#his story is far more about being doomed from the start and being stripped of agency to me. his final choice is not a real choice- | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

purplelupins · 11 months

Text

A Pretty Butterfly

|The Watchmen|

Rorschach x fem!reader

Summery: Watching a stranger from your windows quickly turned into a human connection you craved. You just wanted to help this strange man who walked past your home everyday…but it seemed you got more than you had bargained for.

Warnings: SLOW BURN, violence, mentions of rape and assault, age-gap (reader is mid -late 20’s and Rorschach is 45) smut, dub-con, fingering, obsession, stalking, anxiety, Rorschach being a tit, pessimistic thoughts, self-sabotage, sunshine and grumpy old man dynamic

Word count: 13.8k words

MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE YOU WILL BE BLOCKED IF YOU DO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DONT READ THIS

Notes: In the film, they claim Rorschach is 35, but the comic has him at 45 so I went with that instead. a special thanks to my buddy @mandowifey for sending me down this rabbit hole and helping me out with my scatter brain🤍

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You didn’t mean to stare.

That was a lie.

…a half lie.

You liked to watch, but you didn’t mean to latch onto one face in particular when you peered out of your window. You never really had before; perhaps the odd flamboyantly dressed hooker or someone with outrageously done hair, but you couldn’t say you had ever taken notice of someone who seemed so inconsequential.

It was his red hair that made you look twice, at first.

From your little window, above a small tea shop that was run by a family who smelled of jasmine, you first saw that little man who wandered the streets of New York with his picket sign.

“The end is nigh” it said.

The first time you saw it, it made you laugh a little. So pessimistic. You wondered why he felt the need to forecast such a statement to the city. Was the end all he could see? Was there no good in his eyes?

Silly, you thought, to busy yourself with a stranger’s story that you had fabricated entirely in your mind.

But then the second time you saw him, those words made you think.

Perhaps it was close- the end, that is. The more and more that chauvinistic Dooms Day Clock ticked, the more you started to believe that man.

It was inevitable.

Perhaps it was close, too.

You wondered if he was unstable- mentally or otherwise. Wandering the streets when he should have been getting help. But the more you watched, the more you realised about him and his meandering walk; never once did you see him lash out or scream like you had seen so many times from those who injected and snorted and drank any substance they could get their hands on.

You watched him for months- accidental at first, then you found yourself checking outside your window to see if he was there. It was as if he was your own personal dooms-day clock- each time you saw him it was a tick. Somehow you found him far more comforting than the Armageddon timepiece the government kept.

Then you got tired of walking from your desk to the window, and moved it up against the glass. You told yourself there was no harm in thoughtfully gazing at someone…you weren’t harming him or yourself. You liked to pretend you were friends…though you knew he wasn’t even aware of your existence. You bet he had a million odd stories of the world around him- he looked far older than you. Older and harsher.

Then came the day that changed your private little relationship.

The day he stared back.

It had scared you half to death when you had been watching him in your usual daze- silly smile on your face and chin in your palm- and he had paused. He had looked down the street, stopped, then snapped his head up to look you in the eye. He was 25 feet below you yet he saw you so clearly and you felt stripped bare.

You had nearly fallen out of your chair to scramble away from the window; goosebumps had sprung up on your arms and your feet had pins and needles in them. Your heart had leapt into your throat and pounded furiously. It had taken you 10 minutes to finally inch back to the window. To your relief, he was no longer there, but then distress began to set in as you wondered if you had scared him off. He didn’t exactly look blessed with monetary abundance, and you doubted he appreciated a strange woman staring down at him.

The next day, you thought he might not pass your street; having a stranger watch him was likely not on his to-do list and there were hundreds of streets for him to march down instead of yours.

However, even though you agreed with this likelihood of him not coming back, you found yourself unable to complete any work until noon. A call from your employer was the only thing that snapped you out of your reverie, and even then, you could barely focus on your work.

Your knee bounced as you did your best to prioritize, and almost got lost in the work in front of you until out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flicker of red. It was embarrassing how fast you looked down, not that you truly cared.

Your heart jolted. He was there. You didn’t scare him off.

Then, he looked up again.

This time, you didn’t run. You held your ground…and even managed a little wave.

He didn’t wave back, and you even wondered if he saw it.

He only readjusted his sign over his shoulder and kept walking.

What an odd man.

Though you supposed you were just as odd to show such an interest in him.

Perhaps a little perverse…

You blanched at the thought; hoping to god that he didn’t think that.

While making dinner, a thought struck you. You made just a little extra food, and saved it in a container, even writing a note for yourself to not forget to give it to that strange man. You knew it was silly, and forward - truly very unlike you- but in a city where it was next to impossible to make any selfless human connection…you didn’t want this to go to waste. Even if he told you to piss off, at least you could sleep at night knowing you tried.

So you waited.

You truly hoped against hope that your wish to show compassion wouldn’t be seen as anything but what it was…though a part of you began to think you were practically asking for trouble or misinterpretation. The longer you sat the more nonsensical you felt as your knee bounced twice the speed of your heart beat.

It was almost 10 am when he came into your view, only this time it was as if he materialised out of nowhere instead of the slow walk from your right to your left.

You didn’t even wait to see if he would look up.

You didn’t let yourself think.

You dashed to your door, food in hand, and tore down the stairs to the small gate separating your home’s entrance from the figures trudging past. You opened it and stepped out onto the street, trying not to get stepped on by passers-by as you looked for him. To your luck, he was only ten feet down from your building, and before you could stop yourself, you quickened your pace to catch up.

“E-excuse me! Sir?” You called softly once you were behind him. The man came to a slow stop and turned- a stoic look on his face.

Now that this man was in front of you and was giving you his very real attention, you felt your lungs cease their function for a few seconds, no words forming in your mouth either.

He was handsome…in a strange sort of way.

He looked…jagged, and guarded.

Thin, short, and tired…but by god you couldn’t look away. Not until you realized you were staring again.

Simple and to the point.

You looked down at the container of food in your hands that was still warm.

“I’m- I apologise…I wanted you to have this…it’s getting cold.” You said, holding out the food to him.

Most impersonal act of kindness in recorded history, well done.

You returned your eyes to his face, and found him looking right back at you. Neither angry nor kind. He simply looked…beaten. Tired of his life…tired of the world…you didn’t know for certain. But you understood.

Somehow.

“I’m-…I’m sorry for staring. And I hope you’re not allergic to anything…um, there’s a fork in there, you can keep it, good to have, you know?” You knew you were rambling, and very aware that he hadn’t looked away from you once. You fought to hold his gaze, but admittedly it was an intimidating stare.

He turned to walk away, and you felt panic fill you.

“Please take it.” You tried again, but he didn’t say a word.

He silently left you standing there, and you felt like New York’s biggest idiot.

It was the rambling…defiantly the rambling. Oh maybe it was the act itself I mean he probably isn’t used to having that kind of- okay now that’s a bit of an over-assumption…he might have lots of people offering him kindness…and now you’re the one standing on the street staring at a lamppost.

…pull yourself together.

You watched him disappear, just like your pride; whatever had been left of it. Your shoulders began to sag as defeat settled into you and turned your tongue sour.

Which was why you decided to do the exact same thing again the next day.

You waited. Perfectly ready to not see him after that embarrassing display yesterday…but sure enough, there he was.

You noted that he did not not look up today, not that you blamed him.

You were out the door before you could dissuade yourself.

“Mister!” You called.

He didn’t turn this time.

You repeated yourself a little more clearly. “Mister!”

He kept walking. And somehow every time you almost caught up to him, he would slip out of your grasp.

You could only continue like that so far down the street, and eventually had to give up. He was stubborn…and you could be too. You didn’t know this man’s story, and if he didn’t see himself as good enough to receive kindness, then you could continue until he did understand…or until he called the police on you for harassment.

So you did it again. And again.

You told yourself you would try two more times and if he didn’t take them…that would be that. You would have to move on.

You made a rich stew, and even put a few pieces of bread in a bag for him. You steeled your shot nerves, and began to walk down to your entrance before even seeing him.

You saw him coming from a few blocks away, and very slowly made your way into his path. He gradually took in your form, but didn’t pause or even stop. Not until he was a foot from you. But you held your ground.

“Look…I’m not…I don’t know why you won’t let me help you, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get some gold star or have you boost my ego by being thankful…I just want to show you kindness and if that’s too much for yo-“

He held his hand out to you, palm up. He didn’t look away, and blinked slowly.

You might not have been the best at reading every person you met, but his message was obvious. “If I take it will you leave me alone?”

You grinned timidly, and placed the food in his hand gently. “Keep the container…they’re good to have.” You said under your breath almost out of habit- it had been something your mother did and now you found yourself doing.

He took it without another word, and you felt a pleasant heat bloom in your chest.

The next day, you childishly watched for him again- as if he was your Santa Clause or Tooth Fairy…although he looked like he might knock someone’s teeth out rather than give them a couple coins for them.

You made a soup that would fill him up and picked up an extra loaf of bread to give him. Both sat on your lap as you sat on your stoop, ready for him. You kept telling yourself you just wanted to help out a lonely soul like yourself, and that you weren’t developing a juvenile crush on the man who hadn’t even spoken to you.

You leaned out periodically to see if you could see him, and found yourself readying your nerves to confront him again.

You sighed and went to lean out again, only to freeze rigidly.

“M-morning-“ you squeaked.

The very man you were waiting for was standing just feet from you, staring, and his free hand in his pocket. As if he had come up from the gutters themselves.

You hadn’t prepared for this kind of sudden interaction, and found yourself mentally throttling your brain to do something.

Anything.

It seemed however that whatever god was above you decided to take mercy on you for once, and the man reached out his hand just as he had the day previously.

You wordlessly handed the food to him then remembered the bread. “Oh! This um is for you too…it’s fresh.” You added, pretending like your cheeks weren’t warm and your hands weren’t shaking.

You smiled gently, but it faded fast when you notices a small group of seedy men approaching the two of you. You didn’t like to instantly label people, but this particular flock of men were well known in the area…you had watched them many a time from the safety of your window.

You instantly began to shrink in on yourself, and it seemed your change in demeanour was enough to catch the older man’s attention. He followed your stare behind him, and his nose momentarily scrunched up in a displeased snarl. A mere twitch.

Vermin.

Rorschach felt something ugly build in him. He knew their faces well…rape, theft, assault, vandalism. These men were true scum under his boot…he hated that he couldn’t put them in their place without his face.

“Hey-yo mammi lookin good!”

“Hey you wanna lift that skirt a little more?”

“Whatcha doin with the little rat, hm?”

You could feel your heart rate pick up as they got closer, and you hoped that they didn’t realize you lived in that building. You wished you didn’t feel so small but-

The older man handed the food back to you without even looking. It was enough to bring you back to reality, and you took it quickly- the last thing you wanted was to antagonise him. Then he turned his body fully to the approaching group, and he waited patiently.

Your heart stopped. Was he about to-

He didn’t move from his stance in front of you, and he almost looked bored. Inconvenienced.

“The fuck you gonna do weasel?” One of them sneered.

That’s not very nice-

They’re not nice PEOPLE

You watched, terrified, as they got into his face and towered over him. The last thing you wanted was for him to get beaten for just being near you-

“What’s your fucking problem huh? Just gonna stare at us with those freak eyes cuz you can’t fight?” Another taunted, guffawing.

You winced, and your eyes unfocused…just like they used to-

But then, something in the men changed like a light switch. With his back to you and now a few feet away, you couldn’t tell if the man had said something, or done something, but what you did know was that the skinniest of the group was clapping the biggest on the shoulder and telling him “The little rat ain’t worth the trouble.” But there was an urgency in him what wasn’t there before.

The men huffed and some blew kisses at you which made you wrap your sweater tighter around yourself wishing you could disappear. Your eyes refocused as you heard them walk away, and you slowly looked over at the older man who was now half turning back to you.

You stared at him, your appreciation evident on you face. “I- Thank you sir…I don’t…” Don’t want to think of what might have happened if you weren’t here, you wanted to say, but you kept it simple instead. You sighed and shook your head, then held out your offering to him, and the bread you were sure he would like.

The man stared, and rose his right brow slightly, then took both from you. He turned and left you there as if it was a normal day.

Your heart was still beating wildly by the time he had left your sight, and you couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread through you as you thought about him defending you; even if it was simply him not in the mood to witness a young woman have her dignity taken…he had done something, and that made you stare after him longer than usual.

You didn’t ask why he came back at all.

Nor why he was right by your stoop that morning.

And you never inquired as to why he never asked why you didn’t give him money.

He knew why you didn’t. Perhaps not enough to make a full admission to himself but he sensed something in you…that stupid little girl. You didn’t give him money because money was too easy to fall into sin. Gambling, drugs, whores…all for money.

You wanted your kindness to stay as it was intended to be- good.

The warmth you had felt stewed in your stomach right through to the next day; you had made your way to your favourite shops early that morning and picked up a few bags of things to cook with. Then as you went to turn to your building, you paused.

You knew that red hair a mile away, and you only needed to look a few feet to see it resting against your stoop entrance.

He-

You looked around at nothing as if someone might tell you what you were seeing.

He was sat there on your building’s steps, newspaper in hand…reading. You considered continuing walking down the street and pretending like you didn’t see him or live there, but you felt silly even considering such a thing.

He didnt look up at you, and didn’t acknowledge you as you slowly approached the steps.

“Morning.” You said gently. Your cheeks began to flush when you looked at him- attempting to retrieve your keys from your pocket without tripping. It came out almost absentmindedly, seeing as you didn’t exactly want him to know that you had been fixated on how to approach him…although you supposed you had already had blown that when you watched for him every day and chased him with food…

He didn’t say a word.

An anxious knot began to tighten in your stomach. You truly didn’t know what to do…you didn’t want to seem rude if he just hadn’t heard you. You got to the first step and glanced down at your hot coffee. You wondered if he was able to speak at all…At this point, when you figured you were mostly talking to yourself and that he likely barely listened to a word you said.

“You need this more than I do…it’s September now…getting cold.” You bent down, hoping your paper bags didn’t rip, and placed it onto the second step by his boot.

You wanted to ask him why he was on your steps; wondered if he was waiting for you; wondered if he might clasp a hand over your mouth and slit your throat the moment you walked past him. It wasn’t that you wanted to think the worst, but after years of seeing the worst in the city, you couldn’t help it. You hoped that you were wrong, for you sanity’s sake.

The man still hadn’t acknowledged you, and your arms were growing heavy. With nothing left to do, you opted to walk past him and unlocked the door; chancing a glance back at his form. Perhaps you were delusional, but you swore you saw his head turning back to its original position. Had his gaze followed you?

A glance.

It was small and secret and you were elated.

You wasted no time in running up the stairs into your apartment, and grabbing the food you had saved from the night before. You counted the seconds mentally that it took for you to descend the stairs again, hoping it wouldn’t be enough time for the man to disappear.

You nearly tripped on the last step when you saw him standing and folding the newspaper. In another attempt to regain your composure, you slowed your pace as you came to the top of the stoop. You almost handed the food to him from there, but it made you feel like someone with a saviour complex instead of just trying to be nice. The tentative step you took down to his level seemed to finally grasp his vague attention as he looked down at your feet then up to your face.

You held the food out by his gloved hand.

“I hope you’re okay, mister.” You said earnestly, holding his gaze, “It’s horrible out there.” You didn’t know what made you say that, but it had been something that weighed on your mind for months…perhaps years. A dormant thought that his picket sign had awakened.

The man took the food, and it was then that you noted a certain despondency in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way his weathered face made them stand out so much more amongst the lines of age.

He left you there again just like he always did: silently.

Just as you were about to wander back up into your home, you glanced down and stopped and smiled.

There sat the coffee cup you had handed him.

It was empty.

Perhaps he was accepting your gestures in hopes of having you eventually leave him alone, but you were only fuelled by his recipiency. It became a routine for you to keep extra food for that man. Even if you ordered take-out, you kept some for him.

You noticed, however, that not long after you made contact with the strange man, a few things started happening to you that certainly had not before. In fact, you were beginning to ponder your sleep quality as you often woke up to far less food than when you had gone to sleep. Were you sleep walking? Or simply forgetting all together how much you had eaten?

Then came the dreams. At least a few times out of the week, your dream-addled mind swirled with unclear images of someone or something visiting you at night- a shadow, a whisper, a puff of smoke in the wind. You swore you woke up with things moved, but there was no forced entry that you could find, and thus you never thought more of it than you needing more sleep.

Weeks passed as you took it upon yourself to care for this man, even though he seemed to dislike the company. You knew he found you childish, it was beyond evident in his face when he stared at you. But even still, he took what you offered him, albeit begrudgingly.

Each time you saw him, a part of your heart felt bruised. Not that you pitied him -you were certain he would resent any pity- but you could tell when a person was damaged. Be it from something personal or the world itself…it didn’t matter. You were all hurt in your own way. You wondered how long it had been since someone was kind to him; had he known much kindness at all? Had he lost everything? Did he have anything to lose in the first place?

You hoped you could provide him with a tiny little ray of hope amongst the arduous reality.

Perhaps you were too optimistic like your mother had said when you were little…but you didn’t care. Not when it helped you sleep at night and get through the days of listening to the dwindling city below you.

But then, he stopped coming.

It had been a full month and a half since he had first accepted your offering. You had gotten so used to your routine that the first morning it happened, you felt sick- like a punch to your gut. You heart had dropped to your toes and your tongue felt heavy and your ears rang. You instantly thought the worst. Of course you tried to rationalise it, telling yourself that he most likely just wanted a change in his route and would be gone for that day…or perhaps he simply got sick and didn’t go for his usual walk.

When you sat there at your window, having gone back up dejectedly, you found yourself staring into nothingness. You hadn’t realized how attached you had become to that little man.

This man who never spoke had become a friend of sorts…some kind of stanger who gave you a tiny bit of human contact that you grew dependant on. It wasn’t as if he was kind to you, in fact he was a little standoffish when it came to you…you wondered if you bothered him more than anything else…and the more you thought about it the more you realized you probably did.

That night came and went; quiet and lonely aside from those strange dreams. Your eyes prickled when you awoke- already feeling empty.

You felt so silly. So selfish. Ridiculous really.

You felt even more ridiculous when you called in sick to work even though you couldn’t afford it. You found yourself wandering the streets without the slightest idea where that man came from or what his routine was, so you picked some directions to try and set off. There was no plan, you just needed to know that the one person you actually cared about wasn’t laying dead in an alley, at the very least.

It took three hours.

Three.

Asking various vendors and urchins of the streets before you were pointed in the direction that ultimately led you to that tuft of dirty red hair. He was passing by a news stand, that simple pace carrying him as always.

“Mister!” You called before you could tell yourself this was stalking…and the fact that you had no plan whatsoever.

The only indication that he heard you was when the man’s steps faltered for a moment. A slight pause in his foot and a tightening of his shoulders.

You ran to him, and moved into his field of vision. He stared at you almost like a stranger, and that stung you more than it should have. But you did your best to remain calm and kind.

“I haven’t- you-“ you tried, but failed to catch your breath, “I thought something had happened to you…but I’m so glad to see you safe. Can I- can I buy you lunch?” You asked him.

The man stared at you hard, that line between his brows even more pronounced than usual. He was thinking.

Rorschach loathed how bare he was without his face. If he wasn’t in disguise he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you to take your pity elsewhere, anything to get you to unstick yourself from him.

When he didn’t budge, you shifted on your feet, looking around to break his intense eye contact, “I- you dont have to repay me or anything…just a bite to eat. I care about you…- more than I should probably.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You almost jumped at the voice that left him.

That was the first time he had said a word to you, and you admittedly never would have thought that that would be his voice- it was so deep and hoarse that you shivered.

Then you realised what he had said.

“I sh-…why?” You asked, scrunching your brows together.

He hated his weakness in finally speaking. You would never let go now.

“People like you don’t care about people like me, and vice versa.” His words came in a rumble, and they tore you down so easily. A stomp to your heart.

You tried to pretend like tears weren’t welling in your eyes; like you were stronger than the curt, sharp words of a man you barely knew. “And what kind of people are my people?” You pushed, though it sounded more desperate than you wanted.

His face was pure stone. “Good people.”

You swallowed. “And you’re bad?” The question was timid; any wind that had been in your sails was long gone as soon as he had opened his mouth.

“Yes.” He rasped. Rorschach didn’t have the patience to baby you, and frankly his temper was rising the more you made him speak.

“Call me naive…but you don’t seem bad to me…you look…worn down.” You shrugged. “You seem like you need a little good in your life…and I really want to help you with that-“

“No you don’t.”

He said it so quickly it was as if he had practiced it or said it before. You wondered how many times he had gotten hurt.

As you searched for any retort, he continued, and began to stalk towards you causing you to back away. “You don’t want to help with anything. What you want is to feel a little less self absorbed than you already do but in doing so you only fall further into your pathetic, egocentric existence. You think you’re being compassionate? Look again. You’re nothing but a privileged little girl looking for a new toy until she gets bored and wants another one. Look in the mirror for once and see what you really are, you wretch.”

His words rang in your ears, and you felt lightheaded. He stared you down a moment longer, then he was turning around and disappeared into the crowd before you could find a rebuttal or feel your hands. You were numb.

Your heart ached as much as your feet did, if not more.

No…certainly more. You felt nauseated.

It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on you from the top of one of the skyscrapers above you. You felt cold and breathless.

You didn’t remember walking home, but you must have seeing as you were sitting on your couch, coat off and tears dry by 6 pm.

You never thought he cared that much; thought he just saw you as a free meal and you were alright with that…but hearing what he had thought of you all along made you want to double over at your stupidity.

Had he been obvious in his distain and you just hadn’t noticed? You supposed it had been you who forced him to take your food in the first place…he had tried to get away from you but never could because you were so persistent. You were selfish in your want to help, and it had angered him terribly.

And you had lied to yourself; you had told yourself that if he told you to piss off, you would just have to accept that…but here you were with him telling you just that and you couldn’t handle it.

You should have known it was only a matter of time before you pushed this stranger too far…

He was like a wild dog; he would respect you…and then he wouldn’t.

And now you felt even worse for comparing him to a dog.

You hung your head in your hands and let your tears fall. In your want to help someone you had only made an enemy, and made yourself feel more alone than ever.

But that one morning still played over and over if your mind- when he hadn’t let that gang of men get any closer to you; he could have so easily just taken the food and walked away to leave you to their mercy…but he had stood his ground.

Your head ached as you tried to rationalise everything and piece it together.

But all you could come up with was that he thought you were a horrible person…and you were starting to believe him. You supposed you were nothing more than a caterer for him and you had pushed his boundaries too much.

It was all your fault.

A week passed. Every night, you still made the extra food for him, only now you left it out on the stoop since you didn’t see him anymore; hoping he might wander by when you weren’t looking. But you felt your heart ache when it was untouched. On more than one occasion the food was taken, but you assumed it wasn’t your…friend.

Of course, you had no idea that the very man you urned for sat beside those containers almost every night for at least an hour without his face. He never touched what you left for him, and he stared at it in distain. You were young, and you were stupid. He gathered he couldn’t even call you a whore yet…hell you almost had a pretentious halo around you from being born still. He wondered how it felt to be so utterly ignorant.

Rorschach hated that he knew more about you than you thought. That he had taken up the habit of perching on your fire escape outside your window as he wrote in his journal, and you cooked or read.

What he didn’t know was why you did this. Rorschach was a master of puzzles and he loathed that he couldn’t figure your motive out, not fully at least.

You said you cared.

Said you wanted to help…

Stupid.

There was no way in hell that anything you said was true. There was some kind of poison lacing your words and he had already let himself be exposed too long. No one liked Walter Kovacs, and no one liked Rorschach; they used him and worked with him…but like?

No.

A young woman liking him?

Unheard of.

Preposterous.

But that first day you had come to him on that filthy street had felt like an itch had been scratched. For months he had felt eyes on him on that particular stretch of street, but when he had finally spotted you upon your little perch, he felt what it was like to have a question answered for once. It had startled him. You had startled him. He had imagined it was an old, fat creep spying on the passers-by or a whore looking for a client…just like her…

But then there you were- this soft young woman with clean clothes and a gentle stare; you had almost fallen out of your seat, red cheeks visible even from his view point below.

Just another strange woman then.

Then…and only then when you had burst out onto the street, and run after him did he allow himself to look at you. Actually look at you.

You had looked irritatingly familiar.

There was a timidness to your eyes- a sadness that had turned to kindness. A stark contrast to the sadness in his own eyes- a sadness that had turned to venom and ice long ago.

Your voice was soft as you spoke all in a rush and apologising as you held that peace offering to him. A warm meal.

Selfless.

You were young, and selfless.

You didn’t care that he was as filthy as the street you stood on. That he hadn’t even spoken a word.

You had just wanted to help.

Stupid.

Rorschach was pleased that he had chosen to leave you there; he wasn’t one to pick up strays.

But you were stubborn. He loathed how stubborn you were. Treating him like he was a bug under your microscope.

That next time when he finally took your selfish, presumptuous offering, he considered not eating the food lest it be poisoned, but then again that wouldn’t be the worst thing he had endured in his lifetime.

He had watched you retreat back into your little home like some little, pathetic mouse.

He wasn’t young, or stupid, or naive, or innocent.

He wasn’t about let his gaze wander to some girl who would be a whore in a year or two.

At least that was what he had told himself up until night fell. Once the city was plunged into darkness and his disguise came off, Rorschach clenched his bloodied knuckles as he scaled a near-by building. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop until he came to a familiar neighbourhood. Rorschach had huffed behind his mask, and crawled down the ladder system to your window; a sick, juvenile curiosity making him feeble. Contempt flooded him.

He sat outside your window…watched you as you put yourself to sleep; tugging frustratedly at your night-dress when it bunched up under your blanket. There was an innocence to you that made his nostrils flare under his mask and his ears ring; as if an old memory was trying to resurface. It was ludicrous, of course.

Your window had opened surprisingly quietly, and he soundlessly eased himself inside. Your home was simple and comfortable despite likely having a landlord who didn’t give two shits about you. Tidy enough for a young woman. Rorschach stalked from shadow to shadow, mapping out the apartment. Then he came to your bedroom, and he paused; watched how gently you breathed as sleep took you. As if you didn’t have a care in the world, or perhaps you simply weren’t aware of the scum that lay below you.

He told himself he was just collecting information on this strange person who had extended him a disingenuous olive branch. Nothing more.

It wasn’t that there was an itch in his hands when he saw you, or a twitch in his eye when he heard your voice; that you got under his skin.

You little creature.

A little light that had turned on in his dark world.

He hated the light.

He stared at the dress that you had worn that day- draped over the back of a chair in the corner of your room. It had sat at your knee, a modest length especially given your young age. It wasn’t often that a young woman attempted to protect herself with a show of dignity. He gathered you must be hiding something…

You were odd. A sliver of grey in his black and white world.

He hated grey. It made no sense.

Then there was the routine that you forced him to partake in.

He found his steps slowing when he passed your building- not out of expectation but out of a foolishness that made him engage in the childish game you laid out.

Your presence ate away at him like a corrosive acid.

Each day he expected you to not be there. To disappoint him like everyone else.

But you never disappointed him, and he loathed it.

There was twice where he had made it past your building with no sign of you, and he had decided that the game was done and he could carry on with his existence, but then that frantic little voice of yours would make him stop. Calling after him like he was so important. Like you needed to give him your kindness as much as you assumed he needed to receive it.

Then he found himself slipping.

So stupid.

Putting off jobs or rerouting himself to pass your window. Just a glimpse- a reassurance that you were alright like double checking that you have your wallet when you leave the house.

Then it wasn’t enough. He began to sleep there on your stoop, picket sign beside him like an old friend. He didn’t care if he saw you in the mornings, but he saw the type of people who frequented the area and he wasn’t about to let a single one get past your door. He didn’t need the blood of a foolish woman on his hands as well.

The image of your bloodied, violated limp body made his stomach churn; just like it had when he found Blair Roche’s remains. And that was what scared him- or the closest thing he could feel to fear.

He held this pristine little being in his pale hand, and he knew that the longer he held it, the more likely it became that he would ruin it. Crush you in his palm just like that man had done to that little girl all those years ago…taking Walter Kovacs with him.

And he would not drag you down with him. He would not stoop to that monster’s level.

So he stopped showing you his disguise. He couldn’t have you know he was there, just like the rest of New York. He needed you to forget about him; treat him like a ghost you saw out of the corner of your eye.

When he was across the city that morning and still heard your voice behind him, he had felt his muscles tighten in distain.

Because then it wasn’t a game anymore. He was done.

But you were so insistent that you cared.

You truly cared.

You had spent god knows how long looking for him.

As soon as he had heard you, he had to steel his composure lest you attempt to lure him back into your scheme.

He hated that you had gotten him to speak, but he had watched you crumble under his words; it was alright that you were upset. He could handle that far easier than your kindness- perhaps you might even grow from a little cruelty.

Weeks passed, and he found himself returning to his usual schedule; almost appreciating the simplicity of the dullness and angst.

It was a Tuesday night when Rorschach sat on an old roof top, jotting down his visit to Daniel Dreiberg’s home- noting that he had gotten even lazier with his physique and needed to stop lying to himself about the state of the world. The odd scream and rushed fuck in an alley-way rang out below him here and there; the usual.

Dull, really. He sighed, and tucked the book inside his coat. He leaped down to the neighbouring roof, and trudged along it.

Then from down below, he swore he heard a familiar voice.

Rorschach almost rolled his eyes as he came to the edge of the roof and looked down. It was dark, but he knew your voice from a mile away- you had forced that skill upon him.

You were backing away from five men, all considerably more imposing than yourself and your warm drink. Hot chocolate to be exact. You always had at least one once a week…taking a stroll to a small coffee house-

Rorschach ground his fist into the brick to halt his unnecessary thoughts as he crouched.

He listened to the men taunt you, and saw them back you into an alley wall.

He watched, bored, waiting to see what might happen. Then the more he listened, the more he came to realize that the conversation being had sounded familiar.

“What you thought I’d be locked up forever, pumpkin? Nah they just needed some good behaviour ‘n that was enough for them to slap my ass outta there.” One of them laughed, and he neared your cowering form.

Rorschach noted just how badly you shook.

“What? You’re not happy to see me? Cmon now, don’t you have a kiss for daddy, hm?” The man sneered, successfully trapping you against the disgusting alley wall.

Rorschach began creeping down closer to hear, his eye twitching under his face when he watched the other men keep a look out and stare at you like meat on a plate.

“There you were thinking you were so smart with that speech of yours… “My boyfriend raped me and made me watch him launder all the money.”.”, he put on a horrible high pitched voice to mock you, “God you sounded pathetic. 15 fucking years…got out in 7…missed you, you know?”

Rorschach’s brain itched as he tried to recall this particular monster…it was all so-

Then it clicked.

That nagging familiarity of your face wasn’t a coincidence. He had seen you before, of course he had. He felt so stupid.

He had been outside the courthouse after you had given your heartbreaking testimony and that vile man was sentenced to 15 years for assault, murder, rape, and money laundering with attachments to drug trafficking to the homeless. Some monster with a god complex. He had seen you come down the stairs, one of your eyes still black, and head down as the onslaught of reporters and media flocked to you. You had been in the damn paper, why the hell didn’t he remember that. You were barely legal too…he remembered how his stomach had churned-

Your scream snapped him out of his memory, and he was leaping down into that alley before you could finish your cry for help. You sounded so terrified.

As Rorschach landed, a knife was held up to your lips, ready to carve your face. He felt rage fill his veins; was there no end to the putrid barbarians that staked their claim on what they saw fit?

He cleared his throat. Each head turned to him, including yours, as he stood.

As one of the most recognizable figures of New York’s underbelly, Rorschach was used to the look of fright directed at him. What he was not used to was the look of solace that washed over your tight features once your eyes locked onto his inkblot face.

Rorschach found something rewarding in your eyes.

Fuel.

The man holding your throat nodded for the man closest to Rorschach to attack first, which he did. His neck snapping echoed louder than your sobs.

The cold knife poked carelessly into your soft cheek, and you did your best to squirm away.

The next man to lunge at the vigilante smashed his bottle of beer against the brick wall, smirking as if his glass weapon would do any good. Rorschach let him get close. Then faster than a bullet he snatched the man’s weapon-laden hand and squeeze tight; the bottle breaking easily in his fist and puncturing the man’s hand like a balloon on a tack.

Two other men attempted to assault Rorschach, and each time he found such generous abundance of horror and dread in their eyes right before he gifted them each with an irreversible injury.

One after another, the men fell, until it was just Rorschach, the man holding you, and you.

He knew the dog had a name- knew he had heard it specifically- but he couldn’t bring himself to care. No doubt he would hear it over a news channel tomorrow.

The lout man held you tight, and knocked your head against the wall to stun you before turning to Rorschach. You slumped to the ground and watched as the masked vigilante took measured steps to him as if to speed up the process.

You had heard of the Watchmen before, and the countless criminals they had put away and subsequent lives they had saved…but Rorschach wasn’t what you had imagined. He didn’t tell you to save yourself or ask if you were alright. He was silent.

And somehow you found comfort in that-as if you were in the fight with him instead of a damsel in distress. You couldn’t look away, even going so far as looking for something to immobilize the brute of a man who had stolen so much from you all those years ago when you didn’t know any better.

Then once you looked up again, he was down in a heap.

You didn’t even see the altercation, but regardless there was an evident dent in the side of his bleeding head.

The filthy alley floor dug into your knees as you sat and stared. Your mind was playing catch-up with your eyes, and you felt as if the world had been eradicated from your shoulders.

You felt tears well in your eyes and a line of gratitude on your tongue.

Then the masked man turned to you and your entire world shifted when he spoke.

“Go home.” Was all he said.

But it wasn’t how he said it or what he said.

It was his voice.

You knew that voice.

You missed that voice.

You had wanted so badly to understand that voice…

Even the compact build and attitude were right.

Your lungs burned from you forgetting to breathe for a moment.

You stared up at his looming figure, eyes wide and tears long forgotten.

“It’s you…” you whispered. “You’re Rorschach.”

He let out a noise that sounded akin to a growl and a sigh. The sound send a shiver through your cold body. Then without another word, he pulled out a grappling hook like you had seen on the news, launched it, and disappeared into the smog and thick dark.

Rorschach berated himself for hours following the incident. So badly that he beat an old pimp into a coma and ripped his face off to breathe as he sat on a fire escape.

This was a nightmare.

You knew him. Knew his face and his voice.

He had slipped.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

There was only one thing he could think of that might rectify it, and it didn’t include you living.

He sighed.

Rorschach stood outside your door, returned to his disguise, and found that he could hear your footsteps through the thin wood. You were cleaning… doing something to distract yourself. Your hands were shaking judging by how you kept dropping things.

He knocked three times, and heard you pause at the sound. Paranoid. Frightened. You very quietly approached the door, and took a look through your peephole before falling completely silent.

You weighed your options; you could not open the door, and risk that pissing him off and breaking the door down…or you could open it and simply speed up the process of whatever it was he wanted. It took ten seconds before you pulled the door open for him.

There was no hiding how startled you were by him being there…now that you knew exactly who he was.

You were looking for something he say, he could practically hear your mind working away…up until your eyes fell on his bashed cheek and the blood drying there. You hadn’t realised he had gotten hit during the fight.

“Y-you’re hurt,” you murmured, and he nodded, not letting his eyes leave you. You sighed and stood aside, “Come in.”

He stared at you for a moment, then slowly walked past you into your home as if it was the first time he had been there. Like he didn’t know the layout and where you slept and how you folded your clothes or the hangers you used.

“Sit down.” You gestured to the couch, and offered a very small smile as if to reassure him that he was welcome there. That you weren’t holly terrified of him.

Rorschach sat, and watched you as you approached him with a cloth and small bowl of water. You sat close to him, and brought the cloth up to his cheek after wringing it out, but he caught your wrist before you could get any nearer.

He looked at you. Truly looked at you. Looked through you.

“You shouldn’t waste your tears on something so undeserving as a man.” He rumbled.

Your eyes were locked on his, and you felt as if all air was sucked out of you. You still weren’t used to that voice of his; pure gravel.

His words hung heavy in your ears, and you realized that you must have looked like an absolute mess- tears still drying on your cheeks from sobbing for your life in the alley.

He watched you take the tactless comment and he slowly released your wrist, and you gently began to clean his injury and grime on his face. There was a firm line between your brows as your worked- wiping the sharp planes of his face while trying to ignore his eyes on you, burning a hole through your skull.

His face came clean, and your bowl of water was murky and pink. This was possibly the most surreal nights you had had in a very long time. You went to get up but again, his hand caught your forearm and kept you seated. You looked from his hand to his face, staying quiet.

“Why are you helping me?” He snipped, grip tight.

You blinked, and searched his handsome face for any idea why he might doubt you aside from the fear he caused you.

You shook your head, “Why wouldnt-“

“Why?” Rorschach snarled, pulling you so close that you breathed the same air- those cold blue eyes of his harsh and intimidating.

You gasped, but refused to look away. His grip hurt, but he had saved your life and you were afraid that if you said or did the wrong thing he would disappear again. It was pathetic, you knew that, but you felt a strange bond to him.

And though he didn’t want to admit it, he felt an odd attachment to you as well.

For 45 years he had only ever seen the greed and filth that came from humanity; shaped from it, starting from the very womb he was born from. Lies and hatred, murder and rape and theft and horror beyond your imagination. For him to find your grey in amongst the rubble of humanity, it felt like good gold. He was waiting to rub away a coating of false innocence and find another piece of coal.

But there you were…coming whiter and whiter until-

Rorschach didn’t like being wrong. Being surprised. It was tedious.

But it would be a lie if he said you were anything but one of the innocents.

A good person.

Each of the deeds you had done for him had in fact come from a place of benevolence, and not deceit.

Rorschach let his grip on you lighten.

Despite your brain cautioning you of the vigilante in front of you, you simply stared back at him and ignored how strong his hold on you was.you did note that he released you slightly, the same moment his eye twitched.

“I think there’s something to that old saying of a wounded soul recognizing another wounded soul…you looked like you had some decency left in you, sir…please don’t tell me I was wrong.” Your voice was soft. Gentle. But no less direct than his. You were kind, not weak, and you were hoping against hope that he wasn’t like America’s favourite hero, the Comedian when it came to women; a line of them out his door begging for his sexual attention and him using them then tossing them aside as he pleased.

“Or maybe I’m just stupid.” You shrugged and looked away, afraid he might confirm your statement. You wouldn’t put it past him to be blunt.

Rorschach almost reacted to your use of that word. For so long he had labeled you as such, and while you might very well still be…he was sceptical to assume anything of you. He continued to stare, his sharp eyes cutting into you like you were a cloud of vapour. He relaxed his grip on you again, and stared at where he had held your arm- red finger marks forming on your clean skin. You must have washed yourself as soon as you had gotten home…scrubbed yourself clean from those vermin.

Good.

“I have…I have some dinner I was going to-um…well bring down for you…if you want it.” You began to shift uncomfortably under his gaze when he looked back at you. You swore he stared more than he spoke.

He nodded after a moment, and you smiled a little.

An incandescent sight.

“Okay.” You whispered, finally getting up. It was surreal.

Rorschach watched you go, noting that a pleasant scent followed after you.

Why did he notice that?

You walked to your little kitchen, and placed the dirty cloth and water in the sink before going to grab the pot of warm soup. You filled a bowl for him, and turned around to grab a spoon when you froze and jumped back, spilling some soup.

You hadn’t even heard him walk up behind you, didn’t even feel him even though he was a mere breath away.

“What are you…?” You murmured.

He watched you startle, and looked for any last ill intent or motive; any snark comment or any price you might want to put on your kindness…but nothing came.

It never did.

His breath was on your face, and you could only stare at him. There was a tragedy to him, hidden under the dirt, and he was impossible to read. He might have been plotting your gruesome death and you would have no idea.

Rorschach focused on you.

Fixated.

So innocent…white and pristine amongst the blood, filth and rot of his world. He hated it. Hated how you were allowed to be like that; a poster child for something that didn’t exist freely.

He sighed, pursing his mouth.

You had chosen this; you had decided to care for him. You had lead him down this path.

You had given yourself to him.

You looked away for a moment, and gingerly placed the bowl down before you spilled it. Then before you could think of anything to say with this dangerous man who was a hair away from you, you felt the skin of his lips catch yours when you turned back.

You wouldn’t call it a kiss- it was more of a hook or bait. A test. But when he did it again…that was a kiss; tentative and slight as it was. He heard your breath catch , and could feel the heat from your cheeks as they warmed and flushed.

You blushed.

Whores didn’t blush.

He kissed you again, with a little more force, and your hands came up slowly to his chest, resting there like you hadn’t decided if you wanted to draw him closer or push him away.

He might have been one of the most infamous men in New York…if not America, but he was flesh and blood underneath that mask. He was warm, and sturdy.

Rorschach was far from weak, but when he felt your soft lips brush back against his, he felt something deep inside him snap.

A low growl rumbled in his chest and he unclenched his fists; bringing his calloused hands up to grab the back of your head and your jaw to draw you closer as he backed you hard against the counter.

It was messy and Rorschach held you possesively as you gave into him. Your teeth clanked together, and your rhythm was fueled with need as he nipped and bullied his tongue into your eager mouth. He gripped your hair so tight it hurt your roots but you didn’t dare tell him to stop.

He only removed his hands from you to shuck off his jacket and gloves, mouth still sealed over yours, and then they were back on you. Grabbing at your flesh, drawing you closer; chest flush against yours.

You shakily forced your hands between and the two of you and began unbuttoning his shirt- the older man hummed in regards to your tremor.

You nervously loosened his tie and let your hands wander over the skin of his collar and chest. You hadn’t expected him to be so strong, but knowing who he was, it only made sense. Before you could get any further he weaved his fingers into your hair and pulled your head away from him.

Rorschach held you there for a moment, soaking in how you stilled so obediently; staring at you as his free hand began to gather the hem of your little night dress. He huffed, and gave your roots a quick squeeze, and the message was clear: “Stay.”

Then once he was satisfied with your cooperation, he brought his other hand down to the other side of your nightie and brought the garment up and over your head with ease. He let it fall to the ground, and you followed its descent; unable to look at the older man now that you were left in your panties while he was still almost fully clothed.

He placed two fingers under your chin to force you to look at him; you felt your blush deepen when you saw how blown his pupils were. He looked determined, and feral- deep breaths making his chest heave.

Before you could say a word, Rorschach scooped you into his arms and didn’t even pretend to not know where your bedroom was. A gasp escaped you, and your wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He carried you with little effort, and had you plopped down on your mattress in seconds. The older man crawled over you before you could even sit up; lips on yours, kissing you so hard your mouth grew tender. He only paused to pull back and kick off his trousers.

Then he was everywhere.

Rough hands grabbing at your soft skin; low rumbles and hums in his chest that vibrated against you and made you need him even more. He kissed and bit at you- marking you as his. You held onto his strong shoulders, whimpering and moaning quietly as he made you forget your own name and only know his.

Rorschach bit into your neck, and rocked firmly against you. You could feel him scorching and pulsing against your core, rubbing hard against you to create friction that had you forgetting to breathe.

“P-please” you whispered, raising your hips up to meet his.

The man stopped, and you immediately regretted saying anything. He pulled away to stare down at you. You thought you had done something wrong until he spoke.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his nose brushing yours.

Your quick beating heart was so clear for him to see, along with your nearly black eyes; the throbbing vein in your neck and pulse in your chest.

“Please…” you said again, lips red and swollen.

He sucked in a breath. Having your warm, soft skin against his bare chest was the first human contact he had felt in decades. It made him feel…human. He was fighting to maintain his practiced composure, but he could feel it slipping through his fingers with that one word.

“Again.” He rasped against your lips, throat tight; invading every inch of your space. He knew he shouldn’t ask it of you, but be needed this. He needed you to say it again.

You swallowed.

“…please.” Came your timid, needy voice. Your hands started to fidget as he refused to look away, barely blinking as he took you in. Drank your generous vulnerability.

Rorschach hummed low in his chest.

“You’re mine.” He growled simply, the skin of his lips catching yours as he spoke.

Your mind was gone already, sitting in that bowl of cold soup on the counter.

You could only nod.

He sighed through his nose, and then it was as if the last part of his restraint broke. Rorschach locked his lips onto yours, and you parted yours to gasp as his hand came to your hip- squeezing and stroking your skin. His tongue moved against yours and you let out a surprised moan that he swallowed greedily. Then just as quickly, he ripped himself away from you, and you watched his veiny hands as they pulled himself from his boxers; painfully hard and leaking precum. You’d be lying in you said you hadn’t thought highly inappropriate things about the man- something about his simplicity and your need to please him. He lowered himself over you, resting his weight onto you as he bit at your lips.

Low hums would rumble through him and you couldn’t help but think he was purring. He perched onto his forearms, and shifted closer; you gasped when you felt the tip of his cock against your entrance, and choked out a cry when it entered you without warning.

There was no sweetness. It was blunt, and clear as day.

Rorschach rested his head into your neck as he hunkered over you and pushed forward, then drew back; fucking himself into you. You were no virgin, but you might as well have been. It only took two brutal thrusts before his hips were flush with yours and you were clinging to him pathetically.

You whimpered in his ear at the stretch of him so deep inside you. You couldn’t help but squirm slightly in an attempt to get used to him. Rorschach brought a hand to rest at the nape of your neck to keep you still as he drew out of you again then snapped back into you, making your body bounce under him. It was as if he was testing you…or perhaps testing himself.

Then you felt a puff of his hot breath as he quickened his pace, taking full advantage of how soaked you were for him. You could feel him throb inside you, and you suddenly remembered that he was only a man…a much older man who was rutting inside you like he owned you. The thought alone had you moan into his shoulder as his fat tip dragged against your insides and bruised your cervix. You rolled your hips with him, gasping at how hard he gripped your hip and neck.

He was possessive and harsh in his need for you. Like a man who had been starved and you were his first meal.

And he would devour you.

You felt his pace pick up and his thrusts turned harder and sloppier. He locked his arms around your shoulders to keep you still as he bruised your pelvis. Your back arched and hips met his in a need to feel every inch of him. You hooked your legs behind him to bring him closer. You could feel him huff into your neck, a rumble in his chest.

“I-inside me- please…” you managed to croak out, though you doubted he would listen to any request that he didn’t like at that point. He was going to make you his in every sense, and that meant filling you with his cum.

Rorschach growled deep into your shoulder and bit into your flesh. You felt him pulse inside you, then a warmth spread inside your navel as he emptied his cum into you. It had a comfort to it that made you cling to him, nuzzling your face into his strong shoulder. Ragged breaths were in your ear as he hammered into you a few more times like he was proving a point. Making sure you knew that you were his now…his secret.

You panted with him, and clenched reflexively as he began to pull out. You already missed the warmth he brought you. His shoulders were visibly more relaxed as he moved to lay beside you, and you slowly grasped his jaw and brushed your lips against his, which he returned ever harder. You pulled away, and you liked that he hummed when you did.

The man beside you leaned up onto his arm to stare down at you thoughtfully. As if he was trying to read something on you. Your skin flushed with warmth under his scrutiny, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to tell him that you didn’t cum.

When you moved your hand down between your legs where his cum now leaked from you, you twitched. Every inch of your skin was hypersensitive and when you touched your clit you almost flinched at the contact. All of which instantly drew the attention of the man beside you. He stared at you intently- a deep line between his red brows.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

His scrutiny was jarring, though you noticed it wasn’t judgemental…it was studious. Curious. You looked away from him, and felt very naked under his gaze, afraid he might ridicule you for something like that. It wouldn’t be the first time you had gone to take care of yourself and a man had almost laughed in your face.

“I’m…I didn’t um…” you tried, but he watched you so closely, and felt as if he was studying you.

He was.

Then he understood. His eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Oh…” he rasped, looking down where your hand had been. You bit your thumb nail as you waited to see what he would do or say. You liked this man more than you would care to admit, but you knew men could be selfish…and uncaring…and mean. Hell, you had never had anyone make you cum besides yourself, and your expectations were not-

Your thoughts were halted when you felt the warmth of his calloused hand on yours. You watched as he very simply took your hand from your mouth, and returned it to between your thighs, and looked back at you expectantly. At first it felt like a slap in the face, as if he was telling you to take care of yourself…but with how intensely he was gazing at you, you realised he was examining your every move. You moved your fingers and he regarded them carefully. Like it mattered greatly to him.

The older man committed everything to memory; when you petted, when you were gentle, when you moaned, when you pressed harder, when you stroked, when you arched your back, when your hand started to shake, when your brows pitched up, when you slipped your fingers inside yourself.

You found yourself unable to look away from him even as your eyes drooped and your mouth dropped open in a permanent sigh. Your breaths were coming in little gasps, and you didn’t even notice he was just as effected as you- his chest heaving as he took deep, controlled breaths.

You slowly pumped your fingers inside yourself, stroking your g-spot; then gasped out a soft whine at the contact on your sensitive flesh, at which point Rorschach deemed to be enough watching for his liking. He snatched your little hand and replaced it with his own far larger and rougher hand.

You gasped when he touched you so accurately…but this time you gasped for him.

He leaned over you, his lips just a breath away as if to breathe in your whines and pleas. Watching what he did to you.

His thumb drew small, feathery circles around your clit; alternating between direct but tentative touch, and agonizingly slow strokes that didn’t quite touch it. You began to pant, and your hands found his strong shoulders- hanging on like a lifeline. The older man hummed, and looked away from you for a moment to watch what he was doing, how slick his hand had become as a result. Once he had your hips rolling up into his palm, he eased a finger inside you, although his was noticeably longer and thicker than yours.

You gasped at the sensation.

“I-if you- ah! Can you move l-like this?” You showed him how to curl his finger inside you and he instantly followed your instruction, and even added a second finger; you cried pathetically as you surrendered to his mercy.

He stroked your inner walls for a few moments until he found what he was looking for. Once he made contact with that hypersensitive patch inside you, you let out a gasped moan that you tried to cover with your hand, but Rorschach was having none of that. His free hand that had cradled your head smacked your hand away and didn’t even pause his ministrations. This was just as much for him as it was for you. He wanted to know everything he did to you.

You whined softly against his mouth.

The movement of your hips began to be more deliberate as your body chased its craving. As if catching onto what you needed, he focused on that spot inside of you, and you let a series of moans slip from your mouth. Your pelvis bucked up into his touch, and you could have sworn that amongst the focused breathing and studious stare, you saw that man smirk.

Smirk.

He huffed out a ragged sound that must have been a laugh.

He continued to watch you, and you found yourself lost in the feeling of him and the sight of his eyes staring down at you like you were the most important thing at that moment.

Like there was nothing he would rather be staring at.

It took only a few more moments of his careful ministrations before you were falling apart in his arms. Your back arched up off the bed as you gripped his fingers like a vice inside you, and he continued his strokes, though he slowed them considerably.

The steady drag of his fingers inside you set your veins on fire. There was a mess of your and his cum between your thighs,and he used the saturated slickness to lazily finger you; carrying you through your high.

As you eyes refocused and unglazed, you stared back at him, and caught his lips with yours. He eagerly returned your needy kiss, and very gently removed his hand from your cunt.

You lacked proper judgement and acted purely on what you wanted; with his hand resting on your penvis, soaked and sticky, you took his wrist in your hand. You didn’t want to know how much blood had been shed because of those hands, not in that moment to be specific, but what you did know was that he had you wrapped around those fingers tight. You lifted them to your lips licked the slickness off of them, cleaning him. You flicked your eyes up to his, and we’re startled be how close he had moved. He hummed low in his chest when your tongue slowly lapped at them to clean him.

He drew his hand away from you, kissed you; holding you jaw surprisingly gently as if you didn’t have the shape of his hands bruising your hips or an ache deep inside you.

Your head felt light and disconnected.

Rorschach pulled away after a moment, and propped his head onto his hand to watch you. He gingerly traced your face shape with his finger, as if mapping and memorizing you. Touching your eyebrows, the ridge of your nose, your cheekbones.

He was lost in his own little world.

“I like the way you sound when you cum.” He said so a-matter-of-fact.

Your cheeks went rosy and warm. You didn’t know if you should thank him, so you grinned sweetly.

There was something in him that made it compelling to watch him. Something drawing you in as he stared back with such fixation. You didn’t know how to look away.

Not until your eyelids drooped and exhaustion took you. You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but you did know that when you awoke, your blanket was laid over you, your hair was out of your face, and you had a pair of crystal blue eyes staring back at you. Rorschach looked to have not moved an inch since you had fallen asleep. His head still propped in his hand, watching.

“Did you sleep?” You asked, rolling closer to him; your head and body consumed by your pillows and blankets.

He shook his head.

“You do you ever sleep?” You flicked your eyes across his face.

And he shook his head again.

You placed your hand on his cheek. His face didn’t soften- it never did, you noted. But regardless, his attention was on you entirely; you stared at him like he did you, then smiled gently at him.

“Thank you for trusting me.” You whispered, and he clearly hadn’t expected such a thing.

Again, he didn’t move from his place, but you noted the twitch in his brow, and small smirk that sat in the corner of his mouth. Perhaps he thought you foolish, but you didn’t care.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, and pulled away quickly even when he chased you. A displeased huff escaped him, but you eased it away when you gently hitched your leg over him. He grabbed your waist as if anticipating something volatile, but when you leaned over him, your chest against his, he seemed to pause mentally. You nestled your hips against his, your thighs on either side. With nothing between you, the feeling of his hardening cock against your lips was evident. The older man’s warmth radiated into you. You felt his fingers start to dig into your hips where he gripped you, squeezing the flesh as if he was about to lift you off. But then, you rolled your hips against him, sliding along his shaft easily given how slick you were already. He stopped all trains of thought he had for a moment when the sensation registered in his nerve-endings.

His gaze continued to make you self-conscious, but you wouldn’t shy away from him now.

You repeated the motion again, and felt him twitch and harden under you; you gasped when his hands held you firmer. You enjoyed the feeling of his cock under you, and your eyes began to glaze over when you felt the swollen tip catch your entrance, slipping inside you without warning. The soreness you felt from the night before didn’t stop you though. You watched him carefully, and while his stare was intense and focused, there was no unease or resistance.

Your cheeks flushed and you couldn’t help but stutter, “I-is this okay?” To the nearly silent man.

Again, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he gripped your hips tighter and bucked more of him into you.

You took that as a yes.

Encouraged by his action, you rolled your hips on him a few more times to get more of him inside you; a whimper and a gasp escaped you as he filled you so completely- the stretch painful but addictive. Your slower pace appeared to bother him and he ground you down onto him to get his cock fully inside you. The force made you breathe out another gasp; your hands found their place on his muscled chest to steady yourself.

With you both satisfied with being locked together, you slowly bucked your hips, drawing him in and out of you. You felt his grip grow more possessive, almost pawing at you as he held you.

You started slow, and deliberate; angling your hips to have his cock drag against your g-spot. At the first contact, your tempo stuttered, and your choked on a moan. He seemed to find your pleasure amusing as he hummed and began to meet your thrusts. He seemed to understand what to feel for after a moment when he stroked that sensitive patch, and you noted that he was very particular about hitting it.

Then you started to notice just how much pleasure he was receiving when his lips parted and the tendons in his neck began tighten.

Each time you came down on his shaft, you felt him reciprocate the movement- grinding up into you. It was as if he knew exactly what to feel for that made your toes curl.

You could barely hold a thought in your head as you felt fire brew in your veins and a tightness in your pelvic muscles.

You tilted your head back, and your arms that were braced on his chest buckled; bringing you closer to him. Your head fell back down and your eyes locked onto his- pupils blown. There was a new intensity to his face, a determination.

Then, as if he had had enough of you in charge, the man suddenly gripped you waist and flipped you onto your back. He crawled over you, and slipped his cock back inside you, earning him a whine and gasp from your sweet throat. He found a rhythm identical to the one you had set atop him, and your lips parted when you felt him angle his hips to target that spot inside you; the intense drag of his cock hitting it each time. He rendered you speechless in seconds.

After mewling and huffing out breaths, you finally managed to find a couple words.

“H-harder…” you forced out, “Ple-ase.” You pleaded.

It seemed he was intent to oblige. The gradual roll of his pelvis escalated into a harsher snap of his hips that had him watching you with rapt interest when you cried out.

Out of habit from your past, your hand flew to your mouth just like it had the night before, but just like then, he grabbed your wrist and pinned it beside your head without a moments thought. You felt scrutinized and your cheeks began to heat up so much you felt the warmth spread down your neck.

He wanted to know exactly what he did to you.

And that thought alone forced your body to clench and melt for him simultaneously.

With his careful ministrations, your orgasm grew quickly- an overwhelming amount of pleasure spawning inside you that you hadn’t felt before. Just as you had asked, he kept his pace steady and firm. His desire to know how to play you as he liked made your brain go dizzy with need, and you were intent to follow his wishes. While it made you flush even more to tell him what you needed, you swallowed your pride and forced another pathetic whimper from you. “Slower…please.” You breathed.

At your request, he leaned down over you more, his chest almost flush with yours. He kept your one hand pinned while he used his other hand to pull your thigh up and pushed your knee to your chest.

The change had your eyes rolling back, and you heard him hum; vibrations from his chest buzzing into yours making your fingertips tingle.

It took all of ten seconds before your thighs shook and you desperately rolled your hips up to meet his. He watched as your brows pitched up and your swollen lips parted. Your face flushed in ecstasy.

Rorschach could feel you tense around his cock, and smirked to himself when he felt a rush the of your cum soaking him inside you. You nearly sobbed. Eyes glassy and back arching as you came.

The older man slowed his pace, until eventually stopping all together, but only for a moment. He leaned his nose down into the crook of your neck, and inhaled softly. His grip still possessive; it made you shiver.

Then, just as you settled, he snapped his hips once, forcing his cock back into your tightened heat and he pulled away from your neck to stare you down- nose bumping against yours. You cried out from the impact and looked up at him. He had your attention now. And he began to fuck into you steadily again, but growing in need.

His message was clear.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

And he certainly was not.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

#Rorschach #Rorschach x reader #walter kovacs #Walter Kovacs x reader #the watchmen #watchmen #dc comics #no one asked for this #but i did anyway #jackie earle haley

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cryunderthewillowtree · 1 year

Text

Coral Streaks – Chapter 6

Synopsis – In which she loves him, but he's utterly, painfully clueless. Awra always believed love should be easy – a beautiful gift from Eywa herself. But when she falls for the oldest Sully, it's a love filled with trial. A tale of coming apart and finding your way back.

Related Warnings: Eventual Smut (Aged Up Characters), Language, Descriptions of assault, Harassment

Characters – Neteyam x Fem Metkayina!reader

Related Tags: Major Angst, Slow-Burn, Friends-To-Lovers, Heartache, Tension, Hurt/Comfort

Notes: Posting this from my Ao3 account, please feel free to head over there to read this story as well! I realised only after being 14 chapters in that I spelt Omatikaya wrong this entire time – my apologies in advance. But please enjoy this story nonetheless!

[Do not interact with this story if you are underage.]

“Do you wanna talk about what happened? I saw you talking to your father and you seemed upset.” Neteyam starts gingerly, almost as if he were afraid to broach the subject.

“Yeah well…he’s always upset at me.” Awra responds dejectedly. “Or should I say disappointed.” She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her arms as the night chill set in. Neteyam had offered to take her down to the beach for a stroll, and as much as she’d wanted to put up a fight and stay angry, she just couldn’t resist alone time with the Ometicayan boy. Being with him was electrifying and for the first time in years, she felt free. Free from the shackles of responsibility, of the looming doom of having to mate with someone she didn’t love. Besides, the beach was beautiful during the eclipse, and after the day she’d had, it was the perfect way to clear her mind. Neteyam just happened to improve the entire experience, she’d convince herself wryly.

Neteyam is silent at her answer, and for a while just the crunching of their footsteps in the sand can be heard. She’s at ease for the first time in days, because she knows her mother would be busy entertaining as Tsahik back at the mass dinner. No prying eyes or questioning gazes. The one time responsibility has worked in my favour, she thought bitterly.

“Y’know my father came from a star,” he says suddenly, pointing a slender finger at the sky. Awra looks up, taking in the magnificent expanse of stars and planets she could see. The Pandorian eclipse was truly a sight to behold. Splashes of indigo and violet interweaving with strips of the milky way and silvery stars – if she closed her eyes she could just about imagine herself far away from here. With the wind on her face, and the smell of the sea on her tongue she felt alive. Free.

“A star?” She answers, a small smile on her lips. She knew of Neteyam’s father – Toruk Makto, rider of Last Shadow. His story was famed throughout Pandora and Na’vi worshipped him. But afterall, stories were just that – stories. And meeting Toruk Makto in real life for the first time proved to be an underwhelming experience. She recalls the day they landed on the Metkayina shores – pleading desperately for uturu. She’d glanced inquisitively out from her family’s marui then, intrigued by the unfamiliar sound of ikran. She’d shuddered at the sight of the great beasts – hostility bleeding out of every pore. Nothing like the gentle playful ilu she was so familiar with.

Jake Sully had stepped off his ikran with his family in tow, their hands raised non-threateningly as her father approached. A crowd had gathered at this point, and she’d been too nervous to join the rest of her family on the beach. Outsiders, she remembered thinking. They’re a long way from home. She had strained her eyes to catch just a glimpse of Toruk Makto – mighty warrior who united the Na’vi in a legendary fight against the sky people. Instead, she saw Jake – Na’vi, father of four, whose eyes looked more tired than war-thirsty and whose resolve had weakened in his pursue of revenge against the sky people. She had cocked her head then, confused. He looked nothing like a battle-hardened warrior she’d heard tales of. He just looked like a tired father. As her eyes travelled over the rest of the dark blue-skinned Na’vi, she spotted Neytiri, then Kiri and Tuk. Behind them emerged Lo’ak and then finally, Neteyam.

She was captivated immediately, embarrassingly so. He was wearing a warrior’s cummerbund, accentuating his thin waist and lean physique. His eyes were large, doefully so, and from far away, still seemed earnest and curious. She’d felt butterflies then – tickling her stomach as her cheeks warmed quickly. He was attractive, extremely attractive, the most attractive Na’vi I’ve ever seen. The sound of a horn snapped her out of her trance, and she’d darted back into her marui in absolute humiliation; spending the rest of the day weaving in an attempt to get the Ometicayan boy out of her head.

Now looking at Neteyam as they walked on the beach, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. The memory of their arrival felt so long ago, and she’d sworn to her parents to stay away from the Ometicayan boy and yet here she was. Neteyam was chuckling, a low sweet sound. “Yes, he came from a star. From another planet. He’d come for Science in the body of a Na’vi.” He answered, still gazing wistfully up at the plethora of stars.

“That sounds cool.” She hummed back, taking in his side profile. The way his forehead connected to a strong brow bone, punctuated by the most devilish markings. The slope of his nose and the slant of his ears as they twitched, and the way his lips would fall into a slight pout when he was thinking. She followed the thin trails of each individual braid on his head, wonderfully weaved with beads and other Na’vi ornaments – relished in the way they tinkled as he walked besider her; blissfully unaware of her scrutiny.

He laughs again, a throaty chortle. She can’t stop the smile this time, her cheeks stretching as her eyes squint. “Yes, I guess you can say it’s pretty cool.” He replied, finally turning to look at her. He’s got a beautiful smile, she thinks. Expressive but so genuine, it lifts his cheeks and turns his eyes into half-crescents. But he has an underlying smirk – almost mischievous in the way he regards her. She can see his resemblance to Lo’ak – a leader at heart but still innately a troublemaker. “You should do that more often.” He offers quietly as he looks at her.

“Do what?” Awra replies, hand coming up to cover her mouth. She’s still smiling, she realises.

“Smiling. Laughing.” He says, and her eyes widen. “You look beautiful when you do.” The word troublemaker comes to mind again. She can’t stop the way her breath hitches at his comment – said so blatantly as if he were commenting about the weather.

“Shut up.” She laughs, shoving at his shoulder playfully. He almost giggles at that, hand coming to rub at the sore spot on his arm. His laughter rings through the night air, a cheerful and warm sound that sets her insides ablaze. Deep down, her heart was doing leaps – hearing Neteyam say that had set her heartbeat soaring. But of course, she’d never let him know.

“It’s true! You’ve got a cute smile, Awra. You should smile more. Instead of frowning all the time.” He drags out his last syllable cheekily, poking at her cheek to her surprise. “Mother tells me this is why girls get frown lines so much faster.”

She gasps at that, reaching a hand to smack him. He laughs, playfully dodging her blow by stepping away. She narrows her eyes at him, reaching for his tail to yank on it. “Take that back! I do not have wrinkles!”

“Sure you do! I can see them already.” He teases, just stepping out of reach as she chases after him. Now she’s laughing to, silly giggles spilling over as she reaches her hand out for his tail. It feels like a game of run and go catch she used to play as a child – nostalgia filling her chest in a wave of warmth.

“Get back here!” She screeches, laughter rising in the clear night air. She’s running after him now, but he’s just too fast; too limbre. He steps out her grabs easily, swatting her hands away with ease as she huffs in playful frustration. His smile is so wide his canines are showing, and she feels her heart skip a beat. He’s smiling at me, she thinks bashfully, he’s smiling and it’s all for me. The thought makes her heart race faster, and in a last ditch attempt, she leaps forward onto him and sends them both tumbling into the sand.

She hits the ground hard, feeling her eyes close on impact. Belatedly, she can hear him wheezing with laughter and she opens her eyes to his sly smirk. “I guess you caught me.” He says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He’s laying down on the sand, back surely covered with the warm crunchy stuff. His tail is flicking playfully by his thigh, as she struggles to her hands and knees.

“Ugh great, now I’m covered in sand again.” She whines, dusting off her elbows and knees disgruntedly. She can’t help but feel a sense of deja vu at their current predicament – how similar this was to a few nights ago when they’d fought. The memory leaves a sour taste on her tongue. Before she starts spiralling however, his voice breaks the silence.

“Frowning again. What did I say? Wrinkles.” He teases, finger poking at her cheek again. She squints her eyes at him, rubbing at her cheek.

“You got sand on my face you little–” She stops herself, sticking her tongue out at him playfully. He just cackles at her childish behaviour, sitting up on the sand while wiping himself down. All of a sudden, they’re sitting face to face again on the sand, and her heart gives a little painful twinge. “I should–”

“You have these, um–” he says suddenly, stopping her mid-sentence. Awra looks on in confusion.

“What?” He’s sitting there, staring wistfully at her face. Do I have sand on my face or something? Before she can start feeling self-conscious, his face lights up.

“Dimples!” He states victoriously. Awra smiles, albeit confused. “You have dimples.”

“Dimples?” She asks, rolling her eyes at him. Neteyam just smiles, a different smile – this one doesn’t make his eyes disappear or stretch his cheeks wide. It’s gentle, loving, and suddenly Awra felt way to intimate sitting opposite him. He leans towards her, and in a bout of panic, she feels herself pull away instinctively. “Please don’t–”

He prods at her cheek, right next to her lips. “Dimple. Here.” He says almost proudly. Awra sputters, turning away. He chuckles at that, pointing to his own cheek. “I don’t have any, but you do. Mother tells me it’s a sign of good luck.”

“I never noticed it.” She mumbles, looking down at her hands shylyl. He huffs out a small laugh, before reaching a hand out for her. She can feel herself turn purple, a blush rising to her cheeks. “What?”

“Give me your hand, you.” He just says, making grabbing motions. She rolls her eyes, placing her palm in his. He smiles, turning her hands over in his palms as if to check for something.

“What are you doing? Checking me for bad luck or something?” She mutters, watching him stare at her palms with morbid curiosity.

“No, I’m just admiring how little your hands are. Smaller than my baby bro’s.” He teases, gesturing to her fingers. “Tiny hands.” She feels her stomach twist at that, butterflies erupting in gallons in her gut. What is he doing?

“My hands are not tiny.” She stumbles out. She hates the way her voice comes out thin and raspy, like she’s nervous. She wants to come off nonchalant, like she isn’t at all bothered by this cat and mouse game they’ve been on. If anything, she should be slapping his hands away, yelling at him for dishonouring her and their friendship. And yet, she feels like she stuck here, on this beach with him, glued to his side. He’s magnetic, and she can’t seem to find the strength to pull away.

She bites her lip as she notices how large his hands are, and the memory of their encounter on the beach a few nights ago comes rushing back. It sends tendrils of heat licking viciously up her spine, and her tail twitches in interest.

“Do you like my hands?” He asks innocently. Awra blushes furiously at that. Had she been so obvious in her ogling? He laughs when she doesn’t respond, body shaking with gentle chuckles as she freezes rigid at his question. “I’m just kidding.”

His hands are warm, painfully so, and lined with tiny scars. No doubt from his father’s missions against the sky people. Letting her eyes rake upwards, she focuses on his forearms this time – smooth skin lined with the same dark blue markings, speckled with bioluminescent freckles. They glow in the dark, creating lines of silvery-blue up and down his arms and legs. “Beautiful.” She hushes out quietly.

Unbeknownst to her, Neteyam caught her and felt himself grow warm. She delicately traced the veins on his forearms, circling around the pretty glow-in-the-dark freckles, and zigzagging through his unique markings. His tail flicks in interest behind him, swallowing as she continues her ministrations. The air between them grows thick with tension, but Awra doesn’t address it; doesn’t even look up. She scrapes a fingernail down his arm, watching goosebumps rise in its wake.

“Do you get hurt alot? When you were back home?” She asked timidly, still tracing circles on his arms. He shivers.

“I–I guess so. But it’s fine. I’m a warrior, I’m supposed to fight.” She can’t help but notice the last part sounded desperate, almost like he were pleading.

“You don’t have to fight here. You’re safe.” She answers. “You don’t have to worry about being a warrior here.”

He doesn’t answer, just hums thoughtfully. She presses her thumbs into a divot at his wrist, feeling his heartbeat. She can feel him shift, discreetly sliding himself closer to her on the sand. She forces down a smile, biting down on her lip as she feels his heartbeat speed up under the pads of her thumbs.

“I want to fight. It’s my duty, as a warrior.” He finally says slowly – almost feeling each word as it leaves his mouth. “I have a duty to protect my people. My family. And–” As he says that, he trails off, looking straight at Awra’s face.

She can feel his stare, inhaling at his words. Protect me? She pretends not to notice, still playing with his palms. “You worry too much Neteyam. You need to learn to let loose once in a while.”

He snorts at that, a funny almost obscene noise. She looks up and shoots him a funny look, which he returns with a dazzling smile. Snickering, he says: “You sound like Lo’ak.” Awra rolls her eyes at him.

“Don’t compare me to your troublemaking younger brother. We are poles apart. Some of us actually have responsibilities too.” She replies flatly, placing his hands back in his lap. She hugs her knees to her chest, resting a cheek on her knee. “I’m such a hypocrite. I say to let loose, but it’s the one thing I’m not supposed to do.”

He nods slowly, listening. She loves the way he’s so attentive – pondering over every word she utters, even if it’s stupid. The yearning look on his face when she smiles at him makes her heart stop every time.

He laughs, filling her chest with something warm and fuzzy. It reminds her of the way her dad would chuckle when she was a child – doting and gentle. Her expression becomes stoney at the thought of her father and their earlier conversation, and she looks up at the gentle crashing waves in the distance.

“My father, he was talking about Iknimaya.” At that, Neteyam’s expression becomes one of worry.

“Iknimaya? He repeats. Awra nods.

“My father expects me to find a mate once I complete my rituals. He is to become Olo’ eyktan when father returns to Eywa. I am to become his Tsahik. It has already been decided, from my birth.” She reveals. Her voice feels small, far too small, and she hates the way he’s looking at her with pity in his eyes. She sighs in defeat. “Yeah. That was what we spoke about earlier, at dinner.”

Neteyam is quiet. She takes it as a hint to continue.

“He used to bring me to Tak’hu, or clan marui, and make me stand in the centre while others eat. He hoped that I’d catch the eye of a warrior, and that maybe we would mate as he wishes.” Neteyam’s eyes harden. “But this is normal practice for us. To become one of the people is to accept this.”

“Awra–”

“It is not the life that I want. And it is not a life I would wish on my sister or anyone else.” She adds. “But it is the life that my parents wish for me, and I do not wish to disappoint them. Not anymore than I already have.” The mood is solemn now, serious. The chill prickles at her skin, and her hair shifts with the breeze. Sitting up straight, she shakes her head and shrugs.

“It is not the worst. I still have some time before Iknimaya, and time before I have to choose a mate. I wish to live my days out with no regrets.” She says, smiling softly. Neteyam’s eyes soften at that, hand reaching out to gently weave through her hair.

“I see.” He starts, and she looks up at him. His face is gentle, a small adoring smile on his lips. She feels herself melt under his gaze, willing her traitorous heart to stop beating so fast. “I understand what you mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Before we left the forest, I had just completed my own Iknimaya. I was also set out to choose a mate, but we left before that could happen.” Awra listens intently, enjoying the timbre of his voice. “I mourn the life I left behind, and I know you know how that feels.”

She nods. “But the Ometicayan have a saying. Every person is born twice – once when they are born, and the second is when they become one of the people forever.” As he says this, Awra notices his eyes cloud over with a faraway look, like he’s reminiscing his days in the forest. She reaches a hand out gently, lacing their fingers together. The contact brings him back, eyes darting down to their connected hands before he smiles shyly.

“I knew that Eywa had a plan for me.” He said, looking up at the sky. “And I embraced my new life here, with the Metkayina people. I still have to look for a mate, and I see now that I was always meant to find her here.”

Awra stares at him, taking in his last sentence slowly. I was always meant to find her here.

He smiles at himself, almost like he’s embarrassed of his next words. “My grandmother used to tell me that we feel it here. When we mate.” He reaches his other hand and places it on her chest. She feels herself gasp at the contact, heart racing. She prays to Eywa he can’t feel how her heart is pounding in her ribcage. “That what we do must come from inside.”

She sighs at that. Tsireya’s words echo in her mind. “I know–”

“You know, but you do not believe.” He interrupts smiling. “We all have duties and responsibilities, Awra. But when Eywa gave us life, she wanted for us to do with it as our heart asks.” He pats her chest twice gently. His eyes are incredibly soft, yearning. She clears her throat, sucking in a shaky breath. All of a sudden, she feels like crying. There’s a lump in her throat, and she can feel her palms become clammy.

“When my father came to Pandora, to be with the Na’vi, his duty was to the sky people. But all that changed when he met my mother. Their story showed me that we are not…ordered by our duties. Rather, by our heart.”

Awra feels a tear slip down her cheek. She bites her lip, squeezing her eyes shut. A wave of desperate grief floods her chest – a feelig of loving of her father for the hero that he was to her, but also grappling with the reality of his disappointment. It hurt, more than she could believe. He smiles gently, wiping it away, but doesn’t say anything. “In many ways, I am like my father. And you are, in many ways, like yours. But sometimes, we need to follow our heart to truly live our lives.”

At his words, she thinks about the nights she’d lie awake in her marui, pleading and begging on a shooting star. Begging for Eywa, someone, anyone to take her grief away. To show her how she was meant to live – torn between the life she wanted, and the life she was meant to live. As a young girl, she’d pray and pray until her knees gave out, perched by the entrance of her family’s marui as they slept. Choking her sobs as she willed herself to be strong, to do as she was told, to stop being a disappointment.

“I–” She stops, because her voice shakes. She sucks in a breath, swallowing hard. “I just don’t know what to do, Neteyam.” She starts, voice croaky. “I know I cannot be the daughter that they want, because the life they have chosen is not one I wish to live. And it pains me to know I’ve hurt them, that I’ve disappointed them, that I failed–”

At that, she cries. She feels the dam break before she can stop it, and with a shuddery gasp, the tears come in waves. They spill in rivulets down her cheek, soaking into her cheeks and dripping down her chin. She hurries to wipe them away, sniffling quietly to stifle the sobs. Her chest aches with the effort of suppressing her sobs, and she grabs at her top in desperation. The grief stings, and makes her head pound viciously. She can feel him staring at her, watching her cry and sob like a teenager–

And then, she feels warmth. He’s hugging her sideways – having leapt from his position in front of her. She burrows her face into the crook of his neck, crying like a child into his collarbone. She’s embarrassed, body going rigid as she bites her lip to stop more noises from escaping.

What she didn’t expect was how deep and intense her grief was. Years of repressed feelings come flashing back, and she feels her body shake with release. Years of being misunderstood, humiliated and paraded around like an object – stifling her own torment for her family’s sake. She’s holding onto him now, surely leaving indents in his arms from where she’s digging her nails in to ground herself. But he’s silent, holding onto her as he rocks back and forth. His other hand is rubbing circles into her back, and she feels like a toddler being coddled. He’s a reassuring weight against her body, warm and heady scent flooding her nostrils as she inhales and exhales against his skin. He smells like salt and sand, with a hint of the wood he used to make his bow. It’s intoxicating, and helps to calm her as she sobs.

After a while, her sobs quieten into sniffles, and she sits back on her haunches as she wipes at her face. Her face is puffy, and she feels like she’s just run the entire length of their village. “Are you feeling better?” He asks gently, hand on her thigh when she pulls back.

She sucks in a shaky breath. “Yes, look Neteyam–”

“You don’t have to say anything. I understand. We can pretend this never happened if you feel…embarrassed.” He teases playfully. She laughs, and it comes out a choked watery sound.

“It’s okay, I appreciated that. I guess I never realised how little I’d been taking care of myself. With my Iknimaya coming up, i guess I just got overwhelmed.” She responds, placing a hand over his. He nods at that, lacing their fingers together again. It’s an intimate gesture, and feels oddly comforting even as she wipes snot from her nose.

“I’m always here for you Awra.” He starts, looking at her intently. She avoids his gaze, so he chuckles again. “Look at me, please?”

She relents and does so, and he smiles. It’s a sweet smile, canines on show. “I’m sorry, truly sorry about how I hurt you those nights ago. And I want you to know that I treasure you, I do. I just have a harder time showing it.” She bites her tongue. Her heart feels lighter after crying, and his apology felt genuine.

“I want you to know that you can come to me, and I will be here waiting. Because you called.” He says, cheeks tinting purple. She smiles through watery eyes, snickering.

“Hey I’m being serious–”

“I know, I know. You’re just…the cheesiest person ever Neteyam. Who knew you had it in you” He squints at her. “But I love that about you. Thank you, you skawng.”

He chuckles lightheartedly, squeezing her hand tighter in his. “You’re most welcome, Awra.”

#neteyam x reader #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #avatar the movie #avatar the way of water #avatar way of water #atwow #neteyam angst #neteyam imagine #neteyam fanfiction

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soupy-george · 2 years

Text

My Master Fic List

Wolfstar- Complete

Teenage Kicks '78-79

My Favorite. My Wolfstar Baby.

I originally started writing this in 2014. It won lots of fun FanFiction awards for the characterisations, and will always be special to me. It's also full of smut, so tread carefully!

It opens on the train ride home from Hogwarts after 7th year, with Sirius finally telling Remus how he feels. Then follows their new relationship through their first year out of school. War and werewolves and FEELINGS

'It's like this,' Sirius told his refection in the toilet mirror sternly, as the floor rattled beneath his feet. He just needed to nut up and tell Remus, because if he didn't, Sirius might go insane and die. Or, less dramatically, and more likely, mope about his flat eating chips and scowling for the foreseeable future.

There are also a whole lot of little Remus POVs to go with it- best read after the main event. Black Pudding Arithmancy The Exam and then this one which is a bit of a spoiler for a plot point in Teenage Kicks so definitely read it last! Ancient Runes

Wolfstar WIPs

Nobody's Hero 76k words

A 5th year story involving all the expected moments of that year, with a little side plot of war. Marauders up to no good, and Wolfstar falling in love... of course.

Sirius was grinning in delight, eyes sparkling as he whooped and clapped. Then he turned to include Remus in his excitement, the wind whipping his hair, exultant happiness radiating from him.

Remus forced a smile back. He was doomed.

Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings 121k words COMPLETE

I really didn't think I'd ever write this story!

A modern RockBand, NonMagic AU, set in Sheffield UK in the early 2010s. Sirius is the upper-class heir who's thrown it all in to be in a band and volunteer at the RSPCA, and Remus is a council estate, slightly rough around the edges, University student studying classical composing.

It was a coincidence perhaps, that Sirius had been thinking about optimism and romance as they unpacked the van earlier, because something was about to happen that would impact both of these things rather heavily for him. The something being an abrupt, England football jersey wearing, floppy haired barman.

He’d never have thought in a million years that this moment in his life would occur here, in this aesthetically offensive northern pub. The glaring strip lighting and fat old blokes with missing teeth, not to mention the group of kids in tracksuits at the pool tables who could only have been about sixteen, were as far from the setting of life changing moments as it was possible to be.

Unless being clobbered with a pool cue was considered life changing, because that seemed like a much more likely outcome.

But there, stood behind the bar, passing a rum and coke to a permed old bird with a half smoked, but unlit fag hanging from her lip, was the most beautiful chap Sirius had ever seen.

Drarry - complete

The Printed Press 120k words

Five years after the end of the war the press have turned on Harry, and Draco is the one person might be able to help him get his life back.

Draco has worked hard to gain a reputation as an unbiased reporter for the Prophet.

He never imagined this would lead to Harry Potter offering him a job, or how much accepting said job would change his life.

I've had an idea," Harry said, "You were there that night, at Greengrass Moor, when I …" he trailed off looking embarrassed.

"When you told everyone they ought to be fucking grateful and leave you the hell alone? Yes, it's one of my fondest memories." Draco wasn't trying to annoy, it was true, and the image of Potter swearing at Draco's idiot, fame-whore of a boss was something that never failed to make him smile.

Harry flushed, "I didn't mean it, not in the way it came out, and certainly I didn't mean to shout it at the editor of the Prophet."

The White Pawn 80k words

Time Travel Drarry.

When eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy finds himself back at Hogwarts on the eve of Voldemort's infamous return, he is confronted with the most difficult decision he's ever had to make: Relive the 6th year at school he's tried so hard to forget, or do the unthinkable and ally himself with Potter's lot...

#fanfiction #wolfstar #marauders #hogwarts #drarry #non magical au #rockband au

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animatedarchives · 3 years

Text

ALMOST IS NEVER ENOUGH

— 𝐎𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐔

author’s note: hi guys!! this is my angstvember piece for the @babythotshq brokenhearts club playlist collab ^^ i hope yall like it!! <3

genre: a lot of angst

warnings: death, hospitals, mentions of a coma and an accident, illness

word count: 2.9k words

The sun hung low in the vast amber sky as Oikawa clutched the bouquet of velvet red roses in his hand.

Today’s the day. Today’s the day I tell her I love her.

The sound of his footsteps echoed throughout the pristine white corridors, the smell of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant piercing mercilessly through his lungs. He’d visited you every day since you were admitted, and even then he still never got used to the smell. He couldn’t wait for you to leave this place.

It was your last day here after all.

You were finally going to be discharged.

He stopped right outside your door, bringing his hand up to knock a familiar rhythm. The same one you both had used when you were playing house during your childhood.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said, poking his head into the room.

“I was wondering what took you so long,” you smirked as you watched him close the door behind him. “What’s with all the flowers?” you asked, nodding at the bouquet in his hands.

“What, I can’t surprise my best friend with something nice every once in a while?”

You scoffed. “You’re only nice when you need something from me.”

Oikawa gasped dramatically. “Y/N! How could you be so cruel?” he whined. You let out a small laugh at his theatrics, and he smiled at the way the sound fell so smoothly from your lips. He’d always thought you were so effortlessly beautiful. Your laughter died down and you spared a glance at the clock hanging on the wall opposite your bed.

“Can’t wait to leave?” Oikawa asked. You smiled and shook your head. He was always so attentive to everything you did.

“This place isn’t as bad as you think it is, you know. I think you’re more eager for me to leave than I am,” you teased. Oikawa pouted and you gently poked the side of his cheek. You didn’t press very hard but he absentmindedly leaned against your finger, craving your physical touch.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when we get out of here?” he asked. A strange silence fell as you contemplated your best friend’s question. He watched as you cast your eyes down to your lap where you were picking at your fingers, a habit you had when you were nervous about something. Oikawa’s brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what could possibly be wrong.

“The park,” you spoke softly. Oikawa snapped out of his thoughts as a pang of nostalgia hit him square in the chest.

“I’d want to go to the park,” you said more confidently, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His heart skipped a beat hearing you say it again, the memories from your childhood coming back to him in an unrestrained flood.

“Close your eyes, Y/N!” Oikawa said, watching as you eagerly cupped your hands over your eyes.

“No peeking!” he called behind him before running off to the nearest rose bush. He scrutinised every flower before plucking the one he thought looked the most perfect. You deserved only the best from him, after all. Oikawa quickly returned to the middle of the gazebo where you stood, a new gift in hand.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now,” he said and watched as your orbs lit up with pure delight at the sight of your favourite flower.

“My sister says I’m too young to have a girlfriend but if I told her that if I ever had one… I’d…” Oikawa trailed off but he steeled himself to say it.

“I’d only want it to be you.”

For reasons you had yet to understand, your blood began to pump faster and your stomach started to flutter. Oikawa cheeks turned pink as he slowly extended the flower to you.

“P-promise me that when we grow up, you’ll be my girlfriend and that we’ll be together forever!” he exclaimed, leaving you too stunned to react. “Promise me!” he repeated more earnestly, shaking the rose with growing desperation.

The thought of spending the rest of your life with your best friend was everything you could have dreamed of. You didn’t need to wait for your Prince Charming like the princesses in all the fairytales you’d read.

You had already found him.

“I promise!” you squealed as you grabbed the rose from him to officially seal the deal. “Let’s live happily ever after, okay?” you grinned.

Oikawa’s grip on the bouquet tightened, the crinkling of the plastic wrap sucking him back into reality. He didn’t expect you to remember, let alone want to revisit the place where the pact had been made. His heart leapt into his throat. Wait… Could it be?

“Tooru, I need to tell you something—”

“Y/N, wait,” he cut you off. He wanted to be the first one to say it. He had to be. “Let me say something first. Please.”

Oikawa sucked in a breath, trying to summon the same courage he had mustered all those years ago. He thanked fate for giving him the perfect opportunity to bring it up; it was his intention to tell you by the end of the day anyway. The golden rays of the setting sun streamed softly through the window, bathing the room in a warm orange glow. How romantic.

It was now or never.

“I remember the total despair I felt after being told that you’d been in an accident. You were in a coma for weeks and I came to visit you every day, wondering if you were ever going to wake up. I never brought up the promise we made during our childhood because I didn’t know if you still felt the same way. But after I thought I lost you, the regret I felt far outweighed any other emotion I had. I hated myself for being a coward, because even the slightest possibility of having everything I ever wanted was stripped away from me.”

Oikawa brought the bouquet up, taking in a shaky breath to calm his racing heart. “I don’t want to live with regrets anymore, and I’m not going to leave here today without telling you how I truly feel,” he said, bringing his gaze up to look you in the eyes.

“I love you, Y/N. I’ve always loved you and I don’t want to take you for granted ever again. We’ve spent our entire lives together and I don’t want it to stop. You’re still the only one I want to be with and…” he trailed off, bracing himself as he finally said his thoughts out loud.

“I still want to spend forever with you.”

The following silence was agonising. Oikawa could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he waited for your answer. All his senses were on edge as he watched your every move. Until finally, a small smile crept onto your lips, causing Oikawa to visibly sigh with relief. You reached out to accept the roses, as well as his confession. Your fingers brushed against his and even that small touch was enough to send his heart into overdrive. He was so completely and utterly in love with you.

“I love you too, Tooru,” you smiled at him, and he felt about a thousand fireworks going off in his chest.

“But…”

Oikawa’s face fell and the fireworks fizzled out as quickly as they were lit.

‘But’? No no no, no ‘but’. Why ‘but’? Everything was going so well, w-why ‘but’?

“There’s something I need to tell you…” you admitted quietly. Your eyes flicked back up at the clock, the setting sun casting a shadow over the room. Oikawa followed your gaze across the room and suddenly, the clock seemed so much more menacing, slowly ticking away like a timebomb counting down to an impending doom.

“You’re right Tooru, I am leaving the hospital today. But I’m not just leaving the hospital… I’m leaving for good.” You finally turned to face him and for the first time that day, he saw you completely unmasked, the despair in your eyes strong and apparent.

“I’m dying, Tooru.”

Oikawa’s chest tightened, and it felt like the air had been forced out of his lungs. Suddenly, it was hard for him to breathe.

“D-dying? What do you mean you’re dying? How much time do you have left?!”

As if to give a cruel answer to his question, your monitor started beeping erratically, forcing your chest to rise and fall until you were practically gasping for air.

None.

“Y/N! Y/N, are you okay?!” Oikawa rushed to your bedside, grabbing your frail arms with his large hands. When did you become so thin? Although the sunlight was slowly fading, it was only now that he could see everything with such clarity. It was like he had been given a pair of brand new eyes.

Your face had sunken in, your skin was so much paler and you looked terribly ill. As if on cue, you began to cough, reaching beneath your blanket to reveal a red-stained cloth, the same sickly shade as the roses Oikawa had brought. Had you been hiding this from him? His eyes widened in horror as you coughed heavily into the fabric, pulling it away to fresh splotches of thick, red blood. Oikawa didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t even react. He just stood there, rooted to the ground as he watched the love of his life slipping away in front of his very eyes.

“T-Tooru…”

Hearing you say his name in your now hoarse voice clicked something in his brain and he shook himself out of his daze. Oikawa rushed to the doorway to call for help, screaming for someone to rescue his dying friend, but no one was there to listen.

Oikawa panicked and quickly descended into a frenzy. He desperately tried to pour you a glass of water, even though his hands were shaking. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He frantically tried to get you to drink the water, but all you did was cough it back up. That was when reality finally settled in.

And he completely lost it.

“Please Y/N, please don’t leave me like this! You have to stay so I can finally love you! So we can finally be together and I can finally call you mine! I still have to kiss you, we still have to go on our first date. I… I still want to marry you, to grow old together with you. I still want to journey through the rest of life together with you, all the way from the beginning to the end. We’re supposed to write our love story together, remember?” he cried.

“What’s going to happen to our happily ever after?”

You smiled sadly at him, trying to suppress the coughs that threatened to rip through your throat. You raised your hand weakly and brought it up to cup the side of his face, using your thumb to tenderly stroke his cheek. Oikawa’s eyes began to well up at your sudden affection, the type that he’d always wanted with you. The type that he’d never be able to receive again. He leaned into your touch as tears began to blur his vision.

“Tooru, listen to me,” you spoke quietly. You were always so gentle, so tender and loving.

“I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I remember when you carried me when I scraped my knee at the playground, how you used your favourite alien-patterned plaster to cover it, and then bought me ice cream to cheer me up.”

“I remember when my date ditched me at prom and you found me sulking at the corner of the hall.” You let your hand fall to where he was tightly gripping the rails of your hospital bed and laid your hand gently over his. You felt him relax against your touch, turning his hand upwards and interlacing your fingers with his.

“I remember you asking me to dance, holding my hand in yours as we slow-danced the night away,” you squeezed his hand, smiling as the feeling reminded you of how his hands had felt on you that very night.

“I remember every single moment with you, Tooru. How you held me up when I was crumbling, and promised me that you’d always be there for me. And you were. Because I remember when I woke up from my coma to find you asleep on the side of my bed, tired from staying up and waiting for me to come to. I remember how you hugged me and cried because you almost lost me. I remember how you made me promise to never do that to you again.” Your resolve began to crumble together with your depleting strength as you choked out the next few words.

“I’m sorry that I have to break that promise. Because this time, you’re going to lose me for good.”

Oikawa’s lips trembled as he shook his head in denial, his breathing ragged as hot tears poured from his eyes. Without another word, he leaned down towards you and closed his eyes, gently pressing his lips against yours. It was wet and sloppy, but still as sweet as he’d always imagined it to be. You broke the kiss and held his face in both of your hands.

“I’m sorry I have to say goodbye, Tooru,” you apologised, tasting the saltiness of your tears as they slipped between your lips.

“Don’t. Please,” Oikawa whispered in anguish. “Please don’t say goodbye.”

The wetness from his eyes began to fall onto your cheeks, mixing together with your tears in a concoction of pure sorrow. Your monitor began to beep faster, an incessant reminder of your limited time left together. Frustration began to roil within him.

“We were so close, Y/N,” his lips trembled as he cried. “We were so close to being in love.”

Your eyes welled up with more emotion as the truth of his words pierced right through your heart.

“I know Tooru, I know. But I know you’re going to find someone else one day, and they’re going to give you all the happiness you deserve. All the happiness that I couldn’t give to you. And when you find them, love them with all your heart, okay? Love them like you would have loved me.”

The monitor let out another blaring noise as your pulse began to plummet and the colour drained from your already paper-white face. Oikawa heard footsteps sounding in the hallway, indicating that help — albeit futile — was finally going to arrive.

Oikawa cupped your face as he poured out every emotion into one final kiss. The love for you that he’d harboured for years, the joy and nostalgia from reminiscing your childhood, and the grief of having your romance stripped away, all in a single moment.

Oikawa parted from your lips and proceeded to kiss your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your nose. Then back to your lips again. All of the years he’d spent with you he had taken for granted. And since he’d never have the chance to do it again, he might as well do everything he can to write your romance in these last few moments.

“I love you, Y/N. Always have, always will,” Oikawa sobbed.

You smiled and pressed the bouquet he’d bought into his chest, using the rest of your strength to reach up and get one last taste of his sweet lips on yours. You finally reclined back onto the bed, smiling forlornly as the nurses and doctors began to rush in.

“I love you too Tooru, and I’ll always be with you. Until we meet again, my love.”

You smiled and gently squeezed his hand, a tear slipping from your eye right before your monitor flatlined. Oikawa choked on a sob before he stood and gave way to the hospital staff. They hurriedly tended to you, trying to bring you back. But Oikawa knew you were gone. And you were gone for good.

Oikawa clutched the bouquet in his hands as he left the room. His eyes were trained on the ground as he walked out of the cursed hospital, towards the place that had meant so much to him. The place that had first sparked your love.

Pavement slowly gave way to grass and before he knew it, he was standing before the white gazebo, the same one you said you wanted to visit one last time before you left. Oikawa walked up to the centre of the platform, gently laying the bouquet on the ground where you once stood all those years ago.

“I’ll love you forever, Y/N. You’ll always be my one true love.”

Silence was the only response he got, save for the rustling of leaves on that cold, desolate night. The sun had already set, and with it it took away the warmth and any embers of your unfulfilled romance. Inhaling sharply, he turned around and walked away, leaving the roses and all the empty promises they held behind.

Oikawa came to realise that life was no fairytale, and that ‘happily ever after’s with your true love didn’t exist. You could be so close to romance, yet have it ripped out of your grasp in the next second, before you could fully reach it. He cursed fate for mocking him, for giving him a taste of love before taking it all away forever. Oikawa chuckled cynically as he finally accepted how brutal reality truly was.

No matter how close you were to being in love…

Almost was never enough.

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esamastation · 3 years

Note

Codywan prompt: CC-2224 was among the command clones whose final exam took place off Kamino at the nearby smugglers haven of Rishi. While performing maneuvers in an abandoned mountainous settlement, three clones were lost to a sudden rockslide, but only two bodies were recoverable, the third having disappeared into the rapids below. Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi had been hoping a simple mission to investigate a smuggling ring would go smoothly, but it seems the force had a different plan.

Obi-Wan has a feeling that the whole mission is some kind of ploy by the Jedi Council to force him to take a holiday. It has Yoda's fingerprints all over it.

Rishi moon is desolate in the exact way he strangely enjoys. It's liveable but uninhabitable, with galactic standard atmosphere but no arable soil and no plant life, with only sandy canyons and dunes and dry mountains and rocky plateaus, rough oceans and wild rivers that went whichever they damn well pleased. The swell of the planet on the night sky overhead is magnificent and overpoweringly bright even in night time and there's something terribly beautiful about being on a planet where no one lives.

Obi-Wan has no doubt that it is actually being used by probably thousands of smugglers as convenient place to hide illicitly acquired goods, it's just the sort of place for that kind for thing… but really – the place is so close to one of his old poems given actual physical form that it has to be intentional.

He's not sure if he's mortified or gratified that someone still remembered the thing – or that the Council thought this would be the sort of thing to help him unwind after Anakin nearly got himself killed, again. They're right, in a way, but by force he's not going to admit it.

Tucking up his hood, Obi-Wan breathes in and out, tasting the un-tasted air of the desolate moon, and lets himself be, for a moment, completely alone in the universe.

And then he feels a stuttering song of a life form, not far from him, quivering and unsteady. Someone is on the planet with him – and they aren't doing too well.

Obi-Wan immediately heads for them, of course – he is there on a mission to supposedly investigate smugglers after all, and this person must be one. Who else would be in such a remote, desolate place? And in either case, they're in trouble and as the only living person in several light years, Obi-Wan is likely the only one who could help.

He expects to find a crashed ship, maybe, or one that had been attacked, something of the nature. He doesn't expect to find a single man splayed open a shoreline of a lifeless river, unconscious and half drowning inside his strange, vaguely mandalorian armour.

"Oh dear," Obi-Wan murmurs, and forgoes trying to get to the man and simply levitates him off the water, and to himself. The man hangs limb in his hold, raining water from under the white plates, and holding him up in the force Obi-Wan gently checks for his breathing, his pulse.

It's weak, stuttering, but as Obi-Wan enforces the man with Force, it grows stronger. It's obvious he's been knocked about, and he'd almost drowned – there's certainly water in the man's lungs – but he's breathing and he's going to live. Obi-Wan touches the helmet, considering it, but… who knows, he might be from the Watch. It sounds like the helmet is offering some oxygen to the man, as it is. Best leave it.

"Well then," Obi-Wan murmurs, manoeuvring the man around with force and then lets him drop into his own awaiting arms. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable, shall we?"

The way to his ship is too long – and it's one-seater anyway – so Obi-Wan searches in the Force until he finds a sheltered place, warm and welcoming in the Force. Obi-Wan could swoon at the sight of the place, when he makes it there – it's a cave in front of a natural hot spring.

"The very universe is conspiring to please me today," Obi-Wan sighs. "Keep this up and I will start waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or perhaps fear my own upcoming doom!"

He lays his rescuee on the warm rocks, making the man as comfortable as he can without removing the armour, and sits down to wait – soaking his feet in the water and trying to restrain himself from stripping and plunging right in. The man he saved is likely not the most trustworthy sort – better not risk it… just yet anyway.

Hedonism, this whole mission is pure Obi-Wan specific hedonism. Stars, Obi-Wan almost fears for whatever unpleasantness the Council is pre-emptively trying to make amends for this time.

Obi-Wan is meditating and almost dozing off in a pleasant, warm haze, when the armoured fellow finally wakes up. He does it in a strange mixture of relief, trust and comfort – and then, clashing all of that, he spots Obi-Wan and aims his blaster at him. The cycling of emotions is so rapid and sharp, that Obi-Wan doesn't even have the chance to reach for his lightsaber.

"Hello there – please don't shoot," Obi-Wan says as pleasantly as he can. "Be a shame to stain this fine pool with blood. Especially since I have done you no harm."

The blaster doesn't waver. "Who are you?" the man demands.

Obi-Wan smiles – he'd given a good deal of thought for his cover story, and had decided to go with the desert hobo one. He doesn't have the ship to play the smuggler, and he isn't dressed for it either – and who else would have any reason to come to a place like this, anyway? The desert hobo is an act that feels truest to his actual personality, too – even if it's only a secret part of him that only tends to come out in secret and poetry.

But what can he say – Rishi moon is beautiful.

"My name is Ben – I found you by the shore over there," he points towards the river, "half drowned and knocked about, judging by the looks of you. I think you took a tumble into the rapids, there. I picked you up and brought you here so that you'd get to recover and hopefully not get a cold."

There's a moment of silence, and then the man says, bland, "Colds are caused by viral infectious diseases not present on Rishi moon. The moon is barren."

"… you are right about that, but you still would have gotten cold," Obi-Wan says, not sure if to be amused or amazed. "Frostbite is no fun either."

"The temperatures here don't get low enough."

"Well, you're a very reassuring sort of man, aren't you," Obi-Wan says, amused. "I suppose you're alright then. Do you mind not pointing that thing at me, though? It's the least comforting thing about you."

There's a moment of hesitation, and then the armoured man puts the gun away. "Ben," he says slowly. "Your name is Ben."

"Yes?" Obi-Wan agrees, a little guiltily. It wasn't exactly a lie – he was known as Ben on some planet. Well, one planet. And now one moon. "That's me – how about you?"

The man doesn't answer, sitting up slowly and shoving his blaster into the holster. Then, watching Obi-Wan carefully, he checks his gauntlet, tapping something into a keypad and then lowering his arm. "Why are you here, Ben?"

Obi-Wan hums and then smiles, looking away. Interesting, very interesting. "I love places like these," he says, motioning to the vista in front of them, the open canyons carved into the landscape by the wild rivers. "There's so little in the galaxy that's so untouched. This place is so little use to so few people, so it's been left be. The only thing that's made any difference here is the wind, the weather, and the pull of the planet, and nothing else. It's… glorious."

Even through the armour he can tell the man he'd fished from the river is giving him an incredulous look. "Glorious?" he repeats.

"Nature of wild things," Obi-Wan agrees and kicks his foot in the water, sending ripples racing over the surface. "Wild nature and desolation of the universe, utter loneliness. We two are likely the only living souls on this whole system, with nothing but the emptiness of the universe all around us. It's glorious."

The armoured man just stares at him for a long, long time. Obi-Wan smiles a little wider as the armoured man looks up to the sky, like he's searching for what Obi-Wan is seeing. He hopes the man does see it.

"Glorious," the armoured man repeats. "Hm."

Obi-Wan grins wider and looks up as well. This is going to be a great mission, he can already tell. Maybe it will even be worth whatever indignity the Council would throw at him next. Who knows. For now, Obi-Wan thinks he's going to enjoy the company in loneliness and see what came of it.

And then they have adventures in Rishi moon while Obi-Wan shamelessly waxes poetry about desolate places and canyons and stuff and eventually gets to take his dip in the hot spring and Cody gets smacked over the head with “oh no, he’s completely ridiculous, I must protect him with my life.”

Not exactly what you asked for, but for a moment I got to live in a world where Obi-Wan might actually enjoy living on Tatooine one day and that was nice. Maybe Cody will live there too, enduring Obi-Wan’s bad poetry about the desert into his old age. That’d be nice too.

#fanfiction #star wars #codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

Note

Can we talk about the Black Bat both in general, and and how he may have been an influence on two superheroes (Dr. Mid-Nite and Daredevil) and a supervillain (Two-Face), but was proven in a court of law to have no connection with the superhero who immediately comes to mind (Batman).

Having finally read a couple of his original stories and runs, yeah I got some thoughts on him.

While not the first bat-themed pulp character, nor the first fictional detective with a disability turned superpower (that would be Max Carrados, who actually was blind), Black Bat’s main claim to fame nowadays is his correlation to superheroes with the mixed traits he has that would all become massively popularized by characters who debuted afterwards. Regarding the Batman lawsuit, it wasn’t so much proven that they have no connection, as much as the publishers of both characters argued they did it first, and then agreed to stay out of each other’s territory, with Batman staying out of pulp magazines and The Black Bat staying out of comics (not that it would stop his publishers from rebranding him as “The Mask” and doing comics).

Black Bat actually couldn’t have inspired Batman, because Batman debuted 4 months prior. Plus, both were already ripping off the same guy, and both of them were far from the first bat-themed pulp characters at the time. And the idea that he inspired Daredevil I find too much of a reach. Dr Mid-Nite I can definitely see the resemblance, and while Two-Face doesn’t have much similarities to Tony Quinn past the origin and the anti-hero aspects, “handsome crusading District Attorney disfigured after getting splashed in the face by acid goes on a rampage” is not exactly vague enough of a concept to pass for coincidence. Two-Face debuted just 3 years after Black Bat, while Bat was still a pretty successful character (he managed to outlast nearly every other pulp hero), so it’s very possible that Kane and Finger had a look at Black Bat’s origin and used it as the basis for their Jekyll & Hyde-themed villain.

Okay so, that’s that for Black Bat, but what’s the character actually like? What’s there to him other than historical oddities? Does he have what it takes to survive and thrive again in a modern landscape?

The thing that sticks out to me about Black Bat is that he is a pulp character who feels like he was designed specifically with the arrival of the superheroes in mind, as when comic book superheroes began to carve a space for themselves, one of the responses the pulps had was to put out new heroes intended to be a part of both worlds, hybrids of pulp heroes and superheroes who could try to capture success in either format, characters like Ka-Zar and Black Hood who started in one and then jumped to the other.

Black Bat’s got a lot of the usual hallmarks of dark detective pulp heroes and his adventures are largely him battling ordinary criminal masterminds and gangsters, but he’s got an iconic costume, he’s got a super dramatic origin story that the stories keep coming back to (unlike most pulp heroes whose origin stories are not usually mentioned), and he’s got superpowers brought in the aftermath of a tragic accident. Not just skills anyone can have by training hard enough, actual superpowers, even if they don’t see as much usage as his pulp hero skillset.

To the world that knew about him, Anthony Quinn, once a virile, upstanding representative of law forces whose name had held terror for evil doers, was now an impotent blind man whose sight had been permanently destroyed by acid thrown at him in a crowded courtroom, and whose face was horribly scarred about the eyes. For a long time he had seemed to live in a world apart.

Such actually had been the case during the long months when Tony Quinn had lived in a sea of blackness. But Nature had been as kind as possible, giving him something in return for what had been taken from him. As a result he had since realized that his senses of feel, smell, and hearing were far more acute than formerly. Under his sensitive fingers whatever he touched had begun to tell strange new stories. His sense of smell had sharpened. His ears had become the ears of a hound, picking up with ease and sifting multitudinous sounds that once had been inaudible.

More months had gone by until, in the darkness of a lonely night, a girl with golden hair and blue eyes hadcome in through an open window like an angel out of nowhere to offer him hope where eye specialists had said there was no hope. Through a delicate operation by an unknown small town surgeon the corneas of the eyes of Carol Baldwin's policeman father - dying from paralysis brought on by a gangster bullet - had been given to him. An extraordinary thing had occurred. When at last Tony Quinn had been allowed to remove the bandages, he had been astounded by the miracle that had happened. His were the eyes of darkness as well as the eyes of day!

Interestingly also, Black Bat actually became one of the most prolific of pulp heroes when brought over to Germany. When German publishers Pabel decided to reprint a couple of Black Bat novels for the KRIMINAL-ROMAN serial, they discovered “Die Schwarzen Fledermaus” was somehow so popular that in 1962, they retitled it Fledermaus (Bat) and ran with it, reprinting all the original 60+ stories and then, when those ran out, creating 900 more at least. In fact, it seems like they are still publishing Black Bat stories even today, and now that he’s public domain it’s something just about anyone could get into.

Problem with that is, it’s not easy to conceive of The Black Bat having any kind of substantial popularity again, when he’s doomed by design to always be compared to Batman, to always just be seen as first glance as “oh it’s earless Batman with Daredevil’s shtick and Two-Face’s backstory”, and of course he doesn’t have a chance in hell of playing catch-up to the popularity of those characters (well, at least outside of Germany). Whatever niche he could have as an alternative to Batman is also null by the fact that said niche of Not-Batmen is already filled out quite extensively. He doesn’t have an incredibly strong personality the way Batman and The Shadow do, nor is he, despite being ostensibly a serial killer, enough of a trigger-happy anti-hero to latch on to the appeal of characters like The Spider or Punisher. The latest Black Bat comic run by Dynamite played up his ruthlessness, outlaw status and drew him on the covers perpetually holding guns and often with a big creepy smile. But smiling murder pulp Batman is already a niche that Midnighter fills considerably better than Black Bat ever could. So what’s left for him?

If I had to find a unique niche for Black Bat, I’d play his unique traits in ways that separate him from the super characters that ran with those later. I’d ditch the whole “oh woe is me I’m poor and helpless because I’m blind” shtick that’s terribly condescending to actually blind people, and make him at least truly blind in some form. Maybe he’s blind by day and by night he sees too much, or maybe his vision has some terrible secrets that go beyond mere enhanced eyesight. Maybe his powers are growing and expanding in ways he doesn’t know where they will lead him. But alongside that, one take on the character could be based on the fact that he really has nothing to lose. He is not Batman, he is not The Shadow, he isn’t Daredevil, he’s got little reputation to speak of, and he’s never going to be any of those characters.

He’s lost the position he’s coveted his whole life, he’s lost the respect of his peers, his former professional ethics don’t mean shit now, he’s had a long and painful brush with darkness that scarred him for life in ways both literal and metaphorical, and in the aftermath he’s begun spontaneously developing abilities that would be incredibly painful and uncomfortable for an average person to just develop without years of growing up with them. And then, a mysterious woman walked through his window one day, gave him the eyes of a dead man, and now he sees things in ways no person was ever supposed to, and now he goes around at night terrorizing and killing criminals in an animal-themed costume.

The most he has to lose currently is the life of his sidekicks who’ve worked very hard to help him heal and focus and find a new purpose, which only means that they are on the chopping block everytime you wanna give a gut punch to Tony Quinn. And no matter how famous, or even great, his adventures are, or how prolific and successful he is or even has been, he’s always going to be the Bat-themed superhero who couldn’t cut it. He’s Not-Batman, stripped of all the grand splendour and allmighty self righteousness and reputation and role as foundational figure of an entire genre and most popular bestest superhero of all time ever praise be thy Bat God, sharing more traits with one of Batman’s most personal and tragic villains than the titular character.

That’s not an indictment, that just means that Black Bat ultimately should have more narrative freedom, since he is unburdened by reputation and status. He is a public domain nobody best known by his association with characters who eclipse him in popularity, who’s always going to have that accursed Bat prefix and costume to damn him by association, so why not work with it? He could be the character you go into to tell stories that you couldn’t tell with Batman or other big name superheroes, the grimiest, sickest, even weirdest crime tales of all. What does the Black Bat have to lose?

Those who have nothing to lose stand everything to gain, after all.

Also, Masks 2 once presented an alternative version of the character called The Black Bats, who dresses like a baseball player and dual-wields baseball bats, which is nutty and I’d definitely prefer Black Bat to ditch the generic pulp hero guns and instead just go crazy batting everything in his way.

“I gotta tell ya, this is pretty terrific! Hahahahah, yeah!”

#replies tag #pulp heroes #pulp fiction #the black bat #tony quinn #batman #two-face

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apiratewhopines · 3 years

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Killian, Persuaded

Chapter One — Don’t Panic

Summary: In which our hero panics

Read on AO3

“All of us are done for”

-Don’t Panic, Coldplay

It was no secret Killian Jones lived a charmed life. How could it be when his handsome face was plastered across glossy magazines covers and splashy websites on a daily basis? Dark hair carefully tousled to look as if he woke up that way. An athletic figure always encased in the latest fashion and, more often than not, topped off with black leather. A smile said to cause an increase in heart rate for those lucky enough to experience it firsthand. And perhaps the most defining feature, one gossip columnists and celebrity photographers waxed lyrical about, impossibly blue eyes that could charm or chill in equal measure depending on his mood.

He inherited his father’s roguish good looks and, fortunately for the world, his mother’s better nature.

As he rolled out of bed early one fall morning, it was with the deep sense of well-being one could only achieve from a pampered existence, free of the stress and worries normal people carried like millstones around their necks. He walked through a hallway laid with Italian marble liberated from a Renaissance era villa to a bathroom featured in Architectural Digest as the most luxurious in the world, causing an Arabian prince and a Russian oligarch to accuse him of sleeping with the journalist who produced the piece.

He had, of course. But that didn’t mean the title wasn’t deserved.

He stepped into an enormous shower that provided an expansive view of skyscrapers and the ocean beyond through the one-way windows forming the walls of the room. It was one he was so familiar with he didn’t even notice it anymore. As he washed off the lingering scents of the night before—stale cigarettes, spilled booze, and expensive French perfume—he rolled his shoulders under the perfectly calibrated water pressure of his rainwater showerhead and let the massaging jets work their magic, precisely hitting all the important hydrotherapy points as they had been designed to do.

Stepping out, he wrapped himself in towels of the softest Egyptian cotton embroidered with the Jones family crest. As his father always said, just because they were in the colonies, it didn’t mean they had to forget where they came from. Never mind that the colonies hadn’t been colonies in well over two hundred years. His family had always preferred to live in the past.

Killian’s father was also keen on never forgetting who they were. As if such a thing would even be possible when all articles about them started with a brief reminder their roots could be traced back as far as the monarchy and noted they were in possession of a bank account rivaling the tech giant nouveau riche of the vast city quite literally laid at his feet every morning.

Although, it should be noted his father would never be so tasteless as to discuss money. Comparing bank accounts was the province of those who didn’t have enough. No, the elder, esteemed Mr. Jones preferred to simply let his massive wealth speak for itself, silently scorning those who had less while appearing to think nothing of it. And why should he? It’s not like he had done anything to earn it other than being born into the family.

Generation after generation passed down entitlement and piercing blue eyes like they had patents on them. His father offset his lack of the most noted Jones feature by putting his blue blood on full display whenever possible. Some might even accuse the head of the family of overcompensating.

The truth of the matter was, Killian was the product of a long line of smug snobs so it was amazing he had turned out as well as he did.

Or perhaps not so amazing when you considered his mother had been a stranger to this world of glittering privilege. That’s not to say she was completely without resources. In the real world, she would have even been considered wealthy in her own right. But in the Jones sphere of reality, the general view was his father married so far down the ladder, he was practically romancing pond scum instead of a clever, beautiful soul who devoted her life to helping others and raising her two sons.

Killian realized at an early age it was, in fact, his mother who could have done better.

His parents had been an odd couple that never stood a chance. While no one would ever know for sure, because the only thing worse than talking about money was talking about your feelings, the general consensus was when his father saw his mother exiting the courthouse one day it was love at first sight. She was leaving her latest case as a Human Rights lawyer and he was coming from being the defendant in a string of slumlord lawsuits.

His father had always appreciated a pretty face, a trait he definitely passed down to his youngest son, and his mother could never resist the chance to save someone. Even if it meant losing herself along the way. Even, and perhaps especially, if the person didn’t want to be saved.

Doomed from the beginning.

Shaking off the odd sense of melancholy that threatened, he threw his towel into the corner and walked unashamedly into a closet so large it could easily house a family of four with room to spare. It was a grand space, two stories softly lit by Baccarat chandeliers and filled floor to ceiling with custom clothes tailored to his exact, and enviable, measurements.

Another longstanding family expectation was to always look your best. Nature had been kind to the Jones clan but it never hurt to play up what you were blessed with. Clothiers practically threw garments his way knowing they would reap the benefits of a timely paparazzi snap. The three piece suit he wore when he proposed to his fiancée sold out within seconds after the picture went viral and the designer currently had a two year waitlist for his creations.

The pressure of being a trendsetter never bothered him. Honestly he couldn’t care less what people thought of him. Being universally adored did wonders for your confidence.

The same could not be said for his estranged older brother. While Killian received the lion’s share of swagger, Liam had inherited their mother’s self-righteous streak with none of her sweetness to temper it. He was a chore to be around at the best of times so it was no surprise barely a year after the death of their mother, and only a few months after his graduation from university, Liam proceeded to thumb his nose at centuries of Jones tradition by defying their father and enlisting in the Navy thereby renouncing any claim to the family fortune.

He hadn’t even had the decency to join Her Majesty’s Naval Service. In a complete break with the family, he visited the nearest strip mall and was recruited by some of Uncle Sam’s finest.

From that day forward, their father insisted he had only one son. Liam was painted out of family portraits, his name stricken from the family tree, his signature removed from the vast network of accounts and properties. Killian still remembered the last time he saw him, laughing as he waved from the backseat of a cab, looking as if the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders.

It was the only time he’d ever been jealous of his brother.

Now, more than fifteen years later, he often wondered where Liam had landed. If he was still laughing or if the harshness of a world without means, without the Jones family name to soften any and all blows, had crept up on him. The abandoned boy, the one who had watched from a spotless mansion window as his best friend and hero walked away without a second glance, hoped so. But it was a mean, half-hearted wish. Hidden beneath layers of hurt, the reality was he would never want any harm to come to his brother.

Deep down, he wished he had followed him out the door.

Selecting a black suit and contrasting tie at random, he started getting dressed. Normally, his valet would be on hand to smooth wrinkles and polish off his look. However, the man had taken a long overdue vacation to tend to his ailing mother. Killian wasn’t so far removed from the real world he couldn’t dress himself for a few days but the sense of being out of sync wouldn’t dissipate.

He couldn’t account for the feeling. Admittedly, this time of year was harder than most. It never failed that autumn brought falling leaves and personal loss. First his mother, then his brother. To complete the trifecta, a vision of a blonde with a guarded smile filled his mind, green eyes flashing and chin tilted up in challenge.

With a ruthlessness that was completely unnecessary, he tugged his tie in place and risked a glance in the mirror for the first time that morning. Or maybe it had been months. Carefully cultivated nonchalance stared back at him. He wondered when he had lost the fire in his eyes and how long it would be before he gave a damn about something again.

Perhaps it was easier this way.

And perhaps if he kept taking the easy way, the next time he saw his reflection he wouldn’t recognize himself at all.

—

It was with some surprise he found he had thirteen missed calls when he bothered to check his phone. While his social media accounts were heavily trafficked, there were few who had his number and even fewer who actually used it in this day and age. The fact all the calls originated from a single source—his best friend of sorts—made it even more shocking.

There was a time when it would have been rare for Robin Locksley, heir to an ancient title and completely bankrupt estate, to be awake before noon. What was the point really when all you had to look forward to was crippling debt? That all changed when he settled down and started a family only to lose his wife less than two years later.

Normally he would have given into his curiosity and returned the calls but for once, he had someplace to be. The family’s legal and financial advisors recently called an emergency meeting and requested his presence in addition to his father, who normally handled these types of things. It was an unusual move to say the least but his father assured him it was because they wanted to talk him out of a risky investment. Misguidedly, they thought his son might get him to see the sense of their arguments.

Killian could have told them not to bother. His father no more listened to him than he did anyone else. Still, it was nice to feel wanted for something other than a free ride so he cleared his non-existent schedule and took one of the family’s fleet of limos to the tastefully understated brick mansion serving as a headquarters for their business ventures.

He could count on one hand the number of times he had bothered to visit. Honestly it seemed like everything ran a lot smoother if he didn’t get too involved. This laissez-faire type of leadership was the only way men of his class ran things. Anything more would be a disgrace to the honorable name of Jones. Or at least that was what his father said. Since he didn’t have any real interest in the day-to-day runnings of their portfolio and numerous acquisitions, it worked out well for everyone. The fancy business degree currently gathering dust somewhere in his penthouse could have been wallpaper for all the use it got.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized his time would be better spent at the yacht club or with his eminently suitable fiancée. She had been inexplicably absent the prior night and hadn’t returned the texts he sent to check on her. He was sure she would breeze into his arms at some point today with a perfectly absurd excuse and be delightfully motivated to make it up to him. The faint wave of nausea presenting itself at the thought was immediately dismissed as the result of too much caffeine.

He mounted the steps with a level of trepidation he normally reserved for babies and churches. The hard facade suddenly seemed imposing and it occurred to him the only vehicle in the cobblestone driveway was the one he arrived in. He would be joining the meeting as it started so the absence of his father’s preferred antique Rolls Royce was disturbing to say the least. Mr. Jones prided himself on his punctuality. Truly, it was his only redeeming virtue.

Shrugging inelegantly out of his overcoat, he knew he wasn’t imagining the brief look the staff exchanged when he crossed the threshold. Tension, an infrequent visitor in his cosseted life, formed in his shoulders, muscles bunching under the clean lines of his suit. He made his way unaided to the second floor, pausing on the landing when he heard the emotionless drone of some random news anchor echo down the hallway. It wasn’t until he heard his name fill the space his feet started moving of their own accord. He reached the boardroom at the tail end of the story but it was enough to get the gist of it.

There on the television, the ribbon running the details even as the reporter gleefully narrated it for an rapt audience, was a picture of his father. Time had been kind to the senior Jones, his hair still dark and falling in wavy perfection around his handsome face. Dimples winked charmingly as dark eyes twinkled with a sense of mischief that was totally an illusion. He was a hard man who had petrified after the death of his misunderstood, but nonetheless cherished, wife.

‘Anonymous sources reveal Brennan Jones, widely considered one of the richest men in the state, fled from authorities last night...’

Tearing his eyes away from the screen, he noted everyone was focused on his reaction, or lack thereof. Those brave enough to face him head on would notice the twitch of muscle in his cheek, a nervous tell the people closest to him knew was a sign of deep emotion. He felt like he stood there for days before someone stepped forward. It evidently fell to Marco, a friend of the family who had the distinction of being the only advisor hired by his mother, to be the messenger. “Killian, I’m so very sorry.”

Not sure what this man had to apologize about, he asked with a bemused grin, “Whatever for?”

Shuffling nervously, Marco stared at him again. Looking around the room at the shell shocked faces, he didn’t resist when the older man took him by the arm and led him back into the hallway. “I guess you haven’t heard. Of course, we had no idea it would come to this. I wish I could give you happier news.”

Mind uncomprehending of the scope of tragedy waiting for him, he said, “I would settle for any explanation at this point. Why was my father on television this morning?”

“Oh Killian, my boy, you probably should sit down...”

“I prefer to stand,” he murmured, internally bracing himself. Marco had always been one of the least annoying of the host of advisors employed by his family. The unassuming man had the kind of face that made you think of grandparents and unconditional love, or at least that’s what Killian thought when he was a child. Now he knew while grandparents were real enough, unconditional love was a fairy tale.

“Your father raided the meager funds left in the family coffers and left the country to avoid prosecution for wire fraud and tax evasion.”

“Meager funds,” he repeated, feeling lightheaded. “I’m not sure I understand. The last time I was at one of these little get-togethers, we had over half a billion dollars in assets.”

“That was many years ago, my boy. Your father made some poor investments and he never was the best at curbing his lifestyle to fit his income.”

Swallowing thickly, Killian ran his hand through his hair and forced himself to remain calm. If what Marco said was true, poor investments was the understatement of the century. In a pale imitation of a joke he offered, “So what? We’ll have to sell some property and maybe a couple of the yachts? Start sharing a helicopter with another family?”

“Unfortunately, the situation is more dire than that. Most of the property is already gone. The only yacht left is the one he stored in Maldives, probably in anticipation of his getaway.” With a kindly hand on his shoulder, Marco gave him an apologetic look. “I’m afraid it gets worse.”

In disbelief, Killian shook his hand away and propped himself against the wall. It was an artful pose that didn’t hint at the real reason he was leaning, namely he needed the hard surface to keep from sinking to his knees. “How could it possibly get worse?”

“The family money wasn’t the only thing he took. Your fiancée went with him.”

—

Killian was surprised to learn the hardest part wasn’t listening to the substantial inventory of assets already lost. It wasn’t seeing the short—far too short—list of property still in play that would be offered in a fire sale to end all fire sales. It wasn’t the fact people he thought of as friends were already circling like sharks, ready to take a piece of the family prestige home with them at a fraction of the cost.

It wasn’t the media demanding answers to prying questions every time he left his building. It wasn’t the news cycle replaying the details of his embarrassment over and over again on an endless loop. It wasn’t that somehow his name had become a punchline overnight, cannon fodder for late night talkshow hosts and comedians.

It wasn’t watching his family home, the last tangible thing connecting him to his mother, being emptied out. Observing the gentle landscape surrounding it being surveyed in an attempt to siphon off parcels from the main section to try to bring in more money at auction was surreal but unavoidable considering the circumstances.

It wasn’t the hushed conversations that followed him, fracturing into silence as soon as he was within earshot. Nor was it the pitying glances the staff gave him when he had to dismiss them with excellent references but a fraction of the severance they deserved.

It wasn’t crawling into an empty bed and pulling cold sheets over his head every night. It certainly wasn’t missing his fiancée, a woman he had committed to but, in hindsight, hadn’t liked all that much. If he was being completely honest, her leaving was the only silver lining in this particular rainstorm. Although her manner of leaving left much to be desired.

It wasn’t even the sudden lack of everything. His whole life he had been comforted by possessions he used as a replacement for love. Every article of clothing a substitute for the affection he never received, every priceless piece of art a proxy for family photos never taken much less displayed, every impressive technological gadget a surrogate for the support sorely missing from his life. His six car garage was now empty, a willing sacrifice in order to compensate the slate of advisors needed to carve up what was left of his life and repay the debts of his father.

Now that the clutter was gone, he actually felt a certain freedom in the emptiness.

No, the worst part was the silence. The feeling of being utterly and completely alone despite doing everything in his power to keep it from happening. With the shock of a lifetime to provide perspective, Killian realized now he had twisted himself into someone he didn’t know in a misplaced attempt to please a man who would never be proud of him. He let go of all the things that made him happy—the people who made him happy—to try to meet some unattainable standard of perfection in the eyes of the horde he had mistaken for loved ones. People who had abandoned him the second he was no longer the darling of their social stratum.

Still, he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the buzz. He knew it was meaningless but the constant hum of activity gave him the illusion of being a part of something.

He knew some of the silence was his own fault. He had turned off him phone and frozen all his social media accounts. It seemed wise given the shit show that was currently his life and all the expensive advisors agreed laying low was the best course of action in situations like these.

Luckily, his dwelling and a few pieces of furnishings were his outright, bought with the small trust he inherited from his mother so at least he wouldn’t be living on the street. He had a comfortable cage to crawl back into every night. A lonely place to be sure, but no one could take it from him. It was a lot more than most people would ever have and a lot less than he wanted.

For the first time in a long time, he looked out over the city and truly saw it.

He had no idea how long he had been standing there lost in thought when the elevator bell rang. Someone made it past the doorman and the front desk. Trying to figure out how his visitor managed to get all the way to the penthouse was a welcome distraction from his gloomy musings. The ringing kept up a steady pace but he didn’t make any effort to key open the door.

That is until the noise took on a familiar tune.

The unmistakeable though slightly off-kilter sound of Hooked on a Feeling rang out in the harsh meep of the doorbell. With something approaching wonder, Killian ran over to the security pad and punched in his code. Instantly, the elevator opened revealing a sight he never thought he’d see again.

Staring back at him through blue eyes identical to his own was the face of his long lost brother. Through the intervening years, Liam grew his hair out and it now curled in a way that made him think it was probably raining outside. Faint scores of wrinkles defined the areas of his profile showing Liam had continued to find joy in the struggle of life. Completing his perusal, he noticed his brother had bulked up, muscles replacing the softness of an idle life, probably a side benefit of his years in the Navy. His clothes were of the outdoor variety, navy utility pants topped with a gray fisherman sweater and pea coat, and they made him look like he stepped out of a travel magazine catering to ecotourists. “Liam, I...how did you find me?”

“Finding you has never been a problem, little brother. You don’t exactly fly under the radar. Reaching you on the other hand...well, I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to find a different way in since you won’t answer your damn phone and there isn’t a lock to pick on this contraption,” Liam explained, looking Killian over with a worried expression that gradually gave way to a bright smile. “You look like death warmed over.”

“Good to see you too,” Killian answered sarcastically, still trying to get his bearings. While Liam had changed in a few superficial ways, his determined expression and uncompromising attitude seemed unshakeable even after all these years. The bruised ego and hard feelings of their long separation faded away like it never happened and he was fifteen again, basking in the glow of a beloved brother. “Why are you here?”

“Why do you think? I’m rescuing you from your ivory tower.”

“I don’t need to be rescued,” he scoffed. Times made be bad, but it wasn’t like he was starving. He still had his pride and it forced the next words out of his mouth before he could stop to consider if they were true. “Certainly not by a man who acted like I didn’t exist my entire adult life.”

Stiffening, Liam advanced into the room, taking no notice of the breathtaking view or the recently minimalist design. Suddenly Killian was engulfed in a fierce embrace, pulled into his brother’s strong hold. He heard Liam say in a gruff voice, “Our father has a lot to answer for but know this, I thought of you every single day since I left.”

A little piece of him broke, even he couldn’t have said if it was his resolve or his heart, and he felt tears well up. Uncomfortable with the stir of emotions, he joked as he hugged Liam with equal intensity, “Aye, serves you right you bastard.”

“Too right,” his brother agreed, pulling away to clap him on the back. Barking out orders in a way that gave Killian a glimpse of the other man’s military background, he didn’t even argue when Liam said, “Pack your bag. I’m taking you home.”

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imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl · 3 years

Text

Californian Dream (Pt. 02 of 11)

Pairing: Billy Hargrove X Reader

Word count: 2.9 K

Summary: Being part of one of the richest families of California doesn't mean you're happy. Your life is boring, and you're surrounded by meaningless people and their meaningless talk. Even during Summer, with the break you have from college, there's nothing good going on. Nothing but the new pool guy, Billy, the most handsome man you ever saw. You were successfully avoiding him, not wanting to act like an idiot in front of the guy until Billy accepts to be your date for a fancy gala you're forced to attend. The night was going well, even better when he sneaked you out to go to the beach. But a gang of criminals breaks into the party, kidnapping the heirs to the wealthiest families, which includes you. So, for your safety, your parents want you to stay with Billy, living in his apartment until the criminals are caught. And that could take weeks, maybe even months.

Warnings: Light violence

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{Stranger Things Masterlist}

{Dacre Montgomery Masterlist}

Open Book

You're checking your hair for the third time on the huge mirror in the main hall. The lilac dress fits you perfectly, of course, since your mother wouldn't allow you to buy anything that didn't look marvelous. Your hair, Amelia's doing, it pinned up on a high bun, a few strands allowed to be free, only to frame your face. But you can't wait to let it all down, to strip out of the dress and put on some normal clothes. The night would be doomed if it wasn't for Billy. Since the almost drowning incident, your father is very thankful, and he's even giving Billy generous tips. And you've been going out of your way to talk to him, offering help, even though he always refuses. And Michael is only allowed here on formal occasions when your father and his have business to discuss, so it means you haven't seen him in the last couple of days.

The bell ring drags you out of your thoughts, and you immediately get nervous. Taking a look at the clock, you notice he's right on time. Rushing to the front door, as fast as your high heels allow, you gesture for the butler to leave it to you, and he nods and walks away. Taking a deep breath, you pull the door open, and a smile comes to your lips straight away. Billy looks amazing, and in this suit, people will be talking for a very different reason. He'll get many stares, you're sure of it. He won't look misplaced, he'll be the center of all attentions.

“You... Clean up real nice.” As you stutter, you notice as he quickly runs his eyes through your body, making you blush.

“You too.” He says with a smile, before tilting his head towards the car. “Should we get going? I'm sure you'd hate to be late.”

“Oh, no. God forbid.” You say, sarcastically, making your way to his car. And what a car. A dark bluish Camaro, if you're not mistaken, which you think suits him perfectly. “Hey, what a machine, huh?” You exclaim as you get into the passenger seat. Billy walks around the car before settling down beside you.

“I'm sure it's nothing compared to what you may drive.” Giving you a glance and a small smile, he speeds away, through the rocky path that leads to the gates.

“Well, my pink Cadillac is not as badass as this baby here.”

“A pink Cadillac? That's girly.”

“I'm a girl if you haven't noticed.” He slows down at the gates, and you kindly waves at the security guard as you move to hit the street.

“I noticed, don't worry.” His Camaro makes a wild noise when he speeds up, flying through the road, so you decide to buckle up.

“Good.” Why does it makes you happy you know he noticed you're a girl? “So, what's her name?” You ask, gesturing at the car when Billy gives you a confused glance.

“She doesn't have one.” Chuckling, he turns his attention back at the road ahead. “But you're right, she should have a name.”

“What are the chances you'll let me chose it?” Moving on your seat a little to turn your body towards him, you bite your lip to see his smile.

“Only if you come up with something really good.”

“Lily.” You burst out.

“Absolutely not.”

“But is my favorite flower and it's beautiful.” Defending yourself, you can't keep the smile from your face.

Billy furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head lightly. “Nope. No way. You're not naming my car Lily.”

Since he seems very focused on the road, you get the chance to look at him. Your eyes run through his face, his cheeks, jawline, lips. His eyes, that you concluded, are the same color as the ocean. You wish you had a good excuse to look at them, just for a while. “Not even if I say please?”

“Not even if you make puppy eyes.”

With a dramatic eye roll, you decide to give up on the matter, for now at least. Half an hour later, you finally get to the hotel where the gala will happen. You advise Billy to park his car three blocks away since it'll be a lot easier to leave after the party is over. Then, you leave the car and walk the rest of the way. The hotel entrance is already crowded, and you know at least half of all these people, but so far, you haven't spotted any of your friends.

“Can I hold your arm? Just because that's how the dates walk around in these things.” Shyly, you ask as you climb up the stairs to the main hall.

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” Muttering, you take his arm, now already at the entrance. The two men by the door give you a nod, gesturing for you to get inside. People know you, there's no need to ask for an invitation. The hotel's hall is beautifully decorated, with tiny white and yellowish lights scattered through the walls, and then hanging, coming all together on the chandelier. You can't deny it looks amazing, but still, you'd rather be somewhere else. “So... That's how it happens.” You start, walking around with Billy. “We find our table, and on the way, we make sure to spot and greet some people. The goal is to make your presence known. Then, since it's a beneficial gala, I'll have to make a donation.” Shrugging your shoulders, you wave at one of your mother's friends. “Then we go to our table and endure the rest.”

“No dancing?” He asks, after a small pause you make to greet Mr. and Mrs. Whayland, and thankfully, not James.

“I don't dance on these things, but...” Letting go of his arm for a moment, you turn around until you facing him, slowly walking backwards. “I will if you let me name your car Lily.”

“No dancing then.” He simply says with a smirk. “Quit it. You won't–” Billy suddenly grabs your arms, pulling you to the side. When you look behind you, you notice you almost hit one of the waiters, his tray full of vol-au-vents. “Careful.”

“Oh, my gosh. Sorry.” Giggling and a little embarrassed, you give the young man an apologetic look. “Let me get these.” Reaching out your hand, you take two pieces, handing one over to Billy. “Try this.”

“What is that?”

“Vol-au-vents. Some French thing. It's a pastry with some kind of sauce. It's good.” Carefully not to drop any sauce on your dress, you give the small thing a bite, gesturing for Billy to do the same, eyes focused on his face as he eats. “So?”

“I like pizza better.” He concludes and you nod.

“You're definitely the best date I could find.” Taking his arm again, you pull him to the table where most of the food is placed. There are waiters here too, making sure it's always be full. “Now, chose something.”

You take a quick glance at his face as he thinks. You're happy he doesn't seem so out of place here, or at least he doesn't let it show. “Shrimp cocktails.” He says. “Are they as good as they look or will I be disappointed?”

“I wouldn't know. I'm allergic to shrimp so if you're planning to kill me, that's the fastest way to do it.” Halfway through your sentence, Billy stops on his tracks, his hand now just hovering over the shrimps. “But you can eat them. Just... For real, don't touch me with that hand.”

“Let's not risk it then.”

“Alright.” Blushing, you clear your throat. You did hear some stories about Billy, mostly from your friends, trying to talk you out of coming with him. Billy has a way with women, never really going out with the same more than a couple of times. He's up late partying, punching people in the face when they get on his nerves, stuff like that. But he's being very nice with you today and was kind enough to make this hell of a huge favor. You don't care what he does in his free time, he's a nice guy. “This over here.”

“Brandy snaps.” You say, taking one for yourself. “I love this.” Some of the chocolate gets on your thumb as you eat, so you suck it clean, a gesture that makes some people around give you a disapproving stare. Flustered, you turn back at the table.

“Everything alright?”

“Yup. Come, I want to make a donation and sit down.” The incident makes you a little upset. These rules, as stupid as they may be, are meant to be followed, mostly on an event like this. Not even silly accidents as getting some chocolate cream on your thumb are acceptable. When you get to the table, you ignore the line of people behind it, taking one of the paychecks and a pen, you start writing down. “Last time, I donated fifty cents. As a joke, you know. People only do this to show off how much money they can afford to give away.” You tell Billy as you sign down your name. “My mother gave me a hell of a lecture.”

“So how much will you donate now?” He asks, coming a little closer to read what you're writing.

“Twenty.”

“Twenty dollars?”

“Twenty thousand.” You say as you put down the value, sliding it into the rectangular glass box. When you move to take Billy's arm again, he has his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Nothing. It's just a lot of money.”

Not really, but you won't tell him that. “At least it'll buy something someone needs. Our table is by the windows, thank God.” You exclaim once you finally read your name on a piece of paper attached to the centerpiece of the table. Pulling Billy with you, you take a seat, your eyes immediately finding the beach, just across the street. “We can see the beach from here. A total win.”

“(Y/N)?” Your father calls, and you abandon the ocean for a while, finding him standing beside your mother.

“Hi, dad. Mom. How's the organization of–”

“Is he your companion for the gala?” He cuts you off, exchanging a glance with Billy. You knew they'd be mad, but something just clicks inside you. Through the corner of your eyes, you see Billy immediately looks away, at the beach.

“Yes, father.”

“Didn't you had other guys to–” He's interrupted by an announcement, his and your mother's being called alongside several other people. “We'll discuss this later.” And he leaves, your mother only giving you a hard stare.

“I bet it won't be pretty when you get home,” Billy speaks, still looking through the window. “They might even ask for someone else to attend to your pool.”

“Well, if it wasn't you working that day, I could've drowned so... I'll make sure to remind them of that.” Then, everybody stands up. You, taking the chance, walk closer to the window, arms crossed, forcing your eyes to find where the horizon is, now mixed with the dark sky. Soon, Billy joins you, eyes on the landscape. “Sorry about that. I swear I don't understand why is such a big deal.” You do get it's because he's just the pool guy, an employee, but still, it's stupid. Why can't he be your date? Would your father rather Michael, who almost got you killed, came with you? “I... I'm having a good time with you. This would suck a lot more if I were with some of those idiots.”

“Don't worry about me. I'm used to it.”

“You shouldn't be.” Turning around, you rest your back against the glass, gesturing at the party in general. “Do you know why people make such exaggerated donations? Because the five highest paychecks will be announced, so everyone will know. And you think people will find that selfless and generous? No. They'll start counting, calculating how much those people actually have on the bank to afford to spend so much.” There's a mocking tone on your voice, and you struggle to keep it down. “This isn't about helping those in need, is about social status.”

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Billy suddenly says, and the idea is so absurd it makes you chuckle, looking at him.

“What?” Looking around, you shake your head. “I can't... I can't just leave.”

“Why not?” He shrugs his shoulders. “You donated, your parents already know you came, and some woman gave you a death stare just because you sucked some chocolate off your thumb. You achieved all your goals for the night.”

Tilting your head to the side and looking at the floor, you consider it. The night is far from over, and the thought of having to sit here for hours is horrible. And the possibility of leaving thos place makes your heart beat faster. “Where?”

“There.” When you look up at him again, he's gesturing at the beach.

Slowly, a smile comes to your lips. Quickly scanning through the people, you notice they're quite focused on the host, who's still speaking. “Alright, let's go. But we gotta be careful.”

“We will. C'mon.” Billy grabs your hand, moving through the tables, but remaining near the wall. As you keep his pace, you're on high alert, checking if anyone is looking your way. It feels like it takes forever for you to reach the entrance, only half open, but when you do, you're relieved to notice those two men aren't here.

“We're out!” You burst out, quite loudly, bringing a hand to cover your mouth. Quickly, you rush downstairs, walking around the huge fountain and right into the sidewalk. You make a small pause, waiting for some cars to pass by before crossing. You can't stop smiling when you reach the other side. That's when you notice you're still holding his hand, so you let go, looking away. “I can't believe we're doing this.”

“It's not a bid deal.”

“It is for me.” Using his shoulder to balance yourself, you take your high heels off before stepping on the sand. “I never did anything like this.” Feeling the sand under your feet is amazing. This night just got so much better. “You're the best date I could ever find and that's final.” Turning on your heels, you find Billy coming your way, also barefoot.

“A lot of people would disagree.”

“I don't see anyone else here, so their opinion doesn't matter.” Reaching out to your bun, you pull all the pins, letting your hair down and dramatically shaking your head, until the strands fall all over your face. “This feels like freedom.” You giggle, taking a deep breath, aware of how stupid it may sound.

“I don't understand you.” He says, and you open your eyes again, looking at him. Billy walks by, and you quickly move to follow his pacenalong the beach.

“What don't you understand?”

“I met a lot of chicks like you. Rich, wearing rings more expansive than my car, with easy access to anything money can buy and they're happy.” Putting a strand of hair behind your ear, you glance at Billy. His shirt is half unbuttoned under the suit, giving you a glimpse of his chest, and that makes you blush and look ahead again. “But you don't sound happy.”

Shrugging your shoulders, you breathe out, not sure how to answer to that. “I know you probably think I'm just some spoiled rich kid with rich kid's problems who has everything yet wants more–”

“I know people who are just like that.” Billy makes a pause, and you give some more steps before turning around to look at him. “You're not one of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“You're the only boss I ever had who offers help.” As he speaks, a small ripple reaches your feet, and you jump a little before giggling and walking into the water until it reaches your calves, soaking your skirt. “You'll ruin your dress.”

“Mother won't let me wear it again since everyone already saw it so...”

“So... You always do what's expected of you.”

“I'm an open book to you, am I not?” Furrowing your eyebrows, you wonder how did he got there so fast. People don't notice it. You're always in perfect disguise.

“I just know where to look, I guess.”

“Well, I do what's expected of me, yes.” Walking out of the water, you feel the skirts of the dress getting attached to your legs, but you don't mind. “I gave up trying to argue with my parents a long time ago so I just... Follow the rules. One day after the other.” This is sad, you know it. Just mentioning it sucks. Being part of the high society is a privilege, or so they say. But you? You don't have a choice. “The good part is that it's Summer and there's no college. The bad part is that there are some stupid events to attend to, like that gala.”

“I know some people who would kill to be invited for something like that.” Billy tilts his head to where the hotel is.

“If you were somehow enjoying that we can go back.” By the look he gives you, it's quite obvious he wasn't, so you smile, walking closer to him, and pretending to pin your hair up again. “I can just fix this and we can go.”

“That's not my kind of party, don't bother.” He takes both your hands, pulling them away from your hair, causing it to cascade down again.

“And what's your kind of party?”

“You wouldn't like it.”

“Try me. You will never know if you don't take me to one.” The moment you say it, you understand what you meant, and the smile fades from your lips as you both resume your walking. Billy wouldn't take you anywhere else, not somewhere where his friends would see him with you, some wealthy, stupid girl. And your parents would never approve you going somewhere... Different. Somewhere not filled with millionaires. “Nevermind.” You're quick to add. “I throw my own parties. Just blasting music in my bedroom and dancing with myself.”

“So that's where that music comes from.” He chuckles, and you playfully elbow him. “Maybe someday. If your father doesn't kick me out of your property, we might see a little of each other every once in a while.”

“Yeah. You could let me rake some leaves at least, I'm sure I can–” A loud, deafening explosion cuts you short, and you cover both your ears out of instinct. When the impact is over, you turn around, easily finding where the dark smoke and flames are coming from. The hotel. “What the hell.” You're still speaking when a dozen black vans come into your sight, all heading to the hotel. Seconds later, the shootings begin.

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away-from-anthills · 3 years

Text

chapter five-

He recalled what Tatteredstar had said at the last Gathering as Whitetooth’s words echoed throughout his heart.

Rosefire. He had done little wrong- in his eyes, the only hope for a future was the Clans united. In his eyes, Tatteredstar and Eelwhisker were enemies that had to be vanquished. And yet his attempt at rebellion was gone as soon as it began, like a hare plucking and eating a sprout from the ground. He was killed, or at least that was what Tatteredstar’s dark tone implied, and as far as Antstar knew those who worked with him were likely either on close watch or driven out entirely. He presented a weakness and a challenge to her leadership, and so she handily dispatched him.

But could he say the same of Sparkthistle?

There was no indication she was to actually plan something. There was no indication she had the willpower to truly try to stop Antstar. But every so often, there was this inescapable look in her eye of hatred, and every time Antstar caught it he felt sick.

Would the Clan be better off without her?

Antstar had been just made a warrior when Sparkthistle and Cherrycloud had been born. Their mother was one of the most respected warriors in her Clan at the time, and she had great expectations thrust upon her two daughters. Initially, she adored Sparkkit the most, as Sparkkit had ambitions that Cherrykit did not. She made her favoritism shockingly clear, despite the warnings of Crowflower. But as time went on, when the two mollies were apprenticed, Cherrypaw emerged the more naturally gifted one while Sparkpaw struggled. Their mother’s opinions on them flipped dramatically. Now it was Cherrycloud that could do no wrong, Cherrycloud that deserved all the love in the world; Sparkthistle was a candy wrapper, read once and then discarded. Sparkthistle had been deeply embittered ever since- part of it from cynicism, and part of it because she wanted to emulate her mother to some extent.

It wouldn’t be fair to deny Sparkthistle the rest of her life, to cut her off short. But she had been this way ever since she was an apprentice, and there was no sign she would ever change. But it was as if Whitetooth’s words had bored a hole in his skull. And Sparkthistle is never going to get better, either.

“You’re thinking about what warrior name you want to give me, aren’t you,” said a cheeky voice as Antstar left his thoughts and sunk back to earth. It was Spiderpaw, looking back at him as she sprang into the grasses.

“You haven’t passed your assessment yet,” he reminded her.

“I know I will.” Spiderpaw had all the confidence of a wren challenging a bull. She smirked and trotted away to complete her assessment- then, suddenly, stopped in her tracks and looked back to see if Antstar was watching.

“I have to watch you in secret.” Antstar nodded his head upward, as if he were pushing her away. “Go on.”

She slunk into the grasses, which were turning the deep golden color that late greenleaf always brought upon itself. The sun peeked out from the pitch-black clouds above them, giving everything a surreal yellow glow. Away Spiderpaw went to get herself into the swing of hunting- and as she did, Antstar started to pace in circles, thinking about the Sparkthistle predicament.

Mentor and apprentice were on the far end of WindClan territory, away from the Clan, away from the other Clans, away from the world. Besides the slight rustle of grasses that followed Spiderpaw as she stalked a rabbit and the distant creaks and sighs of the windmills on the horizon, Antstar found the air deathly still, except for his thoughts which buzzed within him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a figure. It was Twoleg-like in shape and size, and after cowering from it instinctively, Antstar realized it was a familiar figure. Shalestar told him back when he was apprenticed that the object was called “Scare Crow”, and that the loners who lived in the barn thought of it as a friend. Scare Crow was moved around by the farmers to keep birds off the nearby crops, but yet it always remained perfectly still, as its skin was burlap and its veins were hay straw.

“Did it always sit like that?” he had asked.

“Perhaps.” Shalestar had looked off into the horizon, the warmth of being about to tell a good story curling up the corners of his lips. “Legend has it that, many moons ago, StarClan took pity upon Scare Crow, and reanimated him to come alive and live among the Clans. His humanoid, flawed figure was made feline. His burlap became handsome tawny tabby fur, his straw became flesh and blood, and his buttons became two beautiful eyes the color of harvested wheat. Scare Crow was sent to live among the Clans, and so he did- but, having once not been a cat, he never truly fit in, despite the beautiful appearance StarClan gifted him. When he was trying to woo a molly to take as his mate, they strolled together through Sunningrocks. In the reflection of the Sunningrocks’s water lay Scare Crow’s true self- ragged, ugly, weather-beaten and lopsided. He ran away, sobbing at the discovery of who he truly was, and StarClan realized then that it was more humane, more gentle, more right to strip him of his mortal coil and turn him back into his true self as the being of straw and burlap. He has remained here ever since.”

More humane. More gentle. More right. More right to stop them. More right to end them.

More right to kill them.

Sparkthistle had barely any friends. Her bitter, dour nature led her to be quite an outcast in the Clan’s community, save for Stoatslink, and even then he didn’t seem entirely approving of her. She had to be miserable. And the Clan was miserable any time they interacted with her. Furthermore, if she was turning on Antstar, she could turn on all the community. If a rival Clan asked her for intel, she could flip. She had little attachment to anyone in the Clan, so it was excruciatingly imaginable that her hatred for Antstar would outweigh her loyalty to WindClan…

His train of thought was halted by a squeak as Spiderpaw bit through the throat of a juvenile rabbit. He watched as the dark gray tabby carefully lined up her kill by a fallen log- leaving plenty of space for the next prey she was to catch.

He knew he was going to pass her. How couldn’t he? She had already proven herself. But having her hunt alone and complete the traditional assessment gave Antstar the space he needed to process the decision he already felt doomed to make.

Sparkthistle could find peace in the afterlife. She had never done anything deserving of Hell, no matter how many times Antstar had probably muttered that under his breath when dealing with her. Perhaps she could calm herself in the heavens in a way that she could never truly do in her mortal life. StarClan would be a kinder land than the rough earth and harsh sky of WindClan.

Maybe he was trying to rationalize himself here.

But then again- what could be gained from her continued flesh-and-blood existence? At best she was an annoyance. At worst… at worst she was an outright security risk.

There was the thumping of paws. Spiderpaw was in full chase, a shrew just before her. It ducked one way and another, around the bend and back again, into and through a log. Faster and faster they went, despite the shrew being so small, so unnecessary, so unimpactful in the grand scheme of the world at large and its moon. And as Antstar made his decision- as Antstar looked to the sky, looked to the unblinking amber sun, hoping that StarClan was with him and approved, hoping that StarClan knew he was doing this for WindClan’s sake- she leapt, and the shrew went out with a final cry, so unimportant and yet defiant to the last in spite of the very jaws that would always defeat it.

As they went home, Spiderpaw holding her catches and lost in the daydreams of what her warrior ceremony might be like, Antstar could only think of what he was about to do. Spiderpaw’s warrior name- something that once seemed so momentous, so important only a scant few days ago- already felt dwarfed by the matter of Sparkthistle’s fate. Antstar paused by the edge of the medicine den. The air he was about to speak with felt like it was caught in his throat. Whitethroat slunk out, always alert, almost as if they already knew he was there.

“About what you said a few days ago.”

Whitetooth nodded attentively.

“…Can we go through with it tonight? As fast as possible, I- I don’t want to think about it too hard.”

Whitetooth took a moment to respond, already visibly figuring out how they would do it. They looked towards the den, where Marblepaw was chewing up a poultice, and then into the general direction of the gorge. Ears pricked, eyes intense, looking almost more like a ferret surveying the land than a cat.

And then, they nodded. A transaction was about to begin.

“The weather is ripe for it… As you wish, Antstar. I am your dearest servant.”

That night, the sky was dark. Thick black clouds had continued to roll in, and there was the distant rumble of storms beyond the horizons. Brief, misty scatters of rain speckled the dusty earth.

Antstar watched the Clan go to sleep, one by one. While some still decided to sleep out in the open hollow, others that were worried about the chance of storm hid away in burrows scattered throughout the camp area, and slowly, the Clan came to rest. He had asked there be no guards or vigils held on this night- while the threat of impending rain acted as justification, he needed there to be no eyes, nothing that could possibly spot him when he and Whitetooth figured out what to do with the body.

“I tell you,” snarled a certain ginger tabby from afar, “I am not sick. I don’t know why you think I am.”

Whitetooth, however, wasn’t fettered. They circled her like an adder, their brown tail gently stroking her flank as if they were attempting to tame a wild horse. “I am aware you may think that. But I can already recognize symptoms of kittencough in you, and the sickness takes a few days to set in. If we treat you now, you won’t be sick later.”

Sparkthistle snarled in defiance, but after a moment of contemplation, she followed Whitetooth into the abandoned rabbit burrow that made up the medicine den. “Fine. So long as you make this quick, pal.”

As she did so, Whitetooth scurried over to Antstar, in that silent, almost eel-like way they were so skilled at. They leaned in slightly and began to whisper. “When I give you the signal-“ -they twitched their left ear- “I want you to come in. We must do this tonight, Antstar- else they may catch onto us.”

From there, Antstar carefully watched, pacing around camp to get a good look into the medicine den. Marblepaw seemed fast asleep at the entrance, her head resting upon a clump of mosses she had fetched earlier that day. In fact, just about everyone was asleep now save for the leader, his medicine cat, and their target. Sparkthistle caught the amber glow of Antstar’s eyes and stared at him as Whitetooth took something small and dark and stuffed it into a dead shrew.

“Kittencough,” they began, speaking in the voice of a lecturing mentor, “is usually much like a mild case of whitecough. The issue, however, is that it is very contagious and can be deadly for kits and elders. Usually, we treat it with whitecough medicines and drowsiness-inducing herbs, so that way the cat involved does not spread it and risk hurting the most vulnerable.”

But Sparkthistle’s yellowish-amber eyes indicated she had paid little attention to their monologue. “Why is Antstar there?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

“He and I are having a conversation once you fall asleep. Mostly about the next Moonstone meeting, StarClan, those types of affairs. That, and figuring out what we’ll do about herbs come leaf-fall.”

“In the night? With this weather?”

“The night lends impulse to new ideas, my Clanmate.”

And then- slowly, slyly, they brought the shrew towards her. The very same shrew Spiderpaw had caught in her apprentice exam. For a brief moment that felt like nine lives and a day, Whitetooth made eye contact with Antstar.

This was it. The last chance to stop now. The last chance to keep Sparkthistle alive.

Every joint in Antstar’s limbs wanted to move, to give a last-minute refusal. And yet, he stood perfectly still.

Whitetooth turned back to Sparkthistle. For a moment it felt in Antstar’s mind as though she had already died. Perhaps, in a sense, she had.

“Here. I want you to take this. Medicine can trouble an empty belly if one is not careful.”

Sparkthistle sniffed it carefully, her pink speckled nose twitching with apprehension. Finally, she gave in, slowly taking a mouthful, ripping away at the skin.

“Now, I’ve put some medicines into this shrew of yours, as to clear out the kittencough. You shall feel drowsy. But- and this is important- do not be alarmed.”

There was a crunch as she bit into the black seeds that Whitetooth had enclosed within the shrew’s flesh.

“Everything is going to be perfectly fine.”

For a moment, Sparkthistle remained perfectly unaffected, continuing to nose around the shrew to pick out its best meat. Suddenly, however, her paw began to twitch. She looked around uneasily, as if her vision was beginning to spot out. She looked at Whitetooth, but Whitetooth gave her the same soothing stare they always had.

“Is it supposed to feel-“

“Like that? Yes.”

She got up to her paws, swaying back and forth like a tree about to topple in a storm. Saliva began to bubble from her jaw.

“I’ve had drowsiness herbs before, and they’ve-“ She struggled to speak. The deathberries had already coursed through her tongue, gradually paralyzing it. Her slurred words devolved into mumbled, slobbery vocalizations. Then, suddenly, Whitetooth knocked her to the ground and pinned her there.

They twitched their right ear as they stared at Antstar. That was the signal.

Antstar rushed in, silently, holding the ginger molly down as spasms shook her. She looked up at him, and he pushed her head into the ground to keep her still as she writhed and tried best she could to fight back. Her stare back at him bore into his very heart, gripping and shaking his very being. She had figured out what was going on, now. This was no look of anger, or of annoyance, or even of betrayal. No, this was a look Antstar had only seen before a scant few times. The look of a cat freezing as a monster runs out before them. The look of a young hare as a patrol leader strikes the killing blow. It was a look of pure, unadulterated horror.

Antstar stepped back instinctively. For a second, a further worry flashed through his head- had he let her go?

But the ginger body simply sank to the earth like a rug wet from saliva and rustled with struggle, sinking inward like a balloon that had slowly deflated from a puncture.

Sparkthistle was gone.

Antstar felt worry creep in as he scouted the clearing, over and over again to make sure the glint of no eye caught him. Behind him, he could hear Whitetooth clean up the blood-tinged cluster of foamy saliva that had pooled around Sparkthistle’s head. For a moment, he checked to ensure that Marblepaw was still asleep, and he felt slight relief when he saw the apprentice still lay in her nest, seemingly deep within a dream.

“Now,” Whitetooth whispered, stepping back as if they were admiring their own handiwork of having cleaned up the den. “What we’ll do is drag this over to the gorge. You would like to hide the body, correct?”

Antstar nodded fervently.

“Right. I know exactly what we shall do.” They picked up Sparkthistle by the scruff of her neck. Her shoulders hung limply. The white medicine cat indicated the other half of her body, and Antstar picked it up by the lower spine. Carefully, the two cats dragged her out and away without making a sound, through the gorse tunnel and out of camp. Dust gathered on her paws as they were dragged across the earth. Whitetooth’s grip was confident, certain; Antstar’s was far shakier and he had to fight to keep his jaw clamped. He had never realized how small Sparkthistle was. How small any cat was, really. It felt as though he were asleep in the leader’s den, and this was all some mad dream that he was watching from the distance of the mind.

Suddenly, Whitetooth came to a stop, and Antstar had to stop himself from falling forward onto the body. They looked down into the river, which looked as black and endless as the clouded sky that loomed above them, and then across to ensure no RiverClan cat had caught sight of them.

“…Why stop here?” Antstar started to ask, but his question was answered by the precise stare that Whitetooth was sending into the depths of the waters below.

“Check to make sure there’s no blood on her or sign of injury,” they instructed. Antstar carefully looked over the body, which had gradually grown a tad stiff. There was still a line of froth around her lip, but besides this, nothing had remained of the desperate struggle from earlier.

“…Nothing of the sort.”

“Good.”

“… We’re going to throw her into the river, right?”

“I knew you had figured it out already. You’re a smart cat. Any scent of deathberry- or us- will be soaked away by the water. If she is dragged away by the current, we shall say she clearly ran off because of her distaste towards your leadership.”

“And if she is found, she…?”

“She stumbled over the edge. Lots of cats have fallen to their deaths here. It wouldn’t look a moment out of place.”

Antstar pushed the body over. It rolled lopsidedly, like a chipped pebble; and soon slipped off the edge. Turning over itself, flank over flank, it fell into the black river and was swallowed up by the hungry waves. There was a hint of orange, and then it was gone.

Antstar looked to Whitetooth. “Can we…” His throat choked upon itself. “Can we never speak of this again?”

Whitetooth nodded. A talon of lightning darted out of one of the clouds nearby, and there was a corresponding grunt of thunder.

They walked back to camp, side by side, master and servant. Antstar looked at the ground, not daring to look ahead; Whitetooth, unflinching as ever, looked right ahead, squinting slightly to keep the dapples of raindrops from hitting their eyes. They slipped into the medicine den, doing one last check to make sure any indication of a struggle had vanished.

Everything was silent, there. Clumps of moss, diligently organized by type and age, lined the den. The nests, clean as ever, were empty. Except for one, which held Marblepaw.

Antstar paid close attention to Marblepaw’s figure. She was shuddering a bit, her breath shaky. Was she having a nightmare? Or- or had she-

Antstar felt his nerves coil in terror as he realized her amber eyes were wide open.

“Whitetooth!” he whispered, a sudden sharpness to the syllables as panic clutched him. “Whitetooth, your apprentice-“

But Whitetooth was unfettered as ever. “Do not fear, Antstar.” They laid a paw on Marblepaw’s shoulder, and she recoiled slightly, gasping with fright. But she stayed in position, letting the medicine cat’s pale, cold pawpads touch her warm dark tabby pelt.

“She can keep a secret very well,” they said, a sudden darkness in their words. “And if not- I can make her keep it.”

This was wrong. This was very, very wrong, and Antstar felt a pang of sympathy for the little apprentice. It was only now he realized he had never seen her befriend anyone else in the Clan.

But it had to be done. For WindClan.

And so, Antstar walked off to the leaders’ den. Just as he got in, rain fell in great, big curtains, obscuring his view of camp. He checked for a moment if he could see any glitters of light from his Clanmates’ eyes, in case they had awoken and seen at least something, but he was reassured by the uniformly dark rainy landscape before him. Slowly, his trembling breaths began to ease into sleep once more.

He thought of Whitetooth, of Marblepaw, even Sparkthistle. How much had changed in the past few hours alone. He had gone from leader, to murderer-

No! He was no murderer, he told himself. He had simply -disposed- of her. She was leading a rotten life and all he had done was let her leave it. And if he truly had murdered her, it was for the best of WindClan, for their safety. If warriors could kill in the midst of battle, if medicine cats could end the suffering of the burdened, nothing he had done was out of line. It was the best for everybody.

But when he looked back to the sky, to be reassured by starlight, all he found was the thick rain battering the earth.

#warrior cats #Warrior Cats OCs #story

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grigori77 · 3 years

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Summer 2021′s Movies - My Top Ten Favourite Films (Part 2)

The Top Ten:

10. WEREWOLVES WITHIN – definitely one of the year’s biggest cinematic surprises so far, this darkly comic supernatural murder mystery from indie horror director Josh Ruben (Scare Me) is based on a video game, but you’d never know it – this bears so little resemblance to the original Ubisoft title that it’s a wonder anyone even bothered to make the connection, but even so, this is now notable for officially being the highest rated video game adaptation in Rotten Tomatoes history, with a Certified Fresh rating of 86%. Certainly it deserves that distinction, but there’s so much more to the film – this is an absolute blood-splattered joy, the title telling you everything you need to know about the story but belying the film’s pure, quirky genius. Veep’s Sam Richardson is forest ranger Finn Wheeler, a gentle and socially awkward soul who arrives at his new post in the remote small town of Beaverton to discover the few, uniformly weird residents are divided over the oil pipeline proposition of forceful and abrasive businessman Sam Parker (The Hunt’s Wayne Duvall). As he tries to fit in and find his feet, investigating the disappearance of a local dog while bonding with local mail carrier Cecily Moore (Other Space and This Is Us’ Milana Vayntrub), the discovery of a horribly mutilated human body leads to a standoff between the townsfolk and an enforced lockdown in the town’s ramshackle hotel as they try to work out who amongst them is the “werewolf” they suspect is responsible. This is frequently hilarious, the offbeat script from appropriately named Mishna Wolff (I’m Down) dropping some absolutely zingers and crafting some enjoyably weird encounters and unexpected twists, while the uniformly excellent cast do much of the heavy-lifting to bring their rich, thoroughly oddball characters to vivid life – Richardson is thoroughly cuddly throughout, while Duvall is pleasingly loathsome, Casual’s Michaela Watkins is pleasingly grating as Trisha, flaky housewife to unrepentant local horn-dog Pete Anderton (Orange is the New Black’s Michael Chernus), and Cheyenne Jackson (American Horror Story) and Harry Guillen (best known, OF COURSE, as Guillermo in the TV version of What We Do In the Shadows) make an enjoyably spiky double-act as liberal gay couple Devon and Joaquim Wolfson; in the end, though, the film is roundly stolen by Vayntrub, who invests Cecily with a bubbly sweetness and snarky sass that makes it absolutely impossible to not fall completely in love with her (gods know I did). This is a deeply funny film, packed with proper belly-laughs from start to finish, but like all the best horror comedies it takes its horror elements seriously, delivering some enjoyably effective scares and juicy gore, while the werewolf itself, when finally revealed, is realised through some top-notch prosthetics. Altogether this was a most welcome under-the-radar surprise for the summer, and SO MUCH MORE than just an unusually great video game adaptation …

9. THE TOMORROW WAR – although cinemas finally reopened in the UK in early summer, the bite of the COVID lockdown backlog was still very much in effect this blockbuster season, with several studios preferring to hedge their bets and wait for later release dates. Others turned to streaming services, including Paramount, who happily lined up a few heavyweight titles to open on major platforms in lieu of the big screen. One of the biggest was this intended sci-fi action horror tentpole, meant to give Chris Pratt another potential franchise on top of Guardians of the Galaxy and Jurassic World, which instead dropped in early July on Amazon Prime. So, was it worth staying in on a Saturday night instead of heading out for something on the BIG screen? Mostly yes, although it’s mainly a trashy, guilty pleasure big budget B-picture charm that makes this such a worthwhile experience – the film’s biggest influences are clearly Independence Day and Starship Troopers, two admirably clunky blockbusters that DEFINED prioritising big spectacle and overblown theatrics over intelligent writing and realistic storytelling. It doesn’t help that the premise is pure bunk – in 2022, a wormhole opens from thirty years in the future, and a plea for help is sent back with a bunch of very young future soldiers. Seems Earth will become overrun by an unstoppable swarm of nasty alien critters called Whitespikes in 25 years, and the desperate human counteroffensive have no choice but to bring soldiers from our present into the future to help them fight back and save the humanity from imminent extinction. Less than a year later, the world’s standing armies have been decimated and a worldwide draft has been implemented, with normal everyday adults being sent through for a seven day tour from which very few return. Pratt plays biology teacher and former Green Beret Dan Forrester, one of the latest batch of draftees to be sent into the future along with a selection of chefs, soccer moms and other average joes – his own training and experience serves him better than most when the shit hits the fan, but it soon becomes clear that he’s just as out of his depth as everyone else as the sheer enormity of the threat is revealed. But when he becomes entangled with a desperate research outfit led by Muri (Chuck’s Yvonne Strahovski) who seem to be on the verge of a potential world-changing scientific breakthrough, Dan realises there just might be a slender hope for humanity after all … this is every bit as over-the-top gung-ho bonkers as it sounds, and just as much fun. Director Chris McKay may still be pretty fresh (with only The Lego Batman Movie under his belt to date), but he shows a lot of talent and potential for big budget blockbuster filmmaking here, delivering with guts and bravado on some major action sequences (a fraught ticking-clock SAR operation through a war-torn Miami is the film’s undeniable highlight, but a desperate battle to escape a blazing oil rig also really impresses), as well as handling some impressively complex visual effects work and wrangling some quality performances from his cast (altogether it bodes well for his future, which includes Nightwing and Johnny Quest as future projects). Chris Pratt can do this kind of stuff in his sleep – Dan is his classic fallible and self-deprecating but ultimately solid and kind-hearted action hero fare, effortlessly likeable and easy to root for – and his supporting cast are equally solid, Strahovsky going toe-to-toe with him in the action sequences while also creating a rewardingly complex smart-woman/badass combo in Muri, while the other real standouts include Sam Richardson (Veep, Werewolves Within) and Edwin Hodge (The Purge movies) as fellow draftees Charlie and Dorian, the former a scared-out-of-his-mind tech geek while the latter is a seriously hardcore veteran serving his THIRD TOUR, and the ever brilliant J.K. Simmonds as Dan’s emotionally scarred estranged Vietnam-vet father, Jim. Sure, it’s derivative as hell and thoroughly predictable (with more than one big twist you can see coming a mile away), but the pace is brisk, the atmosphere pregnant with a palpable doomed urgency, and the creatures themselves are a genuinely convincing world-ending threat, the design team and visual effects wizards creating genuine nightmare fuel in the feral and unrelenting Whitespikes. Altogether this WAS an ideal way to spend a comfy Saturday night in, but I think it could have been JUST AS GOOD for a Saturday night OUT at the Pictures …

8. ARMY OF THE DEAD – another high profile release that went straight to streaming was this genuine monster hit for Netflix from one of this century’s undeniable heavyweight action cinema masters, the indomitable Zack Snyder, who kicked off his career with an audience-dividing (but, as far as I’m concerned, ultimately MASSIVELY successful) remake of George Romero’s immortal Dawn of the Dead, and has finally returned to zombie horror after close to two decades away. The end result is, undeniably, the biggest cinematic guilty pleasure of the entire summer, a bona fide outbreak horror EPIC in spite of its tightly focused story – Dave Bautista plays mercenary Scott Ward, leader a badass squad of soldiers of fortune who were among the few to escape a deadly outbreak of a zombie virus in the city of Las Vegas, enlisted to break into the vault of one of the Strip’s casinos by owner Bly Tanaka (a fantastically game turn from Hiroyuki Sanada) and rescue $200 million still locked away inside. So what’s the catch? Vegas remains ground zero for the outbreak, walled off from the outside world but still heavily infested within, and in less than three days the US military intends to sterilise the site with a tactical nuke. Simple premise, down and dirty, trashy flick, right? Wrong – Snyder has never believed in doing things small, having brought us unapologetically BIG cinema with the likes of 300, Watchmen, Man of Steel and, most notably, his version of Justice League, so this is another MASSIVE undertaking, every scene shot for maximum thrills or emotional impact, each set-piece executed with his characteristic militaristic precision and explosive predilection (a harrowing fight for survival against a freshly-awakened zombie horde in tightly packed casino corridors is the film’s undeniable highlight), and the gauzy, dreamlike cinematography gives even simple scenes an intriguing and evocative edge that really does make you feel like you’re watching something BIG. The characters all feel larger-than-life too – Bautista can seem somewhat cartoonish at times, and this role definitely plays that as a strength, making Scott a rock-hard alpha male in the classic Hollywood mould, but he’s such a great actor that of course he’s able to invest the character with real rewarding complexity beneath the surface; Ana de la Reguera (Eastbound & Down) and Nora Arnezeder (Zoo, Mozart in the Jungle), meanwhile, both bring a healthy dose of oestrogen-fuelled badassery to proceedings as, respectively, Scott’s regular second-in-command, Maria Cruz, and Lilly the Coyote, Power’s Omari Hardwick and Matthias Schweighofer (You Are Wanted) make for a fun odd-couple double act as circular-saw-wielding merc Vanderohe and Dieter, the nervous, nerdy German safecracker brought in to crack the vault, and Fear the Walking Dead’s Garrett Dillahunt channels spectacular scumbag energy as Tanaka’s sleazy former casino boss Martin, while latecomer Tig Notaro (Star Trek Discovery) effortlessly rises above her last-minute-casting controversy to deliver brilliantly as sassy and acerbic chopper pilot Peters. I think it goes without saying that Snyder can do this in his sleep, but he definitely wasn’t napping here – he pulled out all the stops on this one, delivering a thrilling, darkly comic and endearingly CRACKERS zombie flick that not only compares favourably to his own Dawn but is, undeniably, his best film for AGES. Netflix certainly seem to be pleased with the results – a spinoff prequel, Army of Thieves, starring Dieter in another heist thriller, is set to drop in October, with an animated series following in the Spring, and there’s already rumours of a sequel in development. I’m certainly up for more …

7. BLACK WIDOW – no major blockbuster property was hit harder by COVID than the MCU, which saw its ENTIRE SLATE for 2020 delayed for over a year in the face of Marvel Studios bowing to the inevitability of the Pandemic and unwilling to sacrifice those all-important box-office receipts by just sending their films straight to streaming. The most frustrating part for hardcore fans of the series was the delay of a standalone film that was already criminally overdue – the solo headlining vehicle of founding Avenger and bona fide female superhero ICON Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow. Equally frustratingly, then, this film seems set to be overshadowed by real life controversy as star and producer Scarlett Johansson goes head-to-head with Disney in civil court over their breach-of-contract after they hedged their bets by releasing the film simultaneously in cinemas and on their own streaming platform, which has led to poor box office as many of the film’s potential audience chose to watch it at home instead of risk movie theatres with the virus still very much remaining a threat (and Disney have clearly reacted AGAIN, now backtracking on their release policy by instigating a new 45-day cinematic exclusivity window on all their big releases for the immediate future). But what of the film itself? Well Black Widow is an interesting piece of work, director Cate Shortland (Berlin Syndrome) and screenwriter Eric Pearson (Thor: Ragnarok) delivering a decidedly stripped-back, lean and intellectual beast that bears greater resemblance to the more cerebral work of the Russo Brothers on their Captain America films than the more classically bombastic likes of Iron Man, Thor or the Avengers flicks, concentrating on story and characters over action and spectacle as we wind back the clock to before the events of Infinity War and Endgame, when Romanoff was on the run after Civil War, hunted by the government-appointed forces of US Secretary of State “Thunderbolt” Ross (William Hurt) after violating the Sokovia Accords. Then a mysterious delivery throws her back into the fray as she finds herself targeted by a mysterious assassin, forcing her to team up with her estranged “sister” Yelena Belova (Midsommar’s Florence Pugh), another Black Widow who’s just gone rogue from the same Red Room Natasha escaped years ago, armed with a McGuffin capable of foiling a dastardly plot for world domination. The reluctant duo need help in this endeavour though, enlisting the aid of their former “parents”, veteran Widow and scientist Melina Vostokoff (Rachel Weisz) and Alexie Shostakov (Stranger Things’ David Harbour), aka the Red Guardian, a Russian super-soldier intended to be their counterpart to Captain America, who’s been languishing in a Siberian gulag for the last twenty years. After the Earth-shaking, universe-changing events of recent MCU events, this film certainly feels like a much more self-contained, modest affair, playing for much smaller stakes, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less worthy of our attention – this is as precision-crafted as anything we’ve seen from Marvel so far, but it also feels like a refreshing change of pace after all those enormous cosmic shenanigans, while the script is as tight as a drum, propelling a taut, suspense-filled thriller that certainly doesn’t scrimp on the action front. Sure, the set-pieces are very much in service of the story here, but they’re still the pre-requisite MCU rollercoaster rides, a selection of breathless chases and bone-crunching fights that really do play to the strengths of one of our favourite Avengers, but this is definitely one of those films where the real fireworks come when the film focuses on the characters – Johansson is so comfortable with her character she’s basically BECOME Natasha Romanoff, kickass and ruthless and complex and sassy and still just desperate for a family (though she hides it well throughout the film), while Weisz delivers one of her best performances in years as a peerless professional who keeps her emotions tightly reigned in but slowly comes to realise that she was never more happy than when she was pretending to be a simple mother, and Ray Winstone does a genuinely fantastic job of taking a character who could have been one of the MCU’s most disappointingly bland villains, General Dreykov, master of the Red Room, and investing him with enough oily charisma and intense presence to craft something truly memorable (frustratingly, the same cannot be said for the film’s supposed main physical threat, Taskmaster, who performs well in their frustratingly brief appearances but ultimately gets Darth Maul levels of short service). The true scene-stealers in the film, however, are Alexie and Yelena – Harbour’s clearly having the time of his life hamming it up as a self-important, puffed-up peacock of a superhero who never got his shot and is clearly (rightly) decidedly bitter about it, preferring to relive the life he SHOULD have had instead of remembering the good in the one he got; Pugh, meanwhile, is THE BEST THING IN THE WHOLE MOVIE, easily matching Johanssen scene-for-scene in the action stakes but frequently out-performing her when it comes to acting, investing Yelena with a sweet naivety and innocence and a certain amount of quirky geekiness that makes for one of the year’s most endearing female protagonists (certainly one who, if the character goes the way I think she will, is thoroughly capable of carrying the torch for the foreseeable future). In the end this is definitely one of the LEAST typical, by-the-numbers MCU films to date, and by delivering something a little different I think they’ve given us just the kind of leftfield swerve the series needs right now. It’s certainly one of their most fascinating and rewarding films so far, and since it seems to be Johansson’s final tour of duty as the Black Widow, it’s also a most fitting farewell indeed.

6. WRATH OF MAN – Guy Ritchie’s latest (regarded by many as a triumphant return to form, which I consider unfair since I don’t think he ever went away, especially after 2020’s spectacular The Gentlemen) is BY FAR his darkest film – let’s get this clear from the start. Anyone who knows his work knows that Ritchie consistently maintains a near flawless balance and humour and seriousness in his films that gives them a welcome quirkiness that is one of his most distinctive trademarks, so for him to suddenly deliver a film which takes itself SO SERIOUSLY is one hell of a departure. This is a film which almost REVELS in its darkness – Ritchie’s always loved bathing in man’s baser instincts, but Wrath of Man almost makes a kind of twisted VIRTUE out of wallowing in the genuine evils that men are capable of inflicting on each other. The film certainly kicks off as it means to go on – In a tour-de-force single-shot opening, we watch a daring armoured car robbery on the streets of Los Angeles that goes horrifically wrong, an event which will have devastating consequences in the future. Five months later, Fortico Security hires taciturn Brit Patrick Hill (Jason Statham) to work as a guard in one of their trucks, and on his first run he single-handedly foils another attempted robbery with genuinely uncanny combat skills. The company is thrilled, amazed by the sheer ability of their new hire, but Hill’s new colleagues are more concerned, wondering exactly what they’ve let themselves in for. After a second foiled robbery, it becomes clear that Hill’s reputation has grown, but fellow guard Haiden (Holt McCallany), aka “Bullet”, begins to suspect there might be something darker going on … Ritchie is firing on all cylinders here, delivering a PERFECT slow-burn suspense thriller which plays its cards close to its chest and cranks up its piano wire tension with artful skill as it builds to a devastating, knuckle-whitening explosive heist that acts as a cathartic release for everything that’s built up over the past hour and a half. In typical Ritchie style the narrative is non-linear, the story unfolding in four distinct parts told from clearly differentiated points of view, allowing the clues to be revealed at a trickle that effortlessly draws the viewer in as they fall deeper down the rabbit hole, leading to a harrowing but strangely poignant denouement which is perfectly in tune with everything that’s come before. It’s an immense pleasure finally getting to see Statham working with Ritchie again, and I don’t think he’s ever been better than he is here – he's always been a brilliantly understated actor, but there’s SO MUCH going on under Hill’s supposedly impenetrable calm that every little peek beneath the armour is a REVELATION; McCallany, meanwhile, has landed his best role since his short but VERY sweet supporting turn in Fight Club, seemingly likeable and fallible as the kind of easy-going co-worker anyone in the service industry would be THRILLED to have, but giving Bullet far more going on under the surface, while there are uniformly excellent performances from a top-shelf ensemble supporting cast which includes Josh Hartnett, Jeffrey Donovan (Burn Notice, Sicario), Andy Garcia, Laz Alonso (The Boys), Eddie Marsan, Niamh Algar (Raised By Wolves) and Darrell D’Silva (Informer, Domina), and a particularly edgy and intense turn from Scott Eastwood. This is one of THE BEST thrillers of the year, by far, a masterpiece of mood, pace and plot that ensnares the viewer from its gripping opening and hooks them right up to the close, a triumph of the genre and EASILY Guy Ritchie’s best film since Snatch. Regardless of whether or not it’s a RETURN to form, we can only hope he continues to deliver fare THIS GOOD in the future …

5. FEAR STREET (PARTS 1-3) – Netflix have gotten increasingly ambitious with their original filmmaking over the years, and some of this years’ offerings have reached new heights of epic intention. Their most exciting release of the summer was this adaptation of popular children’s horror author R.L. Stine’s popular book series, a truly gargantuan undertaking as the filmmakers set out to create an entire TRILOGY of films which were then released over three consecutive weekends. Interestingly, these films are most definitely NOT for kids – this is proper, no-holds-barred supernatural slasher horror, delivering highly calibrated shocks and precision jump scares, a pervading atmosphere of insidious dread and a series of inventively gruesome kills. The story revolves around two neighbouring small towns which have had vastly different fortunes over more than three centuries of existence – while the residents of Sunnyvale are unusually successful, living idyllic lives in peace and prosperity, luck has always been against the people of Shadyside, who languish in impoverishment, crime and misfortune, while the town has become known as the Murder Capital of the USA due to frequent spree killings. Some attribute this to the supposed curse of a local urban legend, Sarah Fier, who became known as the Fier Witch after her execution for witchcraft in 1668, but others dismiss this as simple superstition. Part 1 is set in 1994, as the latest outbreak of serial mayhem begins in Shadyside, dragging a small group of local teens – Deena Johnson (She Never Died’s Kiana Madeira) and Samantha Fraser (Olivia Scott Welch), a young lesbian couple going through a difficult breakup, Deena’s little brother Josh (The Haunted Hathaways’ Benjamin Flores Jr.), a nerdy history geek who spends most of his time playing video games or frequenting violent crime-buff online chatrooms, and their delinquent friends Simon (Eight Grade’s Fred Hechinger) and Kate (Julia Rehwald) – into the age-old ghostly conspiracy as they find themselves besieged by indestructible undead serial killers from the town’s past, reasoning that the only way they can escape with their lives is to solve the mystery and bring the Fier Witch some much needed closure. Part 2, meanwhile, flashes back to a previous outbreak in 1977, in which local sisters Ziggy (Stranger Things’ Sadie Sink) and Cindy Berman (Emily Rudd), together with future Sunnyvale sheriff Nick Goode (Ted Sutherland) were among the kids hunted by said killers during a summer camp “colour war”. As for Part 3, that goes all the way back to 1668 to tell the story of what REALLY happened to Sarah Fier, before wrapping up events in 1994, culminating in a terrifying, adrenaline-fuelled showdown in the Shadyside Mall. Throughout, the youthful cast are EXCEPTIONAL, Madeira, Welch, Flores Jr., Sink and Rudd particularly impressing, while there are equally strong turns from Ashley Zuckerman (The Code, Designated Survivor) and Community’s Gillian Jacobs as the grown-up versions of two key ’77 kids, and a fun cameo from Maya Hawke in Part 1. This is most definitely retro horror in the Stranger Things mould, perfectly executed period detail bringing fun nostalgic flavour to all three of the timelines while the peerless direction from Leigh Janiak (Honeymoon) and wire-tight, sharp-witted screenplays from Janiak, Kyle Killen (Lone Star, The Beaver), Phil Graziadel, Zak Olkewicz and Kate Trefry strike a perfect balance between knowing dark humour and knife-edged terror, as well as weaving an intriguingly complex narrative web that pulls the viewer in but never loses them to overcomplication. The design, meanwhile, is evocative, the cinematography (from Stanger Things’ Caleb Heymann) is daring and magnificently moody, and the killers and other supernatural elements of the film are handled with skill through largely physical effects. This is definitely not a standard, by-the-numbers slasher property, paying strong homage to the sub-genre’s rules but frequently subverting them with expert skill, and it’s as much fun as it is frightening. Give us some more like this please, Netflix!

4. THE SPARKS BROTHERS – those who’ve been following my reviews for a while will known that while I do sometimes shout about documentary films, they tend to show up in my runners-up lists – it’s a great rarity for one to land in one of my top tens. This lovingly crafted deep-dive homage to cult band Sparks, from self-confessed rabid fanboy Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Scott Pilgrim), is something VERY SPECIAL INDEED, then … there’s a vague possibility some of you may have heard the name before, and many of you will know at least one or two of their biggest hits without knowing it was them (their greatest hit of all time, This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us, immediately springs to mind), but unless you’re REALLY serious about music it’s quite likely you have no idea who they are, namely two brothers from California, Russell and Ronald Mael, who formed a very sophisticated pop-rock band in the late 60s and then never really went away, having moments of fame but mostly working away in the background and influencing some of the greatest bands and musical artists that followed them, even if many never even knew where that influence originally came from. Wright’s film is an engrossing joy from start to finish (despite clocking in at two hours and twenty minutes), following their eclectic career from obscure inception as Halfnelson, through their first real big break with third album Kimono My Place, subsequent success and then fall from popularity in the mid-70s, through several subsequent revitalisations, all the way up to the present day with their long-awaited cinematic breakthrough, revolutionary musical feature Annette – throughout Wright keeps the tone light and the pace breezy, allowing a strong and endearing sense of irreverence to rule the day as fans, friends and the brothers themselves offer up fun anecdotes and wax lyrical about what is frequently a larger-than-life tragicomic soap opera, utilising fun, crappy animation and idiosyncratic stock footage inserts alongside talking-head interviews that were made with a decidedly tongue-in-cheek style – Mike Myers good-naturedly rants about how we can see his “damned mole” while 80s New Romantic icons Nick Rhodes and John Taylor, while shot together, are each individually labelled as “Duran”. Ron and Russ themselves, meanwhile, are clearly having huge fun, gently ribbing each other and dropping some fun deadpan zingers throughout proceedings, easily playing to the band’s strong, idiosyncratic sense of hyper-intelligent humour, while the aforementioned celebrity talking-heads are just three amongst a whole wealth of famous faces that may surprise you – there’s even an appearance by Neil Gaiman, guys! Altogether this is 2+ hours of bright and breezy fun chock full of great music and fascinating information, and even hardcore Sparks fans are likely to learn more than a little over the course of the film, while for those who have never heard of Sparks before it’s a FANTASTIC introduction to one of the greatest ever bands that you’ve never heard of. With luck there might even be more than a few new fans before the year is out …

3. GUNPOWDER MILKSHAKE – Netflix’ BEST offering of the summer was this surprise hit from Israeli writer-director Navot Papushado (Rabies, Big Bad Wolves), a heavily stylised black comedy action thriller that passes the Bechdel Test with FLYING COLOURS. Playing like a female-centric John Wick, it follows ice-cold, on-top-of-her-game assassin Sam (Karen Gillan) as her latest assignment has some unfortunate side effects, leading her to take on a reparation job to retrieve some missing cash for the local branch of the Irish Mob. The only catch is that a group of thugs have kidnapped the original thief’s little girl, 12 year-old Emily (My Spy’s Chloe Coleman), and Sam, in an uncharacteristic moment of sympathy, decides to intervene, only for the money to be accidentally destroyed in the process. Now she’s got the Mob and her own employers coming after her, and she not only has to save her own skin but also Emily’s, leading her to seek help from the one person she thought she might never see again – her mother, Scarlet (Lena Headey), a master assassin in her own right who’s been hiding from the Mob herself for years. The plot may be simple but at times also a little over-the-top, but the film is never anything less than a pure, unadulterated pleasure, populated with fascinating, living and breathing characters of real complexity and nuance, while the script (co-written by relative newcomer Ehud Lavski) is tightly-reined and bursting with zingers. Most importantly, though, Papushado really delivers on the action front – these are some of the best set-pieces I’ve seen this year, Gillan, her co-stars and the various stunt-performers acquitting themselves admirably in a series of spectacular fights, gun battles and a particularly imaginative car chase that would be the envy of many larger, more expensive productions. Gillan and Coleman have a sweet, awkward chemistry, the MCU star particularly impressing in a subtly nuanced performance that also plays beautifully against Headey’s own tightly controlled turn, while there is awesome support from Angela Bassett, Michelle Yeoh and Carla Gugino as Sam’s adoptive aunts Anna May, Florence and Madeleine, a trio of “librarians” who run a fine side-line in illicit weaponry and are capable of unleashing some spectacular violence of their own; the film’s antagonists, on the other hand, are exclusively masculine – the mighty Ralph Inneson is quietly ruthless as Irish boss Jim McAlester, while The Terror’s Adam Nagaitis is considerably more mercurial as his mad dog nephew Virgil, and Paul Giamatti is the stately calm at the centre of the storm as Sam’s employer Nathan, the closest thing she has to a father. There’s so much to enjoy in this movie, not just the wonderful characters and amazing action but also the singularly engrossing and idiosyncratic style, deeply affecting themes of the bonds of found family and the healing power of forgiveness, and a rewarding through-line of strong women triumphing against the brutalities of toxic masculinity. I love this film, and I invite you to try it out, cuz I’m sure you will too.

2. THE SUICIDE SQUAD – the most fun I’ve had at the cinema so far this year is the long-awaited (thanks a bunch, COVID) redress of another frustrating imbalance from the decidedly hit and miss DCEU superhero franchise, in which Guardians of the Galaxy writer-director James Gunn has finally delivered a PROPER Suicide Squad movie after David Ayer’s painfully compromised first stab at the property back in 2016. That movie was enjoyable enough and had some great moments, but ultimately it was a clunky mess, and while some of the characters were done (quite) well, others were painfully botched, even ruined entirely. Thankfully Warner Bros. clearly learned their lesson, giving Gunn free reign to do whatever he wanted, and the end result is about as close to perfect as the DCEU has come to date. Once again the peerless Viola Davis plays US government official Amanda Waller, head of ARGUS and the undisputable most evil bitch in all the DC Universe, who presides over the metahuman prisoners of the notorious supermax Belle Reve Prison, cherry-picking inmates for her pet project Taskforce X, the titular Suicide Squad sent out to handle the kind of jobs nobody else wants, in exchange for years off their sentences but controlled by explosive implants injected into the base of their skulls. Their latest mission sees another motley crew of D-bags dispatched to the fictional South African island nation of Corto Maltese to infiltrate Jotunheim, a former Nazi facility in which a dangerous extra-terrestrial entity that’s being developed into a fearful bioweapon, with orders to destroy the project in order to keep it out of the hands of a hostile anti-American regime which has taken control of the island through a violent coup. Where the first Squad felt like a clumsily-arranged selection of stereotypes with a few genuinely promising characters unsuccessfully moulded into a decidedly forced found family, this new batch are convincingly organic – they may be dysfunctional and they’re all almost universally definitely BAD GUYS, but they WORK, the relationship dynamics that form between them feeling genuinely earned. Gunn has already proven himself a master of putting a bunch of A-holes together and forging them into band of “heroes”, and he’s certainly pulled the job off again here, dredging the bottom of the DC Rogues Gallery for its most ridiculous Z-listers and somehow managing to make them compelling. Sure, returning Squad-member Harley Quinn (the incomparable Margot Robbie, magnificent as ever) has already become a fully-realised character thanks to Birds of Prey, so there wasn’t much heavy-lifting to be done here, but Gunn genuinely seems to GET the character, so our favourite pixie-esque Agent of Chaos is an unbridled and thoroughly unpredictable joy here, while fellow veteran Colonel Rick Flagg (a particularly muscular and thoroughly game Joel Kinnaman) has this time received a much needed makeover, Gunn promoting him from being the first film’s sketchily-drawn “Captain Exposition” and turning him into a fully-ledged, well-thought-out human being with all the requisite baggage, including a newfound sense of humour; the newcomers, meanwhile, are a thoroughly fascinating bunch – reluctant “leader” Bloodsport/Robert DuBois (a typically robust and playful Idris Elba), unapologetic douchebag Peacemaker/Christopher Smith (probably the best performance I’ve EVER seen John Cena deliver), and socially awkward and seriously hard-done-by nerd (and by far the most idiotic DC villain of all time) the Polka-Dot Man/Abner Krill (a genuinely heart-breaking hangdog performance from Ant-Man’s David Dastmalchian); meanwhile there’s a fine trio of villainous turns from the film’s resident Big Bads, with Juan Diego Botta (Good Behaviour) and Joaquin Cosio (Quantum of Solace, Narcos: Mexico) making strong impressions as newly-installed dictator Silvio Luna and his corrupt right hand-man General Suarez, although both are EASILY eclipsed by the typically brilliant Peter Capaldi as louche and quietly deranged supervillain The Thinker/Gaius Greives (although the film’s ULTIMATE threat turns out to be something a whole lot bigger and more exotic). The film is ROUNDLY STOLEN, however, by a truly adorable double act (or TRIPLE act, if you want to get technical) – Daniella Melchior makes her breakthrough here in fine style as sweet, principled and kind-hearted narcoleptic second-generation supervillain Ratcatcher II/Cleo Cazo, who has the weird ability to control rats (and who has a pet rat named Sebastian who frequently steals scenes all on his own), while a particular fan-favourite B-lister makes his big screen debut here in the form of King Shark/Nanaue, a barely sentient anthropomorphic Great White “shark god” with an insatiable appetite for flesh and a naturally quizzical nature who was brilliantly mo-capped by Steve Agee (The Sarah Silverman Project, who also plays Waller’s hyperactive assistant John Economos) but then artfully completed with an ingenious vocal turn from Sylvester Stallone. James Gunn has crafted an absolute MASTERPIECE here, EASILY the best film he’s made to date, a riotous cavalcade of exquisitely observed and perfectly delivered dark humour and expertly wrangled narrative chaos that has great fun playing with the narrative flow, injects countless spot-on in-jokes and irreverent but utterly essential throwaway sight-gags, and totally endears us to this glorious gang of utter morons right from the start (in which Gunn delivers what has to be one of the most skilful deep-fakes in cinematic history). Sure, there’s also plenty of action, and it’s executed with the kind of consummate skill we’ve now come to expect from Gunn (the absolute highlight is a wonderfully bonkers sequence in which Harley expertly rescues herself from captivity), but like everything else it’s predominantly played for laughs, and there’s no getting away from the fact that this film is an absolute RIOT. By far the funniest thing I’ve seen so far this year, and if I’m honest this is the best of the DCEU offerings to date, too (for me, only the exceptional Birds of Prey can compare) – if Warner Bros. have any sense they’ll give Gunn more to do VERY SOON …

1. A QUIET PLACE, PART II – while UK cinemas finally reopened in early May, I was determined that my first trip back to the Big Screen for 2021 was gonna be something SPECIAL, and indeed I already knew what that was going to be. Thankfully I was not disappointed by my choice – 2018’s A Quiet Place was MY VERY FAVOURITE horror movie of the 2010s, an undeniable masterclass in suspense and sustained screen terror wrapped around a refreshingly original killer concept, and I was among the many fans hoping we’d see more in the future, especially after the film’s teasingly open ending. Against the odds (or perhaps not), writer-director/co-star John Krasinski has pulled off the seemingly impossible task of not only following up that high-wire act, but genuinely EQUALLING it in levels of quality – picking up RIGHT where the first film left off (at least after an AMAZING scene-setting opening in which we’re treated to the events of Day 1 of the downfall of humanity), rejoining the remnants of the Abbott family as they’re forced by circumstances to up-sticks from their idyllic farmhouse home and strike out into the outside world once more, painfully aware at all times that they must maintain perfect silence to avoid the ravenous attentions of the lethal blind alien beasties that now sit at the top of the food chain. Circumstances quickly become dire, however, and embattled mother Evelyn (Emily Blunt) is forced to ally herself with estranged family friend Emmett (Cillian Murphy), now a haunted, desperate vagrant eking out a perilous existence in an abandoned factory, in order to safeguard the future of her children Regan (Millicent Simmonds), Marcus (Noah Jupe) and their newborn baby brother. Regan, however, discovers evidence of more survivors, and with her newfound weapon against the aliens she recklessly decides to set off on her own in the hopes of aiding them before it’s too late … it may only be his second major blockbuster as a director, but Krasinski has once again proven he’s a true heavyweight talent, effortlessly carving out fresh ground in this already magnificently well-realised dystopian universe while also playing magnificently to the established strengths of what came before, delivering another peerless thrill-ride of unbearable tension and knuckle-whitening terror. The central principle of utilising sound at a very strict premium is once again strictly adhered to here, available sources of dialogue once again exploited with consummate skill while sound design and score (another moody triumph from Marco Beltrami) again become THE MOST IMPORTANT aspects of the whole production. The ruined world is once again realised beautifully throughout, most notably in the nightmarish environment of a wrecked commuter train, and Krasinski cranks up the tension before unleashing it in merciless explosions in a selection of harrowing encounters which guaranteed to leave viewers in a puddle of sweat. The director mostly stays behind the camera this time round, but he does (obviously) put in an appearance in the opening flashback as the late Lee Abbott, making a potent impression which leaves a haunting absence that’s keenly felt throughout the remainder of the film, while Blunt continues to display mother lion ferocity as she fights to keep her children safe and Jupe plays crippling fear magnificently but is now starting to show a hidden spine of steel as Marcus finally starts to find his courage; the film once again belongs, however, to Simmonds, the young deaf actress once and for all proving she’s a genuine star in the making as she invests Regan with fierce wilfulness and stubborn determination that remains unshakeable even in the face of unspeakable horrors, and the relationship she develops with Emmett, reluctant as it may be, provides a strong new emotional focus for the story, Murphy bringing an attractive wounded humanity to his role as a man who’s lost anything and is being forced to learn to care for something again. This is another triumph of the genre AND the artform in general, a masterpiece of atmosphere, performance and storytelling which builds magnificently on the skilful foundations laid by the first film, as well as setting things up perfectly for a third instalment which is all but certain to follow. I definitely can’t wait.

#movies 2021 #werewolves within #werewolves within movie #the tomorrow war #army of the dead #Black Widow #black widow movie #black widow mcu #wrath of man #fear street #fear street trilogy #fear street movies #The Sparks Brothers #gunpowder milkshake #the suicide squad #a quiet place part ii #a quiet place part 2 #awesome sauce

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mourntheantagonist · 3 years

Text

a little something I wrote for @smashmouth-hargrove after converting me with all their tommy content!

Breaking Character

3.3k | Explicit

warnings: tomgrove with sprinkles of harringrove and stommy, graphic depictions of violence, drinking, sexual content, homophobic language.

read on ao3

Billy didn’t really know what to do when he woke up on the hardwood floor of the empty Byers house with his car missing from the front yard, his movement off kilter from whatever was in that vial still coursing through his veins, and a death wish waiting for him at home considering the red-head he had been ordered to fetch was nowhere to be seen. With all of his energy lost in that fight he only vaguely remembered, just little flashes of a bloody Steve beneath him and sounds of breaking dishware echoicing in his brain, he’d given up on finding her, noting the time on the clock was already passed midnight and his father would have his ass either way. So instead of searching the town on foot, or parking himself in the Byers house on the off chance she’d come back, he stumbled over to the phone on the wall and dialed the only number he’d remembered from his short stay in Hawkins.

Tommy’s.

The guy was like a fucking lost puppy with the way he had followed him around from the moment he stepped foot into the high school. Coming up from behind him, firmly grabbing him by the shoulders and boldly introducing himself as “Tommy H.” making him wonder exactly how many people were named “Tommy” at such a small school. Billy had just brushed him off at first and searched for his locker, but Tommy persisted. Following him to first period which they just so happened to share, and even cornering him at lunch to sit with him and his group of other assholes, to which he declined and instead pulled the first girl he saw looking at him aside and invited her to eat lunch in his car with him, where they didn’t actually eat lunch at all.

Billy planned to just blow the guy off completely, not interested in being part of the “popular crowd” or whatever the fuck Tommy had called it, and he was kind of getting creepy, stalkerish even with the way he followed him around and practically begged for his attention, which he wasn’t interested in giving until the two words, or rather, the name had escaped passed Tommy’s lips.

“Steve Harrington and that freak Byers look to be getting a little close wouldn’t ya say? Think we should tell little ol’ Nancy?” He said it with a string of laughs and a slap on the shoulder of the nameless guy in the letterman’s jacket that stood beside him. Billy couldn’t give a shit about who Byers or Nancy were, he was far more hung up on “Steve Harrington”. The guy who stumbled into his fourth period class five minutes after the bell had rang and followed him to fifth where he watched from the corner of his eye as he stripped down into his gym clothes. He only heard his full name when they all stood in a line alphabetically by last name when he was called directly after him. Hargrove, then Harrington. Then they were all paired off into groups of two and of course, he got paired up with a Steve and his ridiculous head of hair and thighs he wanted to crush his fucking head.

Billy stuck around Tommy after learning he was the one with the most intel on the guy. Tommy told him about the Halloween party where “Keg King Steve” might just get dethroned if Billy had anything to say about it. He didn’t know the guy he was dealing with was fucking royalty.

Tommy became a second shadow after that. He was with him everywhere he went and if it hadn’t been for the service he did provide, he would have kicked him to the curb a long time ago. And now with him standing in a strangers house in the middle of nowhere without a means of transportation and the only phone number on hand belonging to fucking Tommy, he was lucky he hadn’t.

“Hello?” Tommy’s voice came over the receiver.

“Hey uh, it’s Billy. Think you could come pick me up from somewhere?” Billy’s voice was still groggy from the drugs.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, but I wish I fuckin’ was. Look I’m at the Byers and I have no car so if you could just come and rescue me that would be great.” he said it with the utmost sarcasm to his voice, despite none of it actually being sarcastic at all.

“Okay I’m on my way, I’ll bring beer.”

Tommy pulled into the front in less than five minutes from the moment he set the phone back on the hook. Apparently he didn’t live too far from the Byers place in the middle of the woods. Billy stumbled out the front door and managed to barely make it to the passenger door without toppling over, which didn’t do much to help his story that he wasn’t in fact drunk.

“Dude! What the hell is going on? What happened to your face?”

Billy just slumped into his seat and pulled a beer bottle from the six pack sitting in Tommy’s back seat and opened it with the ring on his finger. “Just drive, I’ll explain when I can’t fuckin’ feel it anymore.” he said, kicking his feet up on the dash earning a grunt out of Tommy.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Tommy took off the parking brake with a smirk on his face and turned the car around.

“To the quarry then.”

Billy had been around there once or twice since he’d arrived in Hawkins. The first time was when they had first driven past the welcome sign and he stumbled upon it while scoping out the town for any reason to stay in the shithole. Instead he stumbled upon the two hundred foot cliff into bone crushing waters. But he’d only ever been there during the day when the sky was overcast and it looked like nothing more than doom and gloom, much like the rest of the town. This time it was late, the sky was clear and the stars and the moon were brightly visible and reflected on the water's surface. The headlights illuminated the space around them and it was oddly peaceful.

“Now you gonna tell me why you’re getting blood all over my car?”

Billy finished off the last of the beer that was in the bottle and tossed it out the open window. “I got into it with Harrington.” He said, wiping away at the blood that still was dripping from the nose that was definitely broken. Harrington was a shit fighter but he threw a mean punch.

“Why was he at the Byers? Why were you at the Byers? What the fuck is going on?!” Tommy had his seat belt off and his body fully turned towards Billy who was still sitting with his feet up on the dash reaching his arm back for a second bottle.

“I don’t fucking know Hagan. I was looking for my little sister and Harrington chose to pick a fight with me. My sister fuckin’ drugged me and when I woke up my car was gone,” Billy took a large swig out of the bottle in his hand, “that’s where you came in.”

Tommy took the bottle from Billy’s hand and took his own drink from the bottle, committing to staying with Billy at the quarry with that first swallow of bitter liquid down his throat. Billy quickly stole it back from him and chugged the rest of it, prompting Tommy to grab his own from the pack in the back seat. “So King Steve finally won a fight huh? Never thought I’d see the day.” Tommy said while he fiddled with his key trying to pop the bottle cap off. But Billy was quick to set him straight about exactly what happened.

“Harrington did not win the fight.” Billy let out a pained laugh. “Last I remember he looked dead on the floor.” Tommy was speechless, staring back at Billy with the mouth of the bottle held against his lower lip, frozen in place. “You got a smoke?”

“Is Steve okay?” Tommy’s voice was panicked, a total tone shift not only from how they were previously talking, but a tone Billy hadn’t yet heard out of the guy before. His eyes were wide and filled with concern and Billy had been trying not to think about everything that was currently swimming through Tommy’s mind since he had woken up on that wood floor.

“I don’t fucking know man, he wasn’t there when I woke up,” Billy just ignored eye contact with Tommy and began rummaging through the glove box in search of a pack and a light. “I’m sure he’s fine, they wouldn’t have just left me on the fuckin’ floor if I was wanted for murder.” he says it to Tommy, but also to himself as he finally finds a loose pack of reds and holds a cigarette in between his fingers, letting the words and the feeling of warmth as he lights up calm his nerves about whatever situation Steve was currently in. Nothing he could do about it now.

“What the fuck Hargrove? How bad did you hurt him?” Tommy was practically yelling at him, almost becoming teary eyed, punching Billy in the shoulder like he was trying to hurt him but didn’t know how.

“Why the fuck do you care so much? You got a boner for him or something?” It was meant as a joke. Billy really didn’t have anything suggesting Tommy was “of the same crowd” as he was from his observations over the past week aside from his weird infatuation with him that he’d just written off as him using him to get chicks after noticing how every girls eyes darted toward him as soon as he stepped foot out of the Camaro. But the way Tommy reacted to the accusation without immediate denial or fucking any other reaction that wasn’t his eyes growing even wider before turning his head down and away from Billy. “Did I strike a nerve there?”

“Can it Hargrove.” Tommy’s voice is low and quiet and he’s practically one with the steering wheel with how close his forehead is to it.

“What? That Little Tommy Hagan is a queer for Harring-“

“Shut Up!” Tommy yelled and surged forward from where he was sitting to being practically in Billy’s seat with both hands clutching the collar of Billy’s shirt and pinning him up against the car door. “Get the fuck out of my car Hargrove, walk home.” Tommy said in a mean voice, his teeth clenched and his knuckles digging into Billy’s collar bones.

And Billy just laughed his maniacal little laugh he gave whenever someone tried to start a fight they would inevitably lose in the end. Instead of reaching a hand back for the door handle and following Tommy’s strict little orders, he did exactly what he always did when it came to men he could win against. He fought back.

With the same swiftness that Tommy had, he flipped the script, turning everything right back around on Tommy so that he was the one pinned up against the drivers side door, his head slamming back against the glass window. Billy took it even one step further and pushed their combined weights against the door and with a free hand, opened it, causing Tommy to roll out onto his back along the gravel path they were parked on where he let out a pained groan.

Billy walked out unscathed, the only marks on his body being the result of a separate H name. Billy reached for Tommy’s bottle out of the cup holder and finished it off before chucking it out into the water below with a strong throw.

“So, Tommy H. eats dick for breakfast, I can’t say I’m totally surprised.” Billy took the keys from Tommy’s pockets and stuffed them in his own. He was just going to leave him there, begin a chain for vehicular theft and find somewhere else to be with someone else, but Tommy just had to go and open up his big and stupid mouth.

“Yeah, and what about you huh? I didn’t say shit about the way you were rubbing all up against Steve during gym!” Tommy started to get up, but Billy quickly responded by putting him right back down. He pushed him back down onto his back with the grip of his shoulders and climbed on top of him where both his knees were sitting on both of his hands leaving him completely immobile. Tommy screamed out in pain as his knees dug into his palms and the sharp rocks cut the skin on his hands.

“You calling me a fag?!” Billy yelled, his grip growing tighter and tighter on his shoulders, thumbs digging and bruising and Tommy didn’t have the breath to stop screaming to say anything in response. Billy chose to remove his knees from Tommy’s hands so that he would stop, but he stayed on top of him, sitting down so he wouldn’t be able to get out.

That’s when he noticed it.

Tommy was fucking hard.

“Oh, so Harrington ain’t the only guy who turns you on huh?”

Tommy made a bold move, and spit up at Billy, hitting him directly in the eye. “Get off of me.”

Billy just laughed and freed one of Tommy’s shoulders to wipe away at his eye. “Nice shot. This how you treat all the boys or am I just special?”

“I’m not fucking gay!”

“Well your dick tells me otherwise.”

Tommy just squeezed his eyes tightly, like he was trying to focus all of his energy on making it go down, which wasn’t made easy by having Billy Hargrove’s literal ass pressed up against it.

Billy had told himself he wouldn’t let this happen. Not here. But he also didn’t think he’d have the temptation so readily available, already hard for him and on his back ready to go. Billy Hargrove wasn’t one to pass up a treat like this. Sure, it wasn’t Steve Harrington, but Billy wasn’t anything if not good at playing pretend.

Billy leaned his body down to where they were chest to chest, both of their hearts pounding hard enough that they could feel each other’s. His mouth found Tommy’s neck where Billy found the most sensitive spot and took the skin right in between his teeth, causing Tommy to shudder and his dick to twitch against Billy’s ass.

“So Tommy likes a little pain with his pleasure too? You learn more and more every day.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Tommy said through a sigh followed by a gasp for air.

“Would you like me to stop?” Billy asked, knowing full well by the expression on Tommy’s face what his answer would be. But for good measure, Billy rocked his hips against Tommy’s dick to milk another moan out of his mouth. “You ever kissed a boy Tommy?”

Instead of answering with his words, Tommy bucks his hips upwards and utilizes his now free hands to grab Billy by the face and bring his lips down to his own, faces slamming together with bruise inducing force that leaves Tommy breathless and craving more. He kisses him like he’s starving, like just the taste of Billy’s lips was like a drug necessary for the continuation of his life and he’s not going to let go of it for even a second. Take all of it that he can get his hands on.

And Billy just kisses him back, closing his eyes and imagining dark brown hair and pale skin peppered in moles and deep brown eyes that could turn a sour kid sweet.

Tommy reaches his hands through the opening in Billy’s shirt and wraps his hands around to Billy’s back. Tommy’s cold hands against his skin cause him to shiver as they trace up and down and pull him in closer.

Billy grinds his hips into Tommy’s at a comfortable pace, his own dick matching Tommy’s level of hard as they’re both aching and throbbing and leaking with pre into their jeans, both of them agonizingly starved.

Billy trails a hand down the length of Tommy’s chest and undoes the button on his pants the moment he reaches his waist. Tommy’s rhythm was erratic and desperate and helping the guy out a little was the least he could do for being the tool he used to live out his own fantasies. Once the zipper was lowered, Billy reached his cold and bruised hand, coated in a layer of spit from his own mouth, into the space below Tommy’s boxers where he wrapped his hand around Tommy’s dick, pretending it was Steve’s, the one he managed to catch a glimpse of while they were in the showers after practice, the one he permanently ingrained in his mind and could see just as vividly now, and pumped. And Tommy did a lot of the work himself, thrusting himself into Billy’s hand, no longer able to focus on kissing Billy from all the intense pleasure that he was just breathing into Billy’s open mouth all hot and heavy. Tommy didn’t say it, but Billy could tell that he was on the brink with the way his face contorted more and more with each thrust. The sweat was spilling from his pores like multiple waterfalls and Billy just kept on closing his eyes, picturing Steve, not the freckled face below him that made all the sounds that sent him reeling.

Because it was one thing to want someone unattainable, and an entirely other thing to want someone who was.

Tommy came into his hand as Billy had that thought, moaning out the name “Steve” as he did, reminding Billy of exactly what this was, ripping the word “attainable” directly from his vocabulary and leaving him with the most disappointing orgasm of his life.

Okay, not true. It was still ten times more epic than any girl had ever given him.

The problem was that with all that buildup with Steve at the forefront of his mind, he came to the image of Tommy, who had just come to the image of Steve, another guy’s name on his tongue.

Billy just got up from where he was on top of Tommy, pressing his boot into Tommy’s thigh with an anger induced force, and walked off. He ignored the damp and sticky mess in his boxers and took a seat in the passenger seat of Tommy’s car while Tommy was still laid out on the gravel.

“Let’s go! Not a fucking word about this Hagan, you got it?”

He just nodded his head, his face flushed likely due to the answer to that initial question about ever kissing a boy being true, maybe because he was embarrassed for himself, maybe because he was embarrassed for Billy.

He didn’t want to think about that.

“Keys?” Tommy asked as he took his seat, holding his hand out for Billy to drop them. Billy tossed them over, ignoring the outstretched hand and instead reaching for his technically third beer from the back of Tommy’s car and not saying a word about it. Letting Tommy just take him wherever he so pleased.

Tommy took him to his house, surprisingly knowing where he lived, and Billy didn’t bother to question how exactly he knew the address. He didn’t say anything, not even a thank you before he closed the car door behind him and watched Tommy drive off down Cherry Lane.

He stood out there for a while by himself. Staring blankly at the yellow front door knowing that Hell awaits him on the other side.

And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about those words that Steve said to him when he first stepped out of the Camaro outside the Byers House.

“Don’t cream your pants.”

Because it was too fucking late for that.

He should have listened to him.

#tomgrove #stranger things #billy hargrove #tommy hagan #steve harrington #harringrove #stommy #mandi writes tresh #fanfic #lemons

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