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sardonic-the-writer · 1 year

Note

Nacho X reader. Please

Nacho flirting with a customer at his father's shop. Him leaning over the counter to get close.

aAAArgHHHouhhh going insane over this

Dropplets of sweat were dripping down the tip of his nose.

The beams of hot New Mexico sun spared no expenses today, even indoors where walls of brick and plaster would normally provide some sort of shelter. And it was only growing hotter from what Nacho could tell.

Many of the employees both inside and outside had unbuttoned the first couple levels of their work uniform down to expose their chest to the rare breeze that would bless them. That wasn't limited to Nacho Varga, the lone man currently occupying a wooden front desk, whose golden chain bounced against his chest if he sat down too quick.

A slow trickle of perspiration on his skin made Nacho itch to rub it off. But be sighed softly, continuing to thumb through a stack of twenties in his hand.

"Here you go, sir." The sound of a register opening and change clanking ripped through the not so silent shop as he took out a few ones in exchange for placing the twenties in the box. "Have a nice day." He offered a faint smile while holding out the extra money, palms turned up toward the sky.

The man who has been standing opposite of him across the counter for the past couple minutes offered a grunt and nod of his head, turning to walk out the glass double doors behind him. Probably to his newly repaired car; curtosy of Nacho's Papa.

Nacho sighed, finally taking a moment to wipe the back of his hand over his face, only to bring it back coated in a shean of sweat. He frowned. He had been meaning to get around to looking at the lobbys air conditioning, but simply hadn't found the time. Balancing two different jobs wasn't always easy and for more reasons than one. He tried not to think about that too much when he was at his Papa's shop. Still. That didn't change the fact that this place would start feeling more and more like an oven if he didn't take a look at the metal box sometime soon.

Eventually Nacho caved. He wasn't one to put things off a lot. And it didn't seem like any customers would be stopping by for a moment.

The quiet man disappeared to the back for a quick bout of silence only to emerge seconds later lugging a six foot ladder behind him like it was nothing. He was careful to keep it a ways of the ground before setting it down with a clank, keeping in mind the freshly waxed floor that his father had stayed out late doing last month.

Quick work was made of the activity. Just a few twists of a screwdriver, poking his head around to try and see what was going on, and reassuring his dad at one point that he would be okay standing on a ladder without anyone to hold it for him.

He was hoping that he could go the evening without anyone walking in, maybe moving on from the air conditioner (which had thankfully started working again after a couple hits to the side) to fixing a few other things around the place. Something that he knew his dad would appreciate.

Clearly that wasn't going to happen though. At least not in that moment.

Cool gusts of wind blew across Nacho's back, accompanying the ones in his face from the air conditioner as he screwed the top of it back in place. Shuffling behind him and the jingling of car keys told him that someone had entered—most likely to pay for a part they needed or some repairs.

"I'll be with you in a moment." He called out over his shoulder, voice as soft as always. No one answered him back—not that he expected them to. People tended to mind their own business around here.

Still. Nacho hurried to get back behind the counter.

You really wished you had listened to your last mechanic about buying a new car.

According to the stout man that had been assigned to fix up your rust bucket, you were just better off hurting an entirely new car at this point.

"I don't know if I could even do anything more but waste your time." The gruff man had said through a bushy mustache. "I can give you the address to another shop just across town that could handle this make and model better, but really, you're just better selling it for parts."

You'd taken the small card with the adress on it anyway, thanking him with a sigh before paying for the little bit they had been able to do.

He wasn't entirely wrong by saying those things to be fair. Unable to buy even the smallest of things beyond groceries in your fruitless quest for a decent paying job, you had been stuck driving the same blue colored tin can everywhere ever since you were sixteen. Not that you really minded. The only time it gave you trouble was when a road had one too many potholes. Most of the time people would come up with excuses to have ride in their own car anyways, not particularly enthusiastic to strap themselves down into the confines of your vehicle.

At least it smelled nice and was clean enough. You hoped that the people at this other dealership would give you some brownie points for that.

The employees had been nice enough upon you pulling in, if looking a little bored. And sweaty. Not that you could blame them—you had felt the blast of heat in stepping out of your car.

One had met you, shaking your hand firmly as you explained why you were there. From the way he ordered the people around your car to pull it around the back, you could only assume he was the owner. Or at least a manager. Nonetheless, he seemed nice enough.

"Ah Emelio needs to stop sending people here." The scruffy man had barked out a laugh as he released his grip on your hand. "He's going to start running out of clients! More for me and my mijo, I suppose."

You had politely smiled your way through a few more minutes of conversation until he gave you the instructions to the cash register, along with what you might have to pay for. (According to him, you were lucky that he even had enough parts laying around to upgrade your car, much less fix it.)

So you had walked into the small looking building sat smack dab on the drab premises. It wasn't much, but it was good enough considering you were someone who had been driving a car around looking like it had been tossed off Mount Everest

It was cool inside—much to your relief. Looked cozy as well. Had a few worn chairs and a funny color scheme, but you liked it. Seemed more genuine than the stuffy car dealerships sprinkled all around the upper side of town. Where the air felt like you were inhaling febreez stright from the can and the costumer service smiles looked way too fake.

There was a man too. Your neck tilted a little to get a better look, but from his position on a rusty ladder, you weren't able to see much than the back of his uniform.

"I'll be with you in a moment."

His voice was soft, which was a suprise. With broad shoulders like that and—again, from the little they could see—strong arms, he looked like he would have a rough edge to him.

"What can I help you with today?"

You took a second to sweep your eyes across his face, observing the way his jaw clenched when you did so, quickly snapping your eyes away when you noticed. The last thing you needed to do was make someone feel uncomfortable by staring at them. Even if he did have attractive features.

"I was sent here to pay for a tune up, I think? I don't really know but they sent me in here to talk to you."

He hummed, leaning into the counter with his elbows.

"Well, I can try and help you out if you want." The corner of his lips tilted up a little, a small smile blossoming on his face. "I'm Nacho."

"Like the chip?"

Nacho let out a breathy laugh almost inaudible to you, his eyes crinkling at the corners joyfully. You couldn't help but smile back yourself.

"I guess you say that."

"Last name Cheese?"

Another slight chuckle.

"Sure."

He liked the way your eyes shone at him when he leaned toward you. And you liked the way he laughed at your terrible attempts at a joke

Maybe your shitty car wasn't such a bad thing to happen to you after all.

#nacho varga #nacho varga x reader #nacho #nacho x reader #ignacio varga #ignacio varga x reader #bcs #bcs x reader #better call saul x reader #better call saul #breaking bad universe x reader #breaking bad #x reader #request #drabble #fluff #nacho varga x you #nacho varga x y/n

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gotnofucks · 3 years

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A Man’s World

Pairing: soft!dark!Andy Barber x Reader

Summary: To advance in a man’s world, you must allow one to own you. He promises you success, as long as you give yourself to him.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: Dub-con (at the beginning), smut, language, implied age gap, poor knowledge of law and legal system, 18+ ONLY

A/N: This is my late entry to Berry’s Sugary 4k Challenge (everyone go and send some love to @donutloverxo for being so awesome. I am also dedicating this fic to Lexi ( @bluemusickid ) who’s had a difficult few weeks recently. I hope you feel better my love.

Sweat was building under your top hat, the urge to itch making you frustrated with the delay. The officer before you was young, probably your age and fumbled with the papers you had handed to him. You tried to relax, almost as nervous as the man in front of you and tried to console yourself with the fact that he was far too jittery to look at you long.

No one will find out, you’re safe.

“Sir?”

You chewed your chip, feet tapping irregularly on the ground in agitation.

“Sir?” The officer said again, peering at you worriedly. You quickly pulled down the rim of your hat, still not used to being called ‘sir’.

“Uh, yeah. Yes.” You said, clearing your throat and trying for a deeper voice. The officer handed you your papers back, all signed and stamped. “Thank you.”

He nodded slightly and motioned for you to wait while your client was brought out. This was the first time you’d been out in the open alone, the fear of discovery clashing with the freedom that ran in your veins.

“Did you bail me out?” A rough voice asked. You looked up at Mr. Lane, a huge mountain of a man who towered over you. You nodded and offered him your hand to shake, wincing as his rough palms scratched against your soft ones. He looked doubtfully at you and you could understand why. You barely looked like a person who belonged in the police station, no matter as a man or woman.

“I am Mr. Barber’s assistant. He was busy with a hearing and sent me to bail you out. If you’d follow me to his office, he’d like a word before we proceed to your trial next week.” You explained, a little more confident. You knew the work, you knew the ways. You only needed to sell your lies to make your truth valid.

Mr. Lane nodded, following and entering the coach outside the station after you. He sat across from you, eyes narrowing as he ran over your soft features, the clip clop of the horses the only sound within.

“You old enough to be an assistant, boy?” Mr. Lane asked, and you scowled. Oh, how you’d like to tell him you were old enough and good enough to be not just an assistant but also a lawyer. You could be the one representing him in court and making him a free man. You should be that one. But, alas, this world doesn’t see women doing much rather than peeling potatoes and popping out a child every second year.

“I am.” You replied in a gruff tone that made it clear you weren’t about to entertain more questions. Your companion nodded, looking out the window and into the streets where peddlers screamed about discounted watches and handkerchiefs and buttons. Not many people had cushioned coaches like this, but Mr. Barber insisted one for your travels.

The journey to the office was quick and silent and you gestured Mr. Lane to follow you up to the top floor where your boss sat in his office. Some people nodded at you, now getting used to seeing you here though they didn’t stop to talk. You had never spoken much to anyone here outside of the receptionist who was deaf in one ear and considered every man under the age of 40 was a boy.

“Wait here, I’ll let you in in a moment.” You said and had Mr. Lane take a seat on the benches outside. Then, you knocked softly and entered, shutting the door after you. Andy was sat behind his desk, frowning at some paper, and beckoned you closer without looking up from them. You walked over to him, licking you lips softly.

“Sit.” He said, taking your hand and pulling you into his lap. You positioned yourself on his thigh, squirming a little. He scribbled something in the corner of his paper before pushing it away with a sigh, turning his face to you. His eyes, bluer than the ocean at the docks, glittered at you and a small smile curled on his lips. With a practiced move, he removed your top hat and released the band that held your long locks tied together at the top.

Running his fingers through your hair, he leaned closer to press a kiss on your lips. You instinctively kissed back, holding onto his shoulder and moulding your lips to fit his.

“How did it go?” He asked, caressing your cheek softly. You fingered his collar, not looking in his eyes.

“I was worried someone will see through me.” You softly murmured. “There were so many men out there.”

Andy chuckled, pressing another kiss on your lips as his hand sneaked around your waist to bring you closer.

“There are always going to be men around. But you must remember you’re better than them. Better than any other son of a dick out there pretending he is the boss.”

You looked at him at that, taking in his beautiful face that had you smiling and crying in equal parts. You could tell exactly how that well-groomed beard felt between your legs, how those lips could make you utter the filthiest of sounds and curses and how those large hands touched you in the dark of the night.

“Better than even you?” You tentatively asked and Andy smiled, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth.

“You’ve always been better than me.” He said. You blinked and looked away, his gaze far too intimate to hold. Try as you might, you could not figure this man out. Months you’d spent with him, living, and working and being his any way he asked, and yet he was as much a mystery as he’d been the first time you met.

“Uh, Mr. Lane is waiting outside. Should I call him in?” You asked and he nodded, squeezing your side before releasing you. You put your hair up again and wore your hat, hiding your face under its shadows and calling the client in.

When a girl turns a certain age, she is expected to find the most eligible bachelor and flutter her eyelashes in a bid to secure a match. Your mother threw grand balls for your sisters and was planning an even grander one for your introduction to the society. But you had had enough of dancing with lecherous bastards with as wandering hands as their eyes. You couldn’t stomach the thought of being bound to one of them, so you took your chance and ran.

Leaving behind your quaint town, you entered the bustling city with an assortment of clothes and a heart full of hope. It took you a week to understand that this was no place for you, no place for a lady who dreamt of being her own person. No one wished to employ you, a young girl who had no business demanding pay and rights.

However, in this bustling city of strangers, you found a man who wished to own you. Andy Barber told you in no uncertain terms that he would not hire you as long as you dressed like a woman, but he also promised that he could train you to be better than any other man. Provided, you give yourself to him. You weren’t naïve enough to pretend to not know what he was asking for, but you were desperate enough to say yes. This was better than a marriage anyway. There too, a man would have parched his thirst over your naked chest, but at least here you could learn and get paid for it without being bound to him.

Andy was not unkind. As a mentor, he was strict and meticulous. He worked you hard, taught you well, gave bitter feedback but praised you just the same. As a lover, he was exacting, exploring your chaste body with touches rough and soft, demanding response and reverence. The first night you laid with him, he spent hours worshiping you. His lips, lined by his bushy mustache, traced your face and neck, roving over each contour of your body until his mouth had tasted all.

The modesty you had guarded forever was bare to his gaze, but he didn’t lust like a man who cornered women in dark alleys. He had knelt before your open legs like men of cloth did at the lord’s altar, kissing the dewy folds of your sex with so much passion and delicacy that you had indeed felt like a goddess. Never had you imagined a man to put his mouth there, not when your mother had told you it was unclean. Andy, on the other hand, tasted it like he tasted absolution in your nectar.

He taught you more than simply law. The pleasures of flesh, of learning to please yourself and your companion were lessons that took place in the dark of night. He whispered things that Satan preached in your ear, seducing you into sin that you soon came to crave.

“Touch yourself”, a command he gave often. Nothing pleased him more than seeing you bring yourself to completion with your eyes trained on him, thoughts full only of him and how his body rocked yours.

You had done a great many things with him, things that had you flustered for days on end whenever your thoughts would turn to him, but what you were doing now was nothing short of scandal. It was blasphemous, something that would ruin you way more than if people found you falsely parading as a man in the city.

“Andy!” You hissed, pushing against him to no avail. He had dragged you into the men’s room inside the courthouse, cornering you against the wall and pressing his body flush to yours. He was wearing his best clothes today, about to represent an important man in a case that had made the front page for two weeks straight. Time together had been more work than pleasure, and it seemed Andy had reached his breaking point right before the trial started.

He started working on the buttons of your waistcoat, a frenzy in his eyes. “I need to take you now. This might as well be the most important case of my career, and I’ll begin it by being inside you, and end it just the same!”

You moaned, letting your hands roam his body as he finally undid your waistcoat and shirt, frantically ripping away at the bandages that bound your breasts. As he took one of your hardened nipples in his mouth, you palmed his pulsing hardness from over his pants, shivering at the thought of feeling it inside you again.

He scared you like this, for someone could walk in and see the illustrated Andrew Barber making a beast with two backs in the male room with someone who greatly resembled a man. He will be ruined. You would be ruined. And as of now, the very thought of that caused wetness to pool in your underpants.

“Get on your knees and taste me.” He urged, pulling out his cock and pumping it. “As you sit beside me today, I want you to have my taste in your mouth. One day, I’ll sit beside you too.”

You were a gently bred lady of impeccable reputation, but you sunk to your knees with the practiced move of a street woman to take him eagerly in your mouth. Oh, if your proper mother could see you, sucking a man like a whore in the damp men’s room, her teachings of propriety and modesty all but forgotten. But nothing made you feel more than a woman that receiving Andy like this. His desire, his need for you burned in his eyes and you lapped on those flames to quench the thirst in your heart.

His hand moved behind your head, easing you into taking him deeper. “Look at me” He whispered, and your eyes met his, shining with unshed tears. He did this to you, reduced you to who you loathed to be and yet loved. Swirling your tongue over his soft skin, you bobbed over his length, the squelching sounds filling the small room.

Just like always, you tasted his power and his yearning. The milky drops of precum coated your tongue, your nose taking in the smell of his musk as he groaned above you. He reduced you, but then why did you feel raised?

“Touch yourself, let me taste you too.” He ordered, and you complied. Your hand slipped inside your pants, finding your moist core. Generously lubing your fingers in your slick, you rose on shaky knees and presented your wet fingers to Andy who sucked them eagerly in his mouth. Warm, wet, his tongue took in your taste with relish.

You couldn’t stop but stare into his blue eyes, eyes that should have haunted your nightmares, but you only saw them in sweet dreams. “Kiss me” You begged, and he did. He kissed you like a man starved, like a man who could suck out your soul and draw it in himself. He kissed you like dew kissed the morning grass, like the colours of rainbow that scattered in the sky to paint it pretty.

“Tell me where you want me, how you want me.” He said, surrendering control. You stilled, hands resting on his chest. How were you to lead him when he was infinitely more experienced about the art of making love?

“I – I want you inside me.” You softly said, eyes fluttering as you shy looked away. Why was saying what you do so many times so difficult.

“Inside where?” Andy asked, tilting your chin up again. You gulped, your face and chest flushed.

“In my – in my” You stuttered, fearing to speak the word he spoke often. “In my pussy.”

You would have thought he would ravish you as soon as you said the words, instead he brought you closer and nudged your nose with his. His breath came out in erratic spurts, his need evident in his gaze. “You will put me inside you, however you want. It’s time I let you take some lead.”

Holding his gaze, you pumped his length gently before turning around and presenting him your ass. You struggled to position him, trying to place his tip at your opening. He didn’t move an inch to help you, only chuckling slightly when you huffed in frustration. Finally, you felt him at your slit, and you slid him between your folds carefully, trying to coat him in your wetness like you’d seen him do.

“What if someone walks in?” You asked, hesitating for just one moment.

“They’ll have to wait while we finish. You’re not walking out of here unsullied, so how about we hurry up?”

You pushed back into him, taking him inside your pulsing sleeve with ease. The stretch of his cock had always felt good, a pain that had a lasting effect and reminded you of him. As you moved back and forth, urging him to meet you halfway, you wondered why the self loathing never came. Andy had a way of making you feel like a queen when others may suspect you of nothing more than a whore.

“Andy” You brokenly said as he thrust inside you faster, “I want more. Please.”

He gave you more. He took over, holding onto your waist and sliding home inside you in deep, powerful strokes. You whined under his assault, jerking when his fingers found your nub and mashed it. Praises, curses, words of love and lust that had the power to destroy hearts and armies flowed freely from his mouth, as if the only thing tethering him to this earth was your body.

Your hands went to play with your breasts, a strangled moan caught in your chest. Suddenly, even when he moved inside you with such passion, you craved more intimacy than his cock could offer. You tilted your head to the side, offering him your mouth that he took in a sensual kiss. You were so close that you couldn’t decide what limb was yours and which was his anymore. In the age old dance of sensual love, you became one.

“What do you want?” He asked, and your eyes met his. He asked you this every time, and you had always answered the same thing. But today, this felt different. You were in the courthouse, a lawyer’s battleground and also the place of worship. He was more than your mentor and boss, he was also the man who you had grown to care for so deeply it could only be called one feeling.

“Inside me. I want you to finish inside me today.” You answered and his hands clutched you tighter. You’d never allowed that before, never allowed him to call you his so completely. But you felt compelled by his heat today, by the desperation he never bothered hiding from you. Once, this may have felt like a chore. Today, it was your blessing. “Andy, make me yours.”

He groaned, pumping in you with abandon and bringing you over the edge with his fingers that were running circles around your clit. You moaned loud, blubbering in pleasure that spilled from you, uncaring if someone were to walk in. His thrusts were getting irregular, hips jerking until you felt him twitch and release inside you in hot spurts. Warmth bloomed in your core, your essence mixing with his.

He hugged your sweaty body to his, the wool of his coat scratchy against your flesh. “You were mine, even before. Now, more so than ever. And one day, when you’re ready, I’ll claim you in front of the world as fully as my heart has done in private.”

You felt him run his thumb over your ring finger and licked your lips. He wasn’t asking, and you weren’t answering. But one day, maybe you will. Until then, you were happy to be his beautiful secret, posing as his assistant and learning from him.

“Don’t,” He whispered hotly in your ear, turning you around swiftly. “Don’t think too much. We’ve got a case to win.”

He helped you dress again, buttoning your shirt and waistcoat with nimble fingers. He was getting back to being your boss, and you couldn’t have been prouder of him at this moment. One day it will be you in his spot, you knew it.

“Just one question.” You said, fixing his tie and smoothening the wrinkles on his clothes. He raised an eyebrow at you, softly smiling at the mischievous look in his eyes. “What will happen once I am a lawyer too?”

Andy chuckled, pressing the softest of kisses on your lips. “Whoever wins more cases gets to be on top of course.”

You exited the men’s room with him, head high as any other man’s. As you entered the courtroom, you licked your lips and smiled as you tasted him on your tongue.

#sugary4kchallenge #soft!dark andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader #andy x reader #soft!dark andy barber #andy barber

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backandimbamon · 2 years

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Bonnie deciding whether she should have a sexy or funny Halloween costume. thank you @ambeauty for a wonderful prompt <333 there’s an extended version up on my ao3. my username is lazypeachx and the title is “bats”

“Clearly you’re a wizard.”

He was in fact wrong and as Bonnie looked in the mirror propped against the wall a few feet away from Damon, she could kinda sorta see why he would think that.

Bonnie tugged at the itchy fake mustache before correcting him. “No, I’m Albert Einstein.”

“Oh.” he considered his guess with squinted eyes and shrugged his shoulders complacently. “I mean, technically I wasn’t wrong, he was a math wizard.”

The white fleece sweater over a collared button down was slightly irritating though she felt it was as Einstein-esque as she could muster outside of the grey wig and mustache. Maybe she’d even do a German accent to cement the character.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?”

Damon’s silence was enough of an answer for her to consider trying on Halloween costume number two.

“I wanted to go for something funny, you know?”

“Honestly, Bon, this is...” he paused, blue eyes just short of puzzled. “A mustache and gray hair? I’m terrified in the worst way.”

Bonnie crossed her arms in defeat.

“You’re right. This isn’t even ha-ha-funny, it’s sad-funny.”

Damon, having already said enough had an expression on his face like he completely concurred. The heels of his hands imprinted her comforter as he made himself at home on the edge of Bonnie’s bed. “Honestly, what’s the point in dressing up if you’re not gonna be sexy?”

“And there it is. You’re secretly Regina George, aren’t you?”

“Ugh, as if. I’m Cher from Clueless on my worst day.”

“Yeah, if you could actually make a plan that goes right for once.”

“Everyone still has their fingers and toes.”

“The ‘everyone’ that survived, sure.”

Damon narrowed his eyes. “Actually, Einstein is perfect for you.” He cupped his hands over his mouth to expand his voice. “Hey, world, if you didn’t know, Bonnie knows everything.”

She rolled her eyes. “Damnit. I wanted this to work but after seeing myself in it, I might die of embarrassment.”

“Bonnie? Die? Yeah, right.”

“Ha ha.” She mocked. “I’m changing into the next costume.” With that, the witch gave a final slam of her bathroom door then preceded to leave a pile of Albert Einstein at her feet.

Twenty minutes had passed since Bonnie first shut the door and still, no witchy.

There weren’t any sudden movements or clothing rustles anymore which indicated she was already dressed and truthfully, nothing on earth could be worse than the first look.

Bonnie in an oversized sweater and a bushy mustache was not an image he wished to picture floating around in his mind, let alone in real life. He had no intentions of taking shots of whisky with a mathematician at some crowded Halloween party.

He rapped his knuckles against the door, admittedly growing bored without the witty retorts. “C’mon, you have to come out sooner or later. But please, I’m begging you, don’t have on an avocado suit.”

She snorted a laugh, “Okay, alright, just give me a minute.”

“I gave you twenty of them already, now come out before I come in. No pun intended.”

Damon swore he could hear her eyes roll before the doorknob twisted, and she stepped out, a look of uncertainty on her face and her palms upturned in a gesture that asked what he thought.

But what didn’t he think?

First, after seeing this costume, he’d set fire to the Einstein one himself.

Second, third, and fourth… holy hell.

“It’s too much isn’t it?”

He figured she was referring to how quickly his brows disappeared into his hairline, and quite frankly, for good measure. It was absolutely too much, and if he wasn’t so captivated by her deep, dark sex appeal, he would’ve demanded Bonnie change into something else to save his fists from beating anyone who came too close into a pulp. But he was at a loss for words. And in case anything threatened to slip out, he closed his mouth with his jaw making an audible click.

Black latex clung to her like a second skin, accentuating every dip and curve in her figure-so many- that his eyes were just gliding up and down Bonnie like he was at a skate park. His best friend in a bondage suit with the boots to match so they were almost eye to eye. Only she could be this sexy without showing anything other than the skin on her hands and face. He noticed two little indents on her bottom lip, a trail of fake blood out of her mouth when she smiled.

“I’m a vampire.” She said, her faux fangs on full display and ouch, what was that feeling like a hand squeezing his heart in two?

Damon was only half aware of the force his fingers made in Bonnie’s side, he held her close as if one of the gaping buffoons knew that without her, he’d surely dematerialize.

Absently, she loosened his fingertips on her hip, looking at him half amused and perhaps curious as to what had him, of all people, tense. She did know that it wasn’t the sea of bodies writhing, dressed as anything but themselves under flashing lights and liquor-splattered floors. That was very much Damon’s forte.

He admired the venue and its crowd with a soft smile on his mouth, concluding that he would have fun. It had been a while since he let go, probably a week by now, plus the girl dressed as a genie could help him banish the intrusive thoughts he had of Bonnie if she continued to look at him like he was something to be hunted. He’d show her in the end, she was always game.

But before he could pounce on Three Wishes, Bonnie tugged his arm away from the bar and to the floor- her informal way of asking him to dance. As always, he relented.

There was only a thread keeping his mind from roaming but once again, being so close, it was unavoidable to not notice even the little things about witchy. She trapped him until he found himself stuck between how her eyes seemed to glow and the poke of extended canines at her lips. When his eyes weren’t on hers, they were on her body, lost in how the lights of the party, melted into her suit like an oil slick- purple went to blue, blue went to red. The color of a siren’s call.

“I must have something on my face,” she rubbed her cheek absently, “because you keep staring at me.”

He noticed her confidence growing with the many eyes that lingered on her with unveiled interest, the girl in her room unsure of herself had vanished.

“Yes, I was getting PTSD flashbacks from the Albert Einstein costume. Thank God you changed.”

She narrowed her eyes and stepped closer when the music slowed, wrapping his arms around her waist, “oh that’s what it was.”

“Mhmm.” He spun her so that her back was facing him to comfortably place his chin in the crook of her neck. “The last time we danced like this, we were enemies.”

“We were weren’t we?”

“I mean, of course we had undeniable sexual tension. But yeah, mostly enemies.”

Bonnie scuffed. “I should bottle your delusion and sell it.”

“Delusion? It was palpable.”

“Palpable enough that I never felt it?”

“You know what, you were young back then. Probably had no idea what chemistry was if it smacked you in the face.”

“Did anyone tell you you have a way with words?”

He held her arm up for a spin before bringing her back to him chest to chest. “Plenty.”

His lids lowered, mouth slanted as he held her, anticipating that exact flash of annoyance on her features from being too close to him.

“Is the little bird mad she can’t fly away?”

“I’m not a bird, I’m a vampire,” she said ingignantly, then wrapped her arms around his neck for leverage and sank her fake little teeth into his neck.

God help him, Damon was going to lose his mind.

The groan he punched out sounded as if someone sacked him in the stomach with nothing but red bricks. He probably would’ve been more prepared for that then Bonnie’s pretty mouth on his neck biting him like she could really puncture his skin with blunt fangs. His eyes drifted shut.

“Is this the part where I hit you with aneurysms?” He mumbled weakly. “Because I might be better at making something float.”

She removed her teeth, the hint of her tongue and her lips from him with a smile that was pleased with herself, and would otherwise be charming if it wasn’t smug. He knew what that look meant because he invented it and, he thought, he was rubbing off on her, everywhere.

“My turn,” he clipped out, as if he weren’t fighting the blood in his body to flow back up.

“I’m gonna go grab a drink.” She said, dismissing him like she had something better to do than tease. He noticed heads turn in her favor when she walked away and while Damon was not about to admit defeat, he damn sure needed to know where that genie went to relieve some tension.

#bamon ff #bamon #bonnie bennett #damon x bonnie #damon salvatore #bamon fanfic #bamon fic #bamon fanfiction #Bonnie x Damon #my writing #bamon prompt #prompt #tvd ff #tvd fanfic

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butterflies-dragons · 3 years

Text

GRRM has projected his love for medieval tourneys, heraldry, pageantry, knights and chivalry on Sansa Stark

Art credit: Heinrich von Breslau (Codex Manesse, 14. Jahrhundert)

GRRM:

“That whole story (The Hedge Knight) is built around a tournament. I love medieval tournaments, reading about them, writing about them. There's of course some of them in the main books, but this was an opportunity in a time of peace, not war, to look at a medieval tournament with all its pageantry and the jousting and the combat and reveal a little of Westerosi History”.

—In conversation: George R.R. Martin with Dan Jones FULL EVENT- August 2019

SANSA:

"The talk in the yard is we shall have a tourney, my lord," Jory said as he resumed his seat. "They say that knights will come from all over the realm to joust and feast in honor of your appointment as Hand of the King."

Arya could see that her father was not very happy about that. "Do they also say this is the last thing in the world I would have wished?"

Sansa's eyes had grown wide as the plates. "A tourney," she breathed. She was seated between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, as far from Arya as she could get without drawing a reproach from Father. "Will we be permitted to go, Father?"

"You know my feelings, Sansa. It seems I must arrange Robert's games and pretend to be honored for his sake. That does not mean I must subject my daughters to this folly."

"Oh, please," Sansa said. "I want to see."

Septa Mordane spoke up. "Princess Myrcella will be there, my lord, and her younger than Lady Sansa. All the ladies of the court will be expected at a grand event like this, and as the tourney is in your honor, it would look queer if your family did not attend."

Father looked pained. "I suppose so. Very well, I shall arrange a place for you, Sansa." He saw Arya. "For both of you."

"I don't care about their stupid tourney," Arya said. She knew Prince Joffrey would be there, and she hated Prince Joffrey.

Sansa lifted her head. "It will be a splendid event. You shan't be wanted."

—A Game of Thrones - Arya II

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa’s breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind…and the knights themselves, the knights most of all.

“It is better than the songs,” she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling.

They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

GRRM:

“Tolkien imitators who came after him, a lot of them created a sort of Disneyland Middle Ages, you know, a sort of Middle Ages like you might see at a Renaissance Faire, but you don't have the dysentery, or the torture, or the leprosy, or the innate sexism, or classism, or racism that was so built into so much of that world for so many centuries, you really have to take, you know, I like the knights in shinning armor, the heraldry and pageantry as much as anyone, but you also have to include the fleas."

— Neuchâtel International Fantastic Film Festival - NIFFF 2014

The novelist is midway through something of a European tour. After his trip to Switzerland, he is due in Scotland for the Edinburgh book festival. It has often been suggested that Ivanhoe (by the Scottish 19th-century novelist Walter Scott) was, alongside the War of the Roses, a major influence on A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones.

Martin was first turned on to Ivanhoe by the 1952 MGM movie starring Robert Taylor, George Sanders and a young Elizabeth Taylor. "I think it was Elizabeth Taylor at the peak of her...," his voice tails off before he clarifies. "She was the most beautiful woman in the world. I think I was nine years old when I saw that movie. How could you not fall in love with her? But the jousting and the pageantry of it made me love that story. Later, in high school, I did read that book. For a modern reader, it's a little tough to get through. The prose is very Victorian and thick but if you fight your way through it, the story is there. It has everything the movie has and more – the heraldry and jousting and the insight into the times. It was an influence in that sense."

—GRRM - Independent - 2014

SANSA:

The green knight laughed again. "Barristan the Old, you mean. Don't flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already." He smiled at her. "Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you are truly our Hand's daughter."

Joffrey stiffened beside her. "Have a care how you address my betrothed."

"I can answer," Sansa said quickly, to quell her prince's anger. She smiled at the green knight. "Your helmet bears golden antlers, my lord. The stag is the sigil of the royal House. King Robert has two brothers. By your extreme youth, you can only be Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and councillor to the king, and so I name you."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

No one ransomed the northmen, though. One fat lordling haunted the kitchens, Hot Pie told her, always looking for a morsel. His mustache was so bushy that it covered his mouth, and the clasp that held his cloak was a silver-and-sapphire trident. He belonged to Lord Tywin, but the fierce, bearded young man who liked to walk the battlements alone in a black cloak patterned with white suns had been taken by some hedge knight who meant to get rich off him. Sansa would have known who he was, and the fat one too, but Arya had never taken much interest in titles and sigils. Whenever Septa Mordane had gone on about the history of this house and that house, she was inclined to drift and dream and wonder when the lesson would be done.

—A Clash of Kings - Arya VII

Petyr had given her a roll of arms to study, so she knew their heraldry if not their faces. The red castle was Redfort, plainly; a short man with a neat grey beard and mild eyes. Lady Anya was the only woman amongst the Lords Declarant, and wore a deep green mantle with the broken wheel of Waynwood picked out in beads of jet. Six silver bells on purple, that was Belmore, pear-bellied and round of shoulder. His beard was a ginger-grey horror sprouting from a multiplicity of chins. Symond Templeton's, by contrast, was black and sharply pointed. A beak of a nose and icy blue eyes made the Knight of Ninestars look like some elegant bird of prey. His doublet displayed nine black stars within a golden saltire. Young Lord Hunter's ermine cloak confused her till she spied the brooch that pinned it, five silver arrows fanned. Alayne would have put his age closer to fifty than to forty. His father had ruled at Longbow Hall for nigh on sixty years, only to die so abruptly that some whispered the new lord had hastened his inheritance. Hunter's cheeks and nose were red as apples, which bespoke a certain fondness for the grape. She made certain to fill his cup as often as he emptied it.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

Harry was staring at her. He knows who I am, she realized, and he does not seem pleased to see me. It was only then that she took note of his heraldry. Though his surcoat and horse trappings were patterned in the red-and-white diamonds of House Hardyng, his shield was quartered. The arms of Hardyng and Waynwood were displayed in the first and third quarters, respectively, but in the second and fourth quarters he bore the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn, sky blue and cream. Sweetrobin will not like that.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

GRRM:

Firstly, thanks for that very thorough response on the tournaments and knighthood. Fascinating. In particular given the notes about _Ivanhoe_ and its influence -- I've only witnessed the A&E production of it, although maybe about time I read it. Seems it might be ripe for ideas.

IVANHOE is well worth a read, although the style is very old fashioned, of course. Still it has some fabulous characters and scenes, and so far as I know the definitive portrayal of a medieval tournament, both melee and joust.

It has been filmed three times that I know of. The recent A&E production had some good moments, as did the older Sam Neill version... the CLASSIC version, however, is still MGM's 50s version, starring Robert Taylor, Elizabeth Taylor, and George Sanders. The jousts are wonderful, Liz is radiant, and George Sanders steals the film as Bois-Gilbert. You should definitely rent that one and have a look.

—GRRM - 1999

SANSA:

She loved King's Landing; the pageantry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

She closed the window, gathered up the fallen papers, and stacked them on the table. One was a list of the competitors. Four-and-sixty knights had been invited to vie for places amongst Lord Robert Arryn's new Brotherhood of Winged Knights, and four and-sixty knights had come to tilt for the right to wear falcon's wings upon their warhelms and guard their lord.

The competitors came from all over the Vale, from the mountain valleys and the coast, from Gulltown and the Bloody Gate, even the Three Sisters. Though a few were promised, only three were wed; the eight victors would be expected to spend the next three years at Lord Robert's side, as his own personal guard (Alayne had suggested seven, like the Kingsguard, but Sweetrobin had insisted that he must have more knights than King Tommen), so older men with wives and children had not been invited.

And they came, Alayne thought proudly. They all came.

It had fallen out just as Petyr said it would, the day the ravens flew. "They're young, eager, hungry for adventure and renown. Lysa would not let them go to war. This is the next best thing. A chance to serve their lord and prove their prowess. They will come. Even Harry the Heir." He had smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead. "What a clever daughter you are."

It was clever. The tourney, the prizes, the winged knights, it had all been her own notion. Lord Robert's mother had filled him full of fears, but he always took courage from the tales she read him of Ser Artys Arryn, the Winged Knight of legend, founder of his line. Why not surround him with Winged Knights? She had thought one night, after Sweetrobin had finally drifted off to sleep. His own Kingsguard, to keep him safe and make him brave. And no sooner did she tell Petyr her idea than he went out and made it happen.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

GRRM:

Amon Shin in Maine asks, “If you lived in Westeros, which house would you like to be part of, or in which area would you like to live?”

Well, you know, there’s something to be said for being an honorable Stark, but you’re kinda cold all the time and poor and so forth. And you have a lot of land, but there’s not a lot of stuff on it, you know? On the other hand, if you’re a Lannister, you have a nice house and all the gold you want and all of that stuff. So, there’s a lot to be said for being a Lannister. I don’t know. Maybe I could probably see me being a Lannister. And I would always pay my debts.

—A Dance with Dragons | George R.R. Martin | Talks at Google - July 2011

SANSA:

They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

* * *

Art credit: Loras Tyrell gives Sansa Stark a rose at the Hand’s Tournament by Jonathan Burton.

As you can see, Sansa loves tourneys because GRRM loves tourneys.

During the events that take place in the ASOIAF Books, we find 5 tourneys and Sansa Stark is directly or indirectly linked with all of them:

The Hand's tourney, a tourney in honor of Sansa’s father, Eddard Stark. Sansa was unofficially crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell. GRRM wrote this passage as a resemblance to the Great tourney at Harrenhal, hiding hints and reversing colors.

Tourney on King Joffrey's name day, a tourney in honor of Sansa’s betrothed. Sansa defended and saved Dontos Hollard’s life.

Melee at Bitterbridge, Brienne won the melee and earned a place in Renly’s Kingsguard. Later she swore his allegiance to Sansa’s mother, Catelyn Stark, and made an oath to find Sansa Stark. Brienne also wields Oathkeeper, a sword made of Ice (House Stark ancestral sword).

Melee at Runestone, this event was organized with the sole intention of knighting Harrold Hardyng, Alayne Stone’s betrothed.

Tourney at the Gates of the Moon to select the members of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights, created and organized by Alayne Stone.

Sansa is also linked with other important tourneys that happened previously to the events of the ASOIAF Books:

Tourney at Ashford Meadows (The Hedge Knight), GRRM wrote the Hedge Knight when he was in the middle of writing A Clash of Kings, and he made sure of link the five initial champions of the Tourney at Ashford Meadows (Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell, Hardyng & Targaryen) with Sansa’s suitors and betrothed. So Willas Tyrell and Harrold Hardyng are not a coincidence in Sansa’s arc, GRRM had already planned for this since he was writing A Clash of Kings.

Great tourney at Harrenhal, this tourney was won by Rhaegar Targaryen and as the champion he crowned Lyanna Stark (Sansa’s aunt & Jon Snow’s mother) as his Queen of Love and Beauty. And take note at this very interesting detail: Rhaegar Targaryen wearing an armor adorned with rubies (red) gave Lyanna Stark a crown of winter roses (blue), while Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, wearing an armor adorned with sapphires (blue) gave Sansa a (red) rose.

Sansa loves knights because GRRM loves knights. Remember that George’s Catholic high school (Marist) football team is called the Royal Knights:

Sansa loves pageantry because GRRM loves pageantry. Just look at his collection of knights and ladies figurines:

Sansa loves heraldry because GRRM loves heraldry. Take note that GRRM took inspiration from the antagonist of Ivanhoe, Brian de Bois-Guilbert’s sigil, to created House Corbray’s sigil:

Bois-Guilbert’s new shield bore a raven in full flight, holding in its claws a skull, and bearing the motto, Gare le Corbeau.

—IVANHOE: A Romance

The youngest man in the party had three ravens on his chest, each clutching a blood-red heart in its talons. His brown hair was shoulder length; one stray lock curled down across his forehead. Ser Lyn Corbray, Alayne thought, with a wary glance at his hard mouth and restless eyes.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

(Not to mention that Sansa loves books because George loves books...)

There you have it, GRRM self inserts in a few of his ASOIAF characters, and Sansa Stark is one of them.

#Sansa Stark #GRRM #ASOIAF #Yes there is a House Corbray stained glass window in GRRM's office #George loves Brian de Bois Gilbert #Lyn Corbray is inspired in Bois Gilbert me thinks #Bois Gilbert kidnapped Rebecca...#:eyes emoji:#All tourneys in ASOIAF are inspired in Ivanhoe #I recommend you to read Ivanhoe #I recommend you to watch Ivanhoe movies too especially the Liz Taylor one #Radiant Liz Taylor played Rebecca

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haus-seeblick · 3 years

Text

Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.”

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze.

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.” Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile.

It’s been a real headache of a night.

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm.

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right.

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County).

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.” Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes.

“Like-- like-- with a combine?”

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.”

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big.

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold.

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks.

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.”

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow.

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole.

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering.

“What?” Dean demands.

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive.

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?”

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.”

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on.

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks.

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!”

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out.

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth.

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground.

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat.

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming.

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom.

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

#suptober21 #destiel #minific #i had fun with this #this is the first fic I'm ever posting y'all!#happy harvest

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sweeethinny · 3 years

Text

The Worst / Best Birthday

Summary: Some things have changed since he was 12 and lived with the Dursleys. Harry now has a family, and birthdays are not so lonely anymore

A parallel between Harry's 30th birthday and his 12th birthday.

A.N: since I reread the first chapter of Chamber Of Secrets, I thought about making a parallel of Harry's future, of him having a family that loves him and having a good birthday I wish it had gotten bigger, but that's okay

AO3

Read bellow the cut :)

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Harry’s room.

“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!” Harry tried, yet again, to explain.

“She’s bored,” he said. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night -”

“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at the Weasley-Potter family home. Having small children made it a common occurrence, and since Teddy had returned from his second year at Hogwarts, it seemed that the loud conversations that ended in arguments between James and Albus - and sometimes even Lily - were more common.

'Please, let's keep calm,' Ginny asked, placing the cups on the table while the sliced fruit levitated beside her. 'Lily dear, Teddy is not allowed to do magic outside of school.'

'And even if he did, he wouldn't do it to someone boring like you,' James replied, showing his tongue to his sister, who seemed to boil with rage, her cheeks pink and her chest puffed up to answer the height of the provocation.

“Pass the frying pan.”

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harry irritably.

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.

“I meant ‘please’!” said Harry quickly. “I didn’t mean —”

'Enough, enough, please.' Harry interrupted the two brothers, hands on the children's shoulders and making Lily sit down again, smiling at them. ‘No fights today.’

'Good morning daddy!' Albus knelt in his chair, looking anxious for Harry to sit next to him and Teddy, Ginny laughed softly at that, finally putting the chocolate cake with the candles '30' set on top.

'Good morning, Al.' Harry kissed him on the forehead, after doing the same thing with James and Lily, who were still looking at each other with anger - her, much more than he. 'Morning, Teddy.' He took advantage of the fact that his godson still accepted displays of affection, already imagining that soon that would change.

Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry Potter wasn’t a normal boy.

As a matter of fact, he was as not normal as it is possible to be. Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt.

'Yes, Teddy is a good cook.' She smiled at her husband, the freckles looking like a constellation on her face. 'Let's sing?'

'I love to sing Happy Birthday!' Lily cried out dramatically, standing on the chair so that she could have more height, while the rest got up. Teddy put his arm around Harry's waist, smiling at him, as the man used to do on his birthdays; Albus looked almost out of his skin, looking at the cake as if it were the best thing in the world, and James seemed to have calmed down, let his mother pull him close.

'Happy Birthday to you…' Ginny started, a huge smile on her face, looking almost happier than when she gave him the gift this morning - a material gift, but Harry had been celebrating that date for years to know that the woman would still surprise him at the end of the night, when no child would interrupt them by jumping on Harry to wake him up.

The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today happened to be Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given him a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it completely…

“You stay out of your aunt’s way while she’s cleaning.”

Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. He crossed the lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under his breath: “Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me…”

No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. He gazed miserably into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch, Harry missed his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn’t seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had written to him all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to ask Harry to come and stay.

Birthdays were never something Harry had been looking forward to, it was a forgotten date that the Dursleys insisted on missing, reminding Harry how insignificant he was. But since his 18th birthday, Ginny seemed willing to change that conception, and every year, they celebrate in a good mood.

Since the family was growing, trips to some place in the world, changed to city tours, then to stay at home and have a barbecue with all the Weasleys. But there was always a cake for breakfast.

'Make a wish, Harry!' Teddy smiled even bigger, and the man took a deep breath and bent down, wishing nothing in particular, just that everything would remain peaceful and that he might have a chance to see his children grow even more, day after day, and that Ginny still loved him tomorrow - a kind of silly request, but he did it on every birthday, just out of habit.

'Cake! Cake! Cake! 'Lily screamed, clapping and looking in a better mood than when she woke up, irritated and without patience. The other three started talking about something that involved Hogwarts, the grounds and Hagrid, and Ginny winked at him, lifting the plate so he could place the cut piece of cake.

'Happy birthday, love,' she said, making Harry smile. Today would be a good day.

#hinny #Harry Potter #Ginny Weasley #hp next gen #harry potter next generation #hinny headcanon #Harry and Ginny #harry X ginny #hp fanfic #James Sirius Potter #Albus Severus Potter #lily luna potter #teddy lupin

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keelywolfe · 3 years

Text

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.17 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Look, getting into the woods wasn't the difficult part and neither was getting out. Dealing with the aftermath? Yeah, let's do that.

~~*~~

Read ‘Law and Order’ on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

When Stretch woke up the next day, he hardly felt like he’d slept at all, every bone in his body aching and the inside of his skull felt like a dull and muzzy gray.

No surprise there, not really, he hadn’t exactly snoozed peacefully. Probably would’ve been more concerned if he’d had; somehow, having troublesome nightmares after almost getting eaten by horrifying eldritch beings seemed like the healthier option than sleeping like a baby. A few mental scars after something like that seemed more than reasonable.

Wasn’t time for a trip to a head shrinker right now, though, he had a job to do and he was gonna do it. So he put the mental brakes on dealing with everything that happened the day before--

(and holy shit, so much happened, how did he even start processing all this shit, how--)

--and crawled out of bed. He pulled on his last pair of clean clothes, made a mental note to beg Red for the use of his washing machine, and stumbled downstairs to open the shop with the dog at his heels.

Stretch winced away from the bright morning sunshine that streamed in when he pulled the cord to raise the shades, wishing deeply for a cup of coffee, even one of his brother’s that always managed to taste sort of like dirt and rancid tree bark had a coffee bean baby.

Red had a coffee maker in the kitchen, but he didn’t want to risk waking him up sneaking into his apartment. He told himself it wasn’t because of last night’s unintentional adventure, nope, he definitely wasn’t trying to keep from talking about it with Red as long as possible. A long, furious chat about meeting Miss Bone Cruncher U.S.A. and Smaug's undead cousin were the last thing he wanted right now.

Maybe he could head back over to Miss Maggie’s this afternoon and see if she had a cheap coffee maker he could keep behind the counter. Had to be at least one old Mr. Coffee buried in all that junk. But something about going back into the thrift shop made him uneasy and he shook it away, focusing on getting the store opened up.

Mutt was underfoot the entire time, nearly tripping him more than once, and maybe Stretch should have rethought taking in this dog because it was starting to look like it brought a daily murder attempt along with him like a special toy surprise. Snagging a can of dog food from the shelf and dumping it into the plastic bowl Red scrounged from somewhere was less about providing a nutritious meal and more self-defense. Once Mutt was fed and snoozing, though, it was easier to get into the swing of things.

Stretch was buried in the inventory book, contemplating whether to merge the ‘monthly crotch rags’ and ‘cooter plugs’ into one listing to make them slightly easier to find, when the bell ringing over the door made him look up. His greeting faltered when he saw the Sheriff stalk in. Hat nearly brushing the top of the door, still wearing those mirrored aviator sunglasses, and his heavy cowboy boots clomping on the wooden floor as he came directly to the front counter and propped both ham-sized fists on his broad hips.

“Morning!” Buford boomed out cheerfully. A greeting that bright didn’t make it seem like he was here in an official capacity, hey, guess even the fuzz needed to buy toilet paper. It still took a minute for the knee-jerk dread at the sight of that uniform that settled in Stretch’s non-existent stomach to fade.

Buford wasn’t like the cops back in Ebott, Stretch told himself, this was Backwater. If the town was a little weird and had ghosts and sentient scarecrows, plus kept horrible creatures out in the woods with plagues dripping from the needle-sharp teeth they used to eat the souls of the unwary, then at least the Humans here were generally very nice.

Besides, if Buford were meanspirited today, he could always tattle to Granny Collemore when she came in for her next toilet paper run.

Stretch swallowed hard and tried a couple words before finally managing a simple, “morning.”

From Buford’s broad grin, a person would have thought Stretch offered some philosophizing to rival Socrates. “Morning, yes, it is at that.”

Stretch nodded. His relief at that smile made him weak, his skull bobbling unsteadily on his cervical vertebrae like a dashboard ornament. “can i help you find something?

“Naw, came by to see how you were doing.” Buford hitched his pants up, settling his saucer-sized belt buckle under the soft push of his belly. Reflected in the mirror of his sunglasses was the space behind the counter, Stretch and the register and the small row of cleaning supplies, distorted like the other side of the looking glass and he did not want to be thinking about other Universes right now. "Saw ya had a little trouble out in the woods.”

Stretch faltered, briefly speechless. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth, too dry as he fumbled out, “wha…how did you…?”

"Eh, a lawman’s gotta know what's going on in his town,” Buford leaned down and poked through one of the little wooden half-barrels filled with penny candy that lined the front of the counter. He picked one of the sour balls, unwrapping the shiny green foil and popping the small candy into his mouth to tuck into the round of his cheek. “Sent a little help your way when I saw what was going on, glad to see he got there in time." Buford shook his head sadly, “Nasty things out there in the woods this time of year and that’s the truth.”

“he…he did,” Stretch said, helplessly. No point in lying about it, but how could Buford possibly know? And he’d sent that strange bone dragon creature to help him, but how could he have sent a warning? The idea of that skeletal creature fumbling with a cell phone in its claws was nearly ridiculous enough to pry a hysterical giggle from Stretch’s clotted throat. Were there cameras in the woods, was the creature summoned from a portal in Buford’s basement? So many hows and wheres and whys, there were questions piling on top of questions, cluttering up Stretch’s already overstuffed mind, but only one managed to bubble through to the tarry surface. More demanding than he’d meant, Stretch asked, “how did you know?”

Buford stood up straight, broad shoulders squaring. The change in posture seemed to bring on a transformation, from a Rosco P. Coltrane to a more of a Rick Grimes. From the top of his hat to the golden star on his chest, and his perfectly ironed uniform leant him an aura of competence. It still put him as shorter than Stretch, but somehow made him bigger than life. There was no bumbling, jovial small-town sheriff here, this was a lawman, and there wasn’t so much as a hint of a smile as he said, "I see everything, son." And tipped down those mirrored sunglasses.

In the eyes that lay beneath them were pupil-less, the sockets filled with orbs that were the milky-white of severe cataracts, crisscrossed with thin, fleshy threads like cobwebs.

Stretch barely had time to register what he was seeing before Buford settled his sunglasses back in place. He swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat, strange thoughts of demons and bargains with the devil like their own trash tornado in the back of his mind. "are you…here for something, then?"

Buford only chuckled and the sour ball clacked against his teeth as he rolled it to the other side of his mouth. "Just to check on ya. You might be a city boy, but I’ve taken a liking to you, son, and I ain’t the only one. People in Backwater take care of our own.” There was a strange solemnness to those words, almost a pact, then Buford’s mouth quirked up on one side beneath his bushy mustache. “Though I might as well help myself to a Pepsi-Cola while I'm here." He leaned in, conspiratorially, and it was easier than Stretch thought it might be to keep himself from leaning away. Buford smelled faintly of cherries and tobacco, and his teeth were a clean, even white. "Don't tell the missus, she don't like me having too much caffeine."

Stretch nodded and said in his own whisper, "tell her what?"

Buford roared a laugh and grabbed his hat to slap it against his knee, hooting out, "That's the spirit!” He settled his hat back on his mussed hair and took a soda from the cooler, tossing a buck on the counter as he called back, “Take care, son."

“i will,” Stretch said, softly, but it was only for the tinkling bell above the door as Buford strolled back out.

He was still standing at the counter, the dog snoozing at his feet, fidgeting with the pen on the counter and not writing a single damn thing when the door opened again. Stretch could only stare back at the intense crimson eye lights that latched onto his own as Edge walked through the front door and for once, those gorgeous hips were the furthest thing from his mind.

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #welcome to backwater

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aforrestofstuff · 4 years

Note

What's the stupidest thing the heroes have done. (+Garou.) Gimme the most crackhead fueled idea you can come up pls.

Okie dokie! Thanks for the request, anon! ❤️🧡

Tornado of Terror: She was really out of it one day and ended up flinging herself off a building, thinking she was using her powers to fly when she was actually falling to the ground at Mach 20 speed. She snapped out of it just before hitting the concrete, and floated to the ground like normal. The passerby thought she was just playing tricks, when in all actuality, she was just running on 5% brain power.

Silverfang: decided to adopt Garou.

Atomic Samurai: He often mistakes Bushidrill for Kama whenever Bushi has his hair down. Kami would walk outside, see Bushi washing his hair, and he’d ask the disciple a question relating to makeup or something Kama would know, and Bushi would turn around (in all of his hairy, mustache glory) and say in a stupid voice, “whaaaaat?”

Child Emperor: he’s done a lot of stupid shit purely out of sleep depravation, but the thing that takes the cake is the time that he almost started a robot uprising by programming an ai that came really close to having the emotional intelligence of a human. Luckily, he had a lot of precautions to make sure things didn’t get out of hand and he ended that shit before his lab went all Skynet on his ass. He was just really lonely and he wanted a friend, ok.

Metal Knight: he does a stupid thing every time he wakes up in the morning: being alive.

King: accidentally ruined his progress on one of the hardest games he’s ever played because he thought cleaning the cartridge with a wet dishrag and drying it with a hairdryer would be a good idea. Granted, he was 7 years old, but it was still tomfoolery.

Zombieman: nothing he does really has lasting consequences because he’s immortal, but he once ate a rock just to fuck around and it has been in his stomach for over a decade because that shit can’t digest. It was only during the homeless emperor fight that the pebble was set free, and now Zombieman has additional room for beer. Everyone wins.

Drive Knight: had to get an anti-virus software installed in his brain because he tried to download government secrets from a sketchy website via Bluetooth. He survived the robot-equivalent of a stroke but he’s recovered and is alright now. Unfortunately.

Pig God: swallowed a child accidentally. The kid is fine, but now they have ✨trauma✨

Superalloy Darkshine: the stupidest thing he’s done was when he first started working out as a skinny lad, he went for the biggest weights first and decided to do reps without having anyone spot him and broke both of his arms! Oh boy, did the depression really hit in those times.

Watchdog Man: the dumbest thing he’s done had to have been when he decided on the dog costume, not knowing it would immediately become his Brand. Now he’s the designated furry of the hero association and even though he’s not exactly mad about it, he just sometimes wishes he didn’t have to wear something so fucking itchy all the damn time.

Flashy Flash: raced an airplane as it was flying through the sky and ended up running into a tree, subsequently breaking every bone in his face.

Genos: convinced Dr. Kuseno to not perform any bug checks after getting a new upgrade. This was some years back. Genos ended up almost getting a stroke because some robo-stuff got all fucky in his brain and he’s vowed to never convince Kuseno to do any dumb shit like that again.

Metal Bat: Thought it would be a good idea to do that thing where you jump on an air mattress while someone’s sitting on the other end and the force catapults them forward, except that person happened to be Zenko and she ended up being yeeted out of a second-story window because Badd is pretty much a full-grown man and Zenko is a tiny precious little angel baby. She was fine, but now she’s got a cool scar to show for it.

Tanktop Master: Back when he wasn’t as ripped, he decided to do deadlifts one day but didn’t secure the weights correctly on the bar, so they rolled off onto his feet and he now has a limp. Dumbass.

Puri-Puri Prisoner: became a sex offender.

Amai Mask: Started a performance onstage without realizing he had a face mask on and came out looking like Shrek. Of course, he owned it and said it was part of the show but only after the press had speculated over it for like 2 years.

Okamaitachi: has a track record of falling in love with monsters/villains she’s supposed to kill. Luckily, nobody’s gotten hurt due to her lovestricken-ness during combat (yet).

Iaian: called his Sensei a poopyhead at age 12 and got the ass-whooping of his life.

Bushidrill: called his Sensei a poopyhead at age 37 and got the ass-whooping of his life.

Fubuki: was teasing Tatsumaki while they were both kids and told her that she was adopted. Little Tatsu got really offended and ended up unearthing their entire house in a psychokinesis fit, causing a lot of propety damage. To this day, their parents blame Fubuki for having the family almost go bankrupt while trying to fix it.

Saitama: thought he was doing a pretty good job of taking care of his cactus, so he got a pet fish to serve as a bit of a challenge. The little guy lived for 3 years before Sai accidentally killed it by feeding it some off-brand fish food, since it was the only thing Sai could afford at the time. Saitama legitimately went through a depressive phase after the death of his fish and refuses to get another one because nothing could ever replace his old pal.

Mumen Rider: was about to go on patrol as per usual, but forgot to lift the brake on his bike and ended up doing a reverse-wheelie, subsequently face-planting on the concrete. It was the 17th time he’s ever broken his nose.

Sonic: same shit as Flashy Flash because every ninja from that godforsaken village shares a single brain cell, and its dying.

Garou: back at the dojo, he got really angsty one day and decided to try and poison daddy Silverfang. Garou mixed dish soap in with Silverfang’s tea in a dead-serious attempt to commit murder (not really, he’s just dramatic [plus I’m pretty sure Silverfang ain’t gonna die via dish soap poisoning but I digress]) but Silverfang literally fell over laughing because the old shit thought it was a prank.

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male-reader-requests · 3 years

Text

Unknown

Pairings: None

Word Count: 2,351

Warnings: This is a little short story so not a one-shot. This talks about Serial Killer stuff, specifically the Zodiac Killer. So uh, blood and gore. Be careful. I am also in the middle of getting together an actual update so don't worry!

I would not know them.

They would be chosen at random, by pure coincidence.

The game, the most dangerous game would be my game. The most dangerous game, the most dangerous prey, the most dangerous predator, they would become my prey.

I do not know my target, so they will not know me. I will go at night, not caring for the dangers of being caught, for I would not be linked to them. I would not care for my appearance, for I do not need to impress them.

I would find a couple, maybe they are together for a passionate night, or perhaps I've caught them just as they decide to split ends, but it will not matter, for no one will ever know. They would be alone, at a beach or on a lover's lane, but I would make sure it was clean, that there were no witnesses and no survivers. This will be my design.

I will shine a light, maybe my headlights or perhaps just a floodlight, at them so they are unable to see me. The light, if a floodlight, will be tapped to my gun. I will have a silencer, to make my act a bit more privet from prying ears.

Whoever is in the passenger seat, whether a man or woman, will be shot once in the neck, and the driver I will shoot twice in the head. If the passenger lives I will shoot them again, perhaps in the chest, maybe in the stomach, I do not care is they survive anymore.

I will shoot the driver again in the chest and again perhaps in the stomach, then I will shoot the passenger as many times and as recklessly as I want, for I do not care. In the end, I will unload an entire magazine into two people, and I will leave, leaving the two of them to rot unnoticed until morning. If either survives then that is their problem.

In the morning, at around 6 AM, I will call the police, reporting a double homicide. If one of them survives then that will just be a blip in the system, a single count of homicide and a single count of an attempt at homicide.

I will tell them I did it, but I will call them from a burner phone. I will proceed to crush said phone and throw it into a river, never to be seen again.

I will be familiar in all the wrong ways, and I will be an ever-recurring nightmare.

I will become the Zodiac Killer of the 21st century.

------------------

Marissa sighed, looking at the mass of paperwork before her. Being a detective in California was surprisingly boring, especially when all you ever see is a one on one gunfight between rivals. Currently, the last thing she'd done that seemed even slightly interesting was her divorce, and that had been four years ago.

Light hair fell onto the desk before her, her head following. It was slow for some reason, there was nothing for her to do. Well, that was a lie. She could answer the phone ringing on her desk, she could fill out the paperwork before her, and she could go actually eat something, but here she was, debating.

She was drifting in and out of sleep, dozing as her partner August would say, but it was a warm afternoon, who could blame her?

A sharp crack came across her back, the pale woman yelping as her partner snapped her suspenders. August chuckled at her, obnoxiously slurping at cheap coffee in hand. Marissa glared at him, but it was halfhearted, holding no true anger.

"What was that for?" she asked, but she was eyeing the coffee in his hands, not really listening. She didn't really care, the snapping of her suspenders had become a greeting of August's ever since they were paired up, so she's grown used to it.

August just hummed, putting the coffee mug down on the cluttered desk, having to push a few papers so make room. The two of them hardly cared for germs, so when Marissa cupped the mug to herself he hardly batted an eyelash.

"We've got an assignment," August mumbled, his voice shadowed by drowsiness and a slight speech impediment. Marissa didn't move, truthfully she wished that August hadn't said anything.

August, bless his heart, normally dealt with all the paperwork. This meant that they were almost completely ready to head out to wherever they were needed, and as much as Marissa just wanted to sleep she knew that this was probably important.

They would have to talk to the head of their department, an older man named Louis Ridgway before they could go, and Marissa truly wished they didn't have to. Ridgway wasn't a bad person, but he liked to make things seem far more interesting then they are.

Marissa struggled with her jacket as the two of them made their way to his office, dodging interns, other detectives, and officers. Their department was always busy, considering so many people died in California, but it seemed there were even more people here now than there ever were.

August, used to Marissa's struggles, helped his shorter partner into her jacket, then opened the door for her as they entered Ridgway's office. Ridgway, all bushy eyebrows and droopy mustache, waved them over.

He ignored the normal "sit down and listen as I tell you about the case" and made the two of them stand behind him as he pulled up a few things on his computer. Marissa, ever the nosey person, saw a few crime scene photos, the kind you'd expect to see with the yellow number cards and a bit of blood on the ground.

The thing that really got her attention though was the other set of photos, ones that looked like carbon copies except that they had been taken with an older camera, the photos themselves obviously being older if the dates on the bottoms of them were right.

Ridgway turned his monitor off, cutting Marissa's view. "There's been a murder," Ridgway said gruffly, ignoring how lame that sounded. There were tons of murders in California every day, even more, if you count car crashes and accidents.

"I want the two of you to check it out, see if it matches." Marissa blinked a few times, confused and tired, but August nodded, grabbing the pale woman by the shoulder and steering her through the crowded office area.

Actually back to herself, Marissa looked at August in confusion, but the taller man just got into the driver's seat of the car, motioning for her to also get in. Rolling her eyes she complied, not that she really wanted to, buckling herself in.

She didn't know where they were going, who was murder, how many had been murdered, but she blamed that on her pension for spacing out. August probably knew. .....probably.

------------

It was a 2-hour drive. It was a 2-hour drive for only 38 miles, San Francisco to Benicia, and Marissa slept the entire time. She knew she wasn't looking her best, but that never really mattered to her.

Sleep rumbled hair and bags under her eyes the short woman got out of the car, accepting the lukewarm coffee August handed her with silent gratitude. The two of them got a few odd looks from local police, but that was more of their own fault, being in a completely different county tended to do that. Police were oddly territorial.

One young man though, obviously just out of training from how much younger he was than the other officers, offered to bring them to the scene. He was all polite and charming, and Marissa was thankful, she and August had to deal with enough rude officers back at the department.

The younger officer brought them through the yellow tape and through the mass of officers mostly loitering. The first thing Marissa got to see was a shit box car, obviously older than average and painted in a fading teal that patched out to show a bit of rust. She then noticed the blood.

There was blood smeared on the passenger door, backseat door on the passenger side, and in the window of the passenger door. There was a pool, or what was probably a pool at one point, of dried blood on the gravel at the backseat door, but Marissa couldn't look further for her view was blocked by a stocky man.

The man himself she didn't recognize, once she'd actually looked up, but she could tell by the way he held himself that he was the head honcho here, and that he wasn't very happy with the two of them being there.

He was tall, taller than Marissa but then again almost everyone was. He was older than the two of them, his face was saggy in a way you only get from heavy drinking and it was twisted in a sarcastic sneer.

"Well, what do we have here?" His voice, like his face, had a strangely saggy aspect to it, and Marissa hated it immediately. As rude as it was she wished she could zone out now, but August had put a hand on her shoulder, forcing her focus.

"Detectives Shultcher and Lynn, we're from San Francisco." August and Marissa pulled their badges out from their pockets, Marissa ending up holding hers upside down.

The saggy faced man seemed to sneer a bit less, but it never left completely. He smiled down at Marissa, then moved to look up at August. His smile was fake, holding no joy or happiness, only restrained rudeness.

He stepped back, letting the two of them through, but you could see the hesitation in his motions, the way he didn't want them there. Police were oddly territorial.

At the actual scene itself, there was a woman and a young man, both of them must have been part of the forensics force. The two of them were collecting samples from the blood, off the car and off the gravel. They had a chest next to them, full of little sample bags.

Marissa hated dealing with Forensics specialists. It may just be a bit of prejudice, but every single Forensics team she's dealt with in San Francisco were rude beyond beliefe and treated her and August like they were stupid, like they hadn't gone through any training.

The two of them hardly even noticed August and her, quietly talking to themselves as they worked. The guy apparently said something funny, making the woman laugh lightly. They left the two of them alone.

Splitting up August went to talk to the first responding police officers, leaving Marissa to survey the scene. This is how they always did it, this is why the two of them worked so well together. August always talked to suspects and officers, leaving the scene to Marissa.

Marissa walked a perimeter, looking around at different angles, knowing that anything could help. As she looked around something started to bother her, this scene, this crime itself, was oddly familiar, oddly something she felt she should know.

With furrowed eyebrows and confusion Marissa continued to look around, but as she got closer to the Forensics team she started to see all the things that looked familiar, making her even more confused.

On the other side of the car, Marrisa saw that the driver's windowsill was covered in blood, so was the seat and steering wheel. It was odd how familiar all of this seemed, but there wasn't much she could do until the Forensics told her about what they'd found.

Walking back over to August she zoned out, trying to place why all of this was so God damned familiar, but she was getting nowhere, only getting frustrated in herself. She drank the coffee that August had given her early, she zoned in and out of August questioning, and she debated on falling asleep as she stood there, but as per usual when she wanted to sleep she wasn't able too.

August, finally finishing up, guided the two of them over to the Forensics team, who were started to clean up. The guy noticed first that they were coming over, lightly pushing the girl in the shoulder.

The guy was all smiles, skinny with a pair of wireframe glasses. The woman was also skinny, but very tall, looking like a beanpole. The two of them told them about what they'd found, what they thought may have happened, and about the two victims.

Victim one was a young woman named Stacy Lamburdas. She lived not that far away, she was married, worked at a little restaurant, and had been the driver. She had been shot 4 times and did not survive.

Victim two was a young man named Darcy Monroe. He was one of the many people that Stacy had been having affairs with. He also lived not far away, working as a deliveryman for the post office. He had been shot 8 times. Miraculously he survived.

Marissa was furiously scribbling into a notepad she had, taking down all the details she thought was important.

"It's funny isn't it?" the guy said, pushing his glasses up. Marissa raised an eyebrow in question, but she didn't look up.

"It's the 51st anniversary, and it's a complete carbon copy." Marissa now looked up, more confused, the woman seemed to notice.

"It's the 51st anniversary of the first killings of the Zodiac Killer, and this scene is very similar," Marissa stalled, his vision tunneling. The two Forensics kept talking, August keeping the conversation going, but Marissa wasn't paying attention.

This is why it was so familiar, why this all looked like something she knew.

The 51st anniversary huh?

Lord help them if this was a copy cat.

#short story #original story

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wherewindysurgeswend · 4 years

Text

Deep Heart’s Core: chapter one

here it is, folks, the long-awaited first chapter of deep heart’s core! enjoy!

taglist (please dm, send an ask or leave a comment if you’d like to be added or removed): @tunes-on-a-typewriter

The ocean was a mirror when the S.S. Europa set sail, calm and shining in the midmorning sun. Anna Byrne, her cardigan tied around her waist and a dull lead pencil tucked behind her ear, a cheap notebook in one hand and her battered leather suitcase in the other, was watching the other passengers board. The wind was blowing, and she reached up to make sure her hat stayed on her head. The constant stream of people – newlyweds, families, young women with mink coats and massive diamond engagement rings, floating around in clouds of perfume – was disorienting, but Anna was determined not to lose her way. She wouldn’t let herself fail.

Anna boarded the ship and checked her cabin number. She had done so dozens of times already, and she knew perfectly well what it was, but she couldn’t help checking again. As she was leaning over to pick up her suitcase a man bumped into her and knocked her over. He was young, certainly no older than 25, and blandly handsome, with dark hair, grey eyes and a strong jawline. He seemed like he might be a little drunk (“At ten o’clock in the morning?” Thought Anna), but only enough to make him talk loudly and forget to look where he was going. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, extending a hand to help Anna back up. She didn’t feel particularly inclined to accept his help, but she didn’t want to be rude so she took his hand and pulled herself up to her full height — only five feet, three inches and much shorter than the man, but she squared her shoulders and looked up at him. “Say, what’s the matter with you?” She asked reproachfully, “Can’t you look where you’re going?” He said nothing, but he did look ashamed, so Anna softened. “I really am sorry,” he said. “Oh, it’s all right,” she replied. Picking up her suitcase, she noticed that the clasp had opened and some of her things had fallen out. “Well isn’t that just great,” she said to herself. She looked around for the young man but he had fled, so she picked up her belongings, brushed some dust off one of her sweaters, and slammed the suitcase shut.

Anna walked quickly down the hall towards her cabin, acutely conscious of the sound of her footsteps. After wandering around the ship for a few minutes, looking for her cabin, she finally found it. She pushed the door open with her hip, still holding the suitcase tightly with both hands to stop it from falling open. Once inside, she dropped all she was carrying and let herself fall backwards onto the bed. She let out a sigh. Her trip wasn’t off to a great start.

A bit further away, in the first class lounge, Margaret Kittredge was bored. The window was open, and the cold sea air made her pull her fur coat closer around her silk-clad shoulders. To her right, her father was reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. Every few minutes he would give a sort of growl and stroke his mustache. To her left, her mother was gossiping with her friend Mrs. Schuyler and embroidering a cushion with a sentimental motto that Margaret couldn’t quite see. Embroidering cushions had always seemed a rather old-fashioned hobby to Margaret, who wished her mother would take up something that didn’t clutter up the house so much, but at least, she reasoned, Mrs. Kittredge didn’t knit sweaters. The lady in question was not exactly known for her deft fingers. In fact, most of her cushions were downright ugly, but at least one didn’t have to wear them. Margaret turned towards her mother, hoping that her conversation with Mrs. Schuyler would be a source of amusement. Mrs. Schuyler was saying, “… but of course you know he isn’t George Habersham’s son! Not that I blame Amanda for running around, of course… I certainly wouldn’t want to be married to him… but it really is laughable that she thinks she’s being so subtle. I only wish I could figure out who little Georgie’s real father is. They say it might be Jim Pierce, but what would anyone want with Amanda Habersham if he was married to Lillian Pierce?” Mrs. Kittredge laughed, as did Mrs. Schuyler. Margaret didn’t. She rather liked Amanda, who was only a year older than she was and with whom she had gone to school, with her easy smile, vivid sense of humor and carefree personality, and considered Lillian Pierce, with her expensive wardrobe and perfectly set hair, to be an insufferable snob. Furthermore, Jim Pierce was a friendly, intelligent man, always ready with a joke, and Margaret didn’t doubt for a minute that he regretted marrying Lillian. Suddenly, Margaret heard Mrs. Schuyler say, “I hear your daughter is to be married, Doreen.” Mrs. Kittredge nodded. “Yes,” she said, “Peggy is engaged to Franklin Abbott. The wedding is in June.” Margaret turned away. She didn’t like to think about her upcoming wedding.

To be sure, she had nothing against her fiancé. He was, in fact, a very friendly, fairly intelligent young man who had let Margaret know as soon as they were engaged that after they were married he had no intention of telling her what to do: “as long as you’re happy, Margaret,” he had said, “I’m happy.” Nonetheless, though Margaret didn’t dislike him – in fact, when she thought about it, she really did like him – she didn’t feel strongly about him in any way, and part of her felt he didn’t feel strongly about her either. Margaret turned back towards her mother and Mrs. Schuyler, feeling confident that they had abandoned the far too respectable topic of her engagement. Mrs. Schuyler was saying, “… But we all know why he’s marrying her so soon, of course… I thought for sure Dinah Eggleston would get him, and of course his family would never have let him marry Jeannie if they weren’t so afraid of the scandal.” Margaret scoffed.

“If you mean that Larry Strong is only marrying Jeannie because she’s pregnant,” she said coolly, “ why don’t you just say it? And incidentally she isn’t.” Mrs. Schuyler looked confused.

“Isn’t what?” she asked.

“Pregnant. It’s a load of nonsense. Larry is marrying her because she’ a lovely person – which could hardly be said of Dinah Eggleston, mind you – and he’s doing it so soon because his father finally agreed to it and he doesn’t want him to change his mind before the wedding.” Mrs. Schuyler looked shocked. “And now,” said Margaret, “I’m going to get something to read before I die of boredom.” She got up and left the room, not without hearing Mrs. Schuyler ask her mother where Peggy had learned to disrespect her elders like that.

On the way to her cabin, Margaret nearly collided with her cousin Lawrence. Lawrence — Larry, to his friends — was something of a black sheep in the Kittredge family. He was handsome, well-read and likeable, but none of the older members of the family — the spinster aunts, the business-minded uncles, and above all Margaret’s formidable grandmother, whom Larry had been living with ever since his parents had died when he was fifteen — had ever really liked him. He was irresponsible, they said. Margaret liked Larry reasonably well, but she had to admit they were right. After all, it was only half past ten in the morning and Larry was already drunk. “Ah! Fair Margaret!” Exclaimed Larry when he noticed his cousin.

“Good morning, Larry.”

“Morning?” Larry asked incredulously, “say, what time is it?” Margaret raised an eyebrow. “It’s half past ten.” Larry’s eyes widened. “Impossible! I could have sworn it was midnight less than an hour ago.”

“Tell me Larry, how many drinks have you had?”

“Counting from when?”

“Last night.” Larry looked thoughtful and tried to count on his fingers, but gave up in disgust.

“Oh, I don’t know. Too many, I suppose. Promise you won’t tell aunt Doreen?” Margaret sighed. “I won’t tell mother, but you had better get back to your cabin before she finds you.” Larry assented and stumbled off towards his cabin.

Margaret wasn’t sure why her parents had agreed to bring Larry along. In fact, she wasn’t sure why Larry wanted to come in the first place. She suspected grandmother Kittredge of orchestrating the whole thing so she could get Larry out of her hair. And no matter how much Doreen Kittredge disliked Larry, she knew better than to talk back to her mother-in-law.

Anna was worried. She was worried that something would happen to her mother and she wouldn’t know until it was too late because she would be in London. She was worried that she would get seasick. She was worried that she wouldn’t do a good enough job with her assignment and she would lose her job at the newspaper. Anna had always been afraid of the editor-in-chief, Mr. McGill, with his bushy eyebrows and tobacco-stained fingers. Mostly, though, she was just worried. That was just Anna’s way. It seemed to her that as long as she could remember there was always something worrying her. The woman sitting next to her, with her five, no, six children, on the other hand, seemed perfectly serene. Anna wondered why this was. Here was a woman with so much she could be worrying about and yet she seemed perfectly calm, and here was Anna, who, when she admitted it to herself, had very little to worry about, but who was continuously anxious. She looked out the window. There were clouds in the sky. Anna worried there would be a storm. The woman with the six children was tapping her on the shoulder. “My husband says supper’s in five minutes,” she said, “would you like us to show you where the dining room is? It’s a little tricky to find.” Anna snapped out of her reverie. The woman was looking slightly concerned. “Are you all right, dear?”

“Yes – yes, of course,” she said quickly, “I’m just fine. Er – what did you just say?”

“I asked if you’d like us to show you where the dining room is.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you.”

“You’re perfectly welcome. I’m Florence Lynch, by the way.”

“Joseph Lynch,” said Julia’s husband from behind her.

“Anna Byrne,” said Anna, “and what are the children’s names?” Julia pointed at her children in turn. “This is Kathleen, she’s eighteen . Here’s Joseph, he’s twelve, Mary, she’s nearly eleven, Paul, he’s eight, Ellen, she’s five, and James, he’s three.” Upon hearing his name, James edged closer to his mother and clutched her hand. “Well,” said Julia, “are you ready? We don’t want to be late.” Anna fell behind the family, grateful that they had approached her. She didn’t know where the dining hall was, and if the Lynches hadn’t offered to show her she knew she would have gotten lost. No, she thought, she didn’t know that. She thought it. It was merely a possibility. She had to stop doing that.

Anna went to dinner with the Lynches and, to her, surprise, had a lovely time. The food was mediocre and the decor frankly depressing. The carpet in the diner hall was a sickly orange color, the walls a dingy greyish white. But her newfound friends were excellent company. Florence turned out to be an extremely well read and cultured woman who was always ready with an interesting fact or observation, and Joseph had the knack of making people laugh. As for the children, Anna soon discovered a kindred spirit in Kathleen, who was only three years younger than she was, and all of the Lynch offspring took after their parents. James, who had seemed so timid and afraid, immediately took a shine to Anna and seemed fascinated by her every move.

As they walked back to the Lynches’ cabin in the cool night air, with the waves lapping gently on the hull, the knot of anxiety in the pit of Anna’s stomach began to unravel. Florence began to sing softly to her children, a lullaby in her native Creole. James was half asleep, his cheek pressed against his mother’s shoulder. Joseph was joking with Kathleen and Joseph Jr., with little Ellen holding tight to his hand. Paul and Mary were playing some sort of counting game. Anna fell back to hear the conversation between Joseph and the two older children. “Anna!” Said Kathleen, choking back laughter, “you gotta help me prove a point to these two dolts.” She gestured towards her father and brother. Anna smiled. She liked Kathleen’s wild sense of humor, her infectious laughter and easygoing personality. She wished she could be like that. “Well, what is it?” she asked. Kathleen started explaining the argument, her father and brother interrupting her to clarify their side of the question. But Anna was only half listening.

#writeblr #deep heart's core #My writing

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cowboycassini · 3 years

Text

Partners

Chapter Three

Rating: soft M

Characters: Jotopa Kaid, Toby

Warnings/Tags: mutual pining intensifies even more, clone culture, talk of being abandoned, force fuckery

Summary: Anakin Skywalker calls up his friend and fellow Knight Jotopa Kaid to go "on a little mission" with clone captain Toby and basically ruins their lives.

Word Count: about 6k

Chapter One, Chapter Two

---Mission Continues---

First day of officer training, and he was a wreck. Of his batch, only himself and Pyro were selected for commissions. The rest, Joker, Checkmate, Lucky, Kit, Snow, Blue, all showing exceptional promise, had gone into their own specialized training regiments. Toby (still then called Worrier) and Pyro also had their specializations, but heaped on top was the added burden of command.

The young man Jotopa watched did not think he was cut out for the job.

This was a memory of a dream. A dream of a memory. She remembered it as vividly as she had then and was as helpless to stop herself from sinking into him as she had been then. Jotopa did not recognize this exact instance, but there were so many; it would have been impossible to remember them all.

Worrier at this age was long and lanky, his limbs this side of gangly as muscles began to fill in the spaces between his stretch-marked skin and bones. His hair was regulation cut, a wisp of beard and mustache attempting to play around his jaw and lip at this late hour. The day must have been a particularly stressful one: the honey brown of his eyes was hooded and downcast, an expression she learned to recognize as anxiety and unhappiness. A shock of sympathy rushed through her, and not for the first time, she wished for the ability to pull the young man into her arms, to comfort and soothe.

His younger brother Pyro had an arm draped around his hunched shoulders, soulful dark eyes tired and pinched with worry. They leaned into each other, their curly heads touching, one drawing strength from the other and sending it back just as effortlessly as breathing.

“It’ll be alright, ori’vod. We’ll be alright. Don’t worry. You can do this: I know you can,” Pyro was murmuring soothingly, a familiar refrain that had taken on the cadence of a lullaby and often lulled Jotopa to sleep when she was wakeful. Worrier’s mouth twisted, head dipping before he shrugged out of his brother’s embrace. Pyro’s shock lanced through him, crackling across his skin like a bolt from a training blaster to the chest. Worrier grimaced, tugged Pyro down to lay side by side on his bunk.

“You’re right, vod’ika, of course y’are. I can do this.” He said, forcing levity and assurance in his voice when he felt none, when there was none. He couldn’t do this, not under his own strength, but for Pyro, he would.

Jotopa slowly opened her eyes, the ever-present sound of rain still ringing in her ears even as the cacophony of the rainforest raced to replace it. She breathed out, slowly, deeply, took stock of her surroundings. Cassios-7. Beneath the starboard wing of her powerless ship in the makeshift camp set up by clone Captain Toby. A bedroll surrounded by netting infested with bugs. Most of note, the man curled around her, face nestled in the space between her shoulder and the back of her neck, not quite snoring. She swallowed and decided to focus on the pair of fox-like creatures moving across the tree line opposite her. She thought they must be going for the stream hidden not six paces into the dense thicket. Four days ago, she and the man who had his muscled arm draped across her middle found it as they had scouted out the immediate area around their ship and camp. She truly had not pegged him for a cuddler, and every night since the first morning she awoke cradled in his arms, she was somehow more surprised than the night preceding.

Her lips twitched up as she remembered the exasperation that flickered over his handsome face and through his Force signature when she told him she could sense the water was safe to drink. He had squatted down, the sunlight dappling attractively over his bare shoulders, and pulled out the water sampling kit. Eyebrow raised in unabashed challenge, he had asked if she didn’t mind if he double-checked, and she didn’t think she did the best job of concealing her immense amusement as she agreed that it was best he do so.

Hard to believe he was the same person from her dreams. Jotopa pulled her upper lip into her mouth, worried it with her teeth as a frown knit the space between her eyebrows. It didn’t make sense, she thought as she absently ran her palm up the captain’s warm forearm, eyes still carefully following the fox duo. The pair were a sleek sapphire, their tails bushy, their undercoats a lush emerald. Though not as long-limbed as Loth cats, something about the way they moved, about the glint around those dainty ink-black paws, convinced Jotopa that they were several orders of magnitude more dangerous. Her captain was much the same, Jotopa concluded as, with a deft leap, one of the agile blue and green foxes snatched a bird out of the sky.

With a sigh of regret, she slipped out of the warm shelter of his arms and stood to stretch. Her eyes were drawn to the sleeping man at her feet, sweeping her eyes over him briefly as she thought about the day ahead. Though the past four days had seen them very busy, Jotopa couldn’t help but feel slightly impatient. The jungle was dense, and both she and her captain well knew the dangers of setting off without having a game plan or without having any navigational methods or bearings to help them should they get lost. She thought she was doing a good job of keeping her desire to leave the confines of the camp to herself. It couldn’t be said that she did not enjoy Toby’s company. The opposite was true: she enjoyed his company too much. Watching him as he went about his self-appointed duties, the play of light and movement of muscle beneath his sweat-slicked skin quickly established itself as her favorite hobby. Jotopa did her best not to indulge, but his smiles often drew her helplessly in, little gifts he gave generously, and she was addicted to the way his eyes lit in surprise and pleasure when she did something he supposed out of the ordinary.

But all of that fueled her conviction that they leave this place as soon as possible, so when she could tear her eyes from him, she found herself pacing the edges of the tree line, waiting for her captain to finish his preparations. The coil of tension that burned hot in her navel each time Toby set eyes on her form turned into a restless energy that she was eager to put to use in the jungle. If she were able, Jotopa would gather every atom of frustration into her legs and leap over the treetops and directly to the top of the spire. But she would wait for him. She would wait for him to be ready.

As all their usual navigation methods were unavailable, they were forced to fall back on more primitive means. It was something they were both well versed in, and even luckier for them both, that Captain Toby, being a scout, was especially suited. Jotopa smiled at the sleeping clone captain, let herself admire his plush lips framed by beard stubble, the broad set of his shoulders, and the groove of muscles cut into his abdomen in the predawn light. Just visible above where the waistband of his blacks slung low across his hips, she could just barely make out streaking bands of stretch marks, the dark trail of hair that had its origin at his belly button, and she clenched her fingers to dispel the desire to reach down and touch them. There were things to do, and she needed to do them before he caught her gawking at him.

Jotopa silently slipped out of the netting, noting as she did that the foxes were gone, and the only evidence of their presence was the bloody remains of their breakfast just barely visible in the tall grass. A soft laugh escaped her, and she shook her head and made for the center of the clearing, where it was quickly becoming her habit to perform her morning stretching and katas before Captain Toby woke.

Face turned towards the sun, Jotopa spread her arms wide and simply listened to the world around her for a long moment. Master D’Aleric always said that a Jedi’s first duty was to the Force and that no Jedi worth his or her salt was ever remiss in taking the first minutes of the day in grounding themselves as deeply as they could in its presence. Jotopa took his lessons to heart, and for her, on Cassios-7, that meant greeting the sun as it crested the horizon and began to peek between the tangle of tree trunks shyly.

The sunlight was warm on already warm skin as she slowly dropped her arms. On her shoulders, her leather vest sat uncomfortably, and Jotopa, tired and irritated already from wearing it in the unrelenting heat and fearing to chafe if she continued, shed it with little thought. Feeling much cooler without the stifling weight of her vest, Jotopa quickly fell into her first form and, mind clear, allowed herself to think about the dream she’d had.

For nearly half her life, her dreams and idle imaginings had been haunted by images and scenes of a life for which she had no reference but of which she was sure was real. Worrier and his brothers were sometimes more real to her than the memories of her fellow younglings in the creche. When sadness threatened, when self-doubt tapped at her ragged shields with poison-tipped claws, she was as likely to ground herself by humming batch songs and snatches of cadence she picked up in her dreams as she was the songs of her covert or the techniques taught to her by Master D’Aleric. Without ever having spoken to him, he saved her life more times than he could ever know.

But it was one thing to know, in a distant way, that you were connected to someone. It was alright when the longing to see him face to face was an ache in her chest that she knew could never be satisfied. How could she fulfill that desire when she knew nothing of him besides his name and number, besides the fact that he was one unforgettable face lost among a sea of identical faces? It was an impossible dream. And it was safe. The longing she felt. The desire that grew with the long years, her feelings and regard for a man she was so certain she would never, ever in her lifetime meet. A Sentinel could not afford to dwell on what could never be, and Jotopa strove to be the best in her generation. The darkness was growing, and even though every dream, every glimpse of his face filled her with light, she couldn’t afford to falter, not when there was so much work left undone.

Jotopa grappled with the shock of Worrier as she often saw him in her dreams and Toby as he was now. The reality of it. The way everything about him was even more overwhelming than in her dreams. For so long, she had only known him by the name his fellow cadets had given him. It burned, it clawed at her insides when the Council disseminated the alert, and she was finally able to provide a proper label for her honey-eyed Worrier: clone trooper. Slave soldier. Born to die in service to the Republic. And the Jedi were the ones chosen to lead them to their deaths. It grated. It grated in a way, Jotopa couldn’t wholly attribute to her morals.

Often, she wanted to reach out for him and stopped herself. Since the war began, she dreamed of him less. His mind was often out of her reach, and she hated how much that worried her. But worse was the crippling relief every time she felt his mind return from whatever deep levels of unconsciousness from which it had been trapped and reach out towards her. It wasn’t fair, but then, she thought as she swiftly moved from the easier katas and into the more intensive forms, life didn’t promise fairness. Her fault for getting attached to a man she wholly couldn’t have. That he was safe was important. That she had an opportunity to spend time with him, to admi- (study, she corrected herself hastily, sternly, cursing when her concentration broke, and she flubbed her backflip).

She landed as gracefully as she could and rubbed her temples in irritation. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and seconds later, the sounds of Toby shifting as he woke reached her. Jotopa sucked her teeth, stomping off towards the tree line. She needed a stick to run through her katas. That would help her concentrate, she decided firmly. And worst-case scenario, she could beat herself to death with it.

—

A week back in the welcoming bosom of the Jedi Temple was enough to convince Jotopa that she did not belong here anymore. The man who called himself her Master was kind enough to show her to their old suite of rooms. He’d maintained them all these years, and the fact that he one day intended to come to collect her like a suit left overlong at the dry cleaner’s hung heavy in every breath of recycled air she pulled into her lungs.

The young woman that the young cadet, once known as Worrier but now called Toby, watched was a stranger in her own home. This was a familiar dream. A well-trod memory. The dimensions of these rooms were as familiar to him as his sleeping tube on Kamino. He thought she must often think of it, like picking at a scab until it formed a scar that she in turn was unable to leave off.

Sometimes, she remembered her room best, the moment she walked in and saw that everything had been left just as it was when she left it years ago. She would touch the desk, run a nail-bitten finger through the fine layer of dust, a thick feeling rising in her throat and hurting her so much the echo of it resonated in his skin and bones when he woke. At times, she would linger in the kitchen; eyes fixed on objects he didn’t know the purpose of.

But today was different. Today, she went down the road less traveled. Today, she spoke to her Master.

D’Aleric was always on the couch, waiting for her. The Chiss Jedi Master was friendly, kind, and compassionate. Tousled, close-cropped hair. Warm, bone-crushing hugs that never failed to make her feel safe and wanted. Robes that smelled of home. That was the Master D’Aleric young Kadijah knew. That was the Master D’Aleric who sat waiting patiently for Jotopa Kaid. When they alighted upon her, his crimson eyes were sympathetic, as if she had disappointed him somehow, and it galled Toby every time that it seemed as if she agreed with the assessment. If he were able, he would gather her up and protect her from the honeyed poison of her Master’s soft gaze.

“Come sit, my dear. Let us review the basics.”

Pack rubbing a blister on his naked back and feeling more vulnerable than he had since the first time he jumped, with nothing but his blacks and a breather clamped between clenched teeth, into the raging Kaminoan sea, Toby followed Jotopa as she slowly picked a path through the dense jungle.

If Joker could see him now, even he, who never heard a joke that could crack the impenetrable fortress of his face, would be doubled over in laughter at his predicament. Many were the nights that Pyro and Checkmate crawled into his tube, the three of them passing snippets of bawdy one-liners they’d picked up from other batches and squads between each other, weaving them into ridiculous stories and jokes that made even Snow pause, and there was hardly anything that could put him off his dinner.

How many times had Joker told the three of them, and him especially, that if they spent less time karking around, maybe they’d know the regs frontways and backways like he did, eh?

Well, tell a guy something enough, and it finally gets through his thick head. His batchers would be proud. Four days had come and gone since their arrival on Cassios-7, and Toby had not spent the time idle. Since his hardy little Jetii woke the day after their crash landing, he made it his business to learn the immediate area around them like the back of his hand. It was vital for him to have an excellent working knowledge of his surroundings. With so many unknowns about their circumstances and with so much of their equipment currently inoperable, his Knight would be depending on him to know what to do and where to go at all times.

So it was with surprise and no small amount of pleasure when on the second full day of their stranding, she joined him in familiarizing herself with the lay of the land. She was skilled, nearly as proficient as he was in many tasks. The little beauty could count paces and subtly make landmarks with the best of his vode, better than some. The thought didn’t rankle. There was a familiarity about her actions that he couldn’t quite figure out, something about her besides her staggering beauty that drew him up short time and again. But that was fine. Patience was instilled in him by the finest trainers in the galaxy. Sooner or later, it would come to him. What was bothersome was her casual dependence, her easy confidence in the Force, and if he caught himself challenging her assumptions here and there just to see her dark eyes narrow or the quick upturn of her plush lips, well, that was his business.

Knight Kaid. Jotopa. She wanted him to call her Jotopa. Jotopa. Jotopa.

Jotopa was a ball of impatient energy. It became clear to him early on that she was content with a more rudimentary setup than he was. Though he supposed with a derisive snort, if he had some mystical power to depend upon, he would be too. Given how much she seemed to enjoy pressing him on more trivial matters, Toby expected a struggle when he cautiously broached the subject of pausing for a few days in their camp. But she surprised him again, looking up at him with an earnest expression in her lovely brown eyes, listening to his argument with a focus that made his skin feel hot, and then agreeing so readily he later questioned why he even brought it up. The way she looked at him when she said she trusted him to know when it was time to go still made his heart thud painfully in his chest. Despite the resolution he made then and there to stay as far away from her as possible, Toby nevertheless found himself gravitating to her side by the time the sun was setting.

Despite herself, by the third day, she was pacing the bounds of the camp, her eyes scanning the sky, her hands on her shapely hips, head tilted towards the barely visible Temple spire as if she could summon the artifact to her side through sheer will alone. Toby spent many unproductive hours hidden away in high vantage points watching her. Jotopa was up even earlier than he was, but he often woke in time to watch her doing her stretches and her exercises. He would lay, sleepy and still, and admire the graceful movements of her body, so much different than any Jetiise he had ever seen before. Later in the day, he would contrast her early morning serenity with the way she delicately balanced on the balls of her feet, looking like she would sprint off into the jungle at any moment. It was a curious thing that the only reason she did not was that he asked it of her.

But regardless of how much different she was from other Jetiise, despite how she made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to be feeling, Toby figured she was still just a Jetii. He knew how to deal with those.

Joker would most definitely be laughing his ass off at his big brother Worrier right now.

In his defense, she caught him off guard: hers were the first pair of breasts he had ever seen (not that the fact made him any less certain they were the most perfect and well-formed in the entire galaxy). And it was morning. He hadn’t even had his ration bar yet, for Prime’s sake! It wasn’t like he’d never seen breasts before; he’d gotten the same thorough sex education and anatomy flash training as every other cadet. And even if he didn’t spend nearly all of his conscious hours on missions, he was sure he wouldn't spend his time as some of his vode did, trawling the clone intranet looking at all the illegal porn there was available; there were always more entertaining things to do than that. But even if he had, nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of her practically half-naked. He’d gawked at her like a dumb shiny, not sure what he should look at more: those parted full lips, her breasts in that ridiculous mesh top, those abs, those toned abs, or the alluring flare of her hips, aware in a profound way that the true answer was that he shouldn’t look at any of it.

Hard not to remember the way her dark areolas had tightened into tight little buds the longer he stared at her, thrusting so enticingly through her top that even now, his mouth watered. He was absolutely, miserably sure her skin was the softest thing he would never be allowed to touch and try as he might; Toby couldn’t figure where this conviction came from. At some point, she licked her lips (a move he followed with incredible attention) and asked him what his plans were for the day. He mentally thanked her for being precise. Maker only knew what might have come out of his mouth if she had been a little vaguer. Instead, through the rush of blood heading towards his groin, he’d told her that he was ready to make an attempt on the Temple. A lie, that. But one he would take to his grave.

If he thought about it, Toby knew he could easily recall innumerable situations that were much worse than this. Trekking through the jungle half-naked with only a knife to defend himself didn’t even touch his top twenty shitlist. Was it hot as fuck? Yes, even in halfsies, he was sweating his balls off, and even though every glimpse of her skin did nothing but reroute precious blood from his brain, Toby knew shedding the leather vest was the wiser decision. Was it noisy? Yes, loud as fuck, but it was nothing compared to 79’s when the Wolfpack rolled in fresh from a victory or in the Guard barracks that time Hound got ahold of contraband whiskey. And none of it so loud as cannons firing. He wasn’t the biggest fan of being without blasters and rifle, but Toby wouldn’t count himself an ARC trooper of any worth if he couldn’t adapt to that little handicap. Oh, and the biggest kicker: had he worked with worse Jetiise before? That was a resounding fuck, yes. He might have only known Jotopa Kaid for four and a half days, but in that time, she’d shown herself to have more honor, compassion, and grit than any Jetiise he’d ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on.

Just ahead of him, she stopped and crouched beside the trunk of a tree whose outstretched branches drooped with long, wispy vines. Carefully, Toby settled in next to her. The trees surrounding them created a thick canopy that obscured the sky, and the occasional shafts of light that pierced the quiet gloom were of indeterminate quality and impossible to tell time with. Among the trees, the air was hot and still, and at first, he wondered why his Jetii decided to break at this tree, but then he felt the slightest hint of a breeze cooling the sweat on his skin and picked up the faint movement of the draping vines. In the low light, their matching grins shone.

“I thought I sensed this break in the trees about a kilometer back, but I wanted to confirm,” she whispered. Toby tilted his head.

“How could you sense a change like that, sir?” He asked, curious despite himself. Though her expression remained the same, Toby was suddenly convinced she was self-conscious. She laughed softly, shrugging.

“The density of the Living Force changes in a clearing. It doesn’t empty, of course, because a clearing isn’t devoid of life, but it’s a different quality, you could say.” She cut her eyes away, cupped her elbows in her hands. “It was a hunch, anyway.”

Carefully, Toby parted the curtain of vines. “It was a good hunch, Jo,” he said as he looked out onto the clearing, taking note of the position of the sun and estimating that it was mid-morning. “The spire looks even closer from here.” At her indrawn breath, he looked back at her, only to find her staring at him open-mouthed.

“Sir? Are you alright?” He asked even as he shifted his position to check her for injuries. It hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain, but it couldn’t hurt to be sure, especially when they had limited medical supplies. She gently caught his hands in hers, halting his inspection.

“I’m alright, Toby,” she said, making a face. Toby cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing at this entirely new expression. A tendril of worry curled in his stomach, and he quickly reviewed their conversation, trying to locate his error so he could improve and she would smile at him again.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked when he drew a blank, and he tried to keep the anxiety out of his tone, choosing instead to stroke the pad of one thumb across the palm of her hand. Her’s were much softer than his by far, but even still, he felt the gun calluses on her fingers, felt the way work had toughened the skin. He didn’t need to take his gloves off for that: she often touched him on his arm and shoulder enough to sear her touch into his memory.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said vehemently, wresting one hand from him so she could rest it on his chest above his heart. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. You surprised me, is all.” The knot in his stomach loosened, a lazy warmth spreading through his chest at her touch.

“I surprised you?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. She smiled, all teasing eyes and bright teeth, and the anxious knot dissolved completely. When she moved to slide past him and enter the clearing, he let her.

“You often do, Captain. It’s part of why I like you so much.” She threw over her shoulder, and Toby rolled his eyes, glad neither that she nor his batch brothers could see his dopey grin.

---

By late afternoon, Jotopa decided that either they were lost or something was afoot. The spire that seemed so close in the meadow at mid-morning break was not closer for all their walking. Several times over the hours, she or Toby would stop and carefully climb to the top of a tree and regain their bearings, assure themselves they had not gotten lost or were going in circles. Each time they confirmed the same facts: they were on the correct heading, and the Temple looked to be no more than a kilometer or two away.

And yet, the sun was beginning to tilt downwards, and they were no closer to the Temple than they were that morning.

Honestly, she should have noticed sooner. Any other mission, any other time, Jotopa knew she would have, but ever since her encounter with Toby in camp before they set off, her concentration had been...scattered.

A more mature Jedi would have already brushed the incident off. The entire thing wouldn’t have even been rated as being anything of note. What did it matter, someone like Master D’Aleric or Master Lidan would have reasoned, that her clone trooper was attracted to her? The galaxy was teeming with life and full of possibilities. Was she so immature as to think that she was immune to being looked at, and was she so weak that she couldn’t simply shrug it off, release what discomfort she might feel from his interest into the Force, and focus her attention on the task at hand? She was a Sentinel, a Jedi who lived among the people and the shadows and brought light to them. Discomfort was as much a part of her day-to-day as eating and drinking.

It was only that his interest didn’t make her uncomfortable. It scared her, but only because she had convinced herself that what she felt was internal and limited to her own foolishness. So to be frozen on the spot, heart in her throat, while he looked at her with an expression that was so nakedly hungry, she would have known exactly what he wanted even if his Force signature wasn’t a billowing swirl of desire and frustration. It made thinking difficult. Certainly, Jotopa didn’t think she could be faulted for that, but even so, she was supposed to be better than this. She expected better of herself than this.

With a soft sigh, the young Sentinel looked out of the corner of her eye at her companion. The armor he had worn when departing the Resolute reminded her in many ways of the armor members of her covert wore, and she supposed that made sense. He and all his vode were clones of the Mandalorian Jango Fett, and the irony of that was not lost to her. His pauldron, helmet, and chest plates had bolstered his aura of lethality. Looking at him now, with only his vambraces and gauntlets on, the calm, watchful expression on his face as they picked their way through the undergrowth, the careful way he marked trees as they went, Jotopa decided he looked more dangerous and more natural, like this.

When they broke through a tangle of trees and found themselves in a small copse, Jotopa called for a break.

“We’re not going in circles, but we’re not making any progress,” Toby said, getting straight to the point as he rummaged through their pack and tossed her water and a ration bar. Jotopa smiled around her swig of water. There was a tree, larger than all the others and twice as wide, its bark peeling in long grey strips, whose roots pushed out of the rich black soil and created a small depression of moss and leaves. Jotopa dropped her hands to her belt, intending to use her kama as a makeshift blanket. Behind her, Toby made a choked noise.

“A-Ah, let me,” he said, and in a few practiced motions, his kama was drawn from his hips and draped across the depression. Jotopa blinked.

“Oh. Thank you.” She said, gingerly sitting. His kama was made of pliable synth leather, the black painted with thick blue stripes. There were faint scratches in the material and what she recognized as blaster burns that had been lovingly cleaned and repaired. In the Force, the kama sang with his signature. Jotopa smiled softly and looked up to where Toby had taken a seat on a root to her left.

“So,” Toby started, rolling his water bottle between his hands, a pensive look on his sweaty face, “how is it that we’ve been walking through this jungle all day, and we’re no closer to the temple than when we started?”

Jotopa shrugged.

“It’s probably some Force osik. It usually is, in my experience.” She said casually, reaching out to pluck a large pink blossom and study it. It was large, requiring two hands to hold it, the petals rich and shot through with deep blue veins. The stamens pulsed purple in the dappled light above. Toby made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. She thought it might have been a mix of disbelief and irritation. Jotops hid her smile behind the flower.

“Sir, you don’t even know what that,” he pulled in a deep breath and seemed to reevaluate himself. When he continued, his tone was more level but no less skeptical, “Force osik, huh? An astute observation.”

“Hmm, I know. It’s almost like we’re on a planet steeped in Force energy, and our mission was to retrieve a powerful artifact of unknown power.” She said dryly.

“Point taken,” he said with a chuckle, and she ducked her head, unwilling to let him see how much his laugh affected her. It wasn’t fair how much she liked him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

“Where did you learn Mando’a?” He eventually asked in a tentative tone. Jotopa smiled down at the flower in her lap, stroked the soft petals between her fingers.

“My mother taught me. I’m a foundling.” She said and felt his confusion roll over her skin even before he voiced his question.

“A foundling? But,” he trailed off at her self-deprecating laugh, and she did not see the frown on his face, lost as she now was in her memories.

“It’s a little confusing, I know. When I was thirteen, my Master traded me for intel. It was the right thing to do: he saved an entire village of children with what he learned. I was given to a Mandalorian who adopted me, and I threw myself completely into that life. Until my Master returned for me three or so years later.”

The copse was still amongst the shrieking of the birds. Jotopa could hear him shifting, feel his confusion and an undercurrent of some emotion that ran too fast for her to grasp or understand.

“He gave you away, and you went back with him. Why?” His incredulous, angry tone made her laugh. The answer was so obvious.

“The Force, of course. It told me that if I became a Jedi, I would find something extraordinary.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Did you?” She looked up at him, smiled softly.

“Yes. I did.”

He huffed, feeling his face heat at her earnest expression. When she looked at him like that, he was never sure what to do, and it didn’t help that her story was too much like his dreams for comfort. Bad enough that it made his blood simmer in his dreams; in person, he was nearly boiling with rage. It didn’t take a genius to see how much it hurt to be traded away like that, like something that didn’t matter, and even if she excused it or said that it was the right thing to do, Toby knew in his guts, she was wrong. She deserved better than that.

“Well, whatever it was you found, I hope it was worth it to you, Jo,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and offering to help her stand with the other. She took it with a grateful smile, and he pulled her up effortlessly.

“I think we should head back to camp. What do you think?” She asked. He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and considered a moment before nodding.

“Think so. If we’re lucky, we won’t encounter any night predators.” He said pessimistically, and she laughed.

“Looking on the bright side, I see. On the way back, would you mind telling me a little about yourself, please?” She asked, holding her arms out for the pack. He shot her an affronted look and shouldered it. Slightly put out, she checked their position and headed in the direction of the camp.

Grimacing, Toby walked behind her in silence for several minutes. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she could carry the weight, far from it, but it was just a small pack. He was used to carrying much heavier loads, and he hadn’t scratched the reserves of his stamina yet. Though she wasn’t making a big deal out of it, he could tell by the set of her shoulders and the way the air around her seemed a little dimmer that she was still upset, and that wasn’t something he wanted.

“I was in the Coruscant Guard before being assigned to General Skywalker,” he said, squinting up at the trees ahead. Her interest, of a different flavor than usual, lighter but still good, still very good, tingled over his skin. His mouth twitched up.

“Oh? What was that like?” She asked, and he didn’t know why he was surprised by how genuine the question was. It tied his tongue into knots.

“Ahh. Noisy.” He said, vastly understating the hell that was Guard service, and she giggled, which was something he liked very much. They walked in companionable silence for some distance.

“What about Anakin? Does he treat you well?” She asked just as they broke through the trees and entered their camp. The question drew Toby up short, and instead, he commented on what great time they made: the sun was still out.

“So it is. Chalk that up to more Force osik, huh?” Jotopa said teasingly. Toby nodded distractedly and let her pull him by the hand into camp.

#sw fic #sw oc #swtcw fanfic #clone trooper oc #jedi oc #star wars oc #black woman oc

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falseroar · 4 years

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Is This Your Card? Part 2: Trusted Friends

((Part 2 of this monster hunter/werewolf AU version of WKM. Abe arrives at the party and is surprised to see more than one familiar face. But not as surprised as when he discovers the first sign this group of friends isn’t being entirely honest with each other.

Only warning for this chapter is that there are references to drinking.

Link to Part 1: The Invitation))

Abe was one of the first guests to arrive. He was always one to arrive early, the better to get a lay of the land, but when the butler showed him into the main area, he found someone else had beaten him to the punch.

Standing in the middle of the room, between the low glass table and a couch that looked more for decoration than comfort, and staring at the piano in the corner as though tempted to get a closer inspection, stood a man in a well-tailored black suit, leaning slightly on a matching cane as he ran a hand through his hair before turning at the sound of their approach.

If Abe looked surprised to see the mayor of the city here, Damien seemed no less taken aback at the sight of the hunter.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” the butler said, his eyes shifting between the two of them as though realizing they might want a moment to talk. “There’s still so much to do before we begin.”

The mayor recovered quickly, Abe had to give him that, and managed a professional smile as he stretched out a hand. “It’s Abe, isn’t it?”

“Got it in one, Mayor,” Abe said as he shook the hand, noting that it was a practiced handshake, like one given time after time with no hint of the person behind it.

“Please, I think you can call me Damien here,” he said, that last word leaving Abe to suspect such a courtesy wouldn’t extend past these walls. “I can’t say that I expected to see you here. I wasn’t even aware that you were back in the city, much less acquainted with Mark.”

“Known him for years,” Abe answered, his eyes looking Damien up and down just as much as the mayor was studying him, taking in the coat Abe just couldn’t leave behind anywhere along with the gentle bulge of the single firearm he had restricted himself to, and even that had been a monumental effort on his part. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised the mayor would be chummy with the local celebrities.”

He could only imagine what Mark’s reaction to being referred to as only a local celebrity might be, and even Damien gave a chuckle at that.

“Actually, I’ve known him for some time myself. When I was a child, my sister and I—” just as Damien seemed ready to launch into a story, they both heard the butler’s voice at the door.

“Good luck at the table tonight. I shall fetch you a drink forthwith.”

Both men looked at the person who walked in, another figure not far behind, and out of the corner of his eye Abe could see the mayor’s face spread into the first real, genuine smile of the night while his own remained blank as he met the eyes of the District Attorney.

Y/N.

Zero warning, no time to prepare or even think of what to say after the last time they met, after their one and only case together that Abe had silently hoped would lead to more.

After he found out their secret.

He was saved from speaking when the mayor stepped forward, drawing their attention with a cry of, “Oh! There you are, old friend. I was starting to wonder if you could drag yourself away from the office.”

The District Attorney smiled, and Abe realized they were wearing the same kind of clothes he had seen them in before, apparently not having bothered with changing after work before coming here.

“I had it on good authority that if I didn’t come, I would never hear the end of it.”

Abe managed to drag his attention away from the mayor and his attorney to focus on the second person to enter the room. He was a smaller but well-built man, his stature suggesting military while his outfit absolutely screamed it, and there was a suggestion of a smile underneath that large and bushy black mustache as he introduced himself as “the Colonel.”

“I’ll admit, I’m not much of one for parties, at least not the kind you’d normally see around here,” the Colonel said once the introductions were complete, and Abe found himself nodding in agreement. He had heard of the legendary parties Mark had thrown in the past, outrageous, overcrowded and elaborate affairs that gave the reporters who weren’t nursing hangovers more than enough stories to share, and probably would have walked straight out of the place if it looked like this was going to turn out the same.

However, there were just the four of them in the room, although Abe could hear the raised voice of the chef somewhere behind him before the butler cut him off and returned with a tray of drinks.

“Dinner will soon be ready,” he said, smiling as though that hadn’t just happened. “Until then, may I offer some champagne?”

Abe took a glass and gave it a sniff without actually drinking any of it, although he saw the District Attorney and the Colonel down theirs without any hesitation, as though both were in desperate need of a drink.

“So where is Mark?” he asked the room at large.

As though waiting for his cue, the man himself appeared on the stairs in a satin red robe and little else except for a cry of “Welcome, welcome, one and all! My name is Markiplier. Thank you for joining me on this auspicious evening—”

He paused briefly, although Abe wasn’t sure if it was the sound he made into his full glass or the scoff from the Colonel that distracted the actor from the clearly prepared speech.

“It’s so good to be surrounded by such close and trusted friends,” Mark continued, and Abe noticed he met Y/N’s eyes at the word ‘trusted.’ Interesting, and not for the first time he wondered what exactly the connection between the two of them was while the actor went on, only tuning back in when Mark laughed and said, “But enough about that. Why don’t we all eat, so that this game can really get started?”

There were small white cards waiting on the set table in the dining room, assigning each person to their seat, all clustered at one end of the long table. It’s the only reason Abe found himself sitting next to the mayor with the Colonel opposite him, while Mark of course took the head of the table with Damien on his left and the attorney on his right.

“A little awkward, but the smaller table has already been set up for poker,” Mark explained as they all took a seat. “And apparently, eating at that table is out of the question.”

“It would be highly inappropriate to mix the two activities, yes,” the butler agreed, seeming to miss Mark’s expression as he set everyone’s plates in front of them. “Is everything to your liking, sir?”

“Sure, sure,” Mark said, waving a hand. “I’ve told you before, Benjamin, you can take it easy tonight. Loosen the tie a little.”

“As you wish, sir.” The butler bowed and walked back into the kitchen, where the unseen Chef was chopping something that apparently required a lot of effort and the occasional swearing.

“Ah, I’m sure he’ll get into the spirit of things soon,” Mark said with a shrug before giving his guests an inviting gesture to start eating.

Abe wasn’t the only one who happily picked up his fork and knife, but a sidelong glance at the place diagonal to his own caused him to pause. The District Attorney had yet to start eating, and when the Colonel made an offhand remark about the war, they seemed eager to turn toward him and begin asking questions which he was more than ready to answer.

It took Abe a second for it to register, and then he looked down at the silverware in his hands. Actual, sterling silver, silverware. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the mayor also watching the attorney with thinly veiled concern while Mark continued eating, blissfully unaware of anything wrong. With a start, he realized that not only did Damien know, but neither had informed Mark that one of his “close” and “trusted” friends was a werewolf.

For their part, the attorney played it off well, seeming so engrossed in the Colonel’s tales that it was only natural they just picked up a piece of food here and there from their plate with their fingers rather than giving the meal their full attention.

Looking back, he suspected the little food they had probably explained how the alcohol affected them so much, and wished he had a similar excuse for himself. Then again, anyone in the house would have admitted they all drank way too much that night.

Anything to take their minds off what happened next.

((End of Part 2, and I just realized how short these first couple of chapters are compared to later on.

Link to Part 3.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch ))

#markiplier #fanfiction #wkm au #werewolf au #monster hunter au #wkm detective #wkm district attorney #wkm mayor #wkm colonel #wkm actor mark #da x detective #just going to say it now #if there's a love triangle going on here #then the da is the last to know

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advernia · 4 years

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fic: you make home sound like a distant memory

— the pieces fray around the edges, and the center has lost its warmth. - pre-game: a somber tale about a family with crimson blood.

1: draft turned fic turned welp, looks like i'm not writing anything else till this is done oh my god, what is this hot mess even - 2: dear @ikerev-appreciation pls forgive me but uhh does it still count as a jonah week entry even if jonah shares the spotlight with his family ksjksjd;;

o n e .

"... I wish we didn't look so alike."

"But we don't! I may look fantastic, but rest assured - I pale in comp arison to your delicate, angelic features!"

His birth is a celebration, not much of the congratulations on the safe delivery of your firstborn child kind, but more of the congratulations on giving birth to a boy kind of celebration. He's a plump babe swaddled within layers of fine cotton with little hair on his head and no teeth to speak of, but people stare at him with the intensity of the summer sun and smiles painted on their faces, as if he were the grandest being they had ever laid their eyes on.

Every feature of his, no matter how tiny and yet to be developed, comes out drizzled in honey from many mouths: the fullness of his cheeks (it's not fat, how dare you, it's a sign of good health), the curves of his little lips (they're as red as rogue, how adorable), the hue of his eyes (they have the beauty of pure molten gold), and the descriptive list gets longer and longer.

The only word everyone seems to have in common is heir.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

Two years and long grueling hours later, in comes another swaddled babe: he was born at the very moment the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace. In fact, that's the color soft wisps of hair on his head seem to have taken - in total, he's a bundle of full cheeks, curved reddish lips, and dark-colored hair.

The celebration that follows after his birth is a small affair limited within the walls of his home, and the only ones who take hold of him with such warmth are his grandfather and a boy with silver hair. The former smiles at the sight of a small black dot set under his right eye and mumbles something about the mark of a Clemence, while the latter just stares at him in complete awe, stars bursting forth from eyes that were wide open.

Behind the old man and the child went hushed whispers, the word insurance hanging heavy in the air.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

"You'll have nothing to fear now, for I'm accompanying you! Aren't you glad we're going together?"

"What's there to be glad about when I'm going to be stuck with you?"

Children will be children like boys will be boys.

Come spring they run around a grand forest, chasing butterflies and gathering all sorts of things like little explorers lost in an expedition. They make sure to steer and hide away from any obstacles that come their way, like those terrible women in long black skirts who shout out their names and try to lure them out with the prospect of food. The biggest evil though is the great wizard: he's super thin, has graying hair, puts a super shiny monocle under his left eye, grows a bushy mustache with its tips pointing perfectly upwards, and worst of all knows how to use two dangerous words to complete his magic spell - the names of their parents.

Summer is too hot for exploring and the heat outside makes everything sweaty and sticky and it feels gross. So instead, they link their hands together to embark in a thorough search for their grandfather within the large halls and grand rooms of the mansion - he's always in the library though, sitting by the couch near the window and reading some book. When they come in, grandfather urges them to sit and off the three of them go as a tale is brought to life in words: they emerge in battlefields, countries, and in mystical places that a man called the Queen of Hearts had all stepped on once upon a time. Uninterrupted, they venture well until lunchtime.

Fall is boring because they can't go out and under the command of their parents, the great wizard has summoned his disciples to keep them apart - they're made to practice all sorts of things, read a lot of thick books, listen well to whatever's being taught, and the disciples don't take no for an answer even if they cry and beg. It's really, really boring and sometimes when they look out the window, they think about how much better it was to spend time being an explorer or listening to grandfather's stories instead.

Winter's a bit better because even if they still go through their very boring lessons, their grandfather saves the half of the day by leading both of them by the hand to go into his room. In there they can do whatever they want, and grandfather just watches over them with his wrinkly eyes. He coughs often and spends most of the time in bed though, so before doing anything else the both of them make sure that their grandfather's all warm and cozy and has a glass of warm water ready by his bedside table.

The old man smiles warmly at them - he smiles at the young child with silver hair, whose hands were always open for a smaller one to slip in and hold onto. He smiles at the little boy with dark hair, whose hands were always searching for a larger hand to hold on to.

Slowly he closes his tired eyes and focuses on the sound of boyish laughter, filling the four corners of the room.

By the end of winter, any trace of joy that laughter has left in the mansion, in the library, and in their grandfather's room, has promptly flown away.

The young child and the little boy huddle close to each other as they stood over clumps of snow, mittened hands tightly linked together as they stared at a headstone bearing their grandfather's name.

"Why are you here? Go away, go back, go home, and don't ever think about visiting me again!"

"Your shyness is adorable as always! But you don't need to hold back for my sake - now, give me a hug!"

Things in the mansion change a lot shortly after their grandfather had gone into a deep, deep sleep.

They're pulled away from each other like how their rooms are now on separate floors. Everyday they're seated far apart from each other on the dining table, strictly forbidden to sit beside each other. The disciples increase in number and strange people visit often, eyes set on their every move and mouths always having something to say about them both. Their parents forbade them from going out unless necessary, that order becoming something sharp and biting and absolute. But the most horrible thing of all is that they're no longer allowed to spend their days in each other's company.

No more exploring together, no more searching for four-leaf clovers together. No more sneaking into each other's rooms late at night, no more reading books together under the covers. No more creeping into the kitchen to get their favorite snacks, no more midday or afternoon teatime together. No more shopping together, no more walking around town together.

No more, no more.

No more together.

The young child tries, though. He tries his best to find a way out, to slip past the great wizard and his disciples and all those strange people and their parents' rules. He especially tries his very best at night. He tries to find the best time to slip out of his room unnoticed and run across the hallway to the stairs leading to the first floor, to go down those steps and head towards the left wing, to pass through many, many doors until he reaches that one door.

The little boy needs him. He's sure that no one in the mansion know about the nightmares the little boy has, about how lonely he can get in the middle of the night. No one knows of that one doll he likes to hold at night. He bets that no one, not even their parents, know about the lullaby too; from the words to the tune and up to how to sing it properly. He's the only one who can do it. He's the only one.

He has to keep trying. He'll handle any punishment, any lecture, any scolding, any added hours of study and practice, any confinement; he'll handle anything, if only, if only, if only -

The young child's efforts eventually pay off but sadly only at nighttime, but he figures that's a start. And so he develops a habit of sneaking out of his room come midnight just to sing to the little boy until every tear has dried, until the little boy's eyes were firmly closed shut and breathing takes on its steady rhythm.

When he turns around to leave, a small hand subconsciously reaches out to him like a lifeline; tugging at his sleeve or clinging to his fingers.

The young child takes hold of the little boy's small hand and squeezes it gently.

It feels like a lifeline, too.

"You don't need to stand there! Come on, there's an empty seat right beside me!"

"Ugh, no way. I'd rather stand for five hours straight rather than to be seen sitting beside you."

The day when the young child turned eight and the little boy was six served as the universe's way of pointedly reminding them of who and what they were; of what their own family and perhaps the whole country saw them to be.

It was certainly a birthday to be remembered.

Seated at the head of a grand table and surrounded by all the grandeur money could possibly offer to an eight-year-old, there sat no young child with tears streaming down his face but there was only Jonah Clemence, the firstborn son and heir of the Clemence family's proud crimson bloodline and the future Queen of Hearts of the Red Army.

And although it was never planned for someone to sit there in the first place, seated by the very foot of the grand table was a little boy and his name was Luka.

Heir.

Insurance.

Ah -

- so that's what the word meant.

t w o .

"Remember that I'm always waiting to welcome you back home with open arms."

"... You don't need to do that any longer. I'm never going back."

Because Jonah Clemence realized that he was no longer a young child the same way Luka had accepted that he was no longer a little boy, the world and the society around them began to change, too.

Those women in long black skirts are simply maids, the great wizard and his disciples are the head butler and their tutors, respectively. People who claim to work out of respect and reverence to the Clemence family's name, but all those claims pale in comparison to the lovely clink of a coin.

The strange people who come in and out of the mansion and continue to do so were a toss of either their relatives or nobles of lower standing. Over time, there was no need to differenciate both, simply because there was no lesser evil between two parties that wore masks for a living and wagged tongues painted a shimmering silver.

The library is left untouched but the couch that their grandfather used to sit on has been replaced for something finer, something that doesn't smell of youthful adventure and heroic romances. It's gone and so is their grandfather's bedroom, the sanctuary where they tasted freedom once upon a time.

Lessons take broader shapes and extensions, demanding more attention and a sharper mind. The hilt and weight of a sword has made itself known to them as well, introduced to them by no one else but by the Queen of Hearts himself, their father.

What they used to call the grand forest was in truth the mansion's spacious gardens - the cobblestone pathways and the secret clearings they used to run through back and forth for days become unfamiliar when they stand at the center of it all and it's filled with tables and silverware, with guests sipping away at exquisite tea and specially made cakes laid out for their choosing.

The chill of winter has long left every hallway and it's already the middle of summer, but the mansion and everything else in it never grew any warmer.

"I don't want your help. I didn't ask for your help. Now leave me alone."

"Hush! Do you honestly think I would do something so heartless when I can see you suffering!?"

It was impossible for Luka to stand in the same limelight where Jonah Clemence stood, and that was alright.

Jonah Clemence was the heir after all, and he was to be the Queen of Hearts someday. He's young for now but once he grew up, he was going to be an upstanding noble and a honorable soldier, and everyone else would look up to him. He'd do all sorts of good deeds, go to places far away, win lots and lots of battles with his trusty sword at his side, and would do anything to protect anyone from evil.

But that was Jonah Clemence.

Everyone only saw Jonah Clemence but Luka could also see someone else - that's because before Jonah Clemence became the Jonah Clemence, he was first and foremost Luka's one and only big brother: he was brave for still sneaking into Luka's room at night, smart and quick whenever he would help Luka study without anyone knowing. He paid close attention to whatever Luka had to say, he was kind enough to guide Luka into reading the music notes for a violin piece. He was also patient and understanding to boot - he never got mad at Luka, ever.

But the best thing about Luka's big brother was that he didn't force himself to be perfect like Jonah Clemence was.

Luka's big brother allows himself to cry because he's so tired, allows himself to get frustrated and complain about all those adults and those tea party invitations. He allows himself to be sad because he hasn't been able to see Luka around much, allows himself to get angry because father had been very strict during sword practice. And even though he's older than Luka, he can also act so childish and lazy.

Sometimes Luka wished that everyone else could see his big brother in Jonah Clemence, too.

Because while Jonah Clemence was Luka's hero, Luka's big brother was the person Luka loved the most.

Being second son meant not bearing any of the responsibilities that came with being the Clemence heir and for Jonah, that was a relief.

The heir had to show the best of himself at all times, presenting no sign of weakness but only strength. He was someone no one could look down upon, someone who could command respect by people hearing the sound of his name. Emotions should never get in the way of the heir's judgement because once he lets just a shred of that in, people will start doubting his power and will take advantage of him immediately.

And that was just being heir.

Being the Queen of Hearts on the other hand was a legacy engraved in the heir's blood, a distinction of glory and the very purpose why he has been brought into the world. The Queen is the paragon of a steadfast loyalty to the King of Hearts, and the Queen is the only one worthy of being called the King's second-in-command. The Queen was second best to the King, but that didn't make him any lesser: he is incredibly strong, righteous, and if ever the King were to be led astray; the Queen would be the first one who would lead the King back into the right path.

Jonah wouldn't - couldn't, shouldn't - allow Luka to shoulder those burdens.

Every responsibility weighed too much, expected too much. And Luka - his sweet, oh-so-sweet little brother with the warmest smile in the world and a heart of shining gold - doesn't deserve to experience any of that. Those small ears don't need to hear constant criticism, flowery words with knives underneath, or stinging whispers. Those kind eyes don't need to see cold faces and fake smiles. That gentle voice shouldn't speak words that people expect to hear. That tiny body didn't need to feel itself breaking from the pain of all those slaps, kicks, fists, bruises and scars.

And that beautiful heart certainly didn't need to break and turn to stone from the pressure, from all the difficult things the heir and the future Queen of Hearts had to go through.

Being the Clemence heir and taking on the mantle of the Queen of Hearts are the very pillars of Jonah's life, but -

- being the older brother who would do anything to protect the world's most precious little brother was important to him too.

"Trust me - I would do anything to protect you."

"... Why are you always like this?"

Winter wasn't the best season for them, simply because it was the season when their grandfather died. When he passed away with that soft smile on his thin lips, whatever scraps of freedom they were able to savor went along with him as well; carefully placed in an ornate casket and buried six feet under the ground, nestled around a protective magic barrier for good measure.

And now their parents were giving them another reason to dislike winter.

In the dead of the night and under the light of the full moon, Luka lets out a valley of tears that stream down his cheeks and fall onto his silk bedsheets - the drops fall to the pace of skip counting, going one, three, eight, fifteen, twenty-three, and Jonah can't stop all that with just the long sleeves of his shirt. Luka's cries are hiccupped sobs; broken little pieces, strangled wails of sorrow, warbled watery pleas of don't go, don't go, please don't leave me here alone, please oh please, don't go.

Each sob is as soft as the winds that blow against the windows of the room, but each sound resonates loudly through Jonah's being - it echoes and deafens the ears, slips past all his defenses just to repeatedly stab at his skin and to seep onto every open pore, barges inside just to punch both his lungs and constrict the heart in a vice-grip that leaves him breathless.

It hurts. It really does.

When he's rendered useless, there's nothing much left to do but wrap his arms around his little brother with the hope that whatever strength he had left would keep them both steady.

But it doesn't.

When both their eyes have finally run dry, Jonah raises one of his calloused pinkies to link with one of Luka's own.

He solemnly promises that on his honor as Jonah Clemence, heir to the Clemence family and the future Queen of Hearts, he would write a letter every day to his one and only little brother Luka Clemence; no matter how busy or tired he would be by the end of the day. Whenever the opportunity presents itself and if he is also permitted to do so, Jonah Clemence would go back home just to visit Luka Clemence. Also, if Jonah Clemence would find anything interesting, just anything at all; he would make sure to bring it home so he could show it to Luka Clemence.

It's the first and the longest vow that Jonah has ever spoken. His throat is all tingly and his voice doesn't just come out right but Luka heard every last word, down to that last hiccup.

Luka squeezed that one calloused pinky firmly as he possibly could.

Jonah Clemence wasn't a liar.

Luka's big brother wasn't a liar.

So he would definitely keep his promise.

t w o .

There's this young boy surrounded by cold adults in a big mansion, but each morning

he does his best to wake and rise early to look out past the mansion's windows,

because he was going to wait for a letter to arrive.

The young boy knows he's being a bit silly because,

the letter wouldn't arrive that early!

Still, he wanted to wait.

And the young boy did wait, until the sun had fully risen up to hang in the sky -

while waiting, he went through the motions of his typical every day,

but this time, he looked out the window more often.

Someone important to him had gone away, you see -

but before that person left,

they made a promise.

Now that the young boy thought about it, that person -

he never said how exactly would he have

his letters delivered.

All the young boy knew was that after reading a letter and writing a reply,

he would secretly deliver his reply to that person,

by making use of some magic.

But perhaps thinking about how a letter would arrive in the mansion didn't matter!

That person's letter would definitely come in time,

because they made a promise.

What the young boy didn't know though, was that before that person left -

that person also made a promise with their parents,

and it was about those letters.

That person made their parents swear on their honor that the letters he would

send daily to the mansion, they would personally deliver to the rightful

recipient, who would be the young boy.

That person thought that if he would make his parents swear on their honor,

they would never dare break their word because they were

of proud crimson blood like he was.

So the young boy waited and waited,

day turned noon then night,

but he still waited.

A day passed by, then two, then three, then four -

but the young boy didn't lose hope,

he had to be patient.

But again, what the young boy didn't know was that his crimson blood parents

thought differently of the vow the both of them made with that person.

They valued something else more than a promise on their honor.

What they valued the most was that their firstborn son would do his best at the academy,

shape himself into a fine man without anything distracting him,

be it his own brother, the young boy.

The crimson blood parents, no matter how rigid they became, kept on holding onto the thought that

what they were doing, and everything they had done in the past were all

in the best interests of the family and their two children.

But even before he passed away, the children's paternal grandfather scoffed in response to seeing such methods -

he was disappointed as he said: as parents you're simply tearing two children apart,

but the crimson blood parents still didn't change their hearts.

So what became of the young boy who kept on waiting and waiting for a letter,

of the firstborn son who was sent to do his best at the academy,

and of their crimson blood parents?

For now,

let's just say that,

over time of waiting, waiting, and much more waiting -

people eventually realize that they have grown much, much older and that

they are now at least a little bit wiser enough not to wait for letters that would never come.

t h r e e .

"One day you're going to grow old and forget about me."

"Preposterous - how could I possibly bring myself to forget my one and only little brother?"

... And where exactly do you think you're going at this hour?

His fingers twitch, just inches away from the golden door handle. They're made of oak, these doors right in front of him, just like any other door in this mansion that presented itself as a home. Question, though: would a home have rooms, exits, or entrances that have such imposing doors, all tall and dark and heavy? Would a home constantly keep such doors closed, with handles that would never open because the lock had been secured and the key had been kept away? Would a home just have a door for show, and when you open it you suddenly realize that it actually leads to nowhere; presenting you no option of entry or exit?

He wouldn't know. Would she know? She always spoke in a clear-cut manner, voice having the melody of summer but words coated in the frost of winter: heat to the ears, chills to the heart. But surely enough summer and winter have turned into spring and fall - seasons change like how time flew like water, and that meant every person in the world weren't getting any younger.

He and her included.

He got it from her, the dark shade of his hair that resembles the night. But more than the night itself, time has dictated that her hair be turned into the night sky instead; a canvas of black spread with dashes of silver stars. He wished that he got the color of her eyes too: brown like the earth, brown like a piece of dark chocolate. Maybe if he had her eyes, he wouldn't be reminding people of someone else.

His fingers wrap around the door handle.

I asked you where you're going...!

Ah, winter had become fall - somehow that elevated pitch and sharp volume had less bite to it, now merely a bitter wind blowing at his back and unable to pierce any deeper. His skin, his lungs, and his heart were fine; no chilling over, what a relief. Was she already that old, or was it simply his desensitization that lessened the impact?

Whatever the case, he wasn't going to stay any longer just to find out.

He pulls the door open, and he's greeted by a rush of a cool night's breeze along with the light of the full moon.

Luka...!

He takes a few steps forward, only to close the door behind him shut. Firmly now, firmly. So that the sound would make itself known in the grand foyer, whoosh through the many steps of a carpeted staircase to reach all the way to the pretty landing; slicing through the silence like a voiceless, wordless slap to the face. Bang. Echo, echo. Did that sound like a satisfying ending to your sharply pointed ears, mother?

From that point on, Luka Clemence didn't dare to look back.

The last time he stepped into this mansion of proud marble and golden paint was in celebration of him finally taking on the name that was rightfully his. Smiles were plastered onto faces like a fine template made specifically for the occasion, the word congratulations thrown about back and forth as verbal confetti. Champagne went spinning round, resembling the skirts of the many women twirling by the ballroom floors, heels going click clack in time to the orchestra's uplifting compositions.

It was a mediocre celebration, if he would say so himself. His special guest wasn't in attendance and that made everything else less enjoyable... including the already sorry excuse of a strawberry mille-feuille.

Now, he returned for one reason, and one reason alone - he passed through the foyer, headed right, passed through a couple of rooms until he found himself standing by the entrance of the dining room. Shiny crystal chandelier, polished floors. Tasteful curtains and tapestries, carefully made carpets. A wide and stretching ornate table, chairs of finely carved mahogany with plush cushions.

Only two chairs were occupied. As he approached the table, one of the occupants turn around to the sound of his footsteps. Eyes narrow, a voice comes out unsure.

... Jonah?

Two pairs of eyes are on him now - surprise faintly wrinkles his father's brow, his mother holds a gaze that could be classified as listless. Caused by a lack of sleep, maybe?

Good morning, father, mother. Is Luka yet to wake up?

The silence that follows his question is pregnant - it's the kind that just dances around your very being, frolicking without care along your legs and atop your finely shined shoes. It giggles around constantly like a happy child until you get irritated, try to chase it, but only to miserably fail. For the love of all that's good and holy, you just want to know why it's giggling so much. Was it so hard to capture silence? Was it so hard to find the words that would stop it from frolicking around like it owned the place?

It lasts for a good two minutes before his father exhales slowly, rising from his seat.

... We'll take this discussion elsewhere.

... Your mother tried stopping him.

Something boils uncomfortably in his blood, reaching down to the very pits of his stomach as he stared at his father. It brings to mind the image of water that bubbles, rises, and threatens to spill out from its kettle prison, leaving a scalding mess its wake.

Jonah's palms land down on his father's desk, impact loud and fingernails digging at the wood.

Tried? he spits the word out with an impressive amount of venom, lips snarling at the ends, Perhaps you didn't try hard enough! You should've informed me of this matter immediately!

A growl rears its head from the back of the throat - low, booming, intimidating. Strangely enough, it's nostalgic in a most amusing manner, but -

Ah, that's right, how could Jonah forget?

Former authority figures didn't take kindly to accusations of incompetence.

Jonah Clemence, compose yourself! Is that how the Queen of Hearts should speak!?

Something in Jonah's expression twists as a crack broke his voice.

I returned here simply as an older brother happy to celebrate his little brother's graduation, not as the Queen of Hearts!

Silver mirroring silver, gold mirroring gold. Fiery tempers contesting one another, sparks flying about in the four corners of the room. Perhaps if they tried hard enough they could set the whole room alight until flames lap and lick at every surface there is to burn, breaking everything down until nothing is left but trails of ash and wisps of smoke.

And as if her figure couldn't look any more delicate than it already was, his mother appeared much smaller as she sat by the very end of the couch, a lost look in her eyes and a plain notebook resting nicely on her lap.

When she closes her eyes and lowers her head, wisps of her dark hair shield her face from the rest of the world.

It's already that very moment in time where the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace.

Jonah Clemence looked up to stare at that very sky, his back facing a mansion of proud marble and golden paint. There he stands straight and tall, all alone in a secret clearing discovered by two brave explorers, once upon a time.

Carefully gripped in his right hand is an object made of cotton, pieces of it well-worn: white clothes were predominantly stained with tints of an aging yellow, two buttons of the coat about to fall loose, stitches here and there showing signs of fraying.

The only parts of it that remained presentable were the strands of dark-colored yarn on top, and a pair of golden dots for eyes.

I'll find you.

He moves his arm to clutch the doll to his chest, head still held up high.

I promise.

#jonah clemence week #ikemen kakumei #ikemen revolution #ikerev fanfic #jonah clemence #luka clemence #*loud whale noises* oH M A N ? ? ?#oof i could've done this fic more justice but i've lost count of how many edits i did #that's nothing new to me but i got frustrated so i didn't hold onto it any longer ;w;#half of that edit time was spent on forma t ting yeeHAW i got so carried away #okay so maybe doing this in the middle of a seminar wasn't a good idea L M AO #rushed this just to get it out of my system so i didn't proofread properly eeep;;;#edits & post reading notes??? shall come later... yeah maybe later haha...

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qhostqizmo · 3 years

Text

a breath away and still too far

What if he opens up a door and I can’t close it? What happens then? If when he holds me, my heart is set in motion? I’m not prepared for that, I’m scared of breaking open

- - - - - - - - - -

Having an assembly between aristocrats felt different than any audience they’d previously had before with nobility. When it came to the High Council, everything had been overwhelming but small; a specified group of people who knew their duties and with whom they had had to meet to exchange important information. With individual patricians, it usually came down to convincing them that they were there to help, which came mixed reactions.

This place however, was overflowing with socialites. Some had already taken to their seats at the expansive dining table, where their names were carefully set to indicate their spot. Most still stood around, shooting the breeze casually. They seemed ordinary at first glance; until it all hit you. The gleaming of jewels and pearls, the glistening of precious metals, the perfume, the bright colors and elaborate expensive fabrics with details and made of exsquisite material. Everything about the atmosphere screamed wealth and luxury; down to the genuine silver utensils and gothic style architecture and grand candelabrum and shimmering chandeliers. Of the grandeur and beauty had a way to make Essätha feel… very small.

As best she could to hide her insecurity, the Yuan-Ti remained at the fringes of the communion. This left some of her allies to spread out through the open composition to try finding their source, while others remained, as she, hesitantly off to the side. They were not dressed in the attire for such a gathering and, unfortunately, eyes were beginning to wander in their direction curiously.

Essie swallowed her nerves and politely bowed her head at those who passed before her. Most afforded little glances and nothing more; one made a noise beneath their breath that made her feel like shriveling up into nothing. It was difficult to remember some of these people; ugly or beautiful, were still just people. Some held such an air of sophistication and pride to them their egos almost seemed godlike just to catch a glimpse at them.

Beside her, Amon made a noise in the back of his throat; one that surprised her. He appeared almost as uncomfortable as she felt at a glance. A twinge of unease settled in her. To be close to such inferior individuals as themselves must be a mark upon his public image. It also probably didn’t help that he was wearing his usual attire for hunting game and travel either, though if she had to guess Essie could surmise the former to be more important than the later. When a man was publicly known under the title Bearmaster, she found it may be unsurprising more individuals would see him in this than his formal-ware on a regular basis.

Tearing her gaze away from the nobleman beside her to those around, she peered about for a hopeful gaze of their contact. The few taking peeks their way quickly removed themselves from staring; almost as if catching the eyes of something so lesser would make them dirty. One man however, caught Essätha’s gaze and held it.

He was an unfortunate looking fellow. Sixties or perhaps seventies; his head was nearly bald with the exception of a wreath of gray trimmed neat around the edges. He wore a ridiculous monocle, and had a long and impressively curled gray mustache. His mouth twitched beneath a hairy lip, and his eyes narrowed as he flared his nostrils and puffed out his barrel-chest as though to display dominance.

Mortified, Essie looked away as the individual took a step in their direction. It did not deter his path, however.

“Well, good evenin’,” they stated cautiously, their curled mustache still vibrating as though alive.

No escape now. Stomaching her anxiety, Essie submitted to a respectable bow. “Good evening, sir.”

“Can we ah- help any of you or your… associates?”

“No sir, I beg your pardon for our intrusion; we’ll be out shortly.”

The man’s chest relaxed a smidgen as he exhaled, revealing a more true shape; a larger abdomen he’d been sucking in. “I see.”

He was still staring. Her nerves prickled uneasily beneath the penetrating gaze. Beneath her flesh; which felt to be crawling as though insects were upon here, was a daunting fight or flight response. Part of her wanted to look away, but maintaining eye contact as much as keeping it seemed like a bad idea. It was like tempting a territorial mutt to bite regardless which you picked.

She nearly jolted as something brushed her left arm. Breaking her concentration, Essätha tore her eyes over to glance at her savior.

“The party appears very grand, I hope we aren’t keeping you from enjoying it.”

The elder man’s face couldn’t hide his surprise as his bushy eyebrows shot up. “By my grand-dad’s beard, you’re Arthur’s boy! I haven’t seen you in years. A privilege, Lord Amon.”

A tension appeared Amon’s shoulders. She cued in on how his face changed; the blankness of his eyes, the tightness of his smile that was not genuine, and the edges of his eyes themselves how they lacked the crinkles of warmth when he was truly happy.

The stranger turned his regard back upon her once again. Essie hastily gave him her full attention once more, feeling a tingling sensation spark in her fingertips as Amon’s digits touched hers. It was playing with fire, his touch. Never quite enough to keep you warm and sedated until you were consumed by it, and when you were, you lost yourself in the flames of an embrace that seemed to burn straight through your barriers.

“You know this gentleman, young lady?”

She flashed a nervous smile. “I do.”

“Oh. How have the two of you met, then?”

Amon opened his mouth as though to reply, but for a moment, her anxiety was lost to a new feeling: annoyance.

“As friends do: when one least expects it.”

The air went cold. The man before her was like stone, and the one at her side, like ice. Her tongue curled against the inside of her cheek. She wished to turn and apologize to her nobleman; really she should have been more careful-

With a suddenness, the aristocrat barked with laughter. His belly bounced, and he reached out as though to touch her. She cringed; leaning into Amon’s side for reassurance.

In a motion that was as shocking as it was comfortable; natural even in reaction, her nobleman slipped an arm around her waist to hold her there. It caused her heart to stammer and skip uncontrollably as she grew flush. From a quick glimpse, she could see the tones of pink in Amon’s own expression as he otherwise tries to keep his facial features a void mystery. He couldn’t hide from her though. She’d seen too much; studied his signals and giveaways, began to understand and know the telltales to let her know when his moods shifted. She’d seem him angry, distressed, hurt, confused, suffering, happy, worried.

Now he just seemed conflicted. His body language was stuck in a loop between embarrassed, and changing signs she couldn’t keep up with. The warmth of his palm resting on her side fidgeted uneasily.

“You are quite the comedian, little lady,” the man chuckled. “Keep your secrets, then. I’m terribly sorry if I scared you at all, miss. I hadn’t seen you here before. I thought you may be some nobility or princess from another country before I saw your garments-”

A mortified red glow burned the sorceress’ face instantly, and made her ears feel hot. She didn’t hear the next few words the man said as her ears rang. This was humiliating.

Amon’s hand stopped wriggling to pull her closer. Possessively closer. Clearing his throat, he cut in with a sharpness in his tone that made both her and the man jump: “We’re in a bit of a hurry, actually. It was nice to see you again, but we must congregate with our companions. Enjoy your function.”

“I… Yes of course…” the elderman mumbled, seemingly dumbfounded by Amon’s bluntness as he gently guided Essie away.

Bewildered herself, Essie gazed up at Amon. He licked his lips, as he did when he was nervous. She continued staring with a puzzled expression as they blended further into some of the murmuring guests. Only once they appeared well out of earshot of the man, and most others, did he manage to gruffly find his voice.

“I’m sorry you had to endure that.”

“It’s… alright.” She blinked. “Are you alright?”

Amon exhaled heavily, his mouth turned down and eyes downcast. Sometimes he proved to still surprise her. Moments like these, she couldn’t quite latch on to the shifts in his mood. Whatever made him act out so suddenly?

“I’m fine.”

You’re not. She bit her tongue, though. This environment didn’t seem the place to poke the bear, so to speak.

Coming to a pause near a column; left somewhat out of view because of it, they both released relieved sighs. Realizing suddenly that he still had his arm wrapped intimately around her, Amon cleared his throat awkwardly, and gingerly began to pull his hand back.

Feeling the blossom of her blush grow hotter, Essie reached down to tenderly lay her hand upon his retreating one.

A ragged, throaty gasp; barely audible, escaped him.

Cautious; and with a delicate care that made her heart flutter and do backflips, her nobleman carefully cradled his hand against waist once more, settling the warmth of his arm across her lower back. Such simple contact shouldn’t be as thrilling as it was. Her insides felt like they were wax to his flame; melting her entirely as she rested her hand to the back of his. When she inched a little closer to his side for comfort; for that reassurance she craved and the security he provided, he began to breathe again. It startled her just a little; how long had he been holding his breath for?

Unconscious of herself, Essie pressed her hip into Amon’s. He was rigid, then he would breath, and his body seemed to tremble just the slightest. Glancing up with worry, she rested her cheek against his shoulder, and the thick fur mantle that lay upon it.

He didn’t look at her. Almost… almost refused to.

Dejected, she sank her teeth into her lower lip. Did she pull away? Was she doing something wrong? Was this too much? Was she too much? Was this not…

She reached for his face, slowly. Left him time to see her shaky fingers, hoping not to startle him. Something in her was waiting for the unavoidable: the flinch, the curled lip of disgust, something to give away that this was not what he wanted. That she was… not wanted.

He must have caught sight of her fingertips out of the corner of his eye, because his pupils shifted. He turned his face gradually; hesitantly. His eyes traveled from her fingers, down her arm, to her face.

She was so close. He was so close.

Amon turned towards her, licking his lips, his mouth opening tentatively-

“Amon, Essie-”

Her fingertips nearly grazed his beard; he had tilted his face towards her touch, and she flinched away before making contact just as he jerked backwards in alarm. His arm pulled free from her side, and in a flash, she saw his other arm. He’d been reaching for her? She’d been so focused on his face. How unfair for someone to be so handsome; to have such magnetizing eyes and such a well-sculpted face and lovely mouth and such warmth.

She inhaled sharply, realizing she hadn’t been breathing properly so suddenly. Everything felt… like a rush. The sudden dullness of the world returning anew was nearly a headache. It had been so easy to forget, staring at Amon. So unnervingly easy.

She thought how he stepped up to make her feel more comfortable. She thought of his touch. She thought of how warm he was; of his smile, how much of a weirdo he sometimes was and how goofy his jokes could be. He was brave, and smart, and altogether simply a wonderful friend, true and loyal and kind; and a comfortable presence. A safe haven, if you will. Everything about him absolutely filled her with joy to be around, and to witness.

Still trying to recover from his charm and the allure that captivated them, Essätha looked helplessly back up at Amon.

Tiny twitches. Little breaks here and there through the mask, trying to hide keep his own shock under control. He nodded to their teammate who had come barreling over to get them; the only one of the pair of them who had the sense to pay attention to what was being said.

Defeated, her eyes traveled down to his hand. There was a loneliness in her own, wanting to belong somewhere again.

She’d been so close. A tongue-twist away. How badly she wanted to say it, if only to alleviate the ache in her chest when she simply looked at him, or thought of him. Wanting was a dangerous game, though. Once she said it, there would be no reclaiming it. And what if, for her every hope, for the moments she could swear she felt or saw something… she was wrong?

Her hand fidgeted uneasily. Clenched, then released. She looked numbly up to their comrade as they made a gesture to follow them. It was all she could make out; not their words or the movement of their mouth at all. She felt strangely… disconnected, and numb.

Essie stepped forward, intending to follow, when she felt the familiar jolt again. A lightning strike; or magma bubbling up in her veins.

Her gaze slid down to catch Amon’s furious fingers, barely grasping to hers.

She looked up at him. He did not look at her, but his face was tinted once more a pinkish hue.

Silently, she accepted his hand, gently embracing his fingers. If this was all she could have, she would take what she could.

Her head raised confidently, a flash of surprise came and went over her expression. The light contact seemed unfitting for him, as the nobleman wrapped his fingers along hers, and squeezed firmly. He held to her still with a sort of forlorn, wanting desperation even once he managed to loosen his grip a little.

Swallowing, Essie returned the pressure to assure him she was there.

She did not catch the way he gazed at her, longingly and slack-jawed, as they stopped before their friends, ready to hear what they’d learned.

#qhost story #OTP: Essamon #Essatha Meduza #Amon Illiad #softly written

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staticscreenwriting · 5 years

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To the stars beyond the blue - one

Summary: Kathleen Sawyer has a problem with authority and people telling her what to do, especially if “people” is her Stepdad Dave. Having had enough of her attitude, Dave and her mom decide it’s time for her to leave behind the temptations of New York City and learn some responsibility while staying with her aunt Susan in small, sleepy Hawkins, Indiana. Though what neither of them know, is that the biggest temptation is waiting for her right there and it comes with a mullet and a killer smile.

This is gonna be an 18+ series. I’m planning to add quite a bit of smut, swearing and topics that could potentially be triggering to some people (domestic abuse - physical and emotional). The abuse will not be romanticized, I promise you that. Just be aware that these themes will be mentioned and explored.

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Chapter one - meet Kathleen

Ron’s Deli smells like old grease and cigarette smoke and the fluorescent lights send a loud buzzing noise through the entire place. There’s an assortment of sandwiches displayed, though I know better than to order any of them. Coffee, that’s what I’m here for. Coffee and warmth.

My boots, still wet from the snow covering the streets outside, make a squeaking sound against the linoleum floor that alerts Ruby who’s slumped over the counter, flicking through some kind of fashion magazine.

“ Haven’t seen you in a while “ she murmures, eyes focusing back on the magazine, making no attempt to actually take my order.

“ Some of us actually work, you know “ I reply. That’s not even close to the truth and Ruby knows this just as well as I do. But neither of us acknowledges it because that’s not the relationship we have. I don’t want to talk about it and she doesn’t care. So we settle for superficial quips.

“ Bite me, Kathleen. “

“ Nah thanks, you know my rules. No food at Ron’s. Just coffee “

“ Just coffee “ she repeats then turns around and grabs the pot and pours me a big mug of steaming hot coffee.

“ Thanks. Put it on my tab. “

She always nods but never actually does. I don’t think I’ve paid for my coffee in years.

I drag myself towards my booth in the furthest corner of the place. I call it my booth but if we’re being overly correct I have to mention that I do, in fact, not have ownership of this particular booth. It’s just the one I always find myself in. Have done so for years.

The tv mounted up in the corner is playing some black and white christmas movie. The volume is too low to hear anything being said but I can tell the movie after a few seconds. Miracle on 34th street. I remember watching it with my dad when I was a kid. He was always big about old black and white movies.

I never told him but I don’t really like it. There’s a thing about Christmas movies where even though most of them have happy endings, a lot of them always make you feel miserable for a huge amount of the runtime. It’s like “look at this sad person ON CHRISTMAS. Then remember how lucky you are. Because you too could be sad. ON CHRISTMAS “.

It’s very preachy and if I’m being honest, I don’t see the appeal of movies that purposely make me sad.

Back then I wasn’t really aware of what it feels like to be sad on Christmas. I do now. It’s like they describe it in the movies only 10 times worse. Because there’s no happy ending waiting for you after 120 minutes. It just goes on and leads to a sad new years and a sad spring and a sad summer.

“ Oh, Christmas isn't just a day, it's a frame of mind... “ oh fuck right of, Kris you absolute bullshitter.

The bell above the door pulls me from my Christmas blues and I watch a couple stumble into the shop. They’re smiling, holding hands. The dude can’t seem to keep his lips of her neck. She walks up to the counter. I can only imagine Ruby’s annoyed sigh and the roll of her eyes.

“ Hi, two turkey delis please “ the girl says between giggles. I feel kinda bad for her. She must be a tourist. Locals know not to eat at Ron’s. Only coffee. Iced tea in the summer. That’s it.

Ruby grumbles something to them before they settle down in the booth across from me. Well there goes me sulking in silence. I try to ignore their loved up giggles as the warm coffee makes its way down my throat. I really try not to pay them any attention. But once I notice his hand squeezing her boobs, that’s enough to make even me uncomfortable.

I take one last sip then scoot out of the boot hand walk towards Ruby. She’s resorted from flipping through the magazine to using the magazine as a underlay while she paints her nails right there on the counter. Another reason not to eat here.

“ So what do you say, do I suit this color ? “ She asks and holds a hand out for me to see. She always paints them red, every single time. Apparently they’re all different shades though so far I’ve been unable to see even the slightest difference.

“ Sure. “

“ Thanks for the enthusiasm.”

“ You’re welcome. Anyway, I’m going to head out. Thanks for the coffee. “

Ruby looks up again then throws a disapproving look at the couple that is pretty much dry humping each other at this point “ did the lovebirds scare you off ? Disgusting. “

“ Let them be, they’re in love. “

She scoffs at that then goes back to her nails “ of course you’d think that. You’re just as bad. “

“ What does that mean ? “

“ Means I’ve seen you at parties. With guys. It’s uh — quite something really. “

“ Ah shut up, Ruby. “ I say and roll my eyes. It’s none of her business really. Though I know it doesn’t come from a place of malice, her words still rub me the wrong way. I have to remind myself that she’s just bitter. She should be married right now, living with her husband in some cute little house in Jersey, popping a few kids and living the suburban dream. Instead he fucked her sister at the rehearsal dinner and she’s left alone, bitter, sad and working at a really shitty deli.

“ Just sayin’ “

“ Mmh. Anyway tell your dad I said hi and to call me if he ever feels lonely. “

“ You’re vile. “

I only smile at that, pull my jacket closer around my body and step into the cold december air.

New York City is always busy. Always. People crowd the streets like ants on a popsicle forgotten on the lawn in a hot summer’s day. Though around christmas time, it feels like twice as many people flock to the city to catch a glimpse of what the perceived to be the ultimate manifestation of christmas magic.

The truth is, it’s cold and loud and crowded and if anything, it’s a perfect reminder just how materialistic we humans really are. If there’s anything to advertise, you’ll get it advertised here. They try to appeal to your innermost romantic. That girl that believes diamonds and flowers are a sign of true love. That kid that still holds faith in santa and miracles.

It makes me a little sick as I pass store after store, bustling with holiday shoppers.

The further I walk the colder it gets. I tug my beanie further down my head, trying to keep my ears warm as I hop down the steps of the subway station. There’s an older man playing the violin while wearing a santa hat. I toss him a quarter and he gives me a smile and I feel like I’ve just earned a few karma points. Shiny gates, I’m coming for you.

It’s early december and New York is fucking freezing. It’s an all consuming kind of cold. The one you feel seeping through your body all the way to your bones. I wish I could say it goes away once I’m home and snuggled up in my bed. It doesn’t. It’s the kind of cold that stays with you.

There’s a man eying me as I step on the train, he’s got bushy unkempt eyebrows and a mean mustache. His tongue licks at his bottom lip every few seconds. Like a deranged snake or something, only way creepier. I try to avoid eye contact. Eye contact it seems only works as a silent invitation to guys like him.

From the corner of my eye I take notice of all his moves though. One has to be prepared always. I grab a hold of my keyes, let them stick out between my knuckles. I don’t know if he notices. I hope he does.

When the train pulls up at my stop, my heart speeds up a little. A silent mantra echoes through my head “please don’t get up. Please don’t get up.” It’s one thing being tough and brave when you’re in a train with many other people. It’s a whole different story when you’re passing through dark, deserted alleyways on your way home.

The trains stops and I wipe my sweaty hand on my jeans. He eyes me again as I step up to the doors. I’m still avoiding eye contact but at this point I can tell that he can tell. I can just about make out as his lips pull into a smirk. There’s nothing amusing about this situation, not to me at least. To think that he finds joy in this makes me physically sick.

The doors open and I step outside, a gust of cold wind hitting my face. I turn around and the doors close behind me and, to my delight, I can see him sitting in the same spot, looking at me through the dirty window of the train. He winks as the train pulls away and I can feel my lunch making its way up my throat again.

I can hear them yelling as I unlock the door. Dave’s voice thunders through the place, spewing expletives and hatred.

“ Jesus Christ, Joan. What is wrong with you? Spending money on shit we don’t need but the one thing, the one thing I asked you to buy, you forget ? Are you really that fucking dumb ? “

My blood starts boiling though I know better than to step in. It only makes it worse.

Mom says sorry. So many times. Too many times. Her voice is timid and small and I hate that this is what he turns her into. When I was little mom was strong and brave and happy. She was creative and fun and adventurous. Now she’s but a shell of herself. An obedient little housewife who settles for a man that treats her like absolute dirt.

They look up at me as I enter the kitchen room and I can see fear in my mom’s eyes. I think that’s the worst thing. To see your mom scared. No kid should have to see their mom this scared. I wish I didn’t.

“ Hi. “

“ Look who’s finally decided to show up. Where’ve you been ? “ Dave scoffs. He thinks just because my mom spreads her legs for him, he gets any say in what I do. Truth is, he doesn’t give a fuck what I do, he’s just a sucker for control. It’s like his ultimate wet dream, to have us do exactly how he says and behave just the way he asks us to.

“ Out. “

“ Out where ? “

“ None of your business. “

“ Kathleen “ mom scolds me. I know she has this fantasy of us three living like a perfect family, all happy and joyful. Smiling at each other as we sit around the dinner table talking about our days before we settle on the couch to watch Happy Days.

That’s not reality though. Reality looks pretty bleak right now. Reality is absolute bullshit.

“ I was at the library, okay ? “

“ With a boy ? “

“ No, what the fuck are you on about. “

“ I know the kind of girl you are, Kat. I know girls like you. “

Girls like me.

Dude doesn’t know shit.

“ Sluts “ he spits out. I know he does it to rile me up. He’s just waiting for me to make a mistake so he can put me in my place and assert his dominance. God, he’s such an asshole.

“ Dave ! Don’t call her th— “ mom doesn’t get to finish the sentence before he smacks her across the face, a loud slapping noise echoing through the room. It never gets easier. Watching him hit her. Watching her excuse his actions. Watching them continue as normal.

“ I told you, to shut up, Joan. You know what happened with the boy. The man.“

I lock eyes with her, begging her to say something. Do something. End this misery. She has the power to do so. This is our apartment. Out food. Our money. She has all the power in the world and yet, when she averts her eyes, I know it means nothing.

Dave looks at me again then flops down on the couch, resting his feet on the couch table and clutching a beer in his meaty slob of a hand.

“ Ma, “ I approach her, wanting to comfort her. This is my mother and despite her flaws and issues, I love her. Sometimes I wonder if she returns the sentiment.

“ I’m okay. “

“ But you’re not!”

“ I said, I am okay. “ the look in her eyes gives me no room to argue. This conversation is over. This topic is over. For now.

Because those things are never really over, are they ?

I take a can of coke from the fridge then sit down on the bench by the window. The snow is softly falling outside and if I didn’t despise the cold so much, I’d even call it pretty. It’s a huge contrast to how things are inside right now. Snow falls slowly, piecefully. My mind is chaos, loud and crowded like Times Square on New Years.

I try to focus on my book and not on Dave who belches after every gulp of beer or my mom who’s perched on the corner of the couch, close enough for him to feel validated and yet far enough for her own comfort. I hate that this place doesn’t feel like a home anymore. It feels like a prison. Like a cage.

That annoying coke commercial comes on tv and I remember a christmas, many years ago. Dad sits in the recliner, we’re in our old apartment and it’s warm inside. The snow falls softly and the place smells like nutmeg and cinnamon. Mom is happily singing along to the commercial and dad’s placing a kiss on her head and it’s not a very important memory but it means so much to me. Because those christmases were good.

My eyes wander towards the shelf by the door, the one that holds a lot of things. Those kind of things you don’t know where else to put. There’s a bowl you’re supposed to put keys in, none of us ever do, and a sculpture I made in 4th grade art class. There’s random books and records and a cassette deck that doesn’t work anymore.

I look the shelf up and down, searching for the one thing in there that means something. The one thing I deliberately placed there because I wanted to see it every time I leave the house.

But it’s gone and my heart shatters.

“ Where’s the picture of dad ? “

“ Huh ? “ mom looks up at me. I can see it in her eyes. She heard me just right and she knows where it is.

“ The picture of dad on the shelf. Where is it ? “

“ It’s time to move on “ Dave chimed in with his throaty, dark voice. He sounds like he constantly has a meatball stuck in his gullet. It’s fucking disgusting. “ He’s been dead for years now. No use in grieving no more. “

Use in greiving ? Does he think we chose to be sad ? Does he really think I can just go and decide not to miss my dad anymore ? Not to be sad anymore ? Not to feel like my heart is bursting into a million little pieces whenever something reminds me of my dad ?

“ What did you do ? “

“ Put it where it belongs ? “

I can feel the hot red rage burning inside, behind my eyes, in the tips of my fingers.

“ What does that mean ? “

“ He’s gone, Kat. Get over it. I live here now and I don’t wanna be reminded of that fact that your ma had another man before me. It don’t matter no more, you’re my family now !” he bellows, getting off his ass and towering over me like a giant sequoia tree.

This man doesn’t know the first thing about being a family. I don’t know a lot about it either but I know this isn’t it.

“ Fuck you, Dave. Dad belongs here ! We’re his family, mom is his wife. You’re just some asshole she keeps around for god knows what reasons. Just a boyfriend, those come and go “.

He’s awfully silent at that. It’s scarier than the yelling and the mean words. Like he’s taking it all in, waiting, building. It’s gonna come crashing down on me in a minute, I just know it.

The snarl disappears and makes room for a smirk so unsettling, it freezes my blood right there in my veins.

“ Is that so ? Tell her Joan. “

“ Tell me what ? “ Oh god. Oh god, no.

“ Dave, this is not the ti— “

“ Tell her ! “ he yells and mom flinches then turns to me, eyes never once leaving the carpet.

“ Baby, Dave and I we — we decided it was time to take our relationship to the next level.”

No.

“ We’re getting married. “

“ No. “ I say, as if my opinion matters to anyone here. “ Mom, you can’t. You can’t do this. Mom “

I beg and I plead and I can feel the tears rising, hardly able to keep them at bay. I feel so small, so helpless.

“ We can and we will ! We’ve also talked about you … “ Dave starts and by the satisfied smirk on his face I can tell whatever he’s about to say, I won’t like it.

“ We had a long discussion about you and your behavior. The skipping school, the parties, the boys. It needs to stop. You need to learn some responsibility. Some respect. “

“ Mom. “ I try to meet her eyes, try to get her attention. This can’t be happening.

“ It’s for the best, baby. “

“ What is ? “

Dave takes over the conversation again. God I wish he would just disappear. Vanish into nothingness. Where he belongs. “ We think the city is no good place for a young woman to grow up. Too many distractions. Too many temptations. How could you ever become a proper wife growing up in this place. “

“ Are you saying you want to send me away ? “

Mom looks up at me finally, and I can see the pain in eyes. And for the first time, I am glad. I hope she’s hurting. I hope it rips her heart out. I hope she feels the same pain she did when dad died. Because this, this is on her. This is a conscious choice she makes. For herself. For me. For our family.

I hope it hurts her because it kills me.

“ I uh — I talked to Susan. You remember her, right ? My half-sister. She uh — she lives in this cute little town in Indiana. Lots of nature. It’s very picturesque she says. They have a house there, she and her husband and the kids. Her step son is your age. I think — I think It’d do you some good. Susan says he’s calmed down his temper since they moved. Maybe it will work for you. “

I want to say so much. I want to scream and cry and throw a tantrum but the pain I feel numbs me to my bones. It’s like all energy is sucked right out of me. I’m too exhausted to react. Too exhausted to fight back.

So I do what I do best. I run. Take my keys, my jacket, my bag. And I run out into the night. The snow. The cold.

Whatever is out there isn’t half as harsh as what’s waiting for me in this place.

I know I have to go back eventually but for now I need to get out and save myself from drowning in my own despair. In the picture of a family that is no family at all and the memories of what used to be.

As I walk down the street I pass a park. There’s a concert going on. A choir sings “ Have yourself a merry little christmas”.

I want to throw up. I do throw up, in the bin by the park bench.

Merry fucking christmas, Kathleen. I’m sure it’ll be a great one.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas Let your heart be light From now on your troubles will be out of sight”

Absolute bullshit, my dudes. Absolute bullshit.

#billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagines #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #tothestarsfic

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