, hoping you don’t sound too defensive. It was true, after all. Though you never got a sense of threat from Javier, neither did he seem the type who would appreciate domestic gestures of friendship.

He didn’t look offended, however. I’ll try anything once,” he says, the ghost of a familiar smirk suggesting he’s feeling better. But then he leans forward, all traces of smirk vanishing. “And your lemon drizzle cake was incredible.” Javier looks at you seriously. His face is too close for your level of acquaintanceship, but you don’t move away.

Surprised, you assess him anew, wondering if you’re catching a glimpse of the man beneath all the masculine posturing. He’s nicer-looking this way, you muse. His face softer, brown eyes wide and sincere. You hide just how pleased you are at this insight (which you’re sure he has no idea he’s giving you) beyond allowing yourself a small smile.

“Well, maybe next time I’ll bring you some.”

Javier can’t quite find another quippy response, so he just gives a small nod, finding it hard to draw back even after you break his gaze. He tries not to fidget as you place a final strip of tape over the gauze bandage.

“There,” you declare, your work complete. “That should hold you for tonight.” You stand and gather up your supplies, giving him care instructions as you go. “Got it?” You seem much more relaxed than when you first arrived, confidence in your work squaring your shoulders. It’s…compelling, much more so than your usual reserved smiles in the hall.

“Yes ma’am.” Javier nods, not having heard a word. “…Thank you,” he adds, begrudgingly grateful.

You smile wryly at him. “Goodnight, Javier.”

You’ve nearly reached the door when he speaks again. “Javi.”

“Hm?” Pausing, you turn back to him.

He clears his throat. “You…you can call me Javi.”

Your smile is much warmer this time, brightening your eyes, and Javier feels his heart pound. “Goodnight, Javi.”

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #narcos fic #narcos #javier peña #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

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katelyn--renee · 3 years

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Composure

Title: Composure

Fandom: Supernatural

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader/(Y/N) Winchester (mentioned), Harper Winchester (OC, mentioned), Daniel Winchester (OC, mentioned), Crowley (mentioned)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader

Words: ±2670

Description: Dean and (Y/N) take their shot at a normal life and settle down. Over the years, they have a few kids. Things are good. Until they’re not. What will Dean do when his past comes back to put an end to his happily ever after?

Written For: @deanwanddamons 2K Celebration! Congratulations babe! That’s awesome! My prompt will be in bold - “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Warnings: ANGST! Descriptions of blood. Mentions of breaking and entering. Kidnaping. Show level violence/outbursts of anger.

Author’s Note: This is in correlation with another fic of mine, Sweet Cherry Pie. It takes place about twelve to thirteen years after that one, to give you a brief timeline. There will be other fics with that original storyline, so stay tuned.

Thank you so much to @wonder-cole for being my beta for this wonderful piece and helping me with the title. You’re awesome and much appreciated! She has some amazing work of her own, so please do yourself a favor and check it out! Check out @talesmaniac89 for more awesome page dividers!!

Disclaimer: I do not own any photos or gifs, all rights go to original creators/owners.

Interested in more of my work, check out the link below.

Masterlist

The rain was heavy tonight, thick and angry as it poured from the dark clouds above. The fat raindrops were noisy against the single paned windows. The water coated the glass surface and made it impossible to see through, even as the flashes of lightning lit up the night sky and cast long shadows through the living room of 35 Maplewood Road. There was a heaviness surrounding the house, as if something wicked had been there.

The home was dark and empty, and the furniture was overturned and broken in places; the sofa was thrown over backwards, the cushions laying discarded across the floor with the end table toppled over beside it. The lamp that had occupied its surface was shattered to pieces on the wooden floor, and the rug had been stained with something dark and red.

The coffee table was shoved out of place, the glass surface no longer there in one piece and the mirror that hung in the hallway had a spider web like crack across the surface, hanging now only by one screw. In the very center of the crack, something crimson and shiny caught the lighting from outside, almost as if someone’s skull had been smashed there.

The familiar idling of Baby’s engine grew louder as Dean pulled in the driveway of his home, the brakes squealing as he came to a stop and put the Chevy into park. A feeling of dread began to knot into his stomach, making the muscles of his jaw flex as he tried to bite back the feeling. Something was wrong; all those years of hunting and honing his instincts told him that much. Not a single light was on inside of the home and yet, (Y/N)’s car was parked out front. Not good.

Dean fished his phone from his jacket and swiftly unlocked the screen with a swipe of his thumb across the glass, dialing the number he knew so well. Pressing the receiver to his ear, he waited while the call rang out once... twice… “Come on, (Y/N/N).” He muttered under his breath as the fifth tone sounded. Her voice greeted his ear, but it was artificial; the recording of her voicemail, Hi, you’ve reached (Y/N)...

“Damn it.” He cursed between gritted teeth and ended the call. He tried again, pressing redial. “Come on, baby, answer your damn phone!” He shut his eyes when he got the same results as before, cursing to himself as he shoved the device back into his pocket.

Never taking his eyes off the front of the house, he leaned over for the glove box and swiftly unlatched the compartment door, just as he’d done a million times before. Green eyes continued to scan for any signs of movement, even through the thick wall of rain that coated the windshield, despite the efforts of the wiper blades.

Reaching a steady hand inside, he pulled out a pocket sized flashlight and his beloved stainless steel Colt, the engraving on the barrel catching the lightning as it bolted across the sky. Expertly, he removed the clip with a press of his thumb and double checked the bullets inside before sliding it back into the place, securing it with another click. It’d been years since he’d held the weapon, but the pearl coated handle felt just as natural as breathing against his palm.

Leaving the Impala’s engine running, Dean climbed out from behind the wheel and shut the door, the hinges creaking with age. Clicking on the flashlight, he approached the home with long, yet cautious strides, his booted feet silent in his approach, even through the heavy rain.

His mind was racing with every terrible possibility, his guilt threatening to eat him alive as images of his family, in the worst possible outcome, flashed before his eyes. It made his blood run cold. His heart was pounding rapidly with fear, pushing the adrenaline through his veins and forcing him to move forward rather than let the panic overwhelm him.

He tried to peer inside the living room through the set of windows lining the front of the house, but it did little to ease his uncertainty; if anything, it only made it worse, only able to make out long shadows and dark shapes. His clothes were completely soaked through, hugging his large frame by the time he’d reached the front porch, the coolness of the rain chilling him to the bone. Droplets of water dripped down his face and the tip of his nose, and his hair clung against his forehead.

Approaching the large red door, his scowl only deepened, darkening his features when he discovered that it had been left unlatched, allowing in a single beam of light with each flash from the storm overhead. He glared at the lock and then narrowed his eyes as something caught his attention, the muscles there twitching. Stretching a hand out, he examined the wooden surface, his fingertips grazing over the chipped paint and splintered wood. Someone had broken in.

Taking only a moment to compose himself, Dean exhaled slowly and swallowed back his apprehension, forcing himself to go on. Using the weight of his body, he nudged the door open cautiously and poked his head inside. The experienced hunter kept his gun aimed high and at the ready, his finger hovering over the trigger. Wrist over wrist, Dean held the flashlight steady with the opposite hand, the beam unmoving, providing him with some light through the darkness.

All of those years of training were put to the test as he stepped through the threshold of his home, his expression as hard as stone and giving away absolutely nothing, despite the fear that was boiling just beneath the surface. His eyes darted around the room, following the beam of his flashlight, taking in every detail of his surroundings just as he’d been taught all those years ago.

Following the layout of the house, Dean came to the living room first, stepping over the broken furniture and discarded decorations. The sight of his home in this state made him uneasy and that much harder to keep his cool, able to sense the panic starting to creep in. Where was (Y/N)? Where were the kids? Who had done this to his family? Was it revenge?

Another flash of lightning caused something slick and shiny to catch his eye, and Dean let out a shaky breath. Hesitating for only a moment, he crossed the room and crouched down next to the sofa to investigate, the troubling sight seized his heart. There was a substantial amount of blood there, a large pool of crimson that had soaked into the fibers of the rug.

Near the top of the stain, a gold chain necklace was lost within the mess and a thin layer of another substance was scattered around it. It was almost yellow in color and had a very distinct, very specific scent that accompanied it. Touching the surface of the floor next to the stain, Dean felt something grainy under his finger tips. Lifting it to his nose, the smell of sulfur invaded his senses. Demons.

“Fuck,” He cursed, the boom of the thunder shaking his house as it lit up his face simultaneously. Still crouched, he plucked the necklace out of the sticky crimson mess and glared at the amulet with a heavy gaze, his hand shaking. He shut his eyes and closed his fingers into a fist, the knuckles turning white around the piece of jewelry. It belonged to (Y/N). It had been a gift, a charm to ward off evil and prevent possession.

This was all his fault. He should have known better. Hell, he did know better and yet, he ignored it, because he had a chance to finally be happy. To have an actual family and live the normal, apple pie life he’d always wanted. And now the ones he loved were missing and more than likely dead. Or probably close to it.

His chin quivered for a moment and hot tears stung at the corners of his eyes, his emotions getting the better of him. How could he let this happen? How could he be so stupid and reckless? He knew better, damn it! Once a hunter, always a hunter. There is no getting out of the life, not entirely, because those evil sons-of-bitches will always be out there.

One way or another, they always find a way to catch back up to any hunter who has tried, and every single time it ends bloody and messy and violent. He needed to find them, he just had to. And he would save them, no matter what it cost. He’d pay it.

Releasing a heavy breath, he opened his eyes and willed the tears away, shoving the emotions back down into the pit of his soul. Despite his efforts, a solitary tear made it’s escape, dripping down his left cheek and onto the color of his shirt before he could stop it.

Dean rose to his full height and squared his shoulders, prepared to continue his search. Sliding the necklace into his jacket pocket with care, he followed the trail into the hall with a heavy heart.

Glass cracked and snapped under his boots as he walked through the space, his jaw flexing when he saw the picture of his family shattered on the floor. Their happy faces only added to his grieving heart and guilty conscious, their smiles making his soul ache.

That had been a good day, nearly five years ago now; (Y/N) had worn his favorite blue dress that day, the strapless one that stopped right above her knees and showed off her sexy legs.

She had on that silly - but achingly cute - oversized tan hat that kept the sun from her eyes. He would always tease her about that goofy hat, but she never cared what others thought of her, never ceasing to be herself, no matter what.

They’d gone to the park that day, had an actual picnic and he’d played catch with his son while the girls giggled and painted their nails... They even taught the twins how to ride their bikes that day. They couldn’t have been more than seven years old.

Harper had caught on much quicker than her brother, of course, taking after her mother in that way. Those girls were naturals at almost everything they did, only needing to try something a few times before perfecting it. That had been something he’d adored and admired about his wife and it was a huge part of what made her such a skilled hunter when they met.

Daniel, on the other hand, had to take the time to understand how something worked first. He needed to study the mechanics of things, take them apart, rebuild and understand it completely, inside and out, before he was able to master it. Danny often reminded Dean of the Winchester side of the family. That had been a good day, one of many they’d shared together.

Brought out of his memories by another angry boom from outside, Dean pressed on. Where the picture had once hung, there was a bloody handprint smeared on the white wall, the two colors contrasting greatly.

The blood streaked out toward the kitchen, giving the hunter a clear path to follow. Damn it. Dean grit his teeth. It felt as if something had his heart in a vice, squeezing it tighter and making it increasingly difficult to breathe the further he went.

His emotions were threatening to break through the surface again, fighting hard against his resolve, but he held his ground against them, purely focused on finding his loved ones. Now was not the time to break down. Following the trail of blood and debris, he checked each room along the way, trying to be as thorough as possible. He couldn’t afford to miss a damn thing.

Their bedrooms were empty, and unsurprisingly, every inch had been torn apart. Dean’s chest heaved with emotion, his breath hitching in his throat; if anything happened to those kids, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Continuing on, the hunter emerged into the next room, and found much of the same; broken furniture, shattered pictures and even more blood. But not a single sign of his family. The sliding glass door had been left open, allowing the rain from the storm to collect onto the tile floor.

Dean shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, his chest aching with every forceful beat of his heart. He needed to call Sammy, needed to form a plan. When he opened his eyes, something on the countertop caught his eye; a sheet of paper. Cocking his head with curiosity, he crossed the room in three long, determined strides.

It was a note, addressed to him.

It’s been too long, darling. How’s Moose? Hope the wife and kids are well...oh, wait, that’s right, you’re as clueless as ever. No surprise there. Before we get to the fun bits, let’s talk business; I need a favor and you and your giant of a brother are going to help me. Now, to ensure that things go as planned, I have something of yours. I assure you, they are safe. For now. Do as I ask, and they will be returned to you, alive. So, Dean, dear, let’s make a deal, shall we? You know where to meet me.

Squirrel,

Yours truly,

The King of Hell

“Crowley.” Dean growled deep in his chest, his teeth clenched as his blood began to boil over with rage. “Goddamn it!” He shouted, swiping the contents of the counter onto the floor. “Fuck!” He kicked something across the room, too angry to pay much attention to it as it slammed into the stainless steel refrigerator. He swung at the closest surface, his fist connecting with a nearby wall.

The drywall collapsed around his fist as the plaster fell to the floor at his feet. His knuckles were screaming at him, but he didn’t care, too fueled by his rage to notice. What could Crowley possibly need their help with? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, they would get it done and save his family. Crowley would get what’s coming to him; Dean would make damn sure of that.

Taking a few calming breaths, Dean removed his phone with a bloodied hand and opened his contacts, scrolling through the names until he found what he was searching for. Sammy. Dialing the number, Dean held the phone to his ear with baited breath. After the third ring, Sam’s voice came in through the other end, sounding concerned because of the late hour, “Dean? Everything alright?”

Dean shook his head, his vision blurring with tears. He cleared his throat, trying to prevent it from shaking too much. “No, Sammy. It ain’t alright.” He admitted, gripping the counter with his free hand, bracing himself. He wanted to crumble onto the floor, his body trembling; his mind flooded with so many different emotions, each of them trying to overpower the other: fear, guilt, anger, heartache…

“Dean, what is it?” The younger Winchester questioned, the worry evident in his voice. “Is it (Y/N)? The kids? Is everyone okay?” He waited patiently on the other end, but Dean could hear him moving around; he assumed his brother was getting his things ready to head out.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean’s voice broke as a few tears slipped through the cracks, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” He shook his head, allowing himself a moment to break, his chest heaving. “We were out!” He slammed his fist down onto the counter, terrified and angry.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam pleaded, wanting desperately to help his big brother.

“Crowley.” Dean clarified, going into more detail as he composed himself and straightened his stance, “Crowley’s taken them.” He took a calming breath, his moment of weakness over. “I need your help, Sammy.”

“Already on my way.”

Annnnnnd there you have it. I hope that wasn’t too rough on the heart? No worries, there may or may not be a part two in the works? We shall see. ;)

Anyway, if you enjoyed that, please like and comment and if you’re feeling a little extra generous, share it with your friends, too! You’re feedback is like GOLD! As always, thanks for reading!

Taglist!

Supernatural

@akshi8278 // @flamencodiva // @perpetualabsurdity

#deanwanddamons2kcelebration #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester angst #dean angst #dean #dean winchester #dean x reader #spn #supernatural fic #spn fic #dean winchester fic #dean fic #angst #kidnapping

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symphonyofthewrite · 3 years

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Saw your post, getting stuff off your chest, I just wanted to say that I haven't seen the thing with the kids mentioned by anyone and it really stood out to me, I feel what you mean to some extent, because for me it was a stronger reaction, albeit you probably won't feel the same and that's, obviously, perfectly fine. I have an instant recoil these days whenever a character is around kids for like one second and everyone instantly goes "THEY LITERALLY ADOPTED THEM/THAT'S THEIR CHILD/THEY'RE A PARENT"... genuinely sick of it, and I went white as a sheet when I heard it, I wanted to pluck my eyes out. I don't know if it's an American thing but English speaking fandoms (well, those teeming with fancops that is) seem like they cannot process adult looking characters being in any near proximity to childlike characters without automatically imposing parenthood and family dynamics and it's becoming distressing to me. I feel like Alucard needed to process his trauma and learn to trust and be whole again, he's young himself too, why he needed to be a "father figure" all of a sudden is beyond me.

Thank you so much for the ask!! I don’t get many asks so it makes me happy when I can talk meta with people 💛💛 (Sorry I’m a bit late in answering.)

Funnily enough I actually do agree with you. I didn’t have quite so strong a reaction, but I definitely had a very similar one when I first hear it.

My feelings were and are a bit mixed. I was saying in my other post that I would have preferred that I got to actually see this interaction; see the kids run by him and call him father, and him smile when no ones looking. I still think that would have been a better, more touching way to do the scene, and would have had more chance of me liking it (though I probably still would have felt very weird about it). (I think it especially would have been better because it would show that Alucard himself liked it, not that Greta was forcing the role on him.) I know that it was meant to be something touching, and pretty much everyone seems to like it (and I have seen some cute posts about it), so I just tried to like it too, and focus on the fact that all they were really trying to say was he was having a nice relationship with the kids, and that was indeed sweet.

But yeah, when I heard Greta say “I heard some of them calling you father” for me it was less a reaction of horror, and more a “HUH??!!”moment. When I heard it I was like “Alucard...you agree with this???!! This is how you see yourself??!!” I almost expected Alucard to refute it and say he didn’t see himself as a father to them. Like I seriously do not see Alucard as anything remotely close to a father figure, and it felt weird and wrong to me.

Like when I saw him interacting with the kids the first time, I didn’t think “oh he’s a father figure to them.” I just thought “yay, Alucard’s playing with some kids, and getting out of his bubble!!” I didn’t have any thoughts as to what his relationship role was with them, I just thought that first interaction was lovely.

And if I saw him interacting with the kids again, I still wouldn’t go “father figure” I’d just be like “yay, Alucard’s playing with the kids again, how sweet!!”

Sometimes the relationship doesn’t need a role or a label, ya know?

And I thought it was especially strange because…he literally just met them?? Like how can they possibly start calling him father when he’s played with them once or twice? Regardless of Alucard’s side or things, what group of kids would randomly call a nice man they just met ‘father’? Is...Is this a normal thing??

Anyways, back to Alucard’s side of things, Sypha’s line about Alucard being a teenager trapped an adults body has always been something that stuck with me and shaped how I view Alucard. I definitely view him as internally much younger than he looks. No matter how much I might hate them for what they did to him, I think Sumi and Take are about the age he actually is, and their relationship with him made sense to me. He’s still a kid—or at least young—he still needs his parents in his life, really. (That’s part of why I didn’t like that Drac and Lisa don’t go to him at the end. I personally don’t think Alucard really got closure, and in my mind I think he still very much needed them, and that would have been the perfect ending to his story in my mind, where everything comes full circle; He was forced to lose his parents and grow up too early, and only when he’s started to truly grow up does he get them back.) So yeah, I really don’t see him like a father at all. One of my main focuses in my Castlevania fanfiction is his relationship with Dracula, so I very much see him as the son, not as the dad, even when Drac isn’t around.

(Sidenote, come to think of it, I think this is another reason why Greta x Alucard is a nope from me. She’s very much an adult, so I just see a discrepancy between them that makes me feel weird about them being in a romantic relationship. If we need a label I feel like she fits as an older sister for him, guiding him and giving him support. Him unloading all his problems on her within just meeting her makes more sense if he’s like a younger brother who needs to cry to his sister. I felt weird about it in a romantic context when it was so fast. I mean I know he was desperate to talk to someone, and I probably would have done the same, but still).

“I feel like Alucard needed to process his trauma and learn to trust and be whole again, he's young himself too, why he needed to be a "father figure" all of a sudden is beyond me”

^^ THIS. EXACTLY THIS.

I was honestly really hoping they’d go in depth into him dealing with his trauma, and how he’s still hurting from the wounds of it, and how he needs to heal. I thought that’s what his S4 arc would be about. I don’t think they gave him the chance to really process and work through everything that happened. (Again, I don’t think him just unloading all his problems on a nice stranger is truly working through his trauma. I would have much rather watched him struggle to trust her, and him telling her about his trauma happen later, and be difficult for him, and a deep, heartfelt moment).

Like I was saying in my other post, I think if they framed his arc in how he dealt with the town collectively, I think that would have fit better, and been more touching and satisfying. I would have liked to see him struggling to trust humans, and then see as time progressed how several different people in the town liked him and meant him no harm, and how he realized he could trust them, and that he liked them too. It wasn’t that he had a bad romantic partner and needed a new one. He believed he needed to be punished for killing his father, and in his deep loneliness he let these kids into his house and heart, and they turned on him because he was half vampire. That’s something pretty deeply ingrained, and not something a new romance just fixes by existing. He needed to work through that in a much deeper way.

I know this is gonna be a very unpopular opinion, and it's totally cool if you disagree, but in a weird way... I sort of disliked Alucard’s ending. Don’t get me wrong, Im glad he’s happy, and I’d certainly prefer it to him just getting more trauma like last season (*shudders*), and I don’t think him opening up his castle (and his heart) to humanity is a bad way to end his story, certainly not. I think that fits. And my heart did melt a bit at the "I'm weirdly happy" scene. But, where everyone else is like “*sobbing* happy endings for all our faves” ...I see the creators of the show trying to wrap everything up in a neat little bow, and while that’s certainly not all bad, I don’t love every aspect of that. Theres a time and place for that, but a show based on video games, for which there’s more content in these storylines isn’t one of them in my mind.

Sometimes some of the sadness needs to linger. At the very least, let it linger at the beginning of the season so you can work through it in a powerful way, you know? It may have been tough to see Alucard be more closed off, but I think it would have been more satisfying to see him open up his heart and go back to his old self if we saw his trauma leave lingering effects at the beginning.

To me it didn’t feel like a satisfying arc, it felt like the fairytale ending of “oh look he’s not apprehensive about humanity even after what happened! Oh look he got the girl! And the Castle’s a happy place now! Look he’s not sad anymore! He’s even a father figure to these kids! He’s totally moved on!” And all those things can be awesome when done properly, and when they have depth to them. But they didn’t work through the trauma to get there, so it felt surface level to me, and too fast. I really liked that first episode, and how we saw the two sides of him—one that's become more closed off, and the other that still buries the human despite his comments—and I also really liked the first interaction with the kids, and thought that was one of the few interactions that had depth to it and fit with his arc well. Having it go beyond “they’re helping him learn to like and trust humanity again, and displaying who he really is inside” ended up detracting from the power of his relationship with them in my mind.

Having played SOTN, I think an ingrained loneliness and sadness are, in a way, a key part of Alucard’s character. That sounds really sad and awful out loud but…there are some people that just have a sadness or a loneliness to them, and that's not entirely bad. Here’s the thing…it can make them that much more beautiful. The fact that they still fight for good, even when they see all the dark, those moments when they find true friends, despite how alone they are, those moments when they are happy, are so much more powerful. They just are always a bit…separate from other people. One of my favorite lines in anything is the line "We are connected by our darkness, not by our light" in Pandora Hearts. I think it's a line that fits Alucard well, and it’s always something that’s drawn me personally to him. Don't get me wrong, I don’t think Alucard’s all dark and sad and lonely, he’s definitely got a bright side to him too, of course he does. But I also don't think he ever is able to fully accept the vampire side of himself, and I find that interesting, and worth exploring. Personally I was honestly hoping for the show makers to come up with a bittersweet reason for why he went to sleep for 300 years, (and I thought that's why they set things up with Sumi and Taka that he’d have something against his vampire nature). Personally it felt like they were trying to say “oh he’s all better now, he’ll never be sad or lonely again” and while that’s nice I suppose…for me it sort of…stops feeling like Alucard, in a way? I don't know if I'm explaining it right, or if that sounds terrible...😅

Anyways, back to the topic at hand. I do agree that’s very common of fandom that people are like “boom! Just add water! Instant father figure!” and I don’t love it either. Sometimes it can be cute if it truly fits, but it doesn’t fit every relationship between an adult-looking character and a kid character, and shouldn't be the first place people go to. In the same way every relationship doesn’t have to be romantic, not every relationship has to be parental/familial either. Sometimes it feels like fandom culture isn't really okay to have some characters just be good friends. A good friendship can be more wonderful than a romance sometimes.

If we have to put a label on it, I think he seemed like a nice older brother figure to them? I think that fits who he is in my mind. But father? Nope. Not for me. And again, I don’t think it needs a label.

Thanks again for sending me this ask!! It was nice to get the chance to work through some more of my feelings here too. Sorry if I went too overboard. And I hope I don’t sound too terribly negative, it really was a great season, and I definitely liked some parts of his arc, just not all of it.

If you or anyone else reading would like to discuss with me more, be my guest!! 💕

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kiri-ah · 3 years

Text

File: Sector 5

Part of the Action Figure Collab hosted by @go-shotaro

Pairing: Kim Jungwoo x gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned for reader), low key Taeil x Sicheng if you squint

Themes: Dark Matter (TV Show) AU, Elite Dangerous (Video Game) AU, basically space stuff, gunfights, lasers, hackers, set in the future, spaceships, Star Wars is mentioned like twice, Sicheng is a jerk, Mark and Johnny are half-brothers

Warnings: Major character death, gunfights, blood, two swearwords, mentioned burials, mentioned black market

WC: 3.7k

Summary: In a galaxy divided into factions, war is rampant. The ship files that you’re searching for could solve all of your problems - if only you can get into the classified sector of the space station where they’re housed. With Jungwoo on one side and Taeil on the other, nothing can go wrong. Right?

Taglist: @allegxdly , @stayctday , @leelatte , @dundun-baby , @kunrengui

Author Note: Welcome to my first collab fic! This is also my first full-length fic on tumblr which is pretty cool. When I saw the concept for this collab I decided it was perfect for my first foray into working with other creators. In the process I made a lot of new friends and I had a lot of fun. Plus I’m pretty proud of this fic. Please enjoy File: Sector 5!

You walk as quickly as you can while still being discreet. There are a lot of people that you wouldn’t want to notice you here. Jungwoo and Taeil, following behind you, seem to have had the same thought. Taeil has a cap over his projector glasses, and Jungwoo has on a black too-big hoodie that hides his give-away physique. In your earpiece there’s silence, but that doesn’t bother you. Yangyang told you to reach out once you got to the section of the space station you need. You still have a few more obnoxiously crowded spaces to traverse before you arrive, so you focus on draining the urgency from your movements and walking like you belong here. Like you’re not about to break into a classified sector and commit a crime.

You make your way through the bar, the ship parts market, and the casino with minimal issues. You think you see a familiar face across the way in the market, but he turns away a second later and you breathe easy once again. If it was who you thought it was, you wouldn’t be alive anymore. Nakamoto Yuta is famed for his cruelty. You enter Sector 5 and speak quietly into your earpiece.

“Yang, we’re in sector five. Where do we go from here?”

“I’m getting your location still, hold on,” comes Yangyang’s voice into your ear.

“Take a left here, and then head down for a few hallways. This is one of the permanent sectors like ours, so you can use your gun now if need be and not worry about puncturing an outer wall.”

You take the left where he says to and continue down, checking to make sure that Jungwoo and Taeil are still behind you. They are, and so is another figure.

“Get over here,” you hiss, pulling them into a side hallway. The figure doesn’t appear to have seen you and passes by, turning down another hallway. You recognize the face of Xiao Dejun, an infamous criminal like yourself. You try not to think about what would have happened had he spotted you. You wouldn’t be dead, but you would probably wish you were.

“What happened?” asks Yangyang in your ear.

“Security,” you mutter.

“Oh.”

You pull Jungwoo and Taeil out and walk down the hallway until Yangyang tells you to stop by a door. “You guys will need to get through this door without my help,” he says. “Beyond it, I can only get high energy drain levels. Be careful.”

Taeil kneels by the card scanner and pulls out his tools. You and Jungwoo turn around, standing guard in case another member of security comes and you need to shoot them. Taeil carefully prys the backing panel off of the scanner and maneuvers until he can see the wires. He scoffs.

“For a high security organization, their security is terrible,” he mutters. He cuts the casing off of a wire and does something you can’t see with it, and the door slides open. You continue keeping watch as Taeil packs up his high-tech phillip’s head screwdriver and cleans up the casing. When you turn around, you’re speechless.

“We found the source of the energy drain,” Jungwoo says in a low voice. Before you is a room of lasers, the kind you thought only existed in old movies. They cross back and forth across the space like an absurd red spider web and fizzle oddly like Redstone in that old game Chenle likes. Minecraft, was it?

“What kind of black market did they get these on?”

Taeil shrugs and walks into the room. “Looks like we can get in,” he tells you. “The lasers are designed like shark teeth - easy to get in, not so easy to get out.” The analogy doesn’t help you feel any better about the situation, and you clutch at your gun.

“Can you turn them off?” Jungwoo asks Taeil, seemingly as nervous as you are.

“I can, but we don’t need to to get in. Let’s focus on that on our way out.”

You nod and walk in, spotting the pattern like Taeil did. “Maybe their security is just bad,” you say. “This is so easy.” You swing your right leg over the nearest laser and start your way across. You get a finger close to the laser and feel the heat emanating from it. You turn to warn Taeil and Jungwoo of this, only to find that they’re already in the maze themselves. You duck under the next beam of red and feel the heat on the back of your head from the proximity, then step easily over one that reminds you of a tripwire - right at ankle level. You hear Jungwoo and Taeil following behind you, Jungwoo struggling a bit because of his wide shoulders. At some points you have to turn around and help him since he can’t see where his biceps are about to brush one of the heated red lines. At least Sungchan isn’t on your team, he’s even larger than Jungwoo. Chenle and Hendery will have to help him or find another way in. You almost laugh at the thought before deciding that you rather like all of your teammates, actually, and you don’t like to think about them dying by heated laser. Each time you stop to help Jungwoo, Taeil reminds you that you need to hurry. You eventually just tell him to please be quiet, because some people are trying to focus here. He shuts up, thankfully.

When you reach the end of the room, you’re faced with another door. Taeil tampers with the wires and it too slides open. The hallway is paneled with light gray and the floor is tile reminiscent of a hotel lobby. Your guns are poised to fend off an attack as the door opens, but nobody is there. You lower them slowly and Jungwoo steps out into the hallway. There are footsteps fading away down to your right, but nobody is watching for you here. You look for the source of the footsteps and spot who you’re pretty sure are the team Johnny and Mark, orphan half-brothers notorious for their sudden team changes depending on the paycheck. They’re for sale to the highest bidder, and they don’t care who that is. Your guess is confirmed when the shorter man laughs - you’ve worked with Mark before, and that laugh is both contagious and unique.

When you refocus, Yangyang is back in your ear and instructing you to go the opposite way that the pair is walking. He says that the door at the end of this hallway is the one you want. Your shoes shuffle against the tile as you try to go quietly, with Jungwoo in front of you and Taeil nervously watching your backs. He isn’t as confident with a gun as you or Jungwoo, he prefers to work behind the scenes. The nature of this mission required a tech whiz on site, though, and he came reluctantly. He knows how important it is to steal the USB drive with ship plans on it. The newest fighter models will make or break the war for your faction, and you have reason to believe that those ships also have teleportation devices in the plans. Not just lightspeed travel, but all-out teleportation. You can only imagine that sort of power on your own ship, the Phoenix.

You walk all the way down the hallway and find the door that Yangyang has pointed out to you. Taeil once again gets down to open the wire panel and gasps in delight.

“Finally a good security system! Give me a moment.” His face disappears behind the stand housing the card reader and he hums as he fiddles with whatever has made him so happy. Even laying at an awkward angle, his voice is beautiful. You sometimes wonder why he became a technician for a faction like yours when he could be a singer for one of the more powerful factions that aren’t always at war. When confronted with this question, he would smile a little and tell whoever was asking that his one true love was testing security systems, no matter how much his voice delighted other people. He said with a dry laugh once that the selfishness of that reason made him perfect for the job. Part of you doubted that story, but everyone working for your faction had baggage. You didn’t need to pry into his.

Eventually there comes a pleased “aha!” from behind you, and Taeil reemerges. His face has a smudge on it that you wipe away with your thumb.

“Have fun?”

You ask the question sarcastically, but Taeil nods happily. “That’s what I like to do. The other systems were easier, I think this room must be important.”

“That’s what I said,” grumbles Yagyang in your ear.

The door slips open with some prodding and you walk into a lab with pristine white surfaces and surfaces that look as though they’ve never been used. In the middle is a silver table covered in instruments of some kind, although you don’t know what they would be used for. The walls are lined with diagnostic panels, and one is a window into a secret hangar you weren’t aware of. Inside is a ship that looks a lot like the X-Wings of the Star Wars franchise. The movies are still iconic today despite how obsolete they are, and everyone knows that the X-Wings were never recreated due to a problem with their size in relation to the way they were meant to work. It appears that whoever made this ship has been hiding their discovery.

“Y/N, focus,” Jungwoo whispers. You nod and turn away from the hangar, albeit reluctantly.

You look at the remaining two walls, both of which are shorter and lined with counters. Taeil is looking at one, and you walk over to the other. You find a monitor completely shut down and follow the cords down to discover that it isn’t plugged in. That’s a little strange. You look at the computer tower and find a USB drive, labeled “Schematics.” That’s even more strange. Why would they leave something so valuable lying around? Hiding in plain sight, perhaps? You plug the monitor in and turn it and the tower on, opening the USB files. You’re low on time, you know, but you have to make sure this is the right drive.

Once the files are loaded, you gasp. “You guys, look at this.” Jungwoo and Taeil stand and look over your shoulders as you scroll through page after page of exact instructions and diagrams for the X-Wing.

“They even stole the name from Star Wars,” Jungwoo scoffs. Taeil laughs lightly.

“These are the right files, we should get out of here.”

“Agreed,” you say. You pocket the USB drive and unplug the monitor again, making sure to leave minimal traces of your passing through. “Let’s go.”

Yangyang repeats the directions out of Sector 5, and you walk quickly. You make it to the laser room without incident and go back through the doorway. “Taeil,” you ask, “can we get out of here faster if you turn off the lasers, or if we just walk through like we did on the way on?”

“Definitely turning them off,” he assures you. “It’s too time consuming to worry about things like this when we need to be worrying about the USB being reported missing.” He settles down by a panel near the start of the lasers and peels off the cover where it looks like maintenance might be done. You only know this because he tells you happily that there might be an off switch.

“Aha! Found it!” he singsongs after a moment. The lasers go off a second later and you’re about to celebrate when a siren screeches from the ceiling.

“All units to Hall Sixteen!” A voice yells over an intercom that you hadn’t noticed. “Lasers have been disabled!”

“Shit,” Jungwoo and Taeil say in unison.

“Let’s go!” you yell. There’s no point in being quiet now. You hear the clomping of boots down the hall and yelling from both ends of the laser room. Hall Sixteen.

You run out towards the exit and find yourself facing Xiao Dejun and another man you don’t know. They both have guns and are shooting the moment you get within range. You shoot back, missing Dejun by inches.

“Sicheng?” cries Taeil from beside you. He lowers his gun slightly. “I thought you were dead!” He runs towards the man, completely ignoring the battle around him. Dejun shoots at him but misses. Jungwoo hits him in return, a nonlethal hit to the arm. It’s enough to make him take pause though, and long enough for you to see with crystal clarity as the other man - Sicheng - raises his gun and shoots Taeil in the chest. Taeil doesn’t even have his gun up, and the shot tears right through his body. He collapses into the fall, blood spouting from the wound. It looks like Sicheng hit his heart.

Someone is screaming, and you realize it’s you. You feel your nose start to burn and your eyes brim suddenly with tears. Not Taeil! you want to scream. Taeil can’t be dead! Your body reacts faster than your brain, and you shoot Sicheng in the gut as he stares at Taeil’s body, looking almost shocked. Then you rush forward and kick the wound, making sure it hurts.

“You asshole!” you cry. “You killed Taeil!” You dodge another bullet from Dejun (it hits Sicheng in the upper stomach, and you have just enough brain space left to be smug) and spot Johnny and Mark behind Jungwoo. You scream and point, not even having words. Thankfully Jungwoo understands and spins to meet them. You shoot at Dejun, wasting bullets. One hits his left shoulder, and another hits a rib. You hear it crack. He writhes out of the way of the rest. You kick his gun hand to disarm him and knee him in the balls, a simple solution to his frustrating ability to avoid bullets. Having properly taken care of him, you turn to face Johnny and Mark.

They have Jungwoo cornered, and he’s desperately dancing out of the way of more bullets. He already has red spreading across his right side. It looks like just a graze, but it could have easily been far worse. You pick up Dejun’s gun and use it to shoot the back of Johnny’s thigh. He crumbles to the floor, blood already gushing angrily out of the wound. Mark turns to him, worried, and somewhere in the back of your mind you realize that’s sort of sweet before you shoot Mark too. He doesn’t deserve to die any more than Taeil did, and you liked working with him, but he’s the enemy right now. He needs to go down. You take aim and shoot him in the side, which is the best place you can hit at this angle. He looks almost surprised at the intrusion. You turn away. Jungwoo runs up behind you.

“Taeil?” you ask, looking down at his body. ��Are you in there?” You reach down to feel his pulse, except there isn’t one. His neck is already cooling where he lays, a surprised look still painted across his features.

“Y/N, we have to go,” Jungwoo says.

“We have to bury him!” you screech. You didn’t even know your voice could sound like this. You suppose you’ve never lost someone as important as Taeil before, though.

“We’ll come back for him as soon as we get the USB back to home base,” Jungwoo mutters. “Come on.” He tugs on your arm, and you follow him, letting the tears flow. Jonny shoots one last time at you, but misses. Of everyone who could have died, it had to be Taeil. Precious Taeil with his lovely voice and sweet temperament, the person everyone went to if they needed someone to chill with. He would never again hear you complain about uncertain futures or how you missed your home planet. He would never again hug you or make you smile or gift your ears with his sweet tunes.

“We’ll come back,” you repeat, nose stuffing up. “We’ll come back.”

You leave Sector 5, only meeting one more person. Jungwoo shoots whoever it is before you even register their presence. Thank goodness that one of you has their head still on right. Getting back inconspicuously is a little harder with bloodstains on Jungwoo’s side, but you somehow manage to avoid everyone you don’t want to see. You sneak in the back way to your building and get up to Doyoung’s office. He’s the leader of your little group, so he’s the one you take the info to.

When you knock, he invites you in, and you enter the room. You’re never quite sure if he’ll be happy to see you, so you walk in with some trepidation. Thankfully he has one of his beautiful smiles on and welcomes you in.

“What did you get?” he asks.

“A USB Drive, it has files for new ships,” you tell him. “ Exactly what we were looking for.”

“Where are Jung-”

Doyoung gets cut off by a voice coming through the radio on his desk. “Sir! Doyoung, sir?”

Doyoung holds up a finger to you and presses the talk button. “Yes Yangyang?”

“Is Y/N with you yet, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Y/N,” Yangyang says, “he doesn’t know yet what happened.” Doyoung looks at you, eyes questioning.

“Okay Yang,” you say. “I’ll- I’ll tell him.”

“Okay. That’s all, sir.”

Doyoung looks at you across the desk and narrows his eyes. “What happened?”

“We got in without incident,” you say. “There was a laser maze, but we got through okay. We didn't get caught on the way in and found a lab. That’s where we found the drive. I made sure these were the right files, and then we left. Taeil-” You cut yourself off, tears threatening again.

“Taeil turned off the lasers so we could get out, but it activated some sort of security system. Some men came to kill us and Taeil recognized one. I think his name was ‘Sicheng.’ Taeil-” You take another deep breath. “He ran toward the man, gun down, like he thought the man wouldn’t hurt him. But Sicheng… He killed Taeil. Shot him in the heart.”

The tears are flowing freely down your cheeks now, and you make no move to get rid of them. Doyoung looks shaken for the first time since you’ve known him, and he stands up. He walks around the desk to hug you, mindless of the blood on your clothes.

“We’ll give him the hero’s burial he deserves,” he murmurs. “In the meantime, you should go and put the drive with our other ship plans.

You nod in the affirmative and leave his office. The file storage room is just down the hall. Your surroundings are a bit blurry from the tears in your eyes, but you make it fine. Yangyang is already there, and he pats you on the back as you plug the USB drive into its designated spot. It has a blood spot on the label and you sort of smile at the irony. You won, but at what cost?

A moment later the entire course lights up. “The Red Team wins!” proclaims a voice from the speakers. You feel the character you were playing melt off as your laser tag gun powers off. The dryness in your throat and the tears on your face fade away with the persona you became for the game. You high-five Yangyang and run to get Taeil from where he lays on the other side of the course, still playing dead. You run into Johnny on the way. “Good game,” he says, bumping your fist. “Hitting my thigh patch was a fantastic idea! You’re a really good shot.”

“Thank you. Your team owes us pizza,” you remind him smugly.

“I know.” He throws you a playful glare on the way past. “We’re going to the fifth floor dorms once everyone’s rounded up. I think Lucas and Jeno tied up Sungchan, Hendery, and Chenle, so I’m going to get them.”

“Sounds good. We’re gonna go get Taeil, Sicheng, and Xiaojun.”

“Okay. Meet you at the entrance!”

He walks off and Yangyang follows you to Sector 5.

“You did an amazing job acting!” he says. “It really helped me get into my role.”

“I thought I would actually cry when Taeil fake died,” you tell him. “He actually looked dead.”

“Well I couldn’t see, obviously, but after you guys left he just sat and hummed. It was hilarious. In one channel, you’re screaming your revenge and sobbing, and in the other, Taeil is humming Baekhyun-sunbaemin.”

Taeil meets you at the beginning of the laser hall. “That was so much fun,” he enthuses.

“Yeah it was,” you agree. “You did a great job with the puzzles!” You’re referring to the puzzles that kept Sector 5 locked. Supposedly they were hard enough to keep intruders out, but Taeil had gotten in pretty easily.

He smiles. “Thank you. You did a great job kneeing Xiaojun in the nuts, he was out for a solid minute.”

“ I didn’t hurt him too much, did I?”

“Nah, he’ll recover. He might want to punch you or something though, I don’t think he was acting with that part.”

“Oh.”

You walk back to the entrance with everyone in the group and do a quick headcount. Twenty-three men. Okay, you’re good to go.

You pile into multiple vans out front where their managers sit, bored. They congratulate the winning team and drive you to the dorms, where you all squeeze into the 5th floor apartment and Johnny orders pizza for everyone. You’re very glad that you don’t have to pay for all of the food for twenty-four people.

“We should do that again some time!” Mark suggests as you’re eating. There’s a resounding cry of agreement as everyone lifts their pizza slices to the idea.

You’re totally going to do that again.

End.

46 notes · View notes

retvenkos · 3 years

Text

survivors | d.m.

Harry Potter: Golden Trio Era - Draco x Slytherin! Halfbood!Reader, angst, slightest fluff

word count: 11.2k

tw: blood, mentions death, mentions of war, pessimistic ending

A/N: this could be read as a platonic reader, if you want.

Summary: Draco couldn’t fix the Vanishing Cabinet himself, no matter how hard he wanted to. (Y/n) hadn’t wanted to help him, but they decided to, despite themself. Neither knew each other very well, but there seemed to be an understanding. Perhaps they could fix it together, and perhaps (Y/n) could fix the broken boy, too. Or maybe both of them would be shattered beyond recognition.

and i am angry at this world because i was not one of the innocent they decided to save.

ii.

During his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy didn’t feel as alive as he once did. This castle was colder and quieter than it used to be, and as he patrolled the dungeon corridors for his prefect duties, he felt a chill in the air; the cold pricked the back of his neck - that bit of exposed skin between the ends of his hair and the stiff collar of his uniform. Despite himself, he twitched at it’s touch; the cold reminded him of darker memories that threatened to pull him under, reminding him of what happened over the summer.

If he closed his eyes, he was still there.

The harsh clicking of his father’s cane as he walked down the hall, someone else accompanying him by the sound of their footsteps. A voice that sounded like the hissing of a snake - high and cold and beckoning him forth. His mother’s frightened gaze and his father’s stiff jaw. The soft pleads of protest. But who were they to defy the Dark Lord...

Draco could still hear the sound of their approach, echoing against these aged, stone walls. The incessant sound filled his senses. His fingers twitched. His arm started to burn as the sound of footsteps came nearer. Echoing, echoing, echoing...

“You would be an idiot if you weren’t such a genius.”

A voice, not at all what he was expecting, brought Draco reeling into the present. The footsteps weren’t that of phantom memories, but the sound of someone in the castle - in this dungeon with him - traversing the corridors in the few moments before curfew.

“You could make a fortune off of your skills if you sold them the right way. What other students here can make their own spells?”

Draco stepped closer to the wall, his interest peaked. He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, waiting for the voices to speak, once again. He wouldn’t scare them off. He had never been much good at being a prefect, anyway.

“Michael, we talked about this. They’re all a work in progress - do you remember what happened last time I tried them out? I won’t make a fool of myself because they aren’t perfect.”

“That was one time, and you knew things weren’t going to go well. And I can’t remember the last time Hogwarts pumped out an actually decent spell creator! The talented only come once every lifetime - you shouldn’t pass this up.”

The voices devolved into arguing for a moment, until one of them swore lowly. “It’s curfew. You need to get up to Ravenclaw Tower.”

“Think about it, (Y/n).”

“Go.”

Footsteps filled the corridor once again. Draco took a deft step backward, further into the shadows, and a fellow Slytherin rushed past the corridor, never noticing the prefect that watched them. Draco pushed his lips into a thin line, grey eyes narrowing just a bit. The echoes faded, and when the corridor was silent, he breathed. Running a hand through his hair, Draco turned away, disappearing into darkness and shadow.

iii.

When Draco Malfoy sat down next to them in Charms class, (Y/n) supposed it was an oversight. Rumors about Draco not feeling well had been circulating the Slytherin gossip lines for the whole two months that school had been in session; Malfoy had missed classes regularly, skipped out on meals completely, and seemed to be neglecting his usual bully behavior, trading it all for a personality that seemed to be more like that Blaise Zabini than the boy he used to be. Sitting next to (Y/n) had to be a symptom of this strange illness that seemed to have captured him - maybe he was too tired to care.

Yes, that seemed to be it - he was tired. He certainly looked it, when (Y/n) spared him a glance, their eyes flicking over to him for a half moment while Flitwick was demonstrating their lesson for the day.

There were dark circles under his eyes, a sort of gaunt appearance to his well shaped face, and even though he seemed to be very keen on stopping it, with his eyes focused the way they were, his hands seemed to be shaking, just slightly.

(Y/n) turned their attention back to the worn textbook in front of them, scratching notes on a spare bit of parchment. They tried to focus on the words written on the page, but their mind still wandered to the boy beside them.

Together, the two students’ thoughts swirled like winds in a tempest - never in one place at one time, but simultaneously everywhere. This world seemed to be pulling everyone in all possible directions, spreading them ever thin, as though trying to test when they would snap.

Both Slytherins, different as they were, weren’t the type to break.

Some days, they wished they were.

(Y/n) failed to notice the careful way Draco appraised them. His eyes flitted from their old school supplies to their mended robes, and yet the newness in other belongings that perhaps didn’t need to be bought anew every school year. (Y/n) eventually caught him staring, and Draco leveled his gaze with theirs.

“I need your help,” and even his voice resounded from his throat, as though he had no energy to sustain it in his chest.

(Y/n) blinked. Once, twice, three times. “I’m sorry?”

At the front of the classroom, Professor Flitwick was giving instruction on the Reducto curse, but his voice was fading into background noise, now, as (Y/n) stared at the boy beside them. Of all the things they could have guessed Draco Malfoy to say to them, that was not one.

“You know what I asked for.”

Again, he was tired - too tired to explain his baffling request, too tired to give any kind of context as to why he had come to them, or whatever he needed help for.

“My help?” They didn’t get so much as a sigh, which was interesting, to say the least. (Y/n) wanted to scoff, but they had to keep their voice low enough for the professor to not take notice. “Why would you- What purpose—” their mind eventually caught up with them ”—Why do you think I’d give it?”

“Because I’m—”

“Draco Malfoy, yes.” The scoff escaped them, agitation setting in. (Y/n) pulled their gaze away from the boy to turn back to the front of the classroom, eyes narrowing as they pretended to read the writing on the blackboard. “What would your father think of you getting help from the likes of me?” They all but spat their words under their breath.

Draco seemed to twitch uncomfortably at the mention of his father, but he played it off with a roll of his eyes - the first real reaction (Y/n) had got out of him the entire conversation. “He’d think it shrewd of me.”

“Like keeping your enemies close?”

“Like keeping allies near. Us Slytherins are all one big brotherhood, aren’t we?”

“I think you muddied those waters when you’re obsession with blood purity extended to belittling us halfbreeds.” (Y/n) fixed Draco with a withering stare. He looked down at the desk, scrutinizing the aging wood. His demeanor shifted to something deeper than what lay on the surface, and a wiser person would have stopped there, but (Y/n) couldn’t let it go. “Suddenly you want to be family?”

Draco breathed in deeply as though by expanding his chest and allowing for more oxygen, the tension between them would dissipate. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The two lapsed into silence, and Professor Flitwick's voice floated over to the two of them, regaining precedence.

“It’s important to keep in mind this spell is very volatile. It’s unlikely you’ll get it correct on your first try…”

(Y/n) allowed themself to decompress, their shoulders dropping and their hands relaxing on the page of their textbook.

For what could Draco Malfoy possibly need their help? They weren’t even friends, but he had the gall to call them family.

“I’d settle for partners.”

The bell rang. Students around them started to pack up, hurrying to their next class. Draco didn’t move a muscle.

(Y/n) fixed him with a stare that betrayed their display of anger and showed some of the interest within. They picked up the bottle-green bag beside them. “Then I suppose that depends on how much you’ve changed over the summer,” they spat, already standing to leave.

“Quite enough, I think you’ll find.”

(Y/n) paused on their way out the door but resisted the urge to turn around, instead pushing forward through the bottlenecked door with renewed conviction.

Who did Draco Malfoy think he had become, asking for favors like they were old chums or something of the like? What did he even need help for, that he couldn’t ask his posse of loyal followers? That Blaise Zabini was smart, and Theo Nott wasn’t too bad, either. Of course, Theo was a halfblood too, so maybe Draco had managed to piss him off in his fourth year as well, when he started to sneer at halfbloods as though he were somehow greater than them. It wouldn’t be surprising, really, if Draco had somehow managed to alienate all of his “friends” in some way or another. He wasn’t known to have much of a filter with his thoughts.

Maybe that was what all of this was about. Draco had mentioned his father thinking their conversation was “shrewd” - maybe Lucius Malfoy had a little conversation with his son about not alienating the people around him. Perhaps there was a little father-son chat about revitalizing the family image with the Death Eaters and the rise of You-Know-Who being what it was. How quaint. Did they have him updating his father in person, too? Is that why he looked like he hadn’t slept since summer?

Part of (Y/n) insisted that they were being overdramatic about all of this and that they should get a hold of their emotions. No one was really at liberty of being emotional during times like these, and maybe, deep down, Draco really had become something that wasn’t beneath asking genuine help of someone without having ulterior motives.

After all, he had been tired - without real signs of deception or bigger purpose… and he was… shaking - as though genuinely nervous or afraid and.... and he had said something that made them stop in their tracks… that the summer had changed him “quite enough,” said with a sort of bitterness and resignation that was unlike any kind of Draco Malfoy (Y/n) knew…

(Y/n) slid into their Herbology seat with practiced ease, and when they went to grab their textbook, they came up with an Astronomy book, instead.

“What?”

(Y/n) didn’t have Astronomy, and this textbook was far too nice to be theirs. Maybe it belonged to their roommate? But then why was it in their bag? (Y/n) clearly had the right bag since they had pulled out their textbook in Charms, and—

(Y/n) flipped to the inside cover of the Astronomy textbook in front of them.

Property of Draco Malfoy.

Professor Sprout started the lecture just as (Y/n) swore under their breath.

Their Herbology partner turned to them questioningly, and (Y/n) asked to share their textbook for the day. Their partner complied readily enough and (Y/n) shot them a smile. The rest of the lesson, (Y/n) calculated the quickest way from the greenhouses to the Slytherin common room, where they would no doubt find Draco Malfoy skipping yet another meal and doing whatever it was that occupied his time. They had switched bags, somehow, and (Y/n) was keen on getting theirs back.

When Herbology was finally over, (Y/n) all but sprinted to the dungeons. Of all days for this to happen...

When they reached the steps that led down to the common room, they saw Draco Malfoy standing at the bottom. A book was in his hands, and as (Y/n) descended the stairs, they got a better look at it.

Their heart dropped.

Draco was flipping through the pages of a tiny, leatherbound book. It looked inconspicuous enough, a kind of journal that was old and weathered, but (Y/n) knew who it belonged to, and what was hidden inside.

It was (Y/n)’s spellbook - always stuffed to the bottom of their bag in case inspiration or genious struck All of their spells were in there - from the nearly refined to their half-baked disasters, every spell (Y/n) had ever had the idea to create was in that book, along with every failure. If Draco had looked at their disastrous attempts from third year...

“I’m not here for games, Draco.”

“Neither am I.” Draco held out the book to them and (Y/n) snatched it, also taking the school bag that was at his feet - no doubt theirs. “I only needed to check - Ravenclaws have a way of dramatizing things, and since you weren’t happy to help…”

“Check what?”

In the half-light, it was hard to tell what Draco was feeling, or at least, what he’d allow to show. But when he spoke, his voice still carried a fatigue that wore him down and made him appear as though without an agenda. “That you can help me.”

(Y/n) rolled their eyes. “Again, what makes you think that I will?”

“You need money, don’t you? I recognize signs of wear when I see them, and you were rather quick to get back your used textbooks - probably borrowed, since you don’t have any older siblings and our textbooks aren’t as old as our parents. The (L/n) family must have come into financial trouble recently,” Draco reported with a sigh, as though he found no glee in this run around of his. Was this the same boy who used to flaunt his observational prowess, making scathing remarks about the most minute details of others?

(Y/n) wanted to snap that they didn’t need his money, but they had enough common sense to not be proud. The Malfoys were one of the richest families at Hogwarts. If Draco was willing to pay... at least he would be good for the money… and he had been looking at their spellbook. If he needed a spell, it would be nice to experiment on someone else’s galleon, wouldn’t it?

(Y/n) swallowed. “What do you need?”

“A spell, and your secrecy.”

(Y/n) nodded slowly, still weighing their choices. They had nearly made up their mind, but something still ate at the back of their mind, like an itch that couldn’t be satiated. “Why did you think I’d help you?”

“I knew you would.” Draco fiddled with his sleeve. “Because you want to know my secret.”

iv.

When Draco said they were going to the Room of Hidden Things, (Y/n) hadn’t expected the room itself to be hidden. It would have been ridiculous, and yet, looking at it, everything seemed to make sense. The room only appeared when you asked for it, and it contained thousands of knick knacks, all sorted and piled on top of each other haphazardly, the facade of order.

If everything ever hidden lay within this room, (Y/n) wouldn’t be surprised. The room seemed to stretch off into infinity, the walls on either side disappearing behind stacks of lost things that reached impossibly high, never appearing to meet a back wall. Everything in the Room of Hidden Things was seemingly left to oblivion, stacked and scattered with no real rhyme or reason, things left behind and obliterated from memory. As they walked deeper in, (Y/n) found themself searching, as though there was something they needed to find.

If Draco felt the same urge, he hid it well, winding around piles of lost things like one would walk around their own home in the dark, completely aware of where everything was and able to avoid things that others tripped on. (Y/n) found themself wondering, ‘How many times had he been in here?’

Draco stopped in front of a tall, imposing cabinet with wrought iron detailing. The black wood seemed so stark against the rest of the room that (Y/n) wondered how anyone could miss it, and yet, if they turned their head as to put it in their periphery, the cabinet seemed to disappear.

Funny, how it could be there, but not.

After a moment, (Y/n) was able to place why it looked so familiar. The Vanishing Cabinet. Why was it here, of all places?

“It’s broken and no mending charms have worked on it - not even in conjunction with others.”

(Y/n) nodded, opening the door to the cabinet and taking a look inside. So that’s the kind of spell he needed.

“You probably heard about Montague getting stuck in a kind of limbo last year when the Weasley twins shoved him in.”

“So it has a twin.” It was more a statement than a question, but when (Y/n) caught Draco’s eye, they found an affirmative answer that almost looked guilty. (Y/n) turned away, rifling through their bag to find their creation book.

(Y/n)’s mind was flitting about, again, trying to call up all the information they had ever learned about passageways and vanishing cabinets, mending spells and charms. To modify a spell would probably be too simple for the complexities of a Vanishing Cabinet. They would have to start from scratch. (Y/n) flipped to the page where they wrote down the methodology of apparition spells. Maybe the answer lay within the creation of the spell rather than the outcome. Apparition spells might apply to the spontaneity of the Cabinet...

Draco handed (Y/n) a book or two that were clearly ancient, the pages themselves written in fading ink.

“I found these in that pile—” he gestured to a stack of books that reached into the heavens “—they’re the only decent information I’ve found so far.”

(Y/n) nodded and moved to sit on the floor, placing the books carefully in front of them. Draco retreated to the base of the tower of books, picking up a few that were scattered around a large chair that caught (Y/n)’s eye. It seemed out of place - pulled from the pile of furniture that was closer to the entrance and devoid of the thick layer of dust that seemed to permeate everything in this haven of the lost.

After a moment, (Y/n) realized it as a makeshift bed - a blanket that looked like it once belonged to a Hufflepuff thrown over the arm, a stack of clothes next to the chair, and Draco’s bag hanging from it.

How often was he in here?

(Y/n) turned their gaze back to the Vanishing Cabinet before them, trying not to dwell on what the Slytherin Prince had become. They had a job to do; a Vanishing Cabinet needed fixing.

But why, of all things, a Vanishing Cabinet?

“Planning on disappearing, Malfoy?” Their tone was light, playful. (Y/n) turned to face him, and he was stock still.

Draco didn’t respond, just looked at the cabinet with an intensity that seemed to bring the weight of the word onto his shoulders. He tugged at his left sleeve, and for a fleeting moment, an answer was swimming in his eyes.

‘Yes.’

It had been around two weeks since (Y/n) had been first introduced to the Vanishing Cabinet, and ever since, their evenings were spent in the Room of Hidden Things, their attention split between homework and the puzzle before them.

One part of them was intent on creating the right spell. If they were able to do it correctly, this new spell could be revolutionary, potentially changing the way mending spells were thought of for years to come. With the way that Vanishing Cabinets worked, it wasn’t just the cabinet that needed to be fixed, or the passageway in between, but the space that was warped when the door to the cabinet was closed. It was mystifying, to say the least, and the possibilities were endless.

Another, more nagging side of (Y/n) was intent on figuring out why Draco needed a Vanishing Cabinet in the first place. What purpose did he require of it? Better yet, what purpose could it serve? The possibilities for this, too, could be infinite.

“(Y/n)? Are you listening?”

Michael Corner, their friend of six years, bumped his shoulder into theirs. They were walking to Potions, and he had been chatting about how he hadn’t seen them in a while - not since they started slipping out of the Great Hall early after dinner.

“Yes - you think I’ve been trying to perfect my failed spells from third year and I’m too proud to tell you that I actually do listen to your advice.”

Michael grinned. “So… are you?”

“I am working on my spells, if that’s what you’re after.”

“And have you taken my advice on selling them?”

(Y/n) thought for a moment. After all, they were getting paid for what they were doing for Draco, so technically a ‘yes’ would be appropriate. But if Michael started to ask who bought it and for what reasons, (Y/n) wouldn’t be able to say.

“Maybe,” they said, lamely.

It seemed to be enough for Michael, though, and he talked excitedly about the possibilities as they made their way into the Potions classroom. (Y/n) approached their seat and Michael groaned. “It sucks that Slughorn assigned us partners. I’m stuck with Hermione Granger and, well, you know how she is. Potions could be so much better if we got to choose who we work with.”

(Y/n) sat down in their seat, sighing before fishing for their textbook in their bag. “You’re not the one stuck with Malfoy,” they deadpanned as usual, but the words didn’t fit as naturally in their mouth as they once did.

“Yeah, but when does he even show up to class, anymore?” For emphasis, Michael slid into the Slytherin’s assigned seat.

The two devolved into their usual banter, talking about common interests and idiotic assignments. Professor Slughorn walked into the room two minutes or so before class started and when Michael swore, he fixed him with a stare. Things were as they always were, but then something changed.

Draco Malfoy walked into the classroom, and Michael was surprised, but quick to slip out of his seat. He chose to hover near (Y/n)’s end of the table, and while he was careful not to stare, his eyes flicked to Draco. He wasn’t the only one; the whole class seemed to notice Draco’s presence, but Malfoy seemed to be avoiding the production of it all - very unlike him. The pallor in his skin didn’t seem to be getting worse, but the melancholic air that seemed to follow him was palpable.

Any day, now, the rumors would get worse and the speculation would start. What was eating at Draco Malfoy?

(Y/n) had been working with him closely for two weeks, now, and even they weren’t any closer to figuring out the truth.

Harry Potter seemed to have particularly keen eyes, whispering to his friends without losing eye contact.

The whole of Hogwarts seemed to be holding its breath, unsure of what was to come, but anticipating how bad the storm was going to be. Michael tried to ignore the shift in demeanor, nudging (Y/n) with his arm.

“I’m still surprised that Harry Potter ended up getting the Felix Felicis - I was honestly expecting Padma or Hermione to get it. Since when is Harry a potion making prodigy?”

Beside (Y/n), Draco stiffened. (Y/n) let out a puff of air like a subdued scoff and Michael smiled. So the Potter-Malfoy rivalry was still going strong.

Michael scratched out a note on a spare bit of parchment and stuck it in (Y/n) textbook with a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll go see if I can snag some of Potter’s notes, yeah? Maybe he can spare a bit of genius.”

With that he was off, and (Y/n) rolled their eyes before turning to the front of the classroom. Draco was still on edge beside them, his shoulders taut and head bowed in such a way that (Y/n) couldn’t catch his eye.

It was later, when (Y/n) was flipping through their textbook to the instructions for the potion they were to make, that they found the note Michael had left behind.

‘At least you know you have something to make his blood boil.’

vi.

“We’re going to need space,” (Y/n) muttered to Draco. They had agreed to meet by the statue of Lachlan the Lanky when going to the Room of Hidden Things, and Draco was already there when (Y/n) arrived. “Testing out this spell could be dangerous in such a cluttered space - the entire room could be destroyed.”

Draco nodded deftly and (Y/n) could tell by the way his eyes narrowed that he was thinking of a way to fix their problem. It had been a little over a month since the two started to work together, and after being Potions and Alchemy partners, working beside each other during their free period, and spending their nights in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, the two knew each other better than they cared to admit. (Y/n) still held fast to the idea that they were acquaintances at most, but there were times when they saw him in the Room of Hidden Things, sitting on the chair he used for a bed, and they knew what he was thinking. Acquaintances couldn’t do that, could they?

Draco walked past a section of the corridor three times, his perpetually tired expression furrowed into concentration, and the vanishing door appeared. As soon as they could, the two Slytherins ushered themselves in. This time, they were met with a bright light.

(Y/n) blinked furiously, and when their eyes adjusted, they realized they were looking at the sky.

Bright blue and without clouds, the sky seemed to mimic that of a summer’s day. The sun that beat down was a welcome change from the cold winds of December, and (Y/n) let the warmth fill them as they took in the view. The Room of Hidden Things had somehow shifted into a vast, open field that was full of tall, yellowing grass.

The field seemed to stretch into oblivion, never quite ending as it reached a horizon point. (Y/n) felt something like calm wash over them. This place carried a mixture between knowledge and peace. A little ways out, but close enough to be identified were the only two things that upset the sprawling landscape - a willow tree with low hanging branches, far more serene than the Whomping Willow that Hogwarts students were familiar with, and the Vanishing Cabinet.

“What is this place?” (Y/n) still gaped at what lay around them, eyes eagerly taking in every color that seemed to bleed in the way a painting would.

“The Room of Requirement is whatever you need it to be.”

“And the Room of Hidden Things…?”

“Inside it.”

Draco looked worse, somehow, in the full light of the sun; his skin was more pale, like death had already touched him and all he had left to do was walk to his grave. (Y/n) couldn't look long.

The two started toward the Vanishing Cabinet. (Y/n) felt the distinct urge to put their hands out to feel the grass brush against their skin, to see just how real this beautiful illusion was. If the room could create this, what else could it fathom?

If (Y/n) could stay here forever, would this room create a reality beautiful enough to keep them?

(Y/n) sat their bag down a few paces away from the Vanishing Cabinet and rolled up their sleeves. Draco retreated to the foot of the weeping willow. (Y/n) checked it to make sure that it stood far enough away from the blast zone. It seemed alright.

(Y/n) placed a spare bit of parchment into the Cabinet and took a few steps back.

“Harmonia Nectere Deambulatio!”

(Y/n) turned their wrist precisely and grey wisps of light illuminated from the tip of their wand. The Vanishing Cabinet before them lurched forward abruptly and (Y/n) staggered a few steps backward. The Cabinet righted itself and after a few moments of hesitantly watching it to see if the cabinet would be pitching itself to and fro once more, (Y/n) quickly approached and opened it.

The paper inside was far worse than what they expected; the parchment shredded and burning, as though it did some acrobatic routine for the circus with very poor aim. (Y/n) quickly doused the flames and turned back to their book, scratching out the failed attempt.

(Y/n) sighed and started again, trying out a few variations of the spell they had already drafted up, praying that one of them would work. After an hour or so of the Vanishing Cabinet turning out botched attempts, (Y/n) decided they needed to rethink the spell itself, and not the delivery.

This wasn’t their first spell to go wrong, but it was definitely the hardest, since gauging what needed to be fixed was near impossible. (Y/n) figured that it had to be the passage between each Cabinet. The slicing of the paper was most likely a failure to use the passage - it was torn on its way to the other cabinet and when fragmented, couldn’t be supported through the warping of space, so it was spit back out and was lit on fire from the friction.

(Y/n)’s focus, then, should shift from the spontaneity of the Vanishing Cabinet and work on the passage rather than the walk through it. It was the space between that needed warping… perhaps they should look at their notes of Transfiguration spells, they were particularly good at warping space… a safe bet, too, since Transfiguration was fairly testable and not overly theoretical, compared to other spells...

(Y/n) looked at one of the books Draco had given them a week prior. From what those books taught, tangibles were off the table with Vanishing Cabinets. A safe bet might not fix anything. But anything else might be more risk than it was worth...

Maybe a principle of Alchemy could be used. Transmutation might be the key - not shifting the length of the passage, but shifting the properties of the passage, making it safer to traverse… of course, transmutation spells were highly dangerous when not perfected, and seeing as most of the creation of their spell had to be theory rather than tested reality...

Both (Y/n) and Draco would have to be very sure it was the route they wanted to take, and then they would have to be incredibly careful. Especially in a room where space itself warped… if anything went wrong, the spell could kill both of them.

(Y/n) had never been the best at Alchemy, but Draco was a prodigy when it came to the subject. It was one of the few classes he showed up for, anymore, and since (Y/n) had gotten better at reading him, they noticed that Draco actually took interest in the subject. He seemed to be fascinated by the idea that one thing could be made into something completely different with dedication and patience.

But how much could (Y/n) trust Draco? He hadn’t screwed them over, yet, but would he, eventually? Maybe it was only a matter of time…

But, then again, what did he stand to gain?

Both of them were working day and night to solve this problem. Draco may not have fully understood how spells were made, but his research was invaluable, and there was no way either could do it on their own. Fixing a Vanishing Cabinet was improving upon Ancient Magic, all of which was confusing and uncertain, to say the least. There was a reason why there were few Vanishing Cabinets in existence, and a reason as to why Dumbledore didn’t fix the Cabinet himself. It’s near impossible. There’s no way Draco could do it on his own.

He needed (Y/n), and he seemed to know it, too.

(Y/n) sighed and walked over to the willow tree where Draco sat, calling out to him, their voice faint, like it would be in a real, empty field. They parted the tall grass as they went, feeling the scratch of it on their legs and arms. The sun seemed to have dipped lower in the sky, but the suspension of time that the Room of Requirement always held still stood. (Y/n) could only guess how long they’d been here - a few hours, maybe - but it didn’t feel like it had been long enough.

“We’ll have to shift our theory - I think the basis of this spell has to be Alchemical properties or at the very least Transfiguration. It’s tricky, though, since this magic is so old…”

Draco was asleep, a book from the Room of Hidden Things opened on his stomach. He looked disheveled, pale blonde hair mussed up, his robes in disarray. His sleeves, always pulled low, were starting to ride up on his left arm and (Y/n) could see the skin beneath, pink and rubbed raw, as though he scratched and agitated the length of his forearm all day long.

(Y/n) sat down beside him, far enough away as to give him privacy, and yet close enough so that neither was alone. The field around them suddenly felt more exposed than before - (Y/n) understood why Draco chose to sit underneath the tree; the low hanging branches of the willow tree created a sense of security - like they could hide, if they had to.

Draco had nightmares. It didn’t take long to realize that - he twitched and fidgeted in his sleep, expression twisting into something torn between fear and pain. (Y/n) wanted to wake him from his spell, but when they looked at him and saw the pallor of his skin and the circles underneath his eyes, they knew it was best to keep him resting.

Sometimes you fight a war on two fronts, and there is no escaping it. Draco needed to rest. And who was (Y/n) to decide whether the terrors of sleeping or waking were worse?

At some point, they must have fallen asleep, too, because they awoke to Draco shaking their shoulder, his eyes averted and his hands cold. The painted sun had dipped over the nonexistent horizon, and the moon was out.

“We need to go. It’s after curfew.”

(Y/n) stood up and smoothed out their uniform, nodding deftly.

“I’m a prefect, so just follow my lead and no one will ask questions.”

vii.

“We’ll try out the transmutation theory.”

(Y/n) pulled their gaze away from their Charms essay to stare up at Draco incredulously. It was nearing midnight, and with most of the students being gone for the holiday, the Slytherin common room was empty. Draco had just entered and was on his way to the dormitories, but he stopped on his way and spoke to (Y/n) in a low tone.

“You know the risks, right?” Draco just stared pensively into the fire that blazed beside them. “Are you willing to die for this?”

Maybe it was the flames that threatened tears to his eyes. “I’m dead, either way.”

viii.

The bell rang, signaling the end of Transfiguration, and the classroom erupted with life, people closing their books and racing out the door. As far as last classes went, Transfiguration was okay, but at the end of the day, everyone wanted to get out as quickly as possible. Michael nudged (Y/n) when he was shoving off, reminding them to grab some dinner before they holed themselves up for the evening. (Y/n) shot back a retort and he flipped them off as he left, earning a scolding from McGonagall.

“Sorry, professor.” Michael ducked his head apologetically, but when McGonagall turned around, he caught (Y/n)’s eye and winked.

(Y/n) rolled their eyes, shoving a quill in their bag as McGonagall fixed her attention to them. “(Y/n) (L/n).”

The Slytherin snapped to attention. “Yes, professor?”

“Would you remind Mr. Malfoy that he still has my class, even if he chooses not to attend?” McGonagall took a step closer and (Y/n) held their gaze, more surprised than anything else. “It’s not imperative he show for lessons, but he does need to turn in his work if he expects to continue with this subject.”

(Y/n) was caught off guard. “O-Of course.”

“He is slated to take Transfiguration next year, and N.E.W.T.s will not be kind to those who don’t dedicate themselves.” McGonagall looked at (Y/n) over the top of her glasses, seemingly more stern than before. “I know you and Mr. Malfoy are close - perhaps you will be able to motivate him.”

(Y/n) shrugged their bag onto their shoulders, a little too eager to leave. McGonagall seemed to take note, but waited patiently for (Y/n) to speak. “Oh, um… Draco and I are just partners in class.”

McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line. Was it… amused? Knowing? “I’ve heard, you frequently meet up by the statue of Lachlan the Lanky, as well.” Her eyes still carried that intensity. Perhaps her gaze was more of a warning.

(Y/n) looked down and swallowed, mind racing. “I’ll tell him, professor.”

“Thank you.”

(Y/n) walked out of the classroom, and it wasn’t until they were in the dungeons that they dared to breathe. McGonagall's words were inconspicuous enough, but it was the way she said it that struck (Y/n) to the core. If McGonagall knew about them meeting up at the statue, what else did she know? Maybe it wasn’t much, but she felt justified to bring it up. And in that tone…

She could know anything, maybe even more than (Y/n) - and if McGonagall knew, surely Dumbledore did, as well.

When they entered the Slytherin common room, Draco was inside, sitting with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. They were talking in hushed tones, and the concern in their gaze was palpable. If it has been a few months ago, (Y/n) would have pretended like they hadn’t seen anything and gone avoided their stare. But now, they just pressed forth.

At the sight of (Y/n) approaching, Pansy stood and pulled Blaise with her, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder before leaving. (Y/n) locked eyes with the two retreating figures and there was something grateful in their stares.

(Y/n) averted their gaze.

“Draco,” (Y/n) sat down on a couch across from him and kept their voice low. “I think Professor McGonagall knows.”

Draco was careful not to show interest in his body language, but his eyes were sharp, wary. (Y/n) leaned in a bit, telling him all that happened, recalling the strange way that McGonagall looked at them and how she knew where they met up. The shadows of the fire played against Draco’s gaunt features, making him look almost ghostlike as he listened intently.

“The only reason I could see her keeping tabs on you is because of that rumor Harry Potter is spreading about you giving that cursed necklace to Katie Bell.” (Y/n) shook their head, blinking and they missed the way that Draco froze at the mention. “But either way, we need to be more careful.”

For a moment, the two just sat in silence, eyes intent on their hands as they tried to see a place beyond this present. Both were unaware of what the other was thinking, and yet they both wished the same - that is world would stop around them - if only for a moment.

The fire behind them raged and the voices of those surrounding them didn’t cease.

(Y/n) sighed and tipped their head back, looking at the glass ceiling above them, dark waters rippling from the movement of merfolk and the Giant Squid. What would it feel like to be suspended for your whole life, never coming up for air? Peaceful, perhaps.

“Don’t worry about the professors.” Draco spoke suddenly, and (Y/n) sat up to find him mimicking their actions, still looking up at the lake, his hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his button-up. “They know perfectly well they could stop us if they wanted to. They could know everything if they wanted. But they don’t.” There was a bitterness in his tone that seeped in slowly, then all at once. “They don’t meddle in anything I do. They don’t concern themselves with us. They don’t—”

Draco cut himself short. (Y/n) looked at him for a minute, their expression soft but broken - a little wondering. The wondered if they understood Draco a little more - maybe they recognized that anger, simmering on low, the fire just able to be sustained but burning out.

“They don’t save us, do they?” and it was a whisper, but it felt earth shattering.

Draco sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. “Not us.”

ix.

On Wednesday nights, Alchemy students were expected to go up to the 16th turret where classes were usually held to do an extra lesson. Part of their curriculum required the moonlight filtering through stained glass to complete, and Slughorn said there was no way around it. It was the only night of the week when Draco and (Y/n) didn’t go to the Room of Requirement to work on their project, the only night when they breathed just a little easier.

The sky was lighter than the usual inky night. The moon was full and brightly reflecting, and it’s solemnity in the sky was a stark contrast to Professor Slughorn’s excitement as he flitted about, giving instructions on how to complete the assignment. There were a few stars that managed to twinkle in the sky, and (Y/n) found themselves transfixed by them, wishing they were admiring the night sky for stargazing, instead of work

It was much easier, admiring something from a distance; dealing with things closer to the ground was heavier on the heart - it took more of a toll.

Draco worked beside them quietly. Things between them usually were quiet, with the occasional word or moment of recognition in the heart of the other. Questions weren’t usually welcome, but (Y/n) could sneak in a few, every once in a while. Especially during Alchemy; Draco was more relaxed up here - almost content.

Slughorn went over to Padma Patil at the front of the classroom, leaving the pair of Slytherin’s in shared solitude.

“I can’t imagine you’re sleeping well, in the Room of Hidden Things.” (Y/n) whispered so no one would hear, sure to make their tone soft, unlike anything that might set the other into a mood. Draco turned to them for a moment, impassive, but didn’t say a word. (Y/n) tried again. “I realize the Cabinet’s important, but enough to sacrifice your health? Why?”

More silence. There had been a time (Y/n) wouldn’t have minded.

“Can’t you tell me anything?”

Draco’s jaw flexed, and he was so thin it stuck out more than normal, sharp with a jagged edge. (Y/n) eyed him with a guarded expression of their own, allowing silence to lapse between them as Slughorn walked by. He checked on their progress with an impressed hum, and once the professor was out of earshot, (Y/n) interrogated Draco once more.

“I just want to know something - this is dangerous for me, too.”

Draco seemed hesitant. After a moment, he spoke, “I have to do this,” he whispered, almost more to himself than anyone else.

“I don’t understand why.”

“No, you don’t.” Draco looked at them sharply but (Y/n) wasn’t one to back down. His eyes flicked around the room, as if to see if anyone noticed his sudden movement, but no one seemed to take note. Still, Draco turned back to his work, shooting his next words out of the side of his mouth, eyes blazing with something that was white-hot, but not anger. “And you wouldn’t.”

“So I get to do your dirty work, but without an explanation? Did you forget we’re being watched?” (Y/n) shook their head, expression tight with anger.

“If I don’t do this, I’ll die. Is that a good enough explanation for you?” Draco’s jaw twitched and (Y/n) heaved a sigh, through with his dramatics. Every day it got worse and Draco didn’t seem to be opening up anytime soon. It was exhausting, and for what? A few Galleons? A feeling like they were somehow helping him?

A secret? Draco was fiddling with his left sleeve, again, and (Y/n) had the familiar feeling that they already knew the answer to any question they might ask.

The rest of the evening wore on in silence. Both Slytherins were tense with emotion, thoughts swirling around them, the tension in the air almost thick enough to taste. Occasionally, the sounds of others wafted towards them - Slughorn’s footsteps, excited whispers, low swears and were quickly reprimanded - but neither spoke a word or did so much as to spare the other a glance. Eventually, Slughorn dismissed everyone, walking out himself, and the only two left were Draco and (Y/n).

(Y/n) stood up and gathered their things, and after a moment's hesitation, faced Draco with a guarded stare. They breathed in, “I’m going to figure out what’s happening, Draco. But I’m not going to like it if I have to figure it out on my own.”

With that, (Y/n) turned to leave. But before they could walk away, Draco had caught their arm. (Y/n) turned back around with a sigh. He was standing, now, and the moonlight that filtered through the stained glass window drowned him in deep shades of red.

“Do you know my family’s allegiance in this war?”

(Y/n) felt their blood turn cold. “Well, I…” they stammered, “I figured—”

“Then you have your explanation,” he cut them off bitterly, and was quick to look away, releasing his hold on them and cleaning up his things.

(Y/n) blinked. Once, twice, three times. Tightening their grip on their bag, they walked towards the door to open it, but their hand rested on the knob. Their mind was like a tempest - never in one place at one time, but simultaneously everywhere, trying to remember everything they had ever believed in and everything they thought they knew.

“We’re meeting again tomorrow, right?” And (Y/n) hated the way their voice sounded; soft and unsure. They looked back to see Draco - really see him - but his expression was just as conflicted as ever, just as pained and stiff and grasping. It was almost as though he were drowning in his own sin, bloody and red.

After a moment, he nodded, grey eyes pausing, for once, never leaving theirs.

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

Draco passed (Y/n) the apple and they set it down in the middle of the Vanishing Cabinet, it’s lively green skin stark against the black cabinet. They shut the door carefully, and took a step back.

Yesterday, for the first time in their five months of working together, a piece of parchment Vanished properly. After three different theories on the spell, about 12 different spell variations, and many late nights, it was finally working. There was a sort of peace in that, and yet something akin to dread seemed to settle in the air - almost thicker than the dust that permeated the Room of Hidden Things.

Draco seemed to feel it, too. His weight seemed to settle heavier in his bones, his entire essence dragged downward, somewhere where he couldn’t be found. They weren’t going to be saved by anyone but themselves, but sometimes it seemed Draco didn’t have the fight in him. Not anymore.

His hands were shaking, and the boy made to fix the cuffs of his sleeves. (Y/n) reached out and grabbed his hand and he turned to them, sharply. (Y/n) didn’t say anything, just squeezed his hands once, then let go. His hands stilled.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

It was best done as a whisper, with the slightest curl of the wrist. The light was soft and melancholic. The Vanishing Cabinet didn’t make a sound nor shudder, just stood there, imposing as ever.

Draco opened the cabinet. It was empty.

Despite themselves, both smiled.

He closed the door.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

The wrought iron was cold as (Y/n) pulled the cabinet open, once more. They picked up the apple, same as before, and it was perfect. (Y/n) turned back to Draco and gave him a solemn nod. He walked over to the bird cage that stood beside his makeshift bed, pulling out the white songbird within. It sang.

Draco closed the door.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

The singing stopped, and (Y/n) didn’t need to open the door to know that it worked. But they did, and the cabinet was empty. When the cabinet was secured again, and all that was left was to say those three words, they both hesitated. The two Slytherin’s stared at each other, unwilling to breathe in fear that it might not work.

Or worse, maybe it would.

Draco lifted his wand slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was thick, but each word carefully crafted. “Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

The silence was deafening. Draco’s eyes flicked to (Y/n), and when he saw his own fears reflected in their gaze, he swallowed hard.

Inside, the bird was dead, it’s tiny, white body sitting in a sea of darkness. (Y/n) picked it up, knowing they had to determine how it died to fix what had gone wrong when it rematerialized. When the bird was cupped in their hand, it’s body was still warm.

They turned around and Draco was crying.

xi.

The Room of Hidden Things was a maze. Without windows or any real sense of the passage of time, tit could feel claustrophobic and dense. The candles and torches the endless room used for light threw long shadows and at times, there was something lonely about the place. On occasion, though, when (Y/n) and Draco spent afternoons amongst the clutter and set candles near them, the room could feel cozy - maybe even warm.

The two had been working quietly for a half hour or so when (Y/n) felt the itch to ask a question. As always, they pondered letting it pass, but their curiosity got the better of them. They set their quill down and turned to look at the boy across from them. “Tell me something about Draco Malfoy that no one else knows."

Draco, used to questions by now and in a better mood than most days, didn’t bother to look up, but responded, anyway. “Why?”

“You learned a few secrets of mine when you skimmed my spell creation book. It’s only fair that I get to use something against you.”

“You know about this place.”

(Y/n) looked at him unimpressed, but still, Draco didn’t raise his head. They sighed. “Give me something more than that. Technically, this is my secret, too.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his quill stopped scratching, and he closed the textbook before him. “Like what?”

“Like…” (Y/n) shrugged as Draco watched them, his grey eyes lighter than usual, less filled with the weight of all things. “Alright, I’m allergic to pumpkin, but I wanted to try pumpkin juice so badly in our first year that I had to go to the infirmary on the first day of school—” (Y/n) was smiling at the memory, and it was the first bit of happiness they had allowed themself to have for a while. “—it was nothing too bad, and Madam Pomfrey was quick to fix me up, but I couldn’t taste for the next week. A real shame, too, seeing as the first few feasts are always the best.”

Draco’s lips were pressed into a thin line, only the very edges curling upwards, so slightly anyone else would have missed it. A genuine smile. (Y/n) was proud of themself for having coaxed it out of him. Funny, how much they had started to care.

“Something idiotic, then?” and the lilt to his voice was almost amused.

(Y/n) rolled their eyes. “You have to have something.”

Draco thought for a moment and (Y/n) watched him as he tried to pull a memory. They noted how much younger he looked, here, in a light dim enough to be considered conspiratorial, but bright enough to be distinct from the rest of their existence. It was almost as though they belonged here, two more lost things in a sea of used belongings.

“I tried to grow out my hair like my father’s in the summer before our first year.” Draco’s voice was soft in reminiscing, but it grew louder with fondness. “A cousin told me I looked like a girl and I cut it off that same night. My mother fixed it for me in the morning, right before we went to Diagon Alley.”

(Y/n) let out the ghost of a chuckle, but when Draco joined them, their laugher grew, echoing through the endless room.

xii.

“So... tell me, is Slytherin gossip really just made up of lies, or are you actually hanging out with Draco Malfoy? Is that where you’ve been sneaking off to?”

Michael and (Y/n) walked side by side, catching up for the first time all week. They had been heading to lunch when Michael realized he left his quill and ink in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, so the two decided to take the walk back together. Somehow, their conversation landed on gossip around the school, and of course, Michael had to bring up Draco.

(Y/n), used to dodging questions by now, simply rolled their eyes. “I don’t know, did you actually join a secret army last year and not tell me about it?”

“I already told you that Harry himself didn’t want any Slytherin’s involved. How was I expected to go against the Boy Who Lived?” Michael defended himself poorly but passionately, pushing his dark hair out of his face. Suddenly, his narrowed. “But yes, I did. So does that mean you’re admitting to hanging out with the Slytherin Prince?”

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s only because we’re partners in Potions and Alchemy. Slughorn has this weird thing about classroom symmetry.”

Michael chuckled at (Y/n)’s annoyance, but continued pressing in the way that only a Ravenclaw could successfully pull off. “Then do you know what’s wrong with him? There are bets going around, and I just put down 8 Sickles on him having some rare illness that Pomfrey doesn’t know how to heal.”

“Is him being a werewolf one of the theories?”

“It was, actually,” (Y/n) snorted and Michael turned around to face them, walking backwards down the hall, “But after Padma saw him in Alchemy class during the full moon, the idea was thrown out. Seamus Finnigan lost a Galleon or two.”

“Any other ingenious ideas?”

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but was bumped into abruptly by Harry Potter, walking the other way with a bewildered and shocked expression. He reeled backward and Michael apologized, but all Harry did was nod absentmindedly before continuing down the corridor, walking quickly as though trying to create some sort of distance.

“Weird.” Michael huffed, watching Potter as he retreated. The two friends shared a confused glance before continuing down the hall, and after a few steps, (Y/n) slipped on something slick.

The floors were wet with Harry Potter’s trailing footprints. (Y/n) looked at Michael and they both had the same, strange urge.

Follow them.

The two set off down the hall, neither speaking a word as they followed the trail. No one else was in the corridor but them, and the sound of rushing water filled the corridor as they got ever nearer. The footsteps led to the boys bathroom, which must have busted a pipe or two, judging by the flooding. Inside, someone was muttering a healing incantation, their voice echoing with a concentrated sort of aggression. Michael looked at (Y/n) questioningly before stepping inside, calling out.

“Hey, is everything alright in here?”

The bathroom was a disaster, but in the middle of the floor was Draco Malfoy, still and lying in a pool of his own crimson blood. Professor Snape was crouched over him, trying in vain to stop the bleeding as it drenched his shirt and dissipated into the water around him. (Y/n) stood rooted to the spot, their breath coming in short and their heart pounding their chest. They couldn’t take their eyes off of him, life ebbing away from him, the only indication that he was still alive being his laboured gasps.

They wouldn’t sustain him for long.

“Get. Out.” Snape looked at the two with a ferocity and Michael turned to leave, tugging on (Y/n)’s arm with an expression that was seemingly everything at once - pouring forth from busted pipes, flowing down the corridors...

For a moment, (Y/n) didn’t feel in control of their own limbs. Michael called their name, an urgency lacing his tone, and (Y/n) blinked. Once, twice, three times. The world came into focus. They shook their head.

“Go,” they whispered, and it only took a precisely aimed stare to get Michael to disappear.

Snapped out of their daze, (Y/n) rushed forward, kneeling beside Draco and ignoring the professors command to leave. Their hands shook as the pulled their wand out from their newly soaked bag, but they uttered a healing spell under their breath - something they had created in their fourth year - praying to Merlin that Draco would live.

Snape stared at them for a sharp moment, with a look that seemed to be knowing and confused at the same time.

Together, the blood that they were kneeling in made its way back into Draco’s body, but the wound - a deep gash on his abdomen - still wouldn’t close. When Snape said he needed to take Draco to the Hospital Wing, (Y/n)’s clothes were drenched and their face was damp with tears they hadn’t realized they wept.

(Y/n) trailed after the professor, not caring they were missing class, their mind still hyper focused on Drac’s survival. They had never seen so much blood outside the body. And with him lying on the flooded floor... how much had escaped him? He would have bleed out, had noone arrived sooner...

Madam Pomfrey didn’t allow (Y/n) to hover while she worked, so the Slytherin sat outside the heavy doors, still dripping with water but not caring as they tried to calm their breathing. They would be waiting outside when Pomfrey finally allowed visitors, and when they Draco again, they couldn’t afford to let their fear show so plainly.

Slowly, their body returned to something fit for survival - worried but functional. Their heart rate was erratic, and their jaw no longer trembled. (Y/n) dried themselves off and waited, sliding down the wall until they sat with their back pressed against it.

They wouldn’t leave until they knew Draco was okay. They couldn’t leave him.

Not like this.

Snape was allowed to wait inside, possibly helping the Healer, and two agonizing hours later, the doors opened and the professor stepped out. His robes swished about him and despite everything, he still carried his usual composed confidence. The Slytherin Head of House turned and fixed (Y/n) with a stare that left them feeling vulnerable - as though any secret they ever had had just been told, without uttering a word. For a brief moment, (Y/n) wondered if professor Snape was a legilimens, or if they were just shaken, still.

But then another thought crossed their mind. ‘Did it matter?’

“You can go in.”

(Y/n) was inside the infirmary before Snape had time to turn away.

The Hospital Wing was silent, and their hurried steps echoed in a way that made their heart beat louder their chest. Madam Pomfrey didn’t look surprised to see them, just apologetic. “He’s unconscious for now. It should wear off in 20 minutes or so. He’ll be fine.” She pointed to a nearby chair and (Y/n) pulled it up, sitting at Draco’s side and eyeing him closely.

After seven months of spending nearly every waking moment together, (Y/n) knew Draco Malfoy better than anyone else. They knew all that he had once been and all he became.

(Y/n) knew the toll that his secrets took, and how unrelenting they were as they tore at everything Draco was. Harry must’ve known, too. He must have sensed it - maybe all those months ago, when he looked at him in Potions as though ready to duel. But to nearly kill Draco?

(Y/n) didn’t know what had happened - or just who Harry Potter was. But they couldn’t believe something like was intentional.

(Y/n) had to believe Harry didn’t know what he did.

This war made monsters of them all, but did the best of them have to succumb to its dangers? Did everyone in this world have to get twisted and suffer so? They were all innocents, and yet they slaughtered each other like enemies. Did none of them shed tears?

There were many more terrors to come, and (Y/n) had to believe that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, would be strong enough and kind enough to forgive them. Sometimes this world leaves you without a choice; sometimes it leaves children to nothing but ruins. (Y/n) was just a child, and they didn’t know who to save or even how to do so.

But they did know a few things. A simple, handful of facts that would have to be enough to get them through.

Across the room, Madam Pomfrey took her leave, wandering to the back office where she kept many of her potions.

Despite everything, Draco looked peaceful as he slept - something (Y/n) had never seen, despite the two dozing off plenty of times while working together. He was always in turmoil, no matter his conscious state. So to see him so still was unnerving; it was almost as though he had finally given up.

(Y/n) noticed the sleeves of his shirt had ridden up, and before they could reach out to fix them for him, they noticed the end of a curling tattoo on his inner, left arm. They stared at it for a moment, the curling end of a snake, sitting inside of a skull. (Y/n) considered it, expecting fear to grip their heart but feeling something like sympathy, instead.

They already knew, deep down, what was branded there. They had known for a while. It wasn’t a revelation, and part of them didn’t want to reach out and expose the rest of the tattoo. Did they need to confirm it, now? It was silly, the idea that seeing it would make it more real.

They saw it every day in the way in hands shook, or in the anger in his eyes. They didn’t need to see a tattoo to know what Draco Malfoy had been branded. Sometimes, (Y/n) believed that the ink on his skin didn’t make him different, at all.

How quickly they had grown to trust him. And yet, how quickly he revealed himself, when the two of them were the only souls still awake and bleeding.

(Y/n) pushed the rest of the sleeve down, covering the exposed skin. A cold hand grabbed their own.

Draco stared at them, grey eyes alert and panicked. For a moment, he didn’t seem to breathe. (Y/n) pulled away and his grip went slack, his expression still torn and frozen in place, the only difference being the tears that were welling in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Draco.” He was running from a catastrophe, these days. He seemed to live in the fallout of terrible revelations. A younger Draco wouldn’t recognize him, if he could see himself, now. “I already knew.” Draco tried to scoff, but it came out a sob. Did it somehow hurt worse, the admission of knowledge rather than a sudden reveal? Did it paint him, to realize he had been known all along?(Y/n) tried to offer a smile, but it didn’t quite meet their eyes. “You’re not the only one who’s observant.”

“Why are you helping me, then?” His voice was hoarse and unsure.

Why, indeed?

“You and your whole family will die.” Tears pricked at (Y/n)’s eyes, though whether they were of frustration or sadness, they did not know. Perhaps it was both.

“Others will die because of us,” Draco breathed the words, as though he didn’t want to admit it to even himself.

“They’d find a way inside Hogwarts somehow - nowhere’s safe. But… but if we do it this way… maybe more can be spared.”

“Everyone will die,” Draco shook his head, every emotion he had ever felt spilling over, seeping out of him like all of that blood collecting on the bathroom floor. He has been holding it in for months, and now he was letting go all of it go, bursting forth until he had nothing left. “You don’t know them like I do, we — we’re all dead.”

“Not yet,” (Y/n) wiped at their cheeks furiously, resolve making their voice strong. “We can still save most of us. It’s Dumbledore they want, isn’t it?”

Draco let out another choking sob.

“Why don’t we just tell him?”

“Don’t you see?” Draco was shaking with emotion, his face red and streaked with tears. His every word was punctuated, trembling with a mixture of anger and sadness and fear. No matter where he went, there was so much fear. “I’m the villain in their story.”

(Y/n) took in a shaky breath and put their hands in his. They were still crying, but it wasn’t for themself. “You’re not a villain, Draco. You’re just a boy,” they whispered, but the sound of it seemed to echo around them. “And we’re a brotherhood, right? So I’m here for you. Even if it is just us.”

And they cried together, two voices who’s echoes sounded like one.

xiii.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

This time, the songbird lived. It sang through the thick wood of the cabinet, it’s lonely tune bright, as though it knew spring was upon them - as though it knew nothing of the impending frost, and the death that was sure to follow. Draco and (Y/n) didn’t need to open the door to know that it worked. But they did, and the tiny, white body ruffled its feathers before flying into the sky, chirping happily as it circled the towers of lost things, alone, the last living thing inside the room.

Draco stepped back from the Cabinet, his entire being trembling. It wasn’t until (Y/n) reached out to still him that they realized they were shaking, too.

They both knew it, but neither felt they had the courage to say it.

“This is the end.” (Y/n) forgot to clear their throat.

“Of Dumbledore.” Draco turned to them, all of his life in his hands, all of his regrets on his face. His voice was thick and his eyes were dull. “But not the war. Potter may still win. Somehow… if he survives.”

Both of them knew this world wasn’t kind to survivors.

But (Y/n) held his gaze. “Will we?”

xiv.

maybe one day they will find me under all of this rubble.

-- taglist: @musicallisto, @theletterhart, @locke-writes, @randomfandomimagine, @brokenandheadoverheels, @timeofmadness, @writerdream22, @lotsoffandomrecs, @neelia-thedaughtherof-athena // message me if you want to be added!

#harry potter #golden trio era #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x platonic!reader #draco malfoy x slytherin #draco malfoy x you #gender neutral reader #angst #slight fluff #reader insert #one shot #imagine #long fic #fanfic #fanfiction #hp #i honestly considered waiting to publish this but i've held onto it since october and it's time to let go #feedback is appreciated

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beardycarrot · 3 years

Text

I, lying awake in bed because that’s how it always is the day before you have something important to do... am going to try to guess what the plot of Bioshock Infinite is, based on what I’ve seen in the first few hours and with knowledge of the other two (and a half?) games. Spoilers for the entire Bioshock series, except maybe Infinite, but I intend to knock it out of the park.

So. The first Bioshock is set in a futuristic (by 1950’s standards) city at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, created by a hardcore libertarian named Andrew Ryan as a way to once and for all live in a society free of government regulation. I won’t get into all the “sea slugs that produce a gene-altering wonder drug” and “child slaves brainwashed to drink corpse blood” stuff; very interesting, very important to the plot, but if I tried to explain the world of Bioshock I’d be lying here typing on my phone until the sun comes up. That stuff aside, the major plot points are that you’re not actually a guy who just happened to crash-land near the entrance to the city but are, in fact, Andrew Ryan’s son, and the guy who’s been guiding you through the city was actually using a Manchurian Candidate-style activation phrase to manipulate you into doing whatever he wanted. It’s a big, mind-blowing reveal (as is the realization that your character is actually about four years old... science fiction, man).

Bioshock 2 didn’t really have any big plot twists... or plot, for that matter ...but it was developed by an entirely different team, while the original’s team also did Infinite, so I’m expecting a return to form. Just as an aside, Bioshock 2 had a short DLC campaign called Minerva’s Den, which had a fantastic story, and a twist that the player can figure out on their own if they’re paying attention. Your goal is to get a very smart computer (for 1968) out of the underwater city and back to the surface so you can use it to cure all the victims of the slug-borne gene manipulation, and you’re guided over radio by the computer’s creator. At the end, you learn that the one guiding you was actually the computer itself, and that you’re its creator, slowly recovering from brainwashing. For the record, the endings to all three of these have made me cry.

So! With those kinds of twists in mind, what am I expecting from Bioshock Infinite? Well, I went into the game only knowing the names of the protagonists, that rather than underwater it was set in a floating sky city, and that there was some kind of religious theming but also a lot of old-timey Americana. As it turns out, the people of this city worship— no, have DEIFIED the founding fathers, and are lead by a man called Father Comstock. I’m pretty sure that name is a reference to the Comstock Act, similar to Andrew Ryan being named after Ayn Rand... but he could actually be called Father Cornstalk and I just haven’t been paying attention.

Anyway. Just a few minutes into the game, I noticed that a statue of Comstock looked suspiciously similar to my character... before deciding that I didn’t actually have that clear of a mental image of my character, they wouldn’t pull the “secret son” thing twice, and as much as I love it there probably isn’t going to be any time travel. Le sigh.

UNTIL!

So, your goal is to get a girl named Elizabeth out of the city, and there is some legitimately weird stuff going on with her prison. Like, they have some of her personal possessions from various points in her life in containment: a teddy bear, a diary, and a bloody cloth labeled “menarche”. Gross. Why would you keep that. Well, when an electric current (or something visually similar) is applied, the bear and diary change color, and the blood disappears from the cloth. The reason I’m not sure if it’s electricity is that there’s some kind of siphon system set up, it looks like a bunch of subwoofers, and it’s absorbing... something? When she sings, maybe? Is the energy being siphoned what changed the quantum states of those objects, or whatever was happening? There was also a chart showing that when she hit puberty... something, really spiked, which is what forced them to build the siphon. I can’t claim to know what’s happening here, but when I finally saw her she was day dreaming about Paris, and.. I guess opened some kind of portal, TO Paris? But then a bus or something barreled towards her, so she quickly closed it. In the couple seconds that the portal was open, I saw the marquee on a movie theater that... well, was in French, but I’M PRETTY SURE said “Return of the Jedi”. I should probably mention that this game is set in 1912. That smells like time travel to me, baby!

So, this is where it gets interesting, and confusing, and complicated. I think Elizabeth is Comstock’s daughter, from various signs and posters about Comstock’s seed being their salvation, and The Lamb of God being locked in the tower, and such... and signs about a “false shepherd” who would try to take her away (again, lots of weird divergent Christian sect stuff). One sign showered the false shepherd’s hand as having the initials AD branded on the back, which the protagonist Booker does indeed have. Before rescuing Elizabeth, Comstock confronts you, and seems to know all about Booker’s past, including his wife Anna (who died in childbirth), and claims to know his future as well. Being a prophet and such. Thing is, the way it’s presented, that whole thing could’ve all been in Booker’s head...? Shortly after rescuing Elizabeth, you run into someone who mistakes her for someone named Annabelle. Hmm HMMM. I’ve also run into a diary by someone named Rosalind Lutece (I think she’s one of the creepy twins who keep popping up everywhere) talking about physics and what sounded like the concept of quantum superpositioning, as well as a little informational kiosk in which she claims quantum mechanics are what enable the city to float. There were also a couple diaries that seemed to imply Elizabeth came from... somewhere else, and a part of her might still be there, or something?

SO. Finally, we get to the part where I theorize on what’s going on. In short... iunno.

Okay, well, I feel like my idea should be obvious by now. I think Comstock might be a future, or ALTERNATE REALITY FUTURE, version of Booker, and Elizabeth is... either a past version of his wife, before she went back in time and married him, or an alternate-reality version of his daughter? But then who is the Annabelle that the girl thought Elizabeth was? Did Booker’s child not die along with his wife, and was secretly wisked away to skytown? Comstock’s wife is consistently referred to as Lady Comstock, but what if her name is Annabelle too? Maybe it’s the same concept as the Heinlein story By His Bootstraps, with the protagonist only realizing that he IS now the old man from the beginning, and has to get his younger self into this weird time loop in order to live the life he’s lead?

I might be going a little off the rails; I mean, I’m pretty sure that the statue of Comstock I saw earlier actually reminded me of Handsome Jack, a character from another game I haven’t played who happens to wear an outfit similar to Booker’s. That said, there’s DEFINITELY some kind of time travel or dimension-hopping shenanigans going on here. There are good writers on this game, and I refuse to believe the Annabelle/Anna thing is a Batman v Superman-level coincidence.

The weird part is that in the tower where they were keeping Elizabeth, they have documentation of her dating back to one year old, so she was clearly exhibiting... something, unusual, even as a baby. The game also has yet to explain Vigors, its versions of the Plasmids from the first two Bioshock games, which were basically superpowers granted by the substance produced by those sea slugs. If I had to guess, Vigors are... a result of some kind of quantum something-or-other, which they made from whatever it is they were siphoning off of Elizabeth? Maybe it’s a Scarlet Witch kind of thing... you don’t actually change yourself, you just find yourself in an alternate reality where everything else is 100% the same, except you’re a version of yourself who can shoot crows out of your hands.

Right, so. My... official theory is... that... I have no idea what’s going on. Yeah, sorry, something in that mess up there is bound to be close, but when you get into time travel and/or dimension-hopping, all bets are off the table. Or all bets, a literally infinite number of bets, are on the table. Which is a lot to try to comprehend.

#bioshock #bioshock infinite #bioshock spoilers

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vnderoos · 4 years

Text

risky business ❁ poe dameron

(gif is not mine, credit to the owner) warnings / language, battle scene but nothing graphic, poe and the reader arguing but it's fine, we're fine, everything's fine word count / 3.9k

masterlist in bio ↴

"SO, WE STILL DON'T have a solid plan right now?" Y/N asked incredulously as she and Poe Dameron, the co-captain of their recently merged squadrons, made their way towards the hangar. Since her hands were covered in leather gloves, she typed her code in instead of using the palm-scanner and the metal door shot open.

She looked over at Poe as they both entered the large room, their men already prepping their ships for battle. He turned and shrugged his shoulders at her. "Looks like it," he answered, entirely too nonchalantly, and he started towards his X-Wing. Was he serious? She reached out and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him back by the bright orange material, and he rolled his eyes dramatically. "What, Y/L/N?" He sighed and his arm hung limply in her grip.

He made no move to pull it back.

She shot him a look before she dropped his arm, watching it smack against his side. "What do you mean 'what'? You're not seriously just gonna fly out there, are you?" She questioned, her eyebrows furrowing as she did. She didn't want to believe that he could possibly be this stupid, but the shrug he offered her in response was kind of forcing her hand. "You're gonna put everyone—me, our pilots, and yourself—at risk. I was thinking we could each take our original squadrons, flank the dreadnought, take out the threats on each side, and clear the way for Tallie's bombers," she suggested. "Blue will be their protection and we can just offer support," she finished, spelling out a simple plan of action since he clearly had nothing better.

But of course, he was going to be difficult about it. She should've expected nothing less. "I say we just go right in," he countered and she couldn't help but widen her eyes at him. She laid out an entire plan for him and he just shot it down without even considering it. Unbelievable. "They're gonna come at us with all they've got either way, so why not just fight back all together," he explained.

She pressed the heel of her hand between her eyebrows. "If we're huddled together, we've got one big target on our backs, Dameron," she argued, wishing just this once that he'd think before diving headfirst into a literal warzone.

"Or, if we're all shooting at the same time, we hit them back with more firepower," he countered. "We can take out the surface cannons while we're at it," he added coolly. She knew that he wanted to take out the dreadnought, they all did, so why was he being so hardheaded about it?

Was he just refusing to cooperate because it was her?

Sure, Poe had every right to be angry with her. He could hate her all he wanted and she wouldn't stop him. She was having just as much trouble adjusting to the co-captain situation as he was, so she understood why it was so easy for him to get upset with her. They weren't just Black and White anymore—they were the Grey Squadron—and it was tough not being able to call the shots alone anymore. It sucked, having to run all their ideas past each other before doing anything, but his feelings about her didn't excuse him from shutting out rational ideas.

So, why was he?

Y/N clenched her fists at her sides and her gloves squeaked quietly as she did. "Firepower and taking down the surface cannons isn't gonna matter if we all die in the first five minutes, flyboy," she pointed out and he scoffed.

He threw his hands out in front of him lightly in an undermining gesture. "Alright, say you flank, then," he said, painting her a picture of just one way this fight could turn out. "What happens when there's too many fighters for your squad to cover and mine can't back you up?" He asked, making sure to degrade the former White Squadron as he did.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "My guys can handle a couple of pansy TIE-Fighters," she snapped, rising to the defense of her men. He could say what he wanted about her but borderline insulting her team was another story. They worked their asses off for the Resistance, fought for the same thing as everyone else did, and they didn't deserve an ounce of disrespect from anyone. Especially not him. "You wanna worry about someone? Worry about your own damn squad," she growled. Of course, she had nothing against his guys but she had a few bones to pick with him.

Poe let out a bitter laugh. "Why do you think Leia combined our squadrons in the first place, Captain?" He hissed, slowly backing her up against the metal wall of the hangar. "Because you. needed. help," he said, moving to touch his fingertip to the center of her chest, but she shoved him backwards lightly before he could.

"Leia combined our squadrons because you don't plan for shit," she spat. She was tired of this shit, tired of him acting like he was everything she was and more. Clearly, he wasn't that much more or he wouldn't be co-captain. "You run straight into everything and you don't even think about the aftermath. You just hope that everything works out in your favor, but this," she paused, gesturing between herself and him, "this is what happens when it doesn't. I'm your goddamn babysitter," she finished.

"Babysitter, my ass. You're the one who's not thinking about consequences here, not me. You're gonna get yourself killed with the flank," Poe snarled and he took a few steps towards her.

Instead of letting him herd her towards the wall, she stood her ground this time. "Oh, and flying into their line of fire is somehow better?" She asked, staring into his eyes as she took a step towards him. "At least with flanking we cover twice the area and it cuts our targets in half," she explained. "If you cooperated, we could take them out in half the time, too," she said, dangerously close to him at that point, but she refused to back down.

Poe's jaw visibly clenched as he looked down at her, his brown eyes burning into her own. "I'll cooperate when the ice on Hoth melts, sweetheart," he told her and she clenched her fists again.

This was outrageous.

There was a chance his plan would work but it would destroy the squads in a matter of minutes. A bigger group meant a bigger target. "You're not an idiot, Dameron," she muttered. "Stop acting like it," she said, leaning closer to him for emphasis.

Their faces were only centimeters apart at this point. She could see every one of his eyelashes and every small, angry wrinkle that had settled into his face as a result of their conversation. She could see the stubble on the lower half of his face, the fire in his eyes, and the furrow of his brow but she didn't pull away.

And neither did he.

Instead, they stayed like that—in a silent pissing match—for a few seconds, until Poe finally broke away. "I'm done with this, Y/L/N. Like it or not, we're doing this my way," he instructed as he turned away from her, starting towards his X-Wing.

"You're gonna get our men killed," she yelled after him but all he did was pull his helmet on over his head. She watched as he hopped into his ship and closed himself inside. "Asshole," she whispered to herself before she pulled her own helmet on, flipping the orange-tinted visor over her eyes and making her way to her starfighter. She secured herself inside the cockpit, flipped a few switches to turn her comms on, and hoped that Poe didn't fuck anything up before she got herself situated.

Y/N pressed a button and the engines of her X-Wing whirled to life. "Captains, what do you want us to do?" A voice, Bitty from the White Squadron, she recognized, crackled into her ears. All of their pilots were still in the hangar, ships fired up and ready to move out, but they needed their game plan. She opened her mouth to respond but she didn't get the chance to.

"When we get out there, everyone follow my lead," Poe answered first. Of course he did.

"Y/N?" She let out an amused huff of air and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she realized that Bitty didn't entirely trust Poe. She was fairly certain that the majority of the ex-White Squadron didn't trust him all that much, either.

And for good reason.

She looked down at her control panel and slid one of the buttons up, listening to the jets in her engines get a little bit louder. She could've pitched her plan right then and there and she was sure her squad would've listened but Poe's men's loyalty lied with him. Whatever Poe said, they would do, and she was pretty damn sure that whether she mentioned her plan or not, he'd still run this his how he wanted to. There was no use flanking if the other half of their team wasn't going to cooperate. "Follow our lead," she said, correcting his mistake, but she was ultimately agreeing with him. Y/N placed her hand on a lever and shifted it upwards, lifting the wheels of her X-Wing, as the rest of their squad did the same. When all of their fighters were hovering in the air, she shook the tension out of her shoulders. "Alright, people," she started, taking a deep breath, "it's go time."

After that, a flurry of X-Wings shot out of the hangar, with Poe's and Y/N's leading the way. It never seemed to be enough for Poe that they both held equal authority over their squad, flew side by side, and offered them equal guidance, as he always made it a point to speed up a little, just enough to where the nose of his fighter passed her own. Y/N hated when he did that, as it always felt like a challenge, so she leveled their ships out each time.

As their fighters neared the dreadnought, large blasters began to pop up out of the First Order ship. "See those guns?" Poe asked, his voice mingling with static as his words played through the receiver. "Those are surface cannons. Stay close and take them out," he commanded as one of the cannons shot out at them. Their fighters moved to the side, dodging the attack, and Poe and Y/N retaliated. Their crafts sprayed the cannon down, resulting in a fiery explosion as they landed their target. "Nice job, but we've still got more to go," he stated.

He might've been a close-minded asshole when it came to Y/N and quick to jump into danger when it came to anything else but she had to admit that he was a damn good captain. He kept everyone on task, made everyone feel important, and he was very vocal about what needed to be done next. Normally, she'd be doing something similar, but since they were following through with his idea, she let him take the reigns for now.

She hoped that she wouldn't regret it.

After a little while longer of dodging the cannon fire, taking out the surface guns, and following orders from Poe, there was movement on either side of the dreadnought. "Here come the TIE-Fighters. We stay crowded like this and they'll spray us down, no problem. Break off, bait a couple at a time, and take those fliers out," she ordered and she turned a couple of knobs on her control panel, putting more power into her jets. Hordes of First Order fighters were pouring into the scene at this point.

She looked over at Poe's X-Wing, expecting him to fight her on it, but instead, she saw him nod. Her heart fluttered in her chest. "You heard her," he yelled into the comms and then both of their starfighters raced forwards, splitting off from each other and towards the TIE-Fighters.

She felt pride surge through her body as she rounded up a group of fighters, making a sharp turn to lure them away from their team. "Did you just agree with me, Captain?" She asked, jerking the wheel of her X-Wing upwards so she could flip over the enemy pilots.

"Don't get used to it, Y/L/N," he answered and she laughed, firing her blasters and sending the fighters spiraling into the dreadnought. They exploded upon impact.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she hummed. The squadron kept on like that for a while, blasting the shit out of the TIE-Fighters and taking down surface cannons when the opportunities presented themselves, and eventually, the fighters were destroyed and a single cannon was all that was left. "Alright, there's one left. No fighters right now, but the second we go for it, more are gonna flood out. Cover me and I'll go for it," she barked into the comms and she headed towards the surface cannon at full speed. Poe fired his blasters at her, forcing her to swerve up and out of the way. "What the hell, Dameron? You're gonna—"

"Fall back, Y/L/N," he warned. "When the fighters come out, they're gonna go straight for you. Don't put yourself at risk. Let me do it. I've got more experience as a pilot, so I've got a better shot," he explained, maneuvering his starship closer to her own in an attempt to overtake her.

She shook her head to herself. No. No way. "Poe, are you serious? I'm trying to do something useful and this is the one time you want to play the hero for me?" She asked. "I'm not gonna let you risk your life so you can prove that you're better than me," she shouted.

"Better than you? I'm trying to save your ass," he argued but she wouldn't budge. She was barreling towards the cannon, ready to blow it off of the dreadnought but he couldn't let her do it. Sure, they weren't on the best terms and they had their differences, but that didn't mean he was gonna sit there and watch her risk getting blown to bits for the sake of the Resistance. That was his job. "You'll thank me for this later," he said, before he dropped back, firing his blasters so he could take out her guns.

Red and yellow warning lights flashed over her control panel, a siren wailing in her ears, and she flipped a few controls and tried to get her weapon systems back on board, but nothing was happening. She was screwed. With no defenses, she was forced to turn around and regroup with the rest of her team, watching as Poe headed straight for the cannon. "If you fuck this up, I'm gonna wring—"

Poe laughed. "Relax. I'm not gonna fuck it up," he promised.

The Grey Squadron rushed forward as TIE-Fighters spilled into the airfield, all headed towards Poe's ship. Y/N would've taken a few of them out but her weapons were down, so she had to resort to baiting them, leading them to the squad so they could shoot them down.

As Poe started to rain fire on the surface cannon, two TIE-Fighters flew after him, sending blasts towards him. "Poe, you've got shadows," she warned.

"Yeah, I—shit," he hissed as they shot out one of his engines, his ship swaying in the air as it tried to adjust to its loss of support and a wave of fear shot through her body. "They got me, but as soon as I—" He cut off. His comms went radio silent as the surface cannon exploded, Poe's X-Wind and the two TIE-Fighters disappearing into clouds of fire.

Her heart lurched in her chest at the sight and she couldn't stop herself from rushing towards the wreckage. "Dameron?" She called as she flew towards the fire but she got nothing. Her stomach plummeted to her feet at that point and she felt like she might be sick. He didn't just blow himself up, did he? "Poe?" Y/N called feebly, her nervousness evident in her voice.

Just when she was about to turn away, label him as dead and call for the Torchers, his X-Wing shot through the air like a blaster bullet. Poe's comms came back on again and his triumphant whoop sounded through her ears. "All clear!" He shouted and relief flooded her body. "Bring the bombs!"

—

After Poe took out the last surface cannon and Tallie lead the bombardiers towards the dreadnought, they lost a lot of good fighters. Members of the Blue Squadron were lost in the battle and many of their bombers didn't make it back but the job was finished. The dreadnought was reduced to nothing once those bombs went off. Everyone was back on the Raddus, now, and the Grey Squadron had returned loss-free but just barely.

Y/N still couldn't believe that Poe had done what he had, how he'd kept after that cannon with one of his jets out and two TIE-Fighters on his tail. It was idiotic, it was reckless, and she was still pissed about it. "You," she said, pointing her finger at him as she made her way towards him from her X-Wing. She tossed her helmet to the side so she could use her hand to smack him in the chest. Poe's eyes were a bit wide as he stumbled back once but a soft laugh bubbled through his lips. "You have some nerve taking out my weapon systems and putting yourself in danger like that," she started as he grabbed either side of his helmet, pulling it off of his head and tossing it into the cockpit of his ship. "You could've fucked up this entire thing, Dameron. You could've gotten yourself—"

A smirk made its way onto his face and he tilted his head at her, crossing his arms over his chest. "Were you worried about me, sweetheart?" He asked quietly, stopping her little spiel in its tracks.

Maybe she was worried, but she shouldn't have been. Poe was cocky. He was cocky, and he was arrogant, and he was a downright asshole but she was worried about him. "If you'd died out there, it would've been on me," she told him, completely avoiding his question. "What would I have told Leia, huh? 'Oh, I'm sorry. I let Poe shoot out my weapon systems so he could kill himself'. Sound about right to you?" She asked.

Poe couldn't help but laugh again. "Forget about Leia, Y/N. You were worried about me," he hummed and it wasn't a question this time. Something about the way she was acting made him sure of it but, instead of admitting it, she narrowed her eyes at him.

She stared at him for a good ten seconds before she sighed. "No. No, you know what? You don't get to tell me that I was anything, you hear me?" She asked, running her hands over her face and pushing her hair back angrily. "I'm the one who's supposed to be telling you that you're stuff right now and you're an idiot!" She shouted, throwing her hands out to the side. "You're a big, stupid, careless idiot and you could've died. You could've died, Poe!" She continued, full-on yelling at him at this point, because she still couldn't believe it.

He took a risk, but he always took risks. How was this any different? Why was this affecting her so much? "But I didn't," he argued, raising his voice slightly in return. "Why are you getting so worked up about this?" He barked at her.

"Because you're my co-captain, Poe!" She exclaimed. "You're my partner and, as much as we argue, and as much as I want to hate you, I can't, okay?" She continued, her voice still loud but it was getting softer. "I know that you hate me but we're supposed to look out for each other. So, if you died and I couldn't have done anything to stop it, I—" She started but he stopped her.

"Hey, I don't hate you," he held up one of his gloved fingers and he cut her off, watching as she sighed and ran a hand over her face again. "I don't hate you, Y/L/N, I mean, I was trying to protect you. I put myself at risk out there for you," he told her softly, taking a few slow steps towards her. He reached out to her, almost like he was afraid to scare her off, but once he realized that she wasn't going anywhere, he wrapped his arms around her gently. She welcomed the warmth that he offered her and let him pull her into his chest. "We fight a lot but like you said, we're supposed to look out for each other," he whispered.

"Well, don't do shit like that for me ever again," she told him quietly. "Don't take out my only way to back you up and fly into a cannon again because that was stupid. That was so stupid. You're so stupid," she berated, placing both of her hands on his chest and pushing him away slightly so she could look up at him.

Even though she was still somewhat angry at him, she couldn't help but think that he was kind of pretty in that moment. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat, in a cute way, and his lips were pulled into a crooked smile. She was also close enough to where she could see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes and that little crease on the tip of his nose.

He scoffed. "Yeah?" He asked.

She nodded her head. "Yeah," she affirmed. "It's insane how stupid you can be sometimes, honestly. I can't believe you'd do something so wild, so dumb, when we both know I can handle myself. You always take risks like that and I—"

"Maybe I do," Poe said, cutting her off, and all traces of a smile were gone because he was entirely serious, now. "Maybe you're right but I couldn't risk losing you," he confessed and her heart stopped.

When he said that, he took all her hope of breathing correctly or formulating proper sentences away and all she could do was look at him. Her jaw fell open slightly and her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to process the meaning of what he'd just said. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she had no idea what to say, so she took a chance of her own.

Y/N placed one of her hands over Poe's cheek, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone, and she leaned in to kiss him softly. His eyelids fluttered shut the moment that he felt her lips meet his and he kissed her back sweetly, cupping her jawline so he could tilt her face to kiss her better.

His stubble rubbed against her chin as he kissed her but she didn't mind. Nothing she'd done before had ever felt so right and, then, something occurred to her:

Maybe some things were worth the risk.

↴

authors note / hi, clearly the battle is not canonically correct but i hope it was a good read anyways taglist / @pvintbreak @umchrisevans

#poe dameron #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron imagines #poe dameron x reader #oscar isaac #oscar isaac imagine #oscar isaac imagines #oscar isaac x reader #star wars #star wars imagine #star wars imagines #star wars x reader

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divinewhimsy · 4 years

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Ichor Pt 6 (DabixReader)

Thank you all so so so so much for you continued support and appreciation. I don’t have words to express how much it encourages me to keep writing. I love each and every one of your comments and likes and just slfjkdfkjasdlfjksfj You’re all perfect. No arguments.

Part 4: X

Part 5: X

Part 7: X

Tag List: @velvet-kissesss @marydragneell @littleblackpheonix @holytacocactuscollector

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TW: Blood, Swearing.

Do not think about the kiss. Do not think about the kiss. Do not think about the kiss. Do. Not. Think. About. The. Kiss.

Too late. You fail to catch your gaze as it slips to Dabi’s lips- one smooth and one burnt but the memory of both against your own surfaces with the rising blush. It shouldn’t matter. You’d only done it to save him.

“I haven’t been entirely… Honest with you.” you frown and force your gaze back down to your plate. “Something like this has happened before.”

“Oh?” he barely sounds interested.

“When I was younger my quirk showed up later than it normally does for others.” you bite the inside of your cheek to keep your courage. “I guess. Or I never really noticed it until my blood accidentally got ingested. But that’s not the point.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Remembering her lifeless face- Aysu’s face- is a memory that sends tendrils of fear into your heart. Seeds of doubt, of worry and guilt to ravage your mind. Tear apart your soul.

“She was boosted with her quirk and kept growing,” you continued, “I freaked out, she freaked out. I tried to pull it back when the thread appeared but when I did it just took… everything. Everything. Her blood, her air, her… life. I watched her turn into an empty husk.”

Tears blink their way down your face but you can’t feel the sting. Numbness washes over you as you remember trying to stop taking from Aysu. Trying to stop her growing panic and her literal growing as she grew and grew in size. The defenseless way she shrunk into the fetal position, crumbling before your very eyes as the thread spooled back into your body. Like it had done its job. Like the bastardly thing was satisfied.

“It was covered up.” you whisper. “Her parents were paid off and mine moved me here. I got one session of quirk counseling before they thought it was best I hid it from the world. To forget.. About her. About my so called fucking ‘gift’. I pushed it down for so long that… I actually ended up forgetting. But I was so, so angry at you. I could feel my quirk awaken like some giant beast opening its eyes for the first time in a long, long time. I wanted you to hurt. I wanted you to suffer. My quirk awoke and it was as if nothing had ever changed. It told me to tug the thread back to me. To rip it away. To take it back.”

Dabi doesn’t speak as you shudder. He’s silent as sin as you anxiously wring your hands. You can feel his gaze on you like wildfire, untamed blue fire devouring your body inch by inch. Laying your sins bare for him to ignite. For him to see.

To understand.

“I don’t think I can stop it when it starts.” you whimper, “I’m not that s-strong. I can’t fight it. But I can give again. I can pour it ba-ack. Return what it took.”

More tears drop from your eyes, rivers ebbing their way onto your cheeks. It’s hardly recognizable when you can’t feel anything but guilt and the heat from your body turning up higher and higher.

“I’m sorry.” you strain to speak, your voice a ghost of what it normally is. “I didn’t mean to drain you.”

“Your quirk is dangerous left unchecked.” Dabi sighs and you flinch from the empty, uncaring words.

Your eyes turn to his face as your vision blurs. Dabi doesn’t owe you anything after all you’ve done to him, let alone kind words. In fact, after draining him from the very fabric of existence, you owe him. But your sorrow disappears as you glance up to find the heat you felt rising wasn’t your body at all.

It was his.

Blue flame flickers in his eyes. Echoing his burning soul deep within as the flames dance on his skin. Between his fingers like a shooting star shimmering through the stratosphere. A comet hitting the orbit of his body as it bursts to life among his flesh.

A breath you never knew you were holding releases as waves his hands through the air, spinning the flames into different shapes. They grow brighter and brighter until you see the tips of white start to overtake the blue. It’s almost unbearably hot before he douses the flames, the top of your ceiling only slightly scorched from the display.

“I’d say we’re even, dollface.” Dabi says nonchalantly and you blink up at the scorch marks in disbelief.

“When did…?” you ask and turn your wide eyes back to him.

He chuckles softly and examines his hand thoughtfully.

“When you brought me back.”

The essence of his life fed back into him returned his quirk? Is that honestly how it was supposed to work?

“Oh.” you say softly, your chest growing tight.

This means he leaves, right? He no longer needs to be around you. He has his quirk back, like he demanded.

There’s no reason for him to stay.

“It’s a different power level than I’m used to.” Dabi says offhandedly. “It’ll take adjusting to but damn is it a rush.”

His low whistle cuts through your numbness. Heart thumping unpleasantly fast in your chest while you can barely hold a breath, you shovel more food into your mouth. You don’t taste it. It’s as if you were eating air for all that you can taste. All you can feel is the growing strain in your heart as it flutters like a bird in a cage. What was this weird feeling? Why is it here now, of all the times to show?

“Any threads?” Dabi asks and you swallow your mouthful of food before you check.

It takes a bit but sure enough when you summon your quirk- even just a hair- the thread thrums to life. You can feel your own rapid heartbeat meet a steadier one, the thumping feeling in your body echoing in your skull. In your fingers and toes, your bones humming with delight at the sensation. Eyes widening, you look up at Dabi who raises a brow and squints at the empty space between the two of you.

“Can you… can you see it?” you gasp as you realize what it is he’s staring at.

“No.” he shakes his head and shrugs as his fingers glide across the table and sweep up some stray pieces of rice. “I see you’re a messy eater, though.”

Your blood rises to your face in a flash of heat at getting carried away and your mess. Trying to cover your own embarrassment you clear your throat and stare back at your food.

“Oh. I thought you might have- I don’t know? Seen it? Felt it?”

“Doesn’t that only work on your end?” he rests his head on a fist and watches you.

“N-normally.” you nod. “I just thought-.. Nevermind. It’s probably just over excitement.” you sigh and stand from your chair.

“Thank you for letting me eat that.” you mumble and carry your empty plate to the sink.

You’ll do the dishes tomorrow. For now you need to be alone. Locked in your room and away from Dabi.

Away from the world.

“Goodnight.” you call from over your shoulder as you walk down the hall.

The scrape of a chair across the wooden floor and his footsteps to follow you let you know your conversation isn’t over.

“Nice try,” Dabi says and slides into the chair left by your bedside. “but we’re not done yet.”

You cross your legs, leaning your back against the wall as you sit across from him. It should have been obvious he had more to say from the lack of commentary he had for your story. Even if you’re squirming with uncomfortable emotions he won’t let you go that easily. Despite the thoughts running through your mind like a cacophony of chaos. Too rapid, too disorganized.

“What’s left to talk about?” you say quietly.

You need him to direct the conversation. Need him to lead it away from your grasp, less you pilot it directly into the ground like a paraglider on fire.

Dabi watches you, his unreadable turquoise eyes half lidded. You wish he would just tell you what he was thinking instead of you having to guess.

“Look, Princess, there’s not much I’m gonna be able to do to keep the league away from you.”

Him calling you a princess makes your heart stutter in your chest. Especially the way it rolls off his lips like silk. His silver tongue sickeningly sweet honeysuckle to your ears. It’s thick and warming, the desperate vibrating through your senses begging for more.

His voice is a dangerous weapon. You’ve tasted him, sipped the wine of his lips and tongue. Taken part in the divine essence he oozes almost thoughtlessly. It’s seductive and beguiling, an enchantment of his soul on his skin to beckon you into his embrace. The combination of rough and soft, quiet and strong- it’s almost too much as you remember the feel of his hands. Pulling you closer to him as if he could drink you down to the last drop. A yearning that never fades but burns just as bright as his eyes do. You’re nauseous as you meet his eyes.

But it’s not that he made you sick. Just his words.

“It’s better for everyone if you stay as far away from them as possible.”

“What?” you mumble and frown. “But you told them-”

“I know what I said.” he interjects before you can finish and sighs. “I’ll tell them you lost your quirk or something. I’ll get them outta your hair but you’ll need to move.”

Move?

You blink once. Twice.

He isn’t joking.

“Why?”

“They know where you live.” he shrugs and crosses his arms on the top of the back of the chair and rests his chin atop them. “Once I’m gone they’ll have no reason to track where you move to.”

The sharp pain in your chest at the mention of him leaving washes away all of the good feelings he brought on earlier. Even if he’s saying it in that dreamy voice of his it still hurts like a burning knife in your gut. Twisting your organs until they’re shredding on the blade.

Of course he’s going to leave. He has to. Isn’t that what you wanted? For him to leave and be out of your life for good?

You debate on asking when he’s leaving but you can’t bring the words to your mouth. You can barely even think them without vomiting up your entire stomach. All that food you just ate will not be in vain. Shoving down any and all thoughts of barfing, you take a deep breath.

As much as you hate to admit it, he’s right. You’ll need to move to remain hidden. That’s what you told him you wanted.

It is what you want. You have to keep focused on your goals. Getting him out of your life is just step one.

“Right.” you swallow and stare down at your hands.

You can’t cry in front of him. Not again. Earlier you’d been sobbing in his arms and he’d held you. Hell, he kissed you. You haven’t forgotten that part. If you even could, that is. The memory is a phantom on your skin, a ghost along your ears as you can hear the hungry noise from the base of his throat. Of course, he’d only been starving for the energy you were giving him. Feeding him back what you took through your body and soul. With blood and spit and sweat you raised him back to where he had been before he’d even met you.

It probably meant nothing to him. Just like it shouldn’t mean anything to you. But the fear of losing him, of having drained him down to nothing- that wasn’t a normal reaction. Sure if it were a stranger you’d still feel awful but something about him is wholly different. Is it because you’re attracted to him? Is it because the connection between you two is beyond what you’ve ever experienced?

The thread is still there, humming with life between the two of you- although you know he can’t see or feel it. It would be nice if he could. Maybe he might understand why these emotions were surfacing for someone you barely even know. He might even feel them himself.

But no. You know better than to dream of useless, silly things like that. They don’t exist outside of your mind. They can’t. It’s just not how it works. And at the end of the day reality is the only constant that remains true. It’s harsh and it’s unforgiving but you’ll be damned if it wasn’t one hundred percent truth.

You dread his next words.

“I’m leaving tomorrow. Our deal is done.” his words are too quiet. Or maybe you’ve stopped hearing him. They’re muddled and murky. Drowning in something that's stopping you from understanding.

You don’t have to understand. You don’t need to. It just is.

“So it is.” you whisper back and glance toward your door. “I need to sleep. Goodnight.”

Dabi lets out a small sigh and stands from the chair, twirling it back toward your desk as he ambles toward your door. He stops in the doorway, his broad shoulders tensing for a moment as he glances over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, angel.” he says softly and his lips quirk up to a smile as your face burns.

The wink that follows doesn’t make it any better. His soft, almost inaudible, chuckle that he breathes out gives you goosebumps. Of course he knows how attractive he is. Why wouldn’t he? It’s a perfect opportunity to tease the ever living life out of you when you react to it.

You sigh and slump down on your bed, staring up at the doorway as if you could make him reappear with just a thought.

Tomorrow, then. At least you’d get to say goodbye.

Dreams and nightmares evade you in slumber. Even though you can feel your body regenerate what it needs to, you don’t feel well rested when you wake. You’re groggy and sluggish. Worn out and aching to the bone.

It’s gloomy outside your window, rain swelling in the large gray clouds above. It’s a brief misting that falls from the sky, though. No large drops of rain. No downpour. Only a mist that’s annoying enough to be an inconvenience.

You yawn and make your way to the kitchen to cook something up. But as you reach the mouth of the hallway that lets into the kitchen and living area, you feel even worse.

Dabi’s gone.

He wasn’t in the bathroom when you passed by it. You recheck just to be sure.

The living area with the couch and television is empty. No large body sprawled across it. No jacket hanging off the back of it. No boots laying by the front door.

There isn’t even a note.

Why would you let yourself believe he’d even leave one? He doesn’t care about you or these stupid feelings that are getting the best of you. Why should he? You killed him! Literally drained him right there on your living room floor. Like some kind of vicious and feral vampire.

The tears at your eyes don’t feel right. Even as your heart is thudding sharply in your chest, painfully flopping like a depressed child. You should have known better than to get your hopes up with him. You weren’t even anything to him. You knew that.

You know that.

So why does it hurt so badly?

The leftover dishes in the sink wait, their silence speaking legions of words of judgement as you pass by them and to the front door. You don’t even know what you’re looking for. A message? A note? For him to just be waiting outside it with that stupid cocky grin?

But no. There’s nothing but misty rain aggravating your senses. The world is a shade of sickly brownish green. The discoloration of displeasure. Of rot and decay. Anger swells up in your nerves and you slam the door shut with more force than you should have.

Of course he didn’t leave a goddamn note. You mean nothing to him. Nothing, nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a single goddamn thing. You were just means to an end. You brought him back and you housed him until he got what he wanted from you.

The lack of company only makes the silence that much worse as you sit and eat cereal. The clock is ticking on the wall across from you, mist on the glass of your windows sputtering pathetically. It can’t even rain right on a day as awful as this one.

You glance over at the couch where Dabi would have been had he not left without a single word. Are you imagining it as empty or has it always been that… lonely? Aloof and lacking?

Has it always been just like you?

How nice was the feeling of someone sprawled over every inch of your life that it made you feel so depressed without it? It hadn’t felt that great when he was here but with him now gone it only feels cold and sharp. Painful reminders that you’re a helpless, useless no one that nobody would miss. Even if he had killed you like he threatened when he was trying to intimidate you- he had a point. No one would find you for days because your silence in their lives is already so common. They wouldn’t think twice about it.

Whatever. You don’t need people anyways. What do they do but cause pain and make more drama than you need in your life? Like Dabi. He was a threat to your nice, quiet lifestyle. Everything could have been ruined because of him and his stupidly beautiful eyes. And that annoyingly gorgeous cocky smirk he gives when he’s teasing you.

The heat you feel is not from your anger but you only get angier from it. Feeling it in your body as it betrays the emotions you want to run freely. You don’t need Dabi. You don’t want Dabi.

You’re better off without Dabi.

Right?

Work passes without anything interesting. Lively tries to talk about this new teacher she’s been seeing. Some kind of prohero that worked for UA, ‘Eraserhead’ or something dumb like that. You wish you could summon even an ounce of personality to engage in her one sided conversation but you can’t. You don’t have the energy to. It doesn’t matter how much you sleep. How much you eat. How much water you consume. Nothing is enough to take away the waves of exhaustion that push and pull through your soul and body.

It’s starting to affect your work. As your boss temporarily suspends your schedule so you can ‘get yourself together’- as she put it- you find that you don’t even want to go home.

There’s a battle a couple of blocks from your apartment. You don’t even think about going to help and heal. What’s the point? To make up for the wrongs you’ve done with Aysu and Dabi? Aysu’s dead. There’s nothing you can do to help her.

Dabi said your deal was over with. You both got what you wanted. So that was more than made up for.

Helping beyond what you already have is only asking for more trouble. You should know better than to use your quirk anymore. Look at what had happened when you lost your temper. Exposing anyone else to such a horror is a terribly selfish thing to do. It’s not that you even really helped to begin with, either. You played both sides in the hopes of seeming like you were an unbiased person.

But you were really only doing it for you. To soothe your guilty conscience. You didn’t help out of any kindness. It isn’t a dream of yours. It was only ever to make yourself feel better about your existence.

A bar sounds great right about now. You need a drink. Or four. Maybe not even alcohol.

You tell yourself you’re getting drunk but you don’t. You just sit at the bar and sip on one drink. People buzz in and around you. That’s really why you’re here. Because you can’t stand to be alone. You can’t fathom the emptiness that opens the void in your soul at the silence of your house.

This is the only way you know how to be around people without seeming absolutely pathetic. Like the real selfish, useless person you are. Here you can fake that you’re waiting for someone or whatever. That you’re not as sad and lonely as you really, really are.

“Why the long face?” a voice drawls and you turn toward your left.

Coming face to face with a man with a tattoo that covers his entire face. His skin is a sickly green but the tattoo only enhances this with lime lines swirling into the center. It’s a stranger pattern that makes you furrow your brows and he chuckles.

“Let me guess,” he grins, “My face?” he motions towards his cheek and runs the back of his hand down it.

“I don’t mean to stare.” you say plainly. “Sorry.”

“No that’s why it’s there.” he chortles. “I wanted others to keep watching me. And looking at you with those magnificent eyes one me? Priceless. I’d do it all over again.”

Oh god is he flirting with you? The cringe that seeps into your face is only slight as you scoot further away from the man, angling your body in the other direction as he leans forward.

“You can call me Charlie.” he grins and extends a hand. “And you are…?”

‘Not interested?’ you think but sigh.

“[Name].” you mutter and glance away from him.

“A beautiful name!” he exclaims and places his hand over his heart. “May I buy you your next drink? See if I can brighten that sorrowful look of yours?”

No. Nope. This man is too over the top and you’re done with it. Maybe you weren’t looking for any company. Just a specific someone's company. Not that you’re going to allow yourself to think of his name.

Before you can deny the man he’s already signaled your refill. His grin is plastered across his face like a snake waiting in the grass. Poised, waiting. Striking is eventual and it’s only a matter of when.

And if you can get out of the way in time.

Ah well. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts, hm?

#ichor #dabi x reader #dabixreader #dabi #dabixyou #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #mha #bhna #reader insert #fanfic #divinewhimsy #my hero academia #lov #league of villains

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ninjakitty15 · 3 years

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Chapter 11: Tell Tale Hearts (Loki X OFC Pairing)

"You've been holding out on me," Loki noted later.

"We've not known each other long and there's just some things you don't need to know, besides, I'm sure there's lots I don't know about the trickster god." We were currently taking a stroll through the nearest park to get some fresh air and out of Tony's hair.

"Not if Thor has anything to say about it," Loki muttered. "If I won't tell you, he probably will, especially after you introduced him to moosetracks, he probably believes he's in debt to you for allowing him the last bit."

"Yeah but like he's never around so I'll still get nothing on you."

"What I don't get is why you don't seem to use those skills you used on me in the battlefield?"

I snorted. "What? Bo staff fighting? It's a pacifist weapon unless you're really motivated and skilled and aint nobody got time for that."

"I mean close range combat."

"Why do something yourself when you can get an army to do that for less?"

He scowled at me but couldn't come up with anything to rebuke that. "I hate your logic."

"But you love me so it all works out in the end." I stopped walking and kicked off my shoes to expose bare feet despite it behind in the 50's, feeling for the dead beneath the earth as well as just enjoying the feeling of nature against my flesh.

"Is that so?" he challenged, studying my actions as I stood still, eyes slightly closed to block out distractions aside from him.

"Typically people, gods or not, don't go through measures to protect their live-in booty call, not to mention you pretty much swearing yourself to me a few days ago. Just because I was on a warpath, doesn't mean I'm gonna forget what you said once I calmed down."

"And you have experience in this area, do you?"

I opened my eyes to meet his, turning to him out of curiosity and while his tone was light and teasing I could tell from his expression he genuinely wanted to know my history there. "Does it matter?"

"I just want to know if there's another man out there that death comes for?"

"What if I told you it was a woman?" I teased, cackling when his eyes widened at my response. "Many women actually at one point, since you asked. I told you, I'm all about ultimate pleasures, they're all that's keeping me from going numb and truly dead. Much like Tony before he decided to stick to the one under his nose the entire time."

"What changed?"

"Everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked. Sorry, couldn't resist. Many things changed but long story short, things got complicated and I couldn't keep burying myself in boobs to stay alive when I wasn't really alive at all and that much closer to the grave. At the moment though, there is only you. Nothing compares to you. Is that why green is such a good color on you, because you're always jealous of something...or someone?"

He scoffed at my attempt to throw shade at him. "No other color does me justice aside from gold and while I am royalty, I'm not nearly that pretentious like my adoptive father wearing just gold."

I tried to imagine him in just gold attire and wrinkled my nose at the mental image. "Valid point there, I wouldn't fall for you in just that either, not that much of a golddigger."

"Though something tells me you have a soft spot for immortals of sorts."

I smirked and shrugged. "Something like that."

"You don't have what you midgardians call 'a crush' on Thor, do you?"

"I'm not overly fond of the facial fuzz among other things."

"What other immortals besides me then?"

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

Loki scowled at me. "Stop teasing me, woman."

"Nah, where's the fun in that?" I walked to the pond in the park and stepped into the water, not bothered by the coldness of it as my feet sunk into the earth more. So much death and decay underneath the life on the surface, the dead would always outnumber the living, it was such a waste without necromancers recycling the bodies. And we were fast becoming an endangered species which meant even more bodies left to rot away. And there were still so many souls with unfinished business that deserved to rest but couldn't till they got their last fight in. I shut my eyes, listening to them, watching them, offering them a chance when I could, they needed peace but to do that, they had to join another war. Strange how you needed the opposite of something to achieve something sometimes. "There's so many of you, take care who you choose to follow, I'd hate to have to send you back without getting what you need from them."

"Nell," Loki spoke softly with uncertainty.

"The dead," I responded. "This planet is full of them and I don't want them in the wrong hands."

"You worry about the dead like normal midgardians worry about the living, regardless of their current status you can't protect them all."

"And that's the side effects of being what I am, there's always a catch isnt there? Sure they no longer feel pain in their rotting meat suits but they're souls, beautiful burning souls that need peace at the end of the day."

"What happens to the soul in the wrong hands?"

"They're collected, contained and used as a weapon against others. I told you, souls are nuclear reactors, a dangerous power source that can be super destructive to others and itself."

"Is it difficult for others like yourself to get a hold on them?"

"Depends on how strong they are and how powerful their powers have become." I opened my eyes and turned around to face him, walking out of the water and placing a hand on his chest, for some reason I always got a bit excited feeling his heartbeat. I didn't take my eyes off his. "You have to be quick and careful, reaching in to grab something that could potentially kill you just by touching it. You're also a bit exposed yourself being in such close range to your prey and while simply holding it is the worst form of pain imaginable to the person you're grabbing, they usually survive simply being held so if you want the job done, you gotta rip it right out of them but that exposes its raw power as a soul. Not many necromancers can hold onto an exposed soul without side effects that may include their own death."

"Have you ever done it yourself?"

"Once or twice ages back, I won't be making a habit of it though."

"What were the side effects then?"

"Took too long disposing the damned thing and sorta kinda leveled the building we were in as well as nearly blowing myself up in the process. Worth it though, that was one bad egg I won't lose sleep over destroying without peace. May have lost a bit of myself in the process too."

"In what way?"

"You'll find out if I can get to the other bad eggs of necromancy before the Avengers do, easier to show you than tell you. I'll give you a hint though." I stepped back, dropping my hand from his chest to take his and put it on mine. "What do you feel?"

He was quiet for a second, his eyes not leaving mine. "There's no heartbeat, I knew that already. But there's something there, isn't there? You told me the magic keeps you moving, is it that?"

"It's more than magic. What is it you told me at one point? Someone that can survive something likely to kill most virtually unscathed is the definition of immortal. Very few necromancers can survive handling an exposed soul that's bursting but no one should be able to survive that plus a crumbling building and no escape routes and I did both."

He was quiet, almost mesmerized by what he was feeling beneath the undead flesh. "It's ancient. But it can't be-"

"Not an infinity stone," I assured him. "We have no need for those, we have our own stones of power to use how we please."

He stared deep into my eyes once he realized what I hinted at. "It's in there, isn't it?"

"It's part of me, yes. Fused to my soul so no one can rip it out of me, wasn't my idea initially, I opted for having it broken into shards and then have them implanted throughout my body but apparently I had no say in the matter."

"What about that necromancer you got to before? Where was his jewel?"

"The dagger, pretty common tactic for the lesser ones like him, keep the tools together like that. I absorbed it when I first picked it up, it's why it would've eaten away at you if you got to it first, only necromancers can handle their own tools."

"But they can't get yours?"

"Two highly destructive almost unlimited power sources fused together, no one on this planet could even touch it without instantly blowing themselves up, let alone ripping it out."

"If it wasn't your idea to do that, then whose was it?"

"Uh uh, spoilers."

He frowned and his hand moved from my chest to cup the side of my face. "Troublesome woman."

"You love it."

A smirk tugged at his lips as his tilted my head up and dipped his head to snag a kiss from me. "So what if I do?"

"Then someone went to Oz and got themselves a heart," I teased.

He pulled me against him and shut me up with a hotter, longer kiss. Away from the Avengers, away from Hydra and everything that was causing me a massive headache, and as close to nature and what I love as I was allowed while still under house arrest more or less. This was my tiny slice of paradise and peace before it would most likely all go to shit.

#loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki romance #avengers #zombies #loki x oc #loki x original female character #necromancy #necromancer #nell the necromancer #loki x nell

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dusky-dancing · 4 years

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The Prince and the Pirate - CH 4

For SoKai Week - Day 4

Story Summary: Sora finds himself far away from the walls of the Radiant Garden he's known his whole life, kidnapped by a rowdy group of pirates whose captain is as alluring as she is mysterious. What he thought was a simple hostage negotiation turns into an adventure that Sora couldn't have anticipated. He doesn't know which is worse, not knowing what's up ahead, or liking it that way.

Rating: T

Genre: Romance, Adventure, Pirate AU

Length: ~ 1500 words

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Links for story navigation:

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Sora was used to having his sleep interrupted by sudden turbulence, but something about the jolt that woke him that night felt different, more forceful. The cold water suddenly dripping on his face made going back to sleep right away more difficult.

Another blow, followed by shouts from the deck above, sent him onto his feet. He hadn't been the only one either, as the rest of the crew members shared his expression of worry and confusion.

On the deck, the first thing that greeted him was the heavy rain. Within seconds, all of his clothes became soaked straight through, but another sight soon took his full attention: a giant tentacle splayed across the deck, alive and thrashing wildly.

"Captain, what's happening?" Biggs shouted.

"I don't know, monsters have never attacked my ship!" Her voice came through, bringing him some strange sense of relief. He tore his eyes from their intruder to find her clinging to the shrouds on the other side of the deck, dodging and stabbing at another tentacle. "Don't just stand there," she shouted, "grab a sword and free your ship!"

Sora didn't have to be told twice. Weeks ago, he'd thought he'd be fighting to free himself, not help the ones who'd kidnapped him, but now he didn't have a choice. Summoning his Keyblade for the second time on the ship, he finally put his skills to use against the nearest appendage. It was large, covered in slime, and filled with muscle, but not impossible to fight. It nearly took all of his agility to dodge its swipes, but with enough hits it eventually retreated.

Sora breathed a sigh of relief, until two more took its place.

As he prevented another from damaging the ship further, he was both curious and terrified to see the creature they belonged to.

Soon, his back hit another's, and a giant feather dangled in his face. He blew it away and turned to find Kairi back to back with him.

"Putting that gift of yours to use, I see," she shouted over the rain.

"Feels good to actually use it. Are the kids-?"

"They're safe as long as we're afloat."

The dread weighing on Sora's heart lifted slightly, though staying afloat against a creature like this seemed difficult. "You know what this thing is?"

"I've never seen something this big before!" From her heavy breathing, she'd been fighting just as hard as he had.

With the ship free of two more tentacles, they had a brief window, but as he turned to her, she held nothing but a fierce determination in her eyes.

"Hold on!" she shouted, and he quickly grabbed for the nearest rail, this time knowing what to anticipate.

Her movements now resembled less like a graceful wave and more like a cracking whip. She drew her arms up and thrust them forward, driving the ship out of the monster's grasp. Several crates flew off the deck from the force, and the ship rocked heavily to level with the waves once more.

They were freed for the time being. Jessie, Biggs and Wedge used the opportunity to prepare the cannons, while Tidus, Wakka, and Selphie all worked to fix the masts and sails.

Sora and Kairi could see the monster moving underneath the waves towards them, but instead of grappling the ship once more, it rammed the side of the hull, sending everyone on the deck to the floor. Sora lurched over the edge, thankful he'd still been gripping the railing. Whatever this thing was, it was huge, and it was determined to kill them.

As Sora found his footing once more, a massive form overshadowed the already dark night on the deck. He glanced back, only to come face to face with a monstrous squid rising out of the sea. Its large head lobbed forward, and though he couldn't tell one part of its body from another, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was fixated on him.

"It's...the Kraken," Kairi muttered beside him.

Sora froze, and a deep primal fear overtook him. Sure, he'd fought people and smaller monsters on occasion in his sheltered upbringing, but never something this large. And certainly never from such a vulnerable position.

His eyes grew wide, focussed on nothing but the large beak that gaped hungrily between its appendages. A sudden force struck him from the side and pulled him flat onto the deck. When he blinked back to his senses, Kairi was hovering over him. It wasn't until a large tentacle struck where he last stood that he realized she'd saved his life amidst his stupor.

"-out of it, Sora!" He registered that she was shouting at him and tapping his face. "Gather your courage and fight!"

"Right," he shook his head and was back on his feet in an instant. Resummoning his Keyblade, he fought off his assailant and regarded Kairi once more. "You said you never get attacked. I...I think it's after me."

Sora hadn't the slightest idea why the Kraken would be after him, but Kairi didn't seem surprised at all by his suggestion. A light switched on behind her eyes, but she said nothing.

Sora may not know how he was involved in all of this, but Kairi did. And she wasn't telling him.

There was no time for questions and answers, as the Kraken withdrew and circled the ship again.

"It's going to ram the ship again!" Selphie shouted.

"The hull can't take another hit!" Wakka said. "We won't survive this thing."

Kairi's eyes fell, and Sora felt the dejection in her heart. Everyone they'd just rescued, not to mention the rest of the crew, were all at risk. Maybe the ship wouldn't survive another hit, but Sora could take the fight off of the ship. If the Kraken was truly after him, then maybe he could lead it away from everyone else.

Sora took a deep breath and climbed onto the railing, gripping a main line for support.

"What are you doing?!" Kairi shouted, stepping toward him. All eyes turned to him.

"You were right, Kairi, I needed something heroic to fight for. If that thing really is after me, then maybe I can lead it away while you all escape."

"You could die!" Selphie shouted.

Sora glanced down to Kairi and nodded. Frustration and sorrow filled her eyes, but she stayed silent.

"If this is the only truly heroic thing I do in my life, then I'll be satisfied."

Kairi stepped closer, but before she could reach out to stop him, he plunged into the ocean.

The cries and shouts that followed were quickly muffled underneath the thrashing waves. In the distance, a large mass barrelled towards the ship. He didn't have much time. Using his Keyblade, he propelled himself deeper just as the mass passed underneath him. He crashed into the monster with enough momentum to push it off of its course. It let out a fierce cry.

Sora took the opportunity to close in and slice at its appendages. If inexperience threatened him above surface, the drag of water weakened him beneath it as well.

A tentacle quickly wrapped around him and thrashed him around in the water. He could last a long time in the water, but he couldn't stay under forever. Suddenly it stopped, and the massive form faced him in the water. Its head reeled back, to reveal a massive beak that opened before him.

Sora panicked. He released his Keyblade in his free hand before summoning it in his restrained one. The magic sliced right through the flesh, severing the tendril where it held him.

The Kraken cried out in pain again. Sora avoided its limbs on his return to the surface, but his legs were beginning to sting.

He breached the surface and gasped for air. In the dark of night, he couldn't find the ship anywhere in sight. Relief flooded him, along with the heavy dread that he was stuck, alone, in the middle of the ocean with a raging sea monster.

A sudden familiar force pulled him under the surface again. That time, multiple tendrils restrained his entire body. He fought against the constriction with his Keyblade, but even his weapon wasn't strong enough to break through that many. As the Kraken's mouth opened for him once again, Sora pulled and resisted as much as he could. Even if he was above the surface, the pressure around his torso wouldn't have given his lungs enough space to breathe.

Being eaten by a giant sea monster hadn't been how Sora pictured his end. Compared to this, he would've chosen to be kidnapped by pirates in a heartbeat. But atleast he'd gotten to save people in the process.

Atleast he'd gotten to meet someone like Kairi.

Suddenly, the water surrounding him swelled, resisting the pull beneath the surface. There was a flash of red before a pointed sword pierced the Kraken's head.

Immediately, the force restraining him loosened, and Sora would've been able to breathe again if he weren't underwater. He clamoured for the surface, but found his senses dulling as the relief of air seemed to grow further and further away. His arms and legs moved haggardly, if at all. He opened his mouth, but only the remaining air in his lungs escaped as his vision tunnelled.

The last sight his eyes caught in the center of his vision was Kairi's silhouette gracefully dancing her way through the water in his direction.

——————————————————–

A/N: Happy Day 4 of SoKai Week! The action is really ramping up now. This fight scene was one of the first ones I wrote for this fic, because of course Sora would recklessly sacrifice himself for other people no matter what universe he's in. I'm excited to share tomorrow's piece with you all!

#sokaiweek2020 #sokaiweek #kingdom hearts #kh fanfiction #sokai #sora #kairi #pirate au #adventure #romance #pirate kairi #pirate sora #long post #dusky writing

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always5hineee · 4 years

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Profit Margin- Chapter 12: Time Crunch

Chapter warnings: using firearms??

Word count: 1357

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"Let's see what you've got." Ten said, pointing to the target in front of her. It was made of a strange material, some sort of weird cross between vinyl and plywood. It was riddled with holes, but they weren't circular, suggesting that the target had some level of self-healing or memory capabilities. As big as the gun she shot at the earlier attacker was, Ten had given her a handgun to start out with. Breathing in deeply, she held it up with her dominant hand, shutting one of her eyes and squeezing the trigger.

It was nowhere near her mark. If she were lucky, it might have hit a target in a different lane altogether. She tensed up as she felt embarrassment wash over her. Even for her, this was pathetic. Sighing, Ten walked close to her, thankful that he was out of range for her shot.

"I'm not sure what movies you're watching, but that's not how you shoot a gun." He stated with a surprisingly patient tone. Reaching out to turn her hand, he stepped behind her to help her feel the position she was meant to be in. "Don't angle your wrist, hold it straight. There'll be some kickback, so be prepared. The more firepower, the harder it'll be to hold steady." His legs were nearly on either side of hers, and she could feel his controlled breathing against her back. Moving his other hand to the opposite side, he fixed her stance.

"The angles all matter, so pay attention. Don't shut your eye, all you're doing is limiting your visibility and messing up your depth perception." He picked up her other wrist, gently bringing it to the side of the firearm. "Hold it with both hands. You should never use one unless it's absolutely necessary." It was only when he stepped back again that she realized she was practically holding her breath. "Okay, now fire again." Staring down the lane to the target, her chest rose sharply before she shot directly towards it. She saw a few pieces splinter off the shoulder of the structure.

"Much better!" He said happily. "You need some practice, obviously, but what else do you have to do, huh?" He grabbed his water bottle off the wall, taking a huge sip, then turned to speak again as he wiped his upper lip. "Just fire straight shots for say... an hour? Then we can go get lunch and come back."

"An hour?" She asked incredulously.

"How else do you expect to improve?"

"It just seems excessive for one type of shot, I-" At this, Ten's gaze quickly shifted from amusement to dead seriousness.

"Y/N, we don't have much time. If you want to be allowed to stay, you have to prove yourself useful, and quickly. It's my job to get you there, no matter what. So no complaining." She sighed.

"Yeah, I get that, but why can't I just go home? I promise I won't tell, really, I just... I just want to go home." She made eye contact with him, hoping to see some semblance of empathy or even pity, but his mood was unchanging, on the surface at least. Whether that was his training, a personal skill, or his real emotions, she was unsure.

"It's talking like that that'll get you sold quicker. Now shoot. For an hour." He walked towards the other end of the shooting range, pulling a much larger gun off of a rack within a cabinet. She curiously watched as he fiddled with it, changing aspects and loading it up. Not hearing any shots, he glanced over, waving her stare away. Embarrassed, she turned to the target. Time to practice...

Surprisingly, the time flew by fairly quickly. Of course, by the end, her arms were fairly sore. She ended up jamming the gun twice during the whole process. Ten had expected this, and was prepared to assist. The first time, he had simply fixed it himself, but the second, he actually showed her the issue and how to deal with it. It was interesting, no matter her familiarity with guns. As she was about to fire another shot, she felt a hand lightly touch on her shoulder. She spun with the weapon, startled.

"Woah, easy there." He put his hands up. "Watch where you put that, I'm not sure I quite trust you with it." She looked to Ten, then back down at the weapon.

"Oh... sorry."

"I'm just messing with you. Your hour is up, you're due for a break. We can go to the kitchen- you understand why I can't exactly take you out." He said, setting his weapon down and motioning for her to do the same. "We'll be back in a minute, so don't worry about that for now." He led her to the elevator, bringing her to the kitchen.

It was huge, but that should have been expected by now. There were at least two of everything, including refrigerators, ovens, microwaves, freezers, even stoves and sinks. There was a massive island countertop in the center, surrounded by barstools and decorated fairly minimally. Actually, the whole place was pretty bland- apparently they didn't feel much need for interior decorating. Walking to the first fridge, Ten opened it up, looking inside.

"We've got all sorts of stuff, but uh, it's mostly leftovers..." He said apologetically. "There's half a burger, uhh, some steak we made the other night, Kun's stir-fry vegetables, uh- oh, score! Lucas left a whole thing of ramen in here!" He pulled it out, showcasing the black plastic bowl. "It's nothing fancy, just instant, but do you want some?" She shrugged.

"Sure, why not?" Fairly overexcited, Ten popped the lid slightly and put the big Tupperware in the microwave, pulling out two smaller bowls from an adjacent cabinet. Once the machine beeped, he pulled it back out, separating it evenly. They ate at the counter side by side, talking for a few minutes. As Y/N didn't really know what was appropriate to ask your idol who is also a criminal kidnapper that you are deathly afraid of, so she let him do most of the asking. It worked out better that way, as he wasn't much of a talker- at least, not with her.

When they had finished, Ten rinsed out the bowls and put them in the dishwasher, directing her to follow him back down to the shooting range. Once they arrived, he made her run a few more drills with the handgun, offering some final, pickier tips. As she felt her elbows grow weak, he finally called it for the day, explaining that they'd pick a different firearm the next day. Next, he showed her how to properly remove the bullets and store a weapon, quickly talking over how one would clean it if they wanted to.

"Good job, by the way." He said. It didn't really mean anything to him, but she felt something spark up in her chest as he said it. Knowing that it probably wasn't healthy, she reminded herself that her goal was to get out of here.

"I'm not exactly sure where they're planning on having you sleep." Ten admitted. "Or else I'd show you to your room. We can't exactly have you in the holding area if you're going to be part of the team. Especially not with the other girls down there." The blood drained from her face as he said this.

"O-other girls?"

"Well, I mean, yeah, we don't just mess around at those concerts- Oh, hold on, I'm getting a call." He pulled his cellphone out of his pockets as she tried to cope with the reality of what he'd just said. Other girls? Were they in danger too? Could she help them?

"Hey, Lucas, I was just gonna ask someone about Y/N's living si- what?" His brow furrowed. "Someone a- Oh, no, that wasn't me. I've been with her downstairs. I thought I saw WinWin eating something earlier, though." He quickly mentioned, hanging up. "Come on, we'd better find you a place to sleep before Lucas stabs me to death."

Go to Chapter 13

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0poole · 4 years

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Bloons

Honestly the entire Bloons series has been some of my favorite flash/other-than-flash games out there, and I feel like it’s worth bringing it up since I just crossed the 365 day threshold for BTD6. Maybe in the past, but nowadays I definitely don’t feel like I ever play a game daily for a year straight. Chances are it was a little desperate when I first started playing, but as of now literally every single day I open the game up and play the daily challenge just for the sake of it. Plus, since the chest technically resets every 9 hours or so instead of 24, I could’ve cheesed it a bit, but I didn’t. That’s a pure 365 days of playing the game.

And even apart from that, the entire Bloons series has been in my mind since the first one and my middle/elementary school Coolmath Games days. Even though the puzzle, pure form of Bloons wasn’t as much in my interest, the staying power of the Tower Defense version is crazy. Flash Tower Defense games are plenty, and yet the one with the stupid monkeys throwing darts at balloons was the best.

I went back semi-recently and played a round of each BTD, and I gotta say, it was fun seeing where everything came from. 1 is absolute garbage, forcing you to just spam Super Monkeys if you want to get anywhere, but a good starting point obviously. I honestly know nothing about the people creating these games, but obviously it wasn’t made by a AAA crew, so you can’t expect everything to be put in place in the first iteration. 2 and 3 feel much better, but obviously not much after being so used to the modern stuff, and 4 and 5 are the ones that really shine the most, apart from 6 obviously.

I definitely was one of the types of people who initially reacted poorly to the artstyle change of 5 and 6, but I’ve definitely turned over. I don’t know if the whole BTD community rioted at that point, but I at least was like “ew, they’re cute now” when I first saw it. Thankfully I turned over, and realized the current designs are the absolute best out of the entire franchise. Also, I love their cuteness, as I love cuteness in general, so basically just call it character growth. Even though 2D art always is more interesting for games than 3D in general, the entire art direction of 6 is genuinely really good, being so bright and cartoony (at least before the fifth stages of upgrades) really fits the cartoony idea of monkeys popping bloons. 5, and the entire franchise before it, really is proof enough how horrible a pure top-down perspective is. On the title screen, you can see what the monkeys are supposed to look like, but in-game they literally look like weird blobby scorpions. Even though in the back of my mind I knew what they were supposed to look like, the pure top-down perspective completely ruined the image. Not to mention the OG designs for the monkeys was really weird and bad anyway. Even if you wanted a goofy fat kind of monkey, there are a million better ways to achieve that than how it used to be. Again, of course, they weren’t exactly AAA game-level quality, so you can’t expect such perfect character design.

But, oh my god. One of the things about this game that must’ve kept me through 6 was the character designs. If you know anything about me, it’s that I love a good character design, and 6 is full of them. It’s so interesting to see how they extrapolate the main concepts of each tower into their three different paths. The generic Superman-based monkey can turn into a Batman-based monkey, a Terminator-based monkey, and a fucking ancient god of the sun. The seemingly chill Druid can smite people with the power of Zeus, become the much more expected forest-based type, but also turn into this completely out-there being of pure wrath. I could go on and on about that, but needless to say for so many of them look and are designed so great. I think the tower with the coolest level 5s of the game is the Ninja. It’s hard to explain, but they all just look really cool while also not deviating too much from the cartoony-cute art style. I think my all-time favorite level 5 is the top path of the Wizard, mostly just because he looks really cool, but also because the parts of the path before it show him aging and growing out his beard. I also have to say the 2-0-3/4 Wizard also looks exactly my style, with the dark purply-ness and gold rims. Also, if you haven’t noticed, the Magic monkeys are my favorite type, and not just because their signature color is purple. That’s part of it though. Magic is also just cool in general. My main RPG-class of choice is almost always a mage/wizard.

Also, the heroes are also really fun. As someone who often creates species of aliens/monsters, I always feel like I want to create a dedicated character out of them no matter what, so I feel like the heroes are basically just that. And, of course they have good designs too, and of course as you can probably guess my favorite is Adora, basically being the same thing as the 5-0-0 Wizard with the Sun God aesthetic. Since she has her own stage and a special interaction with the True Sun God/Vengeful Monkey, I think she’s a pretty big deal anyway. I will say that I highly slept on Gwen, but then for Easter they gave her the Harlegwen skin and I fell in love. It’s insanely good stuff. Apart from looks, it does feel nice to have some sort of interchangeable tower that you basically just place and forget about, aside from using their powers. Plus, it makes a really easy type of thing to periodically add to the game to keep things fresh, even with the skins in general. It definitely is much better than the stuff they had in 5, where you had to use Monkey Money to buy each one, and you could only use them once per stage. Obviously 6 has the extra powers to help you out, but they feel much more optional and cheaper than the heroes of 5. Since I barely buy anything with Monkey Money to begin with, and since I’ve obviously had 365 chest openings, and AND since I barely use them to begin with, I’m completely stocked up. I only ever use the farmer and sometimes the tech bot if I get lazy. I did use the portable lake I got from my 365th chest opening after I got it, just for the sake of celebration. That’s literally how my mind goes.

6 does have the slight tinge of a mobile game artstyle, but in this case it’s really just better. I’m not into mobile games, and especially not the generic artstyle they have, but it is really pleasing to look at anyway. It did chase me off before I converted, though. That, and the fact you had to buy it now. Like a true gamer, I was put off by the fact that something that was once expected to be free now has to be paid for. But, then, I realized that the entire franchise has provided much more than 10$ worth of entertainment to me throughout time, so it was extremely fair to pay that. It is still kinda weird how 5 has to be paid for for mobile, when it is just free online, though. However, unlike a true gamer I think the microtransactions of the game are extremely fair. Considering they just give you things that you don’t need, and can get for free otherwise, I think it’s completely fine to have them. It sounds bad on the surface to have to pay for the game and have there still be microtransactions in it, but since they’re completely optional there’s no good reason to hate it. I think people assume that means that you have to pay for the game, and pay extra for different major parts of the game, and that sours their opinion on everything. Gamers are a strange, irrationally angry breed. I do hate using my phone for pretty much anything, though, so once I bought 6 on Steam I haven’t played it on my phone since. It’s just so much better in every single way...

I bought the game around the time of one of my family’s semi-annual trips to England because I thought it’d help when we were traveling between wi-fi spots, and it really did wonders for me then. Probably looked like some asshole teen to strangers who don’t know I barely ever use my phone for anything, since I was playing it so much. My sister even saw me playing it and bought it for herself, although I don’t know how much she’s played since then.

For the sake of stats, I have 235 hours played of it on Steam alone, and in game I’m level 115. My most complete map is Monkey Meadow with all medals except CHIMPS, which I put the effort in because it’s the default map, and definitely not because it’s an easy/good map because it’s just kinda bad compared to so many other ones. My Dart monkey has a total of 4 million XP, and the only towers that haven’t crossed a million are the Ice, Heli, Alchemist, Druid, and Spike factory monkeys/tower. I think the farthest I’ve actually gotten round-wise is 200 once or twice, but I don’t remember if I’ve actually beaten that level and continued on or lost there. I think I might’ve gotten past it once, but just sort of lost interest in micro-managing my powers and let myself lose. I probably got there once after that and lost on it. As someone who didn’t look up the optimal strategies for things until very recently, I think that’s pretty good. It definitely feels like the kind of game where if you know the best strategies, you can literally just replicate that over and over and win really easily, but that just sounds kinda boring. Since I pretty much only do daily challenges nowadays, it forces me to use a limited amount of towers, so I either go much farther because it forces me to build up less towers more, or it makes sure I can’t even pass round 90 because it just was made to get you to round 40 and that’s it. When I have the full range of towers to use, I feel like I try to get the instant satisfaction of getting a new tower to increase DPS instead of making the few towers I have/need reach their full potential, which seems to be the better option. I also don’t really sell anything when I don’t have a limited number of monkeys to place, which I think is also a good strategy if you can eliminate the major money loss in it, since it can give you a massive boost in cash to get you the better upgrades quicker. I may or may not try to learn the strategies to wipe the rest of the game clean eventually, but right now I’m fine with just doing the dailies.

But yeah, that’s like the whole thing with Bloons Tower Defense and me. Something something reject modernity, embrace monke, or whatever the kids these days are saying.

I will say that if I didn’t have so many OCs to work with and could just pump out animated shorts on the reg, I’d love to do some sort of Bloons shorts. They’d all lean into the ridiculousness of it all. Like, the first one could do the 2001 thing with the monkeys learning to use sticks, and as the main one is bashing the ground with one or whatever and throws it up, an ancient, leathery patchwork bloon flies overhead and accidentally bumps the stick such that it lands back on the main monkey’s head, knocking him out. Cue the monkeys around him to go berserk and start throwing other sticks at the ancient bloon, and once they pop it using a sharp stick, they realize what they must do. Cue a long montage of the different stages of war and invention using the monkeys finding better ways to fend off the bloons, with the whole idea being that the monkeys are getting irrationally angry at the bloons, who are just sort of around and not actually sentient, even though they assume they’re malicious because of their history and upbringing. Absolutely no political message in there whatsoever. Just comedy.

Other short ideas could include, for the start of the modern time story, it could be the backstory of some sort of chiseled veteran main character, which would involve a bloon floating into his town, and from the people’s panic someone knocks over a lamp post that sets his town ablaze, only for him and his people to blame the carnage on the bloon, causing his classic edgy character motives for fighting against the bloons. Another, much more golden idea, would be an interrogation scene, where a bunch of monkeys capture a bunch of bloons for interrogation purposes. They’d obviously do the whole “Silent treatment, eh? Well, we have ways of making you talk...” thing, except the “way to make them talk” is to strap them to a wall with one dart guy on one side to systematically pop them to try and extract info. But, of course, it would look and play out exactly like the classic Bloons puzzle game. That’d be the fun part. If not that, then it could be like the classic carnival game that likely inspired the idea of using darts to pop balloons. I really just think this weird world of monkeys and bloons is perfect for some good comedic content. Watching the monkeys severely overreact to the bloons sounds extremely fun, and I’d love to see someone do something with it some day.

#bloons tower defense #btd #6 #poole #rant #rambling #opinions #bloons #ninja kiwi #nk #flash

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diveronarpg · 4 years

Photo

Congratulations, DAPHNE! You’ve been accepted for the role of BIANCA. Admin Minnie: We were honestly thrilled just to see your name again, returned to us in the flesh, but to see that you were applying for Bunny? And to actually read this work of art (read: your application)? The other admins can attest: I was copy/pasting whole paragraphs from your application and drooling over every word. You’ve captured every intricate, glittering detail that makes our Bunny unforgettable and deliciously mean. With a meticulousness and a great deal of fun that I think Bunny would envy, you’ve done her complete justice — in fact, you may have even done better than our little Bunny deserves. As the person who plays Maeve, I’m being entirely selfish and taking a moment of silence to applaud you and wish you a very warm welcome back! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Daphne Age | 23 Preferred Pronouns | She/her Activity Level | I will generously rate myself a 7/10 given the current situation, but the next two weeks might be a bit more on the 5/10 side until I get some things sorted out! After that, I’m all in. Timezone | EST

IN CHARACTER

Character | Bianca / Bernadette “Bunny” DuPont

What drew you to this character? There’s a running theme in stories that children symbolize some form of uncorrupted good. They’re humanity’s saving grace, so blameless in their innocence that they somehow become our last hope for redemption in worlds tainted by the actions of mankind, and in the Bible, Jesus even says the kingdom of Heaven belongs to people like them. Then there’s Bunny’s namesake, Saint Bernadette Soubirous, who had her first vision when she was fourteen. The Church exhumed her body on three separate occasions almost half a century after her death, and every single time, they found her corpse completely incorrupt and untouched by decay. To christen Bunny after her is so extreme a juxtaposition that it almost feels blasphemous, and yet it’s so slyly irreverent that it strikes me as being exactly something Bunny would do herself if she could. Because as much as she would have you believe she’s saintly, and as much as her identity capitalizes on the pretence of girlhood, make no mistake: Bernadette Du Pont is as corrupt as they come. And if Heaven truly belongs to people like her, then we should be scared, because where Saint Bernadette never decomposed from the outside in, Bunny reeks of rot and ruin from the inside out. It’s the kind of heavy-handed symbolism that I (and Bunny) just can’t resist, and I think a love for the worst kinds of irony and references that go six feet under (heh) is something we both share.

As that one saying famously goes, there’s something dangerous about the boredom of teenage girls. Bunny is no exception to the rule. I’m fascinated by what drives her, because all her antics are motivated by a lack of motivation, and yet interestingly enough, the boredom that drives her isn’t out of deprivation; it’s built from a constant exposure to excess. Easton was defined by the fact that he had nothing, but Bunny sits at the other end of the extreme. I wanted to know how things might look from the side where the grass appears to be greener. What are the consequences of being spoiled rotten and drowned in adoration, and how does someone who’s developed so high of a tolerance derive satisfaction from what they haven’t had to earn? It was only after years of being the perfect daughter that Bunny must have learned the answer: you pry it from the hands of those who would do anything to keep it. Bunny is remorseless in her mischief. She’s a hellion of a girl, a thoroughbred so pure that all sorts of nasty recessive traits have manifested in her personality, at least under that polished veneer, but she lacks a certain seriousness that would otherwise classify her as being Gillian Flynn-esque. What she lacks in seriousness, however, she makes up for in facetiousness, and I think that helps to make her nastiness more palatable, as well as loads more fun. Fun isn’t the type of character I normally gravitate toward, but I’d love to try my hand at someone who doesn’t take themselves too seriously (despite still demonstrating the capacity for occasional emotional depth). In Bunny’s life, it’s Bunny’s world, and in Bunny’s world, she plays both the princess and the pauper; the bratty little girl and the darling of Verona. But, as she often tells herself, there can only be one Bunny, and so there are certain moments where her true self must show through; where she’s prone to break character, if she’s truly as incorrigible as she seems. It’s a shame we didn’t get to see more of it with Bianca, but trust me when I say that no one would be happier to see how far we could push her worst possible interpretation. So Bernadette was a saint, you say. She couldn’t possibly have anything other than good intentions, never mind that they’ve only ever said one thing about good intentions in the first place. Let them eat cake, Bunny laughs from up high, surrounded by her festoon of sweets. Some will think her naive; others will think her cruel. Both, however, are right.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

I. CARTE BIANCA Okay, so let’s be honest. The Capulets aren’t doing so hot, and the Montagues are absolutely killing it right now, so maybe, just maybe, looking like a Montague sympathizer might not be the worst thing in the world? I keep coming back to how Bunny’s already had to rely on their mercy not once, but twice—first with Hector, and then again with Brielle—and not once, but both times, she somehow ended up with a Montague who happened to be more forgiving. Sure, we could write it off as luck, but we’re talking about Bunny here! She’s spent her entire life looking for ways to work things into her favour, so if she doesn’t see that as an opportunity to milk the situation for all it’s worth, I’d be hard pressed to believe it. I’d love to see her approach Brielle, or even Henry or Genevieve (with regards to how things played out with Hector) under the guise of common interest, or maybe even a debt to be repaid. Her name’s already been soiled, so why let that go to waste? Thanks to that video, everyone thinks they know where she stands. She was given bad cards, but not the chance to play them just right, and if Bunny had her way, she’d have you believe that she intended for it to happen from the start. So let’s go back to the beginning, then. Let’s explore the consequences of that incident, and see her try to talk her way out of trouble. We already know her strengths don’t lie on the front lines, but that’s not what makes a well-rounded team. I say, let Bunny do what she does best. Sure, it’s risky business. Sure, the Montagues might skin her alive. But maybe, just maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what the Capulets need.

II. FOREVERLAND, NEVERLAND Bunny’s been friends with Juliana and Maeve for as long as she can remember, but the truth is that you can be acquainted with someone for a long time and never really know them. The romantic in me loves that melancholy thought: the idea that, once upon a time, things were simpler, and that it really wasn’t so long ago that they were children with few worries who needed little in common to get along. But life can change very quickly, and both Juliana and Maeve have responded in ways that prove they’re more mature than Bunny ever was. Whereas before they might have been too young to know any better, I’m sure that now they’re starting to realize that Bunny wasn’t always a good friend; Bunny, on the other hand, has stagnated. Life was good for her in her childhood, so it’s not surprising that she wouldn’t want to leave it behind. And then there’s Cyrus, who only galvanizes that. I think both of them are absolute drama queens, and so he and Bunny bring out the worst in each other, but in the best possible way. It’s fun as hell, but in this sense (and this sense alone), Bunny is aware that she’s somehow fallen behind, and it makes her insecure and gives her reason to resent the girls. I want to see how what’s left of their surface relationship falls apart at the seams as they’re forced to confront more stressful matters around each other, and as Bunny’s true nature becomes more apparent, I want one of them to call her out on it. Because aside from Katarina, who mainly does it out of spite, I don’t think anyone’s ever told Bunny something that she might not want to hear, even if it happens to be for her own good—and I dread to think of how she might take it.

III. THE IMITATION GAME Bunny’s biography mentions that she has a penchant for forgery, which, frankly, is also no surprise given the emphasis she places on appearances. But that says a lot to me about Bunny’s strengths: not only does it reinforce her ability to pretend (and double as a microcosm of her personality), it means there’s an actual tangible use that comes from her eye for detail, which is super exciting for a number of reasons. This is prime ammunition for heists in the making! It’s time for the Caps to snatch some Montague valuables from right out from under their noses!! Not right away, of course; Bunny doesn’t share anything of her own accord, not even her talents. And nothing paints a funnier picture (literally) than a privileged white girl trying to navigate the shady underbelly of the black market herself, but you can bet she’d be damned if she didn’t try. Fortune favours the bold, and so I’d like to see her succeed and maybe even rope one or two people into her growing little business, particularly those with more savoir-faire in the area than she. But fortune is also fickle, and what I’d like even more is for it to eventually blow up in her face, for her to end up in hot water with powerful clientele, and for the Capulets to have to pull her out. (And if Katarina should be involved in this, even better. Let the sibling chaos ensue.) Because then, you see, Bunny owes the Capulets big time. Then, she has more reasons to do things for the mob—you can tell that right now, her heart just isn’t in it—and less of a need to prove her loyalty. And that’s when the fun can really begin.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? Yes! We’re told to kill our darlings, after all, but I’m banking on the fact that only the good die young.

In-Character Interview: The following questions must be answered in-character, and in para form (quotations, actions written out if applicable, etc). There is no minimum or maximum limit for your response - simply answer as you would if you were playing the character.

What is your favorite place in Verona?

Oh, thinks Bunny. She doesn’t bother trying to mask her delight. It’s a difficult question; with so many excellent answers, which should she tell him? Perhaps the Phoenix and the Turtle? It does have its own homely charm, she supposes, but as a lady, she is well-travelled, and the truth is that it simply can’t hold a flame to the grand old cafes in Paris (a good cafe au lait and pain au chocolat has always been preferable to an espresso, in her opinion). Or perhaps she should say their home? The Du Pont villa is nothing short of magnificent by anyone’s standards; Bunny has spent many a day inside on her favourite chaise longue with a Sidecar in one hand and Cicero in the other. But still no, she decides, and quite vehemently, at that. It’s too mundane to make a memorable answer.

“Favourite” is such a big commitment for a word, and Bunny considers it deploringly, like a child asked to pick a single toy from their treasure chest. Why choose one when you could have them all? That’s just it, she decides. She will not pick. She will have all of Verona, or she will have none of it. Bunny smiles at her interviewer, now satisfied. “Do you have children, Signore?” She asks him, making sure to do so shyly. He answers no—a little too quickly, a little too eagerly—and though she pretends not to notice, Bunny’s smile grows ever so slightly. “Well,” she continues, eyes wide, “when I am a parent someday, I should like to be a good one, and good parents love all their children equally well, do they not?” The interviewer agrees. It’s rather unfortunate that her parents don’t fit this syllogism of hers, but Bunny doesn’t blame them, of course. It’s different when the choice is so obvious.

What does your typical day look like?

“In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I’ll put on an ice pack while doing stretches. After I remove the ice pack, I use a deep cleansing pore lotion.” Bunny pauses to gage the man’s reaction, but her interviewer doesn’t interrupt. So she continues. “In the shower, I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face, an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply a herb mint facial mask, which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine.” The man finally cracks a smile. For a moment, Bunny thinks he understands, and she beams. That is, until he ruins it by asking if that’s the secret to having such perfect skin, because if it is, he ought to let his wife know.

Bunny flushes with anger. She can’t understand why he would interrupt her perfect charade with such a stupid question. First of all, her glowing skin is a culmination of the best Du Pont-Alescio genes; second of all, his poor wife is probably an old hag, which means that unless she bathes in the blood of virgins, she might as well submit to her fate of being ugly for the remainder of her life. She wonders if he knows how easy it would be to ruin him—for her to approach his wife alone, inconsolable and in tears—and it calms her enough to smile down at her feet, as if the pinkness in her cheeks comes from humbly accepting his compliment, rather than shirking him for his attempt. Realizing that her clever little reference is wasted on him, Bunny then switches over seamlessly. “And then I have dance practice.” Bastian and Eleonora had been all too happy to keep indulging a hobby they thought she’d truly shown interest in; what she’d really shown interest in, however, had been the studios themselves and their many mirrors.

“I always drop by the Phoenix and the Turtle on the way back, if only to say hello to the lovely Signora who manages the cafe.” Truthfully, Bunny’s never met a more insipid woman in her life. But she of all people understands the importance of building rapport, and in this case, it comes with free pastries and a cozy nook by the corner window (which she’s unofficially claimed as her own space). “If it’s a nice day, I might go for an afternoon picnic at the Twelfth Night garden with Juliana and Maeve.” On the odd occasion that she does, this is, without a doubt, her least favourite part of it—which is why she says it if it’s a Nice day, because if she doesn’t feel like playing Nice Bunny, weather unpermitting, then absolutely nothing makes it worth the company. And even if it is a Nice day, it’s still a Maybe, because Verona is small, but the male brain is smaller still, and Bunny supposes the lack of real estate in both means that somewhere along the line, they had to sacrifice creativity. A pity, really. She’s long since lost count of the number of times she’s let a boy take her there on a date, if only because she’d been bored enough to pluck at their heartstrings like a harp.

And when it isn’t a Nice day, the interviewer wants to know? Then she might seek out a certain gentleman caller, while making it known that she truly had nothing better to do. “Then I’m home before sundown,” Bunny yawns delicately instead, as if the mere thought of it brings her fatigue. There is an idea of Bernadette Du Pont, you see, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real Bunny. Only an entity, something illusory. Maybe that’s why she loves the pointless falsehoods of routine.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Bunny stills, suddenly very attentive, and wonders if this is a test. How was it that she’d accepted a hand to pull her back up, and that it had somehow dragged her down with it instead? Her lip trembles. It was the principle of the matter. Don Capulet had told her so himself, Regina Daly only waiting for him to say the word, and for the first time in her life, sitting there in his office, Bunny had been afraid. In that moment, she’d understood that there were some things from which her parents could no longer protect her. For so long, she’d been perfect. She’d set the bar high, and then higher still, until eventually she’d outdone even herself, and down she’d tumbled. It was fight or be sentenced, and so reluctantly, she’d fought, not with a gun or with her tears, but in one of the few ways she knew how: Don Capulet could deny her clemency, if that was what he wished, but he could not deny that she was truly her parents’ daughter.

Perhaps he’d changed his mind and now meant to first humiliate her. Was that what they wanted, she wondered? For her to beg forgiveness, to carve out her pyrite heart with the broken crown that came from old nursery rhymes? No, Bunny decides, casting those horrid thoughts aside. Taking that Montague boy’s hand had never been the mistake; the mistake had been thinking she was immune to making them. She’ll save her tears. They’re as precious as they come. She won’t apologize for putting herself first—not here, not now, not ever again. So Bunny sits up a little straighter. She lifts her chin and props it up on her elbows, putting on her best impression of a particular look she likes to call Bonjour, Tristesse. “Finding out how many calories are in the almond croissants at Phoenix and the Turtle,” Bunny says cheekily, her voice filled with a wistful regret. As if that had ever stood a chance at stopping her from eating them. The man laughs at this and agrees that their croissants are to die for, but Bunny can tell that he’s already writing her off as another vapid heiress. Hasn’t he ever seen what rabbits can do to a garden? This, she supposes, is the worst of her vices: not pride, nor greed, but a voracious appetite in all things bad for her.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

Bunny is all smiles again, pulling a golden heart-shaped necklace out from under her collar. The craftsmanship is absolutely exquisite for such a tiny piece of jewelry, and she knows it. Usually, she prefers to be more coy about who gave it to her—leaving it up to the imagination, she finds, is so much more en vogue—but she sacrifices her love for the air of mystery in exchange for the completeness of her story, which in some cases, can be equally as important. “My parents had this made in Tuscany for my eighteenth birthday,” she begins. Bunny turns the heart flat on her palm so that its apex faces the interviewer. At the bottom is a hole just big enough to fit a key. It’s a locket. “You can see the four chambers well enough, but it only fits the portrait of one person inside.” She has always made sure to phrase it exactly the same—that way, it prompts people to ask her whom she holds closest to her heart. It’s worked every single time but one, and the interviewer, of course, is not that exception. Some people guess her father; others her mother; others still guess Katarina, of all people, and Katarina, snorting, had guessed that she put herself (the closest guess by far, as Bunny had indeed briefly considered it).

“Both of them are bankers,” she says, as if a single person in Verona doesn’t know who her parents are. “And Maman has always said that secrets are as good a currency as any other.” Bunny pauses for dramatic effect and lowers her eyes; withholding information has never been more enjoyable. “I’m sure you of all people, Signore, should understand that I do not give them away freely.” The interviewer smiles and closes her fingers back around the necklace, clearly charmed by her answer. Bunny remembers Cyrus with his head in her lap on a dreadfully sunny Sunday afternoon, reaching up unprompted to examine her mechanical heart. Although she’d delivered the exact same spiel, he’d said nothing until she’d grown impatient and asked if he didn’t want to know. “I’d wager you put nothing in there,” Cyrus had mused finally, tugging on the chain to pull her closer—just close enough to see the smugness in his eyes. “Am I right, darling Bunny?” She’d swatted him away crossly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bunny had said, her mood now soured. She would die before granting him the satisfaction of knowing that for once, he had been right.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

The sunlight streams through the curtains, hitting the windowpane at an angle that almost feels like a spotlight. Her thoughts? Bunny wears her allegiance like a pageant sash, and she’s long since tired of this flimsy title she hasn’t earned. Some boring old man said once that there was no avoiding war. But she’s distracted, and can’t quite remember which of them had said it—not all of them are old, but all of them are men, and most of them are boring, so who can blame her, really? Her thoughts, thinks Bunny with a callous satisfaction, would shock this man into cardiac arrest. But the show must go on, and so Bunny Du Pont, ever an advocate of the people, folds one leg over the other and schools her features into the perfect combination of innocence and remorse, intent on giving him exactly just that. If the interviewer has any remaining doubts, then this should throw him off her trail for good. “It’s awful,” Bunny says softly. Her breath catches in her throat. This much, she doesn’t have to fake: it’s so bland of a statement that she almost chokes on it (at the very least, it’s on brand with that terrible video). It’s not that Bunny doesn’t find the war quite awful; just that she finds it awfully tedious. Sure, the violence had been somewhat exciting at first, but her amusement for even that has already worn thin, fading with the shine of all things new. The burden of responsibility, on the other hand, has not. Bunny chews on her lower lip, her eyes already dewy, but not quite for the reason he thinks. Still, she decides to give the poor man one last chance. “I don’t suppose you have a penny, Signore?” The interviewer does not. Bunny pouts. Ah, well. World peace it is.

In-Character Para Sample: (tw; suicide)

JAMES DEAN AND THE (FRENCH-)ITALIAN DREAM STARRING THREE-TIME IMAGINARY AWARD NOMINEE, BUNNY DU PONT*

Lately, Bunny’s been having the same dream.

She’s sitting in the second dining room of the Du Pont family villa (the one her parents normally reserve for their important guests), still clad in her silk pajamas and about to reach for a strawberry meringue, when suddenly, over the tiers of cupcakes and chocolate fountains and swan-shaped fruit centerpieces, she notices an incredibly calm (and almost certainly dead) young man in a red jacket and jeans slouched at the other end of the table.

The first time it happens, she almost topples forward into the custard pudding.

“Hello, Bunny,” says the American movie star. He looks as if he could have walked straight out of his poster last month at the Rivoli, and Bunny wrinkles her nose, as if by refusing to acknowledge his presence, he’ll get the message and walk straight back (he doesn’t, of course; to think she would have learned by now). He’s got some nerve to be smoking a cigarette in the comfort of her very own home, especially when he comes unwelcome and uninvited.

“Put that out, please,” Bunny sniffs. The please is ornamental—let it be known that Bunny Du Pont was raised with nothing less than impeccable manners—but she only deems it fit to address him once it becomes apparent that he isn’t going anywhere. Movie star or not, there are no exceptions. Bunny Du Pont doesn’t dream about boys, not even for James Dean. Quite the contrary, in fact; they dream about her. If there’s one place she can afford to be candid, it’s in the safety of her own conscience, or a lack thereof, and so a triumphant little smirk settles on her face, her cheeks going rosy with pride.

“So the dead do dream, then?” James muses. Bunny startles, unaware that she spoke out loud. Then she remembers that here, of all places, she doesn’t have to, and sneers at him sweetly.

“Well, you would know better than I, wouldn’t you?”

He shrugs, unperturbed. “So would Roger O’Hara, I reckon.”

The name of the mild-mannered boy who’d helped her through school wipes the sneer right off her face. Sweet, poor Roger O’Hara had been the smartest boy in her class. Then he’d gone back to America for school overseas and ended his life a month after. It didn’t take, they’d said, but what exactly didn’t take wasn’t altogether too clear. What was clear, thought Bunny, was that it was incredibly rude to imply that she was responsible for his mental state of being, just because she’d coerced him into becoming second-smartest—

“What’d he like to call you again? Jenny?”

It had been a running joke between the two of them: the Hare and the Bunny, Roger and—

“Jessica,” Bunny says, reluctant.

His annoyingly perfect brow furrows.

“Right,” James says finally, taking another puff of his cigarette. “See, that was after my time.”

“Oh, don’t be pretentious,” Bunny frowns. She throws a grape at his head to emphasize her disapproval, and yet can’t help admiring his (or would it be considered hers?) dedication to character. James—er, Not-James—is only herself, after all. How else would they be able to understand each other? He knows everything she does.

“And a little more,” Not-James tacks on helpfully. Bunny glares.

Why couldn’t it have been Donatella or Mademoiselle Bardot?

The fourth time he shows up, Bunny decides to try a different tactic.

“You know,” says Bunny, with far too casual of an air to be up to any good, “that car crash was probably the best thing that could have ever happened to you.”

She peeks at him over her cuticles. Not-James watches her, eyebrows raised, gaze steady. He doesn’t take the bait. Well, she decides petulantly, that’s all fine and good. She doesn’t need him to egg her on anymore: she’s already so far into her bratty little whirlwind of a tantrum that she might as well commit. Everybody only loves him because he’s tragically and woefully dead, anyway, so the sooner he knows the truth, the better.

“If you were alive,” Bunny says matter-of-factly, “you would have just grown old and become a washed-up has-been.”

Like the rest of us will, she leaves out.

Not-James stubs out his cigarette. Bunny stares at him defiantly, eyes glittering, her hands bunched into fists, and for a second, victory tastes sweeter than anything in front of her. But then he stalks over, crosses the table in less than five strides, and knocks her chair over so swiftly that she can’t help but let out a rather unladylike shriek, flailing helplessly as James Dean sweeps her off her feet. The world slides forward, her chair tips backward, and Bernadette Du Pont finds herself falling almost all too suddenly, sinking down through her family’s treasured antique ceramic tiles and into a rabbit hole of darkness with no end in sight.

“Self-pity ain’t a good look on you, Bunny,” the so-called man of her dreams calls down from above. “See you on the other side.”

When she sits up in bed, she’s shaking. Not out of fear—okay, maybe slightly out of fear, but mostly out of fury—and she pushes her sleeping mask off in a frantic sort of frenzy, well aware that if anyone could see her right now, they’d be laughing at the sight of such a tiny girl, trembling with more anger than her body could ever hope to hold.

See you on the other side, he’d said ominously. Bunny fumes. It’s insulting in every possible sense of the word, no matter whether he meant the world of the living, the dead, the awake, or the has-beens. Self-pity? Bah humbug! She’ll show him the other side. Bunny goes to sleep that night on ten milligrams of Niotal, and when she wakes up the morning after having slept like a baby, she preens in contentment at her own cleverness—that is, until she sits up. Not-James is lounging casually in her armchair, flipping through a newspaper printed from the day he died.

“Don’t you dare Adele me,” Bunny warns, cutting him off before he has the chance to ask who that is.

She flops back down onto her bed and stares at the ceiling.

Well, fudge.

LA FIN

*Note: no Bunnies were harmed in the making of this production.

Extras:

Character inspirations: Veruca Salt and Marisa Coulter are the big ones; also Florence Pugh’s young Amy March, Amma Crellin, Margaery Tyrell, and the Princess from The Swineherd

((I just want to say that I got more carried away with this than I expected!! So thank you for taking the time to go through this, especially if you made it to the end! :) ))

#accepted #accepted: bianca

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